The King of Infierno

by Jasmine Hill

  “Stai bene, Signorina?” He asked if she was okay in a beautiful swoosh of Italian. The words slipped between his lips and seemed to pool like honey on the cool stones.

  First he spoke French then Italian. It was official. Monique must be in heaven. She’d heard the stereotypes and the holiday stories of her friends vacationing in Europe, but nothing had prepared her for the man who still had her hand in his.

  “Fine, yes, thank you, merci—I mean grazie,” she offered, flustered and realizing she was quite able to stand on her own. Reluctantly, she let go of his hand to reach down and remove her broken-heeled shoe. “Just tripped on a stone. Una scarpa verso il bass…dieci per andare.” She hoped her Italian wasn’t too rusty.

  He just looked at her. Oh damn, it must be more rusty than I thought.

  “One shoe down, ten to go,” she repeated in English with a nervous laugh, motioning to her luggage. She hoped to make a joke of how many shoes were crammed in her overstuffed bags to cover her embarrassment of nearly splaying out on the canal sidewalk if not for the efforts of her handsome savior.

  “Are you sure? I can fetch someone for you if you need assistance, Signorina,” the man pressed. He then glanced anxiously over his shoulder.

  Monique suspected from his unease that he must have a wife who no doubt would appear at any moment and be less than happy to find her hubby fraternizing with Monique. It wasn’t the first time that had happened.

  “No, I’m fine, really. Mille grazie,” she thanked him. The depth in his eyes setting her off balance, as well as having only one shoe on and the way he called her Signorina. The words slipped from his lips like silk.

  “Just tell me where I am. That would be very helpful.” She shifted her weight to the shoeless foot and immediately dropped down a few inches, making her even shorter against his tall stature.

  “Calle Ostreghe.” He said the name of the street as she dipped her head down to remove her other shoe.

  “See, much better,” she said, now even-footed in her stockinged feet firmly planted on the cool stones.

  But her words were met by empty space.

  The man was gone as quickly as he’d appeared, the swish of his long coat disappearing through the crowds, barely visible around the corner as Monique looked on as if he had been an apparition. A tall, handsome apparition. And one that was seemingly desperate to get away from her before his wife showed up. Lucky woman, having a man like that.

  Shrugging, Monique resigned herself to the fact that not only had she always had lousy luck with men, but also that her favorite pair of shoes—the ones she’d blown a good chunk of last month’s paycheck on—were now of no use to her. Trudging over to a store window with her luggage, she then hunkered down and rooted through her suitcase in search of another pair of shoes to wear to her new job at the Totally Five Star Venice. That was, if she ever found the damn hotel. Gathering her belongings, she hastily stuffed her things back into her suitcase, then she hurried off in search of the hotel.

  * * * *

  Now in her second most favorite pair of shoes, with a smidge less of a heel, a gust of spring air pushed Monique Le Bres through the revolving glass door, abruptly depositing her in the lobby of the Totally Five Star hotel.

  Stumbling, she took her first steps to her brand new job. Not exactly the initial impression she’d wanted to make as the newly hired art curator for the hotel, a sixteenth century gothic building rumored to have once been the home of Casanova. Centuries later, under the shrewd stewardship of CEO James Conroy III, the once dilapidated grand dame of the canal had been restored and renovated into a succulent feast of elegance. The latest addition to the top-notch Totally Five Star Hotels.

  Surveying the lobby, Monique hoped no one noticed her less than graceful arrival. She wasn’t in Kansas anymore—that was for damn sure. She could barely believe the hotel’s refined opulence as she took in the bird’s-eye maple paneling and the swaths of white sheers that ringed the lobby, hinting at the more intimate bar and dining areas concealed beyond. The whole effect gave the hotel a sexy, clandestine feel.

  Leaving her cumbersome baggage off to one side of the lobby, she clutched her brand new attaché under her arm, the leather still stiff. Monique hoped she’d remembered to remove the price sticker as she walked smartly to the reception desk. Striding across the cream mosaic marble floor, she couldn’t help but notice that despite the striking décor, there was a sparse assortment of paintings and sculptures. They definitely were in need of her help. With a budget of forty million euros and just three months to complete the task, Monique was quite sure she could establish a collection that would please the impossibly impeccable CEO James Conroy III.

