The Billionaire's Housekeeper Mistress(40)

Probably the best attitude to adopt was to think of him as her toy, as well, not let herself take anything too seriously, enjoy everything she could while somehow building and maintaining a shield around her heart. She should try to gain some control of their relationship, at least not leave all the decisions to him.

Lying here, waiting for him to wake up and direct the play was too submissive. Surely her time was her own when he was out of action. There was no reason not to take some initiative herself, like getting out of bed and making herself coffee as she did every morning.

Very slowly and carefully she lifted Ethan’s arm enough to slide out from under it. Having eased herself off the bed, she quickly headed for the guest suite where she had unpacked her bag. One look at her reflection in the mirrored doors of the built-in cupboards made an immediate visit to the bathroom mandatory. She hadn’t cleaned her face of make-up last night, resulting in clownish eyes from smudged mascara, and her hair was a mess.

Daisy brushed her hair, fastened it in a top-knot, took a long, hot shower, tried not to think of Ethan’s hands caressing her body as she soaped herself clean—half wondering if he would start that all over again when he did wake up—then gave herself a brisk towelling to erase the wickedly wanton tingling in her skin.

She was in the act of donning her silk kimono when the call of her name made her heart jump. Ethan’s tone was not the rich, seductive purr of last night’s satisfied lover. It was sharp, harsh, demanding. An apprehensive shiver ran down her spine. Was he angry at finding her gone from his bed?

Daisy’s spirit of independence fiercely reasserted itself. He had not bought a slave and she wasn’t going to be turned into one. She took a deep breath and stood her ground, calling back, ‘I’m over here in the guest suite.’

She was tying the belt of her kimono when he barged into the bedroom, coming to an abrupt halt when he saw her. He was still stark naked and every taut muscle of his magnificent physique seemed pumped up with intimidating aggression. It was an act of will for Daisy not to freeze with fear on the spot.

The grim, fighting expression on his face slowly relaxed and the blaze of battle in his eyes dimmed as he took in the long, vivid gown she was wearing. ‘The colours of Africa,’ he said with a musing little smile. ‘It suits you.’

Enormously relieved that the blast of tension had eased, Daisy held out her arms to show him the long drops of the sleeves. ‘It’s a kimono. I thought I’d be your geisha girl and make you tea.’

He threw back his head and laughed, a great peel of joyous laughter that rippled right through her heart, which should have been shielded but quite hopelessly wasn’t. He strolled towards her, a huge grin on his face. ‘Dinner, morning tea…you’re full of surprises, Daisy. What next?’

He picked her up and twirled her around in sheer exuberance. Daisy felt like an aeroplane with her long sleeves flapping, her own spirits lifting sky-high. He was still grinning when he set her on her feet again. ‘Make it coffee, not tea,’ he happily instructed. ‘Give me ten minutes to shower, shave and clean my teeth and I’ll be down to cook you breakfast. Let me surprise you.’

He left a smile on her face—a ridiculously happy smile. She told herself it wasn’t because she was stupidly in love with him. It was simply great to know he didn’t expect her to be his slave. He was going to cook for her. Which probably wasn’t so wonderful since he liked cooking. Nevertheless, Daisy felt much better about the situation.

Ethan was still in an ebullient mood when he breezed into the kitchen, carrying the Saturday Morning Herald which must have been delivered to the door. He couldn’t have gone far to get it. He was only wearing the short black silk robe, which she’d found so disturbing before becoming intimately involved with the body beneath it. Daisy had no problem with looking him over now. It gave her a pleasurable sense of possession.

She had to remind herself he was not her man.

Ethan Cartwright was his own man.

But she didn’t mind at all being his mistress when he dumped the newspaper on the kitchen bench, drew her into his embrace, cheerfully declared it was a beautiful morning and kissed her in a lovely, lingering sensual way that made her feel beautiful, even though she knew she wasn’t.

‘Now for breakfast!’ he said, setting her aside to take command of the kitchen. ‘You can sit on one of the stools on this side of the bench, drink your coffee and watch me work.’

‘Okay. What are you going to surprise me with?’

The green eyes danced teasingly. ‘The challenge is to serve you something that meets your yummy mark.’