Maid for Montero - By Kim Lawrence Page 0,49

possibly the cheque book, had made the man forget that GPs no longer made house calls at the weekend, she brooded, with a cynical sniff that became a cough.

Neither man answered her question.

‘Beyond the general crankiness, she has a headache, joint pain and obviously a high temperature.’ Isandro’s glance slid once more to the figure lying on the bed. Her nightdress clung damply to her and the pinpoints of bright red colour stood out livid against the pallor of her skin. ‘Nausea…have you been sick?’

Now they decided to acknowledge she was there. ‘Mind your own damned business!’

The middle-aged medic laughed and suggested that Mr Montero might like to leave while he had a chat with the patient.

The doctor confirmed that Zoe had a dose of the bug doing the rounds and suggested she take an analgesic for her temperature, get plenty of rest and take lots of fluids.

‘Which is what I was doing,’ Zoe told Isandro.

‘What can I get you?’

‘Just go away and leave me alone.’

When the cranky invalid refused point-blank to be nursed or cosseted he did the next best thing—he offered to take the twins off her hands for the rest of the day.

An offer that did not strike him as odd until with the twins in tow he bumped into a school friend of Dana’s in a hands-on science exhibition. Emma, who had her youngest in tow, was one of the few mutual friends that he had stayed in contact with after the divorce. Her parting shot of ‘I’d really like to meet the woman who has domesticated you!’ had stayed with him.

Ridiculous, of course—he hadn’t changed in any fundamental way. He could walk away from this relationship at any time. He enjoyed the twins, they amused him…though they were exhausting.

Denial, Isandro, mocked the voice in his head.

The next day Zoe felt tired. Her head ached and things still hurt, but she was well enough to get up, which was just as well as she had promised to go the airport this morning to pick up Chloe, John and Hannah. She also needed to drop the kids off for their science field trip before—oh, God, just thinking about the day ahead made her headache worse.

‘Get a wriggle on, you two!’ she yelled, pulling open the front door as Harry vanished to find his rucksack he had left ‘somewhere.’

‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’

Zoe reacted to the angry voice like a bullet zinging past her ear and spun around to face the tall figure who was striding up the path to the front door. He looked dauntingly angry, but Zoe, refusing to be daunted, pressed a hand to her throbbing head and returned belligerently, ‘I might ask you the same thing. I thought you had a meeting in Paris today.’

‘It was cancelled.’ The lie came smoothly. Intercepting the direction of her gaze, he lifted the hand that held a large bouquet of flowers. ‘The gardener heard you were unwell.’

It seemed unnecessary to Isandro to explain that he had told him. ‘He says you prefer the flowers that have a scent to the hothouse roses…?’

‘I do! How lovely of him,’ she exclaimed, taking the fragrant ribbon-tied posy and lifting it to her nose. ‘I must thank him.’

‘I will pass on your message and you will go back to bed.’

Her chin went up at his dictatorial attitude. ‘You can’t just waltz in here and order me around. I’m fine and I have to pick up Chloe and co from the airport after I’ve taken the twins to—’

‘Bed!’ Isandro thundered just as the postman opened the garden gate.

‘Nice morning,’ the man said as he handed a pink-faced Zoe her letters.

‘Well, thank you for that.’ Zoe glared up at Isandro.

Georgie’s voice cut across her. ‘Isandro’s here, Harry, he’s taking us to school.’

Mortified, Zoe shook her head. The boundaries of their relationship did blur on occasion but she was sure they would not stretch to the school run! ‘No, no, he’s not…Georgie, go—’

‘Yes, I am. Go get in the car,’ he said, directing this order to the twins, who ran out before Zoe could say a word.

‘You’re not!’

‘I am.’ Ignoring her squeal of furious protest, he snatched the car keys that were dangling from her fingers and put them in the pocket of his well-cut trousers. ‘Now be a good girl and go back to bed.’

‘Do not treat me like a child.’ Even if I sound like one.

He looked impatient. ‘You are clearly still unwell. You look terrible.’ It was