  The competition for the art curator position had been steep, but Monique had an ‘in’. Her boss back in the States was not only an old flame, but he also knew one of Mr. Conroy’s advisors and had not hesitated to put in a very good word for Monique.

  Introducing herself at the reception desk, Monique was pleased when the woman behind the marble counter greeted her in Italian then efficiently switched to English for the important details. Monique’s Italian was adequate for her graduate degrees in art history and later for reading art catalogues, but was sorely lacking for conversing. Something she hoped wouldn’t be a determent to her employment at the Totally Five Star Venice. If she could just keep her Kansas twang under control when she spoke both English and Italian, she’d be well on her way of making a mark for herself in her field.

  Smiling, the hotel clerk handed her the large gold room key.

  “Signorina Le Bres, benvenuti a Venezia,” she welcomed Monique warmly, “Signor Amatus will be here un momento to escort you to your suite.”

  Her mix of English and Italian enchanted Monique, who was so far from the small, dirt-filled town back home. The town she’d dragged herself out of so many years ago, where the only foreign language spoken was pig Latin if you grew up on the right side of the tracks. Monique hadn’t even been that lucky. The rusted-out trailer she’d shared with her mother couldn’t have been farther from the right side of anything.

  “Grazie.” Monique took the key, noting how large and heavy it was in the palm of her hand. No slick, electronic keys at this hotel. No, this was one hundred percent Italian luxury. The key began to heat in her grasp as she glanced around for the man who was supposed to greet her.

  The elevator dinged, catching her attention.

  Monique opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She quickly shut it as the good-looking, twenty-something-year-old man dressed in a suit just like the ones she’d seen on the Totally Five Star website exited the elevator. His robust laughter had caught her attention. As did his momentary flirtation with a sexy young woman dressed in the same hotel uniform. Monique smirked as the man patted the attractive young employee’s ass when he passed by. He was a first-rate flirt for sure, and she made a mental note to steer clear.

  Monique’s smirk turned into a frown as the man kept walking straight toward her.

  “There he is, Signor Amatus,” the clerk behind the counter called to Monique.

  She stood somewhat transfixed as he approached. He really was young. Could he honestly be her supervisor? Not at all what she’d been expecting. Maybe mid-twenties, if she was generous. Barely legal age back in the States, and a good ten to fifteen years younger than her, she was quite sure.

  “Ah, Signorina Le Bres…”

  “Yes, I am Monique Le Bres.” She extended her hand. He wasted no time sliding it into his and placing it to his lips. His gaze stayed fixed on hers when he paused before kissing the back of her palm.

  “Incantanto,” his said, his words almost a whisper.

  These Italian men were skilled at the art of flirtation—there was no denying that. But the sooner she made it clear to him that she was all work and no play, the better it would be for both of them.

  “I am Donovan Amatus. Please allow me welcome to you to Totally Five Star Venice. I am sure you will be molto comfortabl
e here.”

  The wicked glint in his eyes made her blush and fume at the same time. “I’m the new art curator.” Monique scrambled to say something, trying not blurt out what she was really thinking—that it was actually both flattering and maddening all at the same time to have this young stud with the wandering gaze flirt with her only moments after her arrival at the hotel.

  “I know, si. Art curator,” he said, releasing her hand but not before running it lightly again over his lips. “I will be your liaison while you are here, answer any questions you have. Work with you side by side. Fianco a fianco,” he repeated the words in Italian, his tone so intimate that she was lost for a moment as she studied his nametag.

  Donovan Amatus, Del controllo qualità—Quality Control Manager.

  A vague memory of her letter of employment and that name stuck in her head, but she was damned if she could reconcile the young man in front of her with her supervisor. Surely, there had been some mix-up. This young man couldn’t possibly be supervising her and the forty million euro budget the CEO had entrusted her with.

  “The key, Signorina?” he prompted.

  Speechless, she just stood there.

  “La chiave, the key, per favore?” he repeated, then reached to take the key from her grip. “Follow me, Signorina Le Bres.”

