by Marinelli, Carol; Hayward, Jennifer; Stephens, Susan; Anderson, Natalie
Raul, once his friend, now accused Bastiano of engineering Maria’s death and swore the rest of his days would be devoted to bringing him down.
‘You’re nothing, Conti,’ Raul told him. ‘You never have been and, even with my mother’s money, you never will be.’
‘Watch me,’ Bastiano warned.
It is said that it takes a village to raise a child.
The Valley of Casta had never really been kind to Bastiano, but when the entire population considered you a cheat, a liar, a seducer, a bastard…that’s what you become.
So, when a drunken Gino came to confront him, instead of taking it on the chin, Bastiano fought back, and when Gino called Maria a whore, Bastiano saw red and did not stay quiet. Instead, he gestured with his hand in the sign of horns and tossed Gino the biggest insult of all.
‘Cornuto!’
Cuckold.
Bastiano, the villagers agreed, was the worst of the worst.
CHAPTER ONE
SOME NIGHTS WERE HELL.
‘Bastiano!’
He heard the familiar, syrupy call of his name and knew that he must be dreaming, for Maria was long dead.
Unusually, he was alone in bed and as dawn sneaked over Rome, Bastiano fought to wake up.
‘Bastiano!’
She called his name again.
When he reached his hand down and felt that he wasn’t hard for her, it was a triumph, and Bastiano smiled a black smile as he silently told her she didn’t do it for him any more.
Maria slapped his cheek.
She wore his mother’s ring on her finger and he felt the cold metal as she delivered a stinging slap, one that had his hand move to his face for the wound was gaping. His cheek was sliced open and there was blood pouring between his fingers.
Bastiano fought with himself even in sleep. He knew that he was dreaming, for the savage fight with Raul had happened at the graveyard; the wound to his cheek had come after Maria had been lowered to the ground.
Everyone had said that it was Bastiano’s fault she was dead.
And it was the reason that he was here, some fifteen years later—lying in one of the presidential suites at Rome’s Grande Lucia hotel.
Raul Di Savo was considering its purchase, which meant that it had been placed on the top of Bastiano’s must-have list.
Bastiano forced himself to wake up. He lay there in the darkness and glanced over at the hotel’s bedside clock. Reaching over, he switched off the alarm. He had no need for it. He would not be going back to sleep.
Bastiano knew the reason that Maria was back in his dreams.
Well, she had never really left them, but that dream had been so vivid and he put it down to the fact that he and Raul were staying at the same hotel.
He heard the soft knock at the main door to his suite and then the quiet attempt to wheel in his breakfast trolley.
‘Puzza!’
Bastiano smiled when he heard the small curse as the maid knocked into something and knew from that one word that the maid was Sicilian.
The door to the master bedroom had been left open but she quietly knocked again.
‘Entra,’ he said.
Bastiano was more than used to room service. Not only was he considering the purchase of this hotel but he was the owner of several premium establishments of his own. He closed his eyes, indicating, as she came in, that he wanted no conversation.
* * *
Sophie could see that he had made no move to sit up so she did not offer him a ‘Good morning’.
The rules were very specific at the Grande Lucia and the staff were well trained.
Sophie loved her job, and though she did not usually do the breakfast deliveries she had been asked to do this one before her night shift ended. She had been called in to work late last night and so had missed the handover where the staff were told of any important guests, their idiosyncrasies and specific requests. Sophie, of course, knew that any guest staying in one of the presidential suites was an important one, and she had checked his name on his breakfast order.
Signor Bastiano Conti.
Being as quiet as she could, Sophie opened some heavy drapes and the shutters behind them so that the guest, when he sat up, would be greeted by the stunning view of Rome in all her morning glory.
And what a glorious day it was turning out to be!
It was as if the theatre curtains were opening on a beautifully set stage, Sophie thought.
There were a few clouds high in the sky that would soon burn off, for it was going to be a warm summer’s day. The Colosseum was picture-postcard perfect and its ancient beauty gave her goosebumps.
Oh, it was a good day indeed for had she not made difficult choices and declined her family’s desire for her to marry Luigi, today would have been the eve of her first wedding anniversary.
For a moment, Sophie forgot where she was and stood there simply taking in the view as she reflected on the past year. Yes, hard choices had been made but she was completely sure that they had been the right ones.
Oh, she was curious about men, of course she was, and though her mother would never understand it, she could readily separate that thought from marriage.
When she had tried to picture her wedding night and sleeping with Luigi, Sophie’s blood had run cold. She had been out with a couple of younger men during her time in Rome but Luigi’s wet, whiskery kisses had left their legacy and, though curious, Sophie had found herself ducking her head from any male advances.
Her parents imagined she was living a sinful life here in Rome.
Sadly, that couldn’t be further from the truth!
Sophie was naïve, she knew that, but she was strong too.
Strong enough to say no to a man and a marriage she hadn’t wanted.
‘Buongiorno.’
