Page 9

Chapter 7

Madelaine blinked hard, trying to keep the tears from spilling over her lashes. This really was a disaster. Soap bubbles fizzed and popped around her ankles, the evidence of her failure spread across the gleaming floor.

“I’m so sorry, Rosa,” she whispered.

The housekeeper’s kind eyes softened, but when Rosa moved toward the scrub brush, Madelaine threw up a hand. “No, please. Don’t worry about this. I made the mess. I’ll clean it up.”

Rosa’s lips curved in a knowing smile. “Don’t worry, dear.” She pressed a hidden panel in the wall, revealing a closet. Brooms and mops lined the interior. “We get a lot of snow in the winter,” she explained calmly, dampening then wringing out the mop, and sweeping it across the floor with effortless grace. “I keep these handy to get rid of the muck those men track in.”

“That must get annoying,” Madelaine murmured, guilt prickling at her. She’d created more work for this kind, patient woman, who had only ever treated her with quiet generosity.

“It’s nothing,” Rosa said, squeezing the mop into a second bucket before continuing to mop.

Madelaine stood frozen, watching the soapy streaks vanish under Rosa’s steady rhythm. In only a few moments, there were no bubbles. No mess. Just clean, shining floors. She stood back, taking mental notes of every movement, determined to remember the pattern. Maybe next time she wouldn’t make such a fool of herself.

She had to learn. She was twenty-six years old with no real skills, nothing practical that could feed or clothe her if she were on her own. She knew how to set a formal table, how to smile at the right moments, how to pick the right fork during a six-course dinner. Unfortunately, finishing school had taught her how to look polished, not how to survive.

But survival was what she needed now.

Her money was running low. Her options were few. Paulo had been kind, if also gruff, impatient, and utterly confusing. But very kind, letting her stay in his home while her father hunted for her. Still, she couldn’t hide here forever. Hiding wasn’t a plan. Hiding was a pause.

And the pause would end soon.

She chewed her lip, watching Rosa’s mop glide. Maybe she could try cooking. Surely she could learn that. If she could just master one skill, one thing that proved she was capable, maybe then she could face the world without trembling.

She straightened her shoulders. She would find a way. Somehow, she had to.

Trying to get out of the way, Madelaine wandered into a sitting room draped in blue silk curtains that framed tall windows overlooking the back garden. Sunlight spilled through the glass, glinting off polished wood and gilded frames. It was serene, almost peaceful, and she sighed as she stared at the view.

Yeah, maybe cooking was her skill. Maybe she could even become a chef. Surely that was something she could figure out if she tried hard enough. There were cooking schools, she knew, but the tuition was far beyond her reach. Her father would never pay, and she would rather starve than ask him. Besides, she was avoiding him at all costs, along with the decrepit monster he’d promised her to.

Marry Leonid Krylov? She would sooner fling herself into the Seine. The very thought of being a “wife” to that monster made her stomach turn. She wouldn’t be the man’s wife anyway, just an incubator for his heir. The man was dying, she’d heard, being slowly eaten alive by stage four prostate cancer.

Which made her wonder, could a man that sick even…perform? She shivered, appalled by her own thoughts, and quickly shoved them away.

And why her? Why not some willing woman who would welcome a payout to bear a billionaire’s child? Surely there were plenty of women who’d leap at the chance. Why was Krylov so fixated on her?

It didn’t make sense. But then, neither did her father. Ronan Keane was ruthless, cruel, and desperate to hold onto power. He’d sell anyone, maybe even himself, if it meant clawing back a shred of his former glory. He couldn’t have more children, and she suspected that was the only reason she was still alive.

A tiny, vicious pang of satisfaction twisted in her chest at that thought. Followed immediately by guilt. She wasn’t supposed to wish misfortune on anyone, even a father who had treated her like a bargaining chip all her life.

But he had hurt people. He had hurt her. And she would never go back.

“Would you like a drink?”

The deep voice shattered her thoughts. She whirled around, startled, and found Paulo in the doorway. He looked… devastating. Broad shoulders filled out his white shirt, his trim waist framed in those perfectly cut slacks. Strong, elegant, impossibly controlled.

Her brain hiccupped. Words deserted her.

It took her a long moment to remind her mouth to form a response. “Um…yes. Yes, a drink would be lovely.”

She’d expected him to offer her something polite, a delicate glass of white wine she would dutifully sip while making small talk about the weather. That was what finishing school had taught her. Smile, sip, be charming.

But instead she blurted, “I’m so sorry about earlier.”

So much for charm.

Her eyes betrayed her, slipping down the line of his back, tracing the muscles beneath his shirt, then lower, where she froze, heat rushing into her cheeks. His ass was…impressive. Firm, powerful, perfectly sculpted.