The Maid's Best Kept Secret (Mills & Boon Modern) (The Marchetti Dynasty, Book 1) Read online

  The secret’s out...

  But the scandal’s still to come!

  Shy housekeeper Maggie Taggart considers herself immune to rich, powerful men—her tycoon father’s rejection has taught Maggie to avoid them at all costs. Until she meets enigmatic billionaire Nikos Marchetti and is totally enthralled by his potent masculinity! The pleasure that virgin Maggie finds in his arms is astonishing—as are the consequences...

  Maggie is determined her newborn son won’t want for anything. But when Nikos uncovers her secret, and their sizzling chemistry explosively reignites, it’s clear they have unfinished business...

  USA TODAY Bestselling Author

  Irish author ABBY GREEN ended a very glamorous career in film and TV—which really consisted of a lot of standing in the rain outside actors’ trailers—to pursue her love of romance. After she’d bombarded Mills & Boon with manuscripts they kindly accepted one, and an author was born. She lives in Dublin, Ireland, and loves any excuse for distraction. Visit abby-green.com or email [email protected].

  Also by Abby Green

  The Virgin’s Debt to Pay

  Claiming His Wedding Night Consequence

  An Innocent, A Seduction, A Secret

  Awakened by the Scarred Italian

  The Greek’s Unknown Bride

  Rival Spanish Brothers miniseries

  Confessions of a Pregnant Cinderella

  Redeemed by His Stolen Bride

  Rulers of the Desert miniseries

  A Diamond for the Sheikh’s Mistress

  A Christmas Bride for the King

  Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

  The Maid’s Best Kept Secret

  Abby Green

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  ISBN: 978-1-474-09840-3

  THE MAID’S BEST KEPT SECRET

  © 2020 Abby Green

  Published in Great Britain 2020

  by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

  By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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  www.millsandboon.co.uk

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  This is my 50th title for Mills & Boon, and it’s beyond

  shocking to write that down—let alone contemplate

  how it happened over the last thirteen years.

  I’d like to dedicate this book first and foremost to my

  mother, without whom I wouldn’t have inherited a love

  of reading, writing, and a very dark sense of humour.

  To my writer tribe: Heidi, Iona, Fiona, Susan and

  Sharon. Without you all the writing world would be far

  duller and scarier to navigate. And Carol Marinelli—

  sounding board and car enabler.

  To the McDermot and Mernagh clan, who adopted me

  into their family a long time ago before any of us

  knew how much I would need them.

  To Susie Q, Eoin, Lucy, Lynn, Lorna, Lindi and Ruth,

  who encouraged me to take the leap into a new world.

  To Hazel, who provides daily sustenance,

  free therapy and MUK online updates.

  To Gervaise Landy, who planted the seed—

  and had ‘that tape’—that led to me writing

  a Mills & Boon in the very first instance.

  To my Mills & Boon editors, who have guided me and

  continue to guide me along the way: Tessa Shapcott,

  Katinka Proudfoot, Meg Lewis, Suzy Clarke and

  Sheila Hodgson. Without editors, writers are nothing.

  And, last but not least, to you, lovely romance readers.

  I too am a romance reader, so we’re all in on the secret

  that the romance genre simply is the best.

  As long as people want to hear or read stories they will

  want romance. Because love—in all its myriad shapes

  and forms—is the most important thing.

  Contents

  Cover

  Back Cover Text

  About the Author

  Booklist

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Extract

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  MAGGIE TAGGART FELT RESTLESS. She’d finished washing up the dishes in the sink and looked around the vast and gleaming kitchen which was situated in the basement of an even vaster house. A stunningly beautiful period country house, to be exact. Set in some ten acres of lush green land about an hour’s drive outside Dublin.

  There were manicured gardens to the rear and a sizeable walled kitchen garden to the side. There was even a small lake and a forest. And stables. But the stables were empty. The owner—a billionaire tycoon—had apparently bought the house sight unseen on a whim when he’d had a passing interest in investing in horse racing, for which this part of Ireland was renowned.

  Except he’d never bought any horses and he’d never actually visited the house. So here it sat, empty and untouched. Luxuriously decorated to his specifications. He hadn’t even hired the housekeeper himself—one of his assistants had done it remotely.