A deep voice snapped her to attention and Sophie turned around as she realised that she had just been caught daydreaming, and by an important guest in his own suite!
She went to apologise but her flustered breath was literally taken away for there, lying in bed and idly watching her, was possibly a sight more arresting than the one she had just been feasting on. He was tall—she could see his length in the huge bed. His hands were behind his head and the sheet low on his stomach revealed his naked torso.
He really was magnificent, with olive skin and jet-black hair. The only blot on perfection was a jagged scar on his cheek, yet it only seemed to make him more beautiful. Most of all, it was his eyes that drew Sophie’s. They were grey and piercing and as she met his gaze she found that her breath hitched in her chest and that she could not tear her gaze away. That was rare in itself for Sophie. In her job, she was very used to rich and beautiful men but with this one, with this one, she found that her eyes did not divert and, instead of an apology, her cheeks went a little bit pink.
‘I was just preparing the view for you, Signor Conti,’ Sophie said, and he gave a small smile in return as she made a little joke—as if she had been arranging the scenery outside specifically for him.
‘Thank you.’ He glanced towards the window and the million-euro view. ‘You did a good job.’
And then he looked back at her.
When he had thought her to be taking her time Bastiano had opened his eyes to tell her to hurry up and leave, but there was something about her that halted his usual impatience.
And she mesmerised him now.
The eyes that met his were a very dark brown. He already knew from watching that she was as slender as a blade and wearing a pale green dress and flat shoes, both of which looked to be a little too big for her. Now he examined her face and saw that her thick black hair was worn up in a messy bun with a few long strands escaping.
She looked tired, Bastiano thought, and he guessed that her shi
ft was just finishing rather than starting.
She had made him smile, just a little, but that was a surprise in itself given the dream he had so far failed to banish from his mind. The bedroom was rather messy and he was quite sure that the very sumptuous lounge was not much better; no doubt it was a stray bottle of champagne in the floor that had caused her small expletive on the way in.
‘Would you like me to serve your breakfast?’ she offered, still a little flustered and not just from being caught staring. Sophie made her way over to the breakfast trolley and lifted one of the silver domes.
‘No, thank you,’ Bastiano said. ‘Actually, if you could bring me coffee that would be fine.’
‘Would you like some water, or juice, too?’ she offered, and then he saw the slight twitch to her lips and a certain knowing tone in her voice as she spoke on. ‘Or perhaps you would like both?’
Again he smiled as she revealed her suspicions of his crashing hangover.
‘Please.’
She brought over two glasses and Bastiano drank the cold water as she went back to the trolley and poured his coffee from the pot.
Usually Bastiano poured his own coffee for he did not like attempts at idle conversation, yet it was he who was pursuing it now.
‘Sicilian?’ he asked as she carried the cup to his bedside. She nodded and then, as she placed it on the table, she gave a little grimace, realising that he must have heard her swear.
‘Me too,’ he said calmly, and something in the delivery of his words told her that he got it, for the air was a touch bluer back home.
‘What is that?’ he asked, gesturing to the trolley, for despite the fact she had replaced the dome and covered the food there was now a rich, spicy scent mingling into the air.
‘Shakshuka,’ Sophie said. ‘Middle Eastern baked eggs.’
The gorgeous guest screwed up his nose and Sophie was worried that the kitchen had got the orders mixed up so she quickly checked the paperwork on the trolley but, no, it was correct. ‘You ordered it.’
‘What was I thinking?’ he drawled.
‘I’ve heard that they’re amazing,’ Sophie said, and if the smell was anything to go by then her recommendation was bang on. ‘Would you like me to take them back down and have something else sent to you?’
‘It’s fine.’ He gave a shake of his head. ‘Just leave it.’
‘I hope you enjoy your day,’ Sophie offered, and he gave a slight mirthless laugh and then nodded.
‘You too.’
She went to close the bedroom door but he told her to leave it open.
As she left, Sophie picked up the bottle she had tripped over on her way in and put it on a tray. The room was a disaster and she would love, right this minute, to set about straightening things up, but it was not her job today and it was far too early to service a suite.
Anyway, as of now, she was off duty and so she headed to clock off and collect her things.
‘What are you doing, delivering breakfasts?’ Inga asked as Sophie retrieved her jacket from her locker. Just to be polite, Sophie had made a casual comment as to why she was a few minutes late coming off duty but Inga had, in her usual critical way, pounced. ‘That is for the more senior chambermaids.’
‘I just do as I’m told,’ Sophie said, and poked her tongue out at Inga’s departing back.
They did not get on.
Inga liked to deliver the breakfasts, especially to the very rich men, and though turning tricks was strictly forbidden, Sophie was quite certain that was the reason it was a designer bag that Inga had just put into her locker.
It wasn’t for Sophie to judge and she tried not to.
Her dislike for Inga was simply due to the frequent disparaging comments and the endless digs that were sent her way. Sophie did her best to shrug them off but it was difficult at times. She didn’t even know what she had done to incur Inga’s wrath.
