SEDUCED BY THE ITALIAN TYCOON
Clare Connelly
All the characters in this book are fictitious and have no existence outside the author’s imagination. They have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names and are pure invention.
All rights reserved. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reprinted by any means without permission of the Author.
The illustration on the cover of this book features model/s and bears no relation to the characters described within.
First published 2015
(c) Clare Connelly
Photo Credit: dollarphotoclub.com/Masson
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Clare Connelly grew up in a small country town in Australia. Surrounded by rainforests, and rickety old timber houses, magic was thick in the air, and stories and storytelling were a huge part of her childhood.
From early on in life, Clare realised her favourite books were romance stories, and read voraciously. Anything from Jane Austen to Georgette Heyer, to Mills & Boon and (more recently) 50 Shades, Clare is a romance devotee. She first turned her hand to penning a novel at fifteen (if memory serves, it was something about a glamorous fashion model who fell foul of a high-end designer. Sparks flew, clothes flew faster, and love was born.)
Clare has a small family and a bungalow near the sea. When she isn't chasing after energetic little toddlers, or wiping fingerprints off furniture, she's writing, thinking about writing, or wishing she were writing.
Clare loves connecting with her readers. Head to www.clareconnelly.co.uk to sign up to her newsletter, or join her official facebook page.
PROLOGUE
The bill was bright red and rather imperious in nature. Worse, it was accusing. See! You thought you could do this, it screamed, alongside the overdue amount in the corner. You actually thought you’d be able to live in London, and raise a child, and make ends meet. But you were wrong. You failed.
Emily folded it over, then over again, and slipped it into the side of her handbag. Visions of the weekend in Brighton she’d been planning to surprise Andrew with for his eighth birthday evaporated. Their vapour fumes were added to the collection of ‘could have been’ memories that lived in a small, rarely dwelled-on corner of her brain.
The life she could have been living was not worth focussing on.
It served no purpose to indulge in melancholy.
She pressed her black shoes together, noticing the slight scuffing on the toe of one of her ballet slippers. She pulled a tissue from her bag, hastily moving her fingers past the folded up bill, and reached forward to wipe at the scuff.
Some of the other housekeepers allowed themselves to wear uniforms that weren’t ironed, or stockings with small holes (heaven forbid!) but not Emily. Her grandfather had been a man of his generation. Every Saturday morning, all the shoes in the house had been lined up for him to polish and shine. Her grandmother Milly had spent that same time ironing and starching clothes. Clean shoes, neat hair, short nails. The list of requirements had been drummed into Emily so many times they were now as much a part of her as her mane of auburn hair or the sprinkling of freckles that ran mischievously across her pale nose.
The scuff was stubborn. Emily frowned, wondering why she hadn’t noticed it when she’d been getting ready. That question brought her attention sharply back to the bill.
She’d been sliding her feet into the shoes when the mail had arrived with a thwomp through the slot in the door. A motley assortment of envelopes, the red had been visible through the window of this one. She’d been opening it as she’d put her shoes on, and all thoughts of scuffs or neatness had been swallowed by sheer panic.
She rubbed a little harder and finally erased the mark. At her moment of triumph, the bus hit a pothole and bumped with gusto, causing Emily to bang her head against the yellow handle of the seat in front of her. She winced and straightened.
“Y’all right, love?” The woman sitting beside enquired kindly.
Emily’s cheeks flushed pink. “Fine, thank you.”
She turned her attention to the scene outside her window. It was the second summer she’d spent in London. And though she hadn’t been there long, she considered herself expert enough with the British seasons to say that she loved summer the most. At five o’clock in winter, the streets would be dark and frigid. In summer, they were bursting with colour and warmth. A happy tribe of Londoners shifted down each side of the street, and on the corner, a big group spilled out of a pub. The after-work brigade, she thought with a small smile.
The corporate world.
Dressed in suits, and the kind of dresses that looked like they’d been purchased this season from Hobbs, they were shiny and smart; effortlessly elegant. Emily refused to feel wistful. Even before the accident, she’d never harboured any desire to join that world.
Evening shifts at the prestigious hotel were rare for Emily. She usually limited herself to the times Andrew would be at school. But his surprising talent with the guitar had seen him become adopted by the school band. Their annual camp this weekend provided the two siblings with an opportunity – Andrew, to spread his wings and enjoy the companionship of other musical souls. And for Emily, it was a chance to work. Solidly. Almost around the clock.
The twelve-hour stretch she had lined up didn’t depress her. Rather, it excited her. Particularly given the pressing financial situation she found herself in. There was no way she’d ask her grandparents for help again. Of course they’d do it without a second thought. They’d give her their last penny if she asked it of them. Heck, even if she didn’t. But Milly and Jacob had sacrificed enough in their lives.
No. Emily was on her own, and she would find a way to make it work.
The bus pulled to a stop just across from the hotel and Emily saw the huddle of paparazzi instantly. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence for The Hanover – one of London’s premiere hotels – to have a crush of photographers at its entrance. It was a top choice for visiting film stars, musicians, princes, sporting personalities, and any of these would make excellent fodder for newspaper stories. Still, the size of the group was unusual. It seemed to indicate a particularly special guest was inside.
She stepped off the bus with a small wave of thanks aimed at the driver, then ducked her head low. The paparazzi wouldn’t bother her. Emily, like all the other staff at The Hanover, would use the side entrance. She brushed past the back of the group, smiling to herself as she went. Who was she kidding? She could have walked straight in the front door, stark naked, and they wouldn’t have clicked their cameras for her.
Nobody ever noticed Emily Parker, and that suited her just fine.
CHAPTER ONE
Though London was not, by a long stretch, his favourite place, Sabato had to concede that his view of it was exquisite. The evening breezed balmily across the ancient city, streaking the sky with apricot and peach hues. Oxford Street ran like a bus-speckled vein through the middle of his eye line. Thousands of commuters were making their way home. An aeroplane streaked overhead, leaving two grey plumes of cloud in its wake – a highway in the middle of the golden twil
ight.
Behind him, in the rooftop bar that was at the crown of his five star hotel, the party was in full swing. It had been for over an hour, and in that time, many of the guests had imbibed freely. The champagne was excellent, the canapés tiny yet delicious, and the refined strains of classical music filtered out to him.
As the host, he knew he should be making himself more visible, but he needed a moment. Parties such as this had always been a necessary evil. Initially, when he’d been building his company up from scratch, he’d needed to impress and dazzle. Making people trust him had required this sort of venture in those early days. He’d wanted their money – a lot of their money – and indulging them with the best food, wine and entertainment had helped him to achieve that.
He no longer needed anyone or anything.
The realisation brought a grim smile to his face. He was richer than Croesus, but what did that matter? He was richer than his father and, if he was honest with himself, that had been his only goal. His only marker for success. He’d achieved it years earlier, but by then, he’d been addicted to the power and success of… well, winning. Of calling the shots and having people jump up and down to accede to his wishes.
Yes, power was a seductive mistress.
He turned away from the view of London and pressed his frame against the balustrade, so that he could focus his attention inside. The party was a foaming tangle of elegant guests, loud and fevered, and it would continue to be so until well after midnight. A handful of the invitees he knew, others were important politicians or corporate types. Several were celebrities. The fluff that just loved going to well-catered parties and drinking their bodyweight in the world’s best champagne. There must have been some big hitters in attendance, going by the mob