  “Oh, please call me Monique.”

  “You Americans are so friendly,” he said with a smile as he led her toward the elevator, placing his hand firmly around her waist.

  Summoning her most professional demeanor, she slipped from his hold and stepped into the elevator.

  “I am sure you will be very happy working here at the hotel Totally Five Star Venice,” he said and punched the fifth floor button.

  Monique tried to focus on what she was there for—her dream job and not the leering gaze of her so-called supervisor. “Yes, I’m sure I will. Mr. Conroy’s letter of employment said I could start to work tomorrow.”

  “Assolutamente,” he confirmed. “Tomorrow. But first, I show you your room. Bene?”

  * * * *

  The suite wowed Monique. A penthouse really, and only five floors above the Grand Canal. Virtually a skyscraper in Venice. And it was all hers.

  Admiring the wall of windows overlooking the waterway below, Monique poked her head out to catch a glimpse of the busy goings-on in the canal. She couldn’t keep herself from looking for the man who had saved her from falling only a few blocks from the hotel on the calle, the Calle Ostreghe. A name she wouldn’t soon forget, along with the handsome blond-haired man who had intrigued her then had slipped away as mysteriously as he’d arrived. But he was not there, just the usual tourists and shopkeepers filling the narrow passageways as she scanned them for the illusive man in the camel hair coat.

  Signor Amatus stepped closer, breaking her reverie. Monique remained facing the window, hoping to hide the flash of fire that burned her cheeks from reminiscing about her mystery man from the calle.

  “Everything okay?” her supervisor inquired.

  “Oh yes, it’s gorgeous, really,” she said slowly and turned away from the window to meet his unwavering attention.

  “Yes, it is, Signorina Monique.”

  Taking in the suite in an effort to divert his attention from her, and hers from the man in the calle, Monique stopped for a moment to appreciate her new home.

  The room was so elegant, in keeping with the rest of the hotel with its light wood paneling and soft, white sheers that framed the windows and billowed in the breeze. The moment was surreal. It was everything she’d always dreamed of all those years ago when Italy had been somewhere far away from her white trash existence.

  Signor Amatus followed her as she walked about the living area.

  “And my office?” she asked, moving away from him to make some space between them.

  “Un momento. You haven’t seen the bedroom yet.”

  “No, I haven’t Mr. Ama… I mean Signor…Amatus?” she queried, searching his lapel for his nametag.

  “Please call me Donovan.” He smiled then led the way to what must be the bedroom.

  Well aware of the innuendo saturating the air as she followed him, she paused, lingering in the doorway, admiring the beautifully appointed room and the luxurious king-size bed. She caught the young man’s admiring gaze. Oh, this is a bad idea. A very bad idea to be alone with the undeniably good-looking but persistent supervisor. She turned back to exit her room as quickly as she’d entered.

  “Signorina Monique, you like?” he asked after her.

  She stopped in the doorway and smiled politely. “It’s lovely, but how about showing me to my office so I can get all set for the morning?”

  He paused, lingering by the bed, then cracked a handsome, sly smile. “Very well, officio, if that is what you want.”

  “It is.”

  “Bedroom…maybe later.” It wasn’t a question. It was more a foregone conclusion.

  “Yes, later to sleep,” she asserted and caught the slight upturn in his lips. Obviously, he thought his charms were so magical that she couldn’t help but surrender to him, as no doubt most women did. Well, he’s in for a surprise. Monique Le Bres was nobody’s fool and least of all young Donovan Amatus’.

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  About the Author

  Jasmine’s alter ego lives in Sydney, Australia with her husband and their Border Collie. She enjoys cooking, traveling with her husband, outdoor activities and skiing. She loves reading all genres but in particular she enjoys romance novels and thrillers and her Kindle is never far from her side.

  Jasmine loves writing and is always looking for new ideas for stories that will provoke inner passions, stimulate the senses and ignite the imagination.

  Email: Jasminehill.romance@gmail.com

  Jasmine loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.

  Also by Jasmine Hill

  From Leather to Lace

  Serena’s Submission

  Roses are Red

  Lillian’s Light Horseman

  Totally Bound Publishing