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      CHAPTER ONE

      ‘BUT, Chloe, I need you with us. I’m counting on you.’ Mrs Armstrong opened limpid blue eyes to their widest extent. ‘I thought you knew that.’

      She paused. ‘Besides, just think of it—an entire summer in the South of France. And we’ll be away quite a lot, so you’d have the villa all to yourself. Now, isn’t that tempting?’

      ‘Yes, it is,’ Chloe Benson returned equably. ‘But, as I said when I handed in my notice, madam, I have my own plans.’

      And staying in domestic service, no matter how gold-plated and lucrative, is not among them, she added silently. Nice try, Dilys baby, but no thanks.

      ‘Well, I’m very disappointed.’ Mrs Armstrong’s tone took on the faint peevishness which was her nearest approach to animation. ‘And I don’t know what my husband will say.’

      He’ll say, ‘Bad luck, old thing,’ then go back to the Financial Times, just as he always does, Chloe thought, biting back a smile.

      ‘If it’s a question of money.’ Mrs Armstrong allowed her perfect brow to wrinkle. ‘If you’ve had a better offer, I’m sure we could come to some arrangement.’

      On the contrary, Chloe wanted to tell her, it’s love rather than money that’s luring me away.

      She allowed herself a happy moment to think about Ian. To summon up the image of his tall, broad-shouldered frame, his curling brown hair and smiling blue eyes. To imagine the moment when she’d go into his arms and say, ‘I’ve come home, darling, and this time it’s for good. Just name the day and I’ll be there.’

      She shook her head. ‘It’s nothing like that, madam. I’ve simply decided to take a different career direction.’

      ‘But what a waste, when you’re so good at what you do.’

      What talent did you really require for saying, ‘Yes, madam, very good madam?’ Chloe wondered with faint exasperation. For organising the smooth running of a house with every modern convenience known to the mind of man and then some. For making sure the other members of staff did their jobs efficiently.

      Whatever might be happening in the City, billionaire Hugo Armstrong wanted an untroubled existence at his country home, Colestone Manor. He was bored by day-to-day domestic detail, requiring any problems to be dealt with quickly and unobtrusively, the bills paid, and his guests offered the luxurious environment of a top hotel.

      Quite simply, he asked for perfection, with the minimum effort on his part, and, during her tenure as housekeeper, Chloe had ensured that he got it.

      She knew she was young for the job and she would have a lot to prove, but she was bright, energetic and a good organiser used to hard work, as her previous references attested.

      Her responsibilities were manifold, her hours long, but her astonishing salary more than compensated for these and other inconveniences.

      She was not, of course, expected to have any life of her own. Christmas and Easter were busy times at the Manor. She had not even been able to attend Uncle Hal and Aunt Libby’s thirtieth wedding anniversary, because the Armstrongs had arranged a large house-party that weekend, and couldn’t spare her. Her salary that month had been augmented by a large bonus, but it hardly made up for missing out on such a special occasion with people she loved, the only real family she’d ever had, and she still had feelings of guilt about it.

      But she’d always known that the job was twenty-four-seven while it lasted. And now her notice was nearly up, and it was only going to last another week.

      Losing her might cause her employers some temporary annoyance, she reflected as she went back to her quarters, but no-one was indispensable, and the Belgravia agency would supply a replacement for her with the minimum of fuss, so she was hardly leaving them in the lurch.

      The computer in the housekeeper’s office was regularly updated with details of the shops that delivered the Manor’s supplies, and the tradesmen who provided any services required, plus the family’s food preferences, fads and fancies, as well as a complete rundown on all meals served to guests over the past six months, and the bedrooms they’d occupied where appropriate.

      Her successor, she thought with satisfaction, should enjoy a seamless takeover.

      She would miss her flat, she admitted as she closed its door behind her and looked around. Though small, it was self-contained, and luxuriously equipped with its own wet room, an expensive fitted galley kitchen, and a queen-sized bed dominating the bedroom.

      It would seem odd sleeping in the modest room at Axford Grange again, with Aunt Libby filling a hot-water bottle for her whether she needed it

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