Maid for the Italian
Cathy Williams
CHAPTER ONE
THIS WAS SHEER, unadulterated luxury.
Of course, Georgieknewthat the chalet, nestled in the mountainside of Whistler, was sheer, unadulterated luxury. She should do. She cleaned it on a weekly basis, banishing non-existent dust from the pristine surfaces, checking to make sure no errant spiders had found any cosy corners to have a nap, turning taps on and off just in case, on the off chance, the plumbing had decided to go on strike.
Her duties were confined to her weekly cleaning routine when the place was unoccupied. She had an elaborate schedule, which the agency updated on a fortnightly basis so that she knew exactly when guests were arriving. She would be advised of numbers and dietary requirements and would then have to make sure that suitable basics were in before the professionals stepped in and took over. This was a rare occurrence.
The staff of five, which included a personal chef, a sous chef and various other people, were there to make sure everything ran smoothly as and when the place was occupied. They were, as she liked to think,front of housewhereas she was definitelystrictly background, to be neither seen nor heard.
As soon as the last guest left, back in she came to clear up behind them and her weekly duties were resumed. Who owned the place? She had no idea but had long assumed it to be some arrogant businessman with more money than sense and a wife who thought diamonds were trinkets. Georgie didn’t care. She did her weekly job and for this she was paid a small fortune.
What was there to complain about?
And now, especially, there was absolutely nothing whatsoever to complain about because the next lot of guests weren’t due for another seven weeks, which was plenty enough time for her to spend a weekat mostin the chalet while Alison one of the two girls she shared a house with in the bustling ski resort a mile away, got on with the business of dealing with her chickenpox.
Georgie had never had chickenpox in her life before. Her mother had confirmed that when Georgie had asked her a few days ago and her sisters had both issued stark warnings about avoiding it at all costs as an adult because if she caught it, she would end up disfigured for life.
So while the third housemate had been fine to stay put with Alison, immune from lifelong disfigurement because she’d already had it, she, Georgie, had tactfully and handily removed herself to this…she closed her eyes and sank a little lower into the bathwater…thishaven of sheer, unadulterated luxury.
She practically purred with contentment when she eventually stepped out of the bath, pausing to appreciate, yet again, through the sprawling floor-to-ceiling panes of glass, the unstoppable panorama of white outside, which was cleverly brought into sharp focus by outdoor lighting designed to beam towards the snow-capped slopes. The things a clever designer didn’t think of when money was no object!
It was a little after six in the evening, a bitingly cold February evening. It was a Monday, her day off, and she had done nothing but bask in the glory of being a sneaky lodger in the chalet she cleaned for her princely sum.
Was it actuallya crime? Georgie didn’t think so. How could she be breaking and entering when she actually had a key to the place? Besides, it was just for a handful of days and she would leave the place looking even more immaculate than when she’d arrived. Linen would be laundered and every surface would be cleaned. There would be absolutely no trace of her left behind when she returned to her shared house.
She hummed to herself and cast an appreciative last glance over her shoulder to the wondrous bathroom.
Heated floors? Tick! Oversized, freestanding tub? Tick! Rainfall shower with lots of glass and stone? Tick! Not to mention the fabulous dressing area with all sorts of backlit mirrors and custom-built cabinetry.
Not a stitch of clothing to be seen in any of the guest bedrooms, but why would there be any when it was used so rarely? The main suite was kept locked so whoever owned the place probably had valuables stashed there. Diamonds and pearls for the lady and whatever expensive toys her rich husband might be interested in. Watches, probably. She’d wondered over the past few months, when she’d come to clean, whether thefront of housestaff were responsible for making sure everything was in order behind that locked door.
Who cared?
Georgie looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror in the dressing room with a critical eye.
Five four, long, curly blonde hair that was in need of a cut, brown eyes and a slim figure. She had no illusions about her looks. She was, as her sisters were fond of telling her,cute as a button.
They were both older than her, taller than her, and far more striking than her in the looks department, with stunning, curvy figures, long, long legs and breasts that had no idea what a padded bra was all about.
Sometimes, Georgie wondered whether being called cute from an early age had somehow directed her towards choices that were cute, as if she’d been somehow set on a path fashioned from her family’s opinions of her and then fulfilled her expected destiny by following it.
She had favoured football over violin, climbing trees over putting on nail polish and hanging with the boys instead of flirting with them.
She was the tomboy. Where she had watched her sisters weave their magic with the opposite sex, she had enjoyed beingone of the lads. Until, of course, being one of the lads had left her with the broken heart that had mended only when she’d come here, to Whistler, so far away from everything she’d known.
Her sisters had gone on to respectively become professionals in the fields of medicine and law. She, on the other hand, was, at the age of twenty-six, only now working out what she wanted to do with her life. Better late than never was how she chose to look at it.
She’d left school at eighteen, had half-heartedly done a foundation year in graphic art and then promptly absconded for a year and a half to France, where she’d turned one of her favourite sports into a paying proposition by becoming a ski instructor. She’d loved every second of it.
After vaguely wondering where her passion was hiding, she had finally discovered what she really loved. Teaching kids. She loved the outdoors, was great at everything to do with sport and she loved kids.
Academia had been out of the question anyway because of her dyslexia, diagnosed later than it should have been when she’d been struggling so badly in secondary school.
She had returned to Surrey, where she still lived with her parents, and for a year and a half she’d diligently worked to achieve her certification in sports education.