  That housekeeper had been Maggie’s
mother, and when she’d fallen ill she had been terrified of losing her job. So Maggie had quit her own job as a commis chef in a Dublin restaurant and come to help her and take care of her. Leaving her restaurant job hadn’t been too much of a sacrifice, thanks to the head chef, who had been a serial groper of his female staff.

  Then Maggie’s mother had died suddenly, and when she’d informed the owner’s offices an impersonal assistant had asked if she wouldn’t mind taking over in the interim, while they found a permanent replacement.

  Maggie had been in shock...grieving...so she’d found herself saying yes, relishing the thought of a quiet space where she could lick her wounds and deal with her grief, not yet ready to face back into the world.

  That had been three months ago. Three months that had passed in a grief-stricken blur. And she was only just emerging from that very intial painful stage.

  Hence this sense of restlessness. Up to now the house had served as a kind of cocoon, shielding her from the outside world. But she could feel herself itching to do more than just tend to it. In spite of its lack of occupants, it was surprisingly challenging to maintain at the high standard demanded by the boss—should he ever decide to drop by. On another whim.

  Maggie’s soft mouth firmed. The impression she had of the owner—a man she wasn’t interested enough in to look up on the internet—was one of gross entitlement. Who bought a lavish country house and then never even came to see it?

  ‘Rich, powerful men who have more money than sense.’

  Those had been her mother’s words. And she had known all about rich, powerful men—because Maggie’s father had been one. A wealthy property tycoon from Scotland, he’d had an affair with Maggie’s mother and when she’d told him she was pregnant he’d denied all knowledge, terrified that Maggie’s mother and his illegitimate daughter might get their hands on his vast fortune.

  He hadn’t offered any support or commitment. He’d offered only threats and intimidation. Maggie’s mother had been too proud and heartbroken to pursue him for maintenance and they’d left Scotland and moved to Ireland, where Maggie’s mother’s job as a housekeeper had kept them moving around the country, never really settling in any one place for long.

  To say that Maggie had a jaded view of rich men and their ways was an understatement. She sighed. However, she was being paid very generously to take care of an empty house by a rich man, so she couldn’t really complain.

  At that moment the peace that she’d so relished was shattered by a sound from upstairs—the ground floor. A banging noise. The front door? It was such an unusual sound to hear in this silent house that she almost didn’t recognise it.

  Maggie rushed upstairs and walked into the hall just as the knocker was slammed down onto the door again. She muttered, ‘Keep your hair on...’ as she switched on the outside light and swung the door open.

  And promptly ceased breathing at the sight in front of her. A tall, dark man dominated the doorway, hand lifted as if to slam the knocker down again. His other arm was raised, and rested on the door frame. The late-summer sky was a dusky lavender behind him, making him seem even darker.

  Maggie couldn’t find her breath. Dressed in a classic black tuxedo, he was the most stupendously gorgeous man she’d ever seen. Thick curly hair and dark brows framed a strong-boned face...cheekbones to die for. His deep-set eyes were dark, but not brown. Golden. His skin was dark too. There was stubble on his jaw. The sheer height, width and breadth of him was heat-inducingly powerful.

  She registered all this in a split-second—a very basic biological reaction to a virile male.

  His black bowtie hung rakishly undone under the open top button of his shirt. Those dark eyes flicked down from her face over her body. A bold appraisal. Arrogant, even.

  Maggie became acutely aware of the fact that she was wearing cut-off shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, her hair up in an untidy bun. Her habitual uniform for when she was cleaning.

  ‘This is Kildare House?’ the masculine vision asked, with a slight accent.

  His voice was deep and rough and the pulse between her legs throbbed. Most disturbing.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  The man stood up straight. He had an air of slightly louche inebriation but his eyes were too focused and direct for him to be intoxicated. Actually, it was an air of intense ennui.

  He turned away from her, and it was only then that Maggie noticed a taxi at the bottom of the steps leading up to the front door, engine idling.

  The man addressed the driver, who was waiting by the car. ‘This is the right place. Thank you.’

  Maggie watched with growing shock as the taxi driver waved jauntily, got into his car and drove off.

  She gripped the door. ‘Excuse me but who are you?’

  The man turned back to face her. ‘I’m the owner of this house. Nikos Marchetti. I think the more pertinent question here is who are you? Because I’ve seen a picture of the housekeeper and you are most definitely not her.’