Still, she chose not to dwell on it. Sophie was more than ready for home—she was tired, hungry and ached for bed. Instead of heading out of the side entrance, Sophie, as she often did, decided to exit through the kitchen.
The reason was twofold.
It took her out to the alley, which was closer to the small flat she shared with two others.
And her little diversion would hopefully mean a free breakfast!
There were several chefs that worked in the kitchens, of course, but her favourite was Sicilian and he was just taking a batch of brioches out from the oven as she made her way over. Not the French brioche or even the sweet pastry those here in the north referred to; instead, these were the most delicious plain-baked buns of home. And he had made millefoglie too—also a bun, but with raisins mixed in and sugar on the top. Sophie guessed it was exactly the breakfast this morning’s guest might wish that he had chosen.
Apart from Inga, Sophie was very well liked and popular at the Grande Lucia. She was a very good worker and always went the extra mile for guests. Signor Conti’s mirthless laugh had stayed with her and so, instead of sneaking a brioche for her walk home, she spoke with the chef. He arranged a plate of freshly baked pastries and she put a small silver dome over it and then took her jacket off and, placing it over her arm, she headed back up to Signor Conti’s suite.
She knocked and let herself in and then called out.
‘Room service.’
After the maid had left, Bastiano had got up, taken one look at the eggs and replaced the dome.
His friend Alim, the current owner of the hotel, had always suggested he try them when they met for brunch and last night as he’d squinted at the selections it had seemed a good idea.
Not now.
There was no point him even being here.
Last night Alim had told him that his plans had suddenly changed and that he would not be able to show him through the hotel today as planned.
That wasn’t all that irked Bastiano.
For once—in fact, for the first time in his life—a woman had turned him down.
In recent weeks, Bastiano had decided he would like a wife, and one with a castle in England and money problems had appeared to fit the bill.
It had seemed a decent solution at the time.
Lydia Hayward, with her breeding and porcelain looks would, he had decided, be the perfect trophy wife. It would be mutually beneficial, of course, and for his part he would help with her family’s dire financial situation. He had flown her and her stepfather, Maurice, over to Rome so that he could kill two birds with one stone—view the hotel and put in an offer that would blow Raul out of the park. And maybe return home to Casta having secured a bride.
The more he had thought about it, the more he had decided that it might just be enough to rattle Raul—for Bastiano was more than financially secure, but settled…not so much.
But his plans hadn’t exactly worked out that way.
Lydia had decided she would spend the evening catching up with friends and had left him hanging with the appalling Maurice.
Bastiano hadn’t even attempted small talk with the man; instead, he had come back to his suite, and with his mood too dark to hit the clubs he had hit the bottle instead.
A foolish choice, in retrospect, for it had not been Lydia who had crept into his mind as he’d slept.
It had been Maria.
Fifteen years on and he could not fathom that he had ever cared for another person, for he cared for no one now.
No one.
Bastiano had a reputation for cold-hearted ruthlessness that ran from the boardroom to the bedroom.
Beating Raul Di Savo was the only thing that interested him.
He heard a knock at his door and a voice that was too cheerful for his black mood announce that room service was here.
Again!
Bastiano put a towel
around his hips and walked out, more than ready to tell her to get the hell out and that, had he wanted a second delivery, he would have picked up the phone himself.
Yet she smiled so nicely as she took the lid from the plate she carried and held it out.
‘Better?’ she asked, as his eyes went to the plate.
Now, that was breakfast.
And his eyes went back to hers. No, they were not simply dark brown, they were the amber of a fox, and her smile was so bright that Bastiano could not bring himself to chide her. ‘Much,’ he rather reluctantly replied.
‘I thought so too. Would you like another coffee?’
‘That would be good.’
He got back into bed with the towel still round his hips and breakfast was served for the second time.
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ Bastiano commented as, once in bed, she handed him the plate.
He guessed she must know that he was the potential new owner, for all the staff were walking on eggshells around him.
‘I know.’ She smiled ‘But I also know that we have the best Sicilian chef here at the Grande Lucia. I was going to sneak a brioche for the walk home and it made me think of you.’
Perhaps she did not know that he might soon be the new owner? Bastiano could not care less about her sneaking a pastry. His staff all got meals on their shifts anyway, he made sure of that, but many owners were strict about such things.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Sophie.’ She saw him glance at the jacket over her arm. ‘Really, it’s not a problem—I am at the end of my shift.’
‘Then would you like to stay and have some Middle Eastern eggs?’ he offered, teasing her by replaying her words. ‘I have been told that they’re amazing.’
‘No, thank you.’ Sophie let out a small laugh as she shook her head. She wasn’t unused to suggestions from businessmen and had declined her share over the last year. Sophie was no Inga!
‘Enjoy.’
‘I am.’ He had torn open the brioche and as she left, the scent that reached him was the one of home and he spoke, really without thinking. ‘I used to collect these from the bakery.’