  Nikos Marchetti. The owner she’d envisaged as middle-aged, paunchy, entitled. But this man was more like a Spartan warrior, sheathed in the modern-day trappings of a suit.

  His eyes were dropping down her body again, with that insolent appraisal that should have disgusted Maggie but which was having an altogether far less acceptable effect on her body.

  She drew herself up to her full five foot ten inches and crossed her arms over her chest. So far Nikos Marchetti was doing little not to live up to what she’d expected. Behaviourally, if not physically.

  ‘I am Maggie Taggart—Edith’s daughter. She died three months ago and your staff asked if I’d stay on until another housekeeper was hired. Something you’re evidently not aware of.’

  He looked at her, expressionless. ‘I most likely wasn’t informed. My staff are briefed not to bother me unless it’s something urgent, and clearly they felt that you could handle the job. However, I am sorry for your loss. Do you think I could enter my own property now?’

  His casual dismissal and tacked-on condolences for one of the most traumatic events in Maggie’s life—losing her beloved mother—made her stand her ground. ‘How do I know you are who you say you are? You could be anyone.’

  Nikos Marchetti looked at the woman in front of him and felt not a little shock and surprise running through his system. Along with something much more potent—the biggest jolt of insta-lust he’d ever felt in his life.

  He’d just come from a black-tie event at Dublin Castle—leaving behind a room heaving with some of the most beautiful women in the world. And not one of them had turned his head like this...this fiery sprite.

  Except she was too tall to be a sprite. She was strong. Supple. The full breasts evident under her thin T-shirt left little to the imagination, and she had wide hips and long pale legs that went on for ever. She was like a Viking queen—all woman and perfectly, generously proportioned—and Nikos’s brain was melting into a heat haze.

  Which was probably why he was still standing there, long past the time he would normally have indulged such impertinence.

  It wasn’t just her body, though. Unruly-looking red-gold hair was pulled up into a bun on top of her head and her bone structure was exquisite—high cheekbones, firm jaw, straight nose. Her face was dominated by huge blue eyes and a wide, generous mouth. Currently tight. Like the arms across her chest, blocking him from entering his own property.

  ‘You’ve never even been here before, have you?’

  Nikos arched a brow. ‘I wasn’t aware I had to account to you for my movements—but, no, I haven’t been here before.’

  ‘Why now? Tonight? No one warned me you were coming.’

  ‘As I own the property, and it should be in a state of readiness for my arrival at any time, I didn’t see the need to forewarn or inform anyone,’ Nikos drawled.

  ‘It’s late... I could have been in bed.’

>   Nikos was rewarded with a very unhelpful image of this woman lying back on a bed naked, hair spread around her head, welcoming him to explore her sensual body. Blood rushed to his already heated groin, making him hard—something he was usually much more in control of.

  Now irritation prickled. ‘Seriously? You’re denying me entry?’

  ‘I am until you show me some identification. If you are who you say you are, then surely you can appreciate the fact that I’m not going to let a stranger into your property?’

  Nikos wanted to growl. There were very few instances when he wasn’t automatically obeyed. Except she had a point. The fact that she apparently didn’t recognise him was also a novelty that had an unexpected appeal. He was used to people targeting him because of exactly who he was: heir to a vast inestimable fortune and legacy.

  But he didn’t want to think about that now—it would only remind him of the feeling of ennui and claustrophobia that had driven him here in the first place, even though he’d almost forgotten about the Irish estate he owned.

  He dug into his inside pocket and muttered, ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this...’ before pulling out his passport and handing it to his housekeeper.

  Who looked more like a cheerleader, with that supple body and fresh-faced beauty.

  Before he could censor himself he said, ‘How old are you?’

  She looked up from the passport. ‘Twenty-three. This is a Greek passport. I thought you were Italian?’

  Nikos took the passport back. ‘I’m half-Greek, half-Italian and I decided to go with my Greek side. Any more questions? Or can I now enter the property I own?’

  Maggie couldn’t believe she was being so antagonistic to the owner of this house. Because he was the owner.

  Nikos Marchetti.

  She scrabbled to recall the vague information she’d absorbed from her mother about him, but her mother’s illness had taken most of her attention. He was heir to a vast fortune—the Marchetti Group. But even she knew who they were. The biggest conglomerate of luxury brands in the world. They also owned vast swathes of real estate—hotels, nightclubs, and entire blocks in places like New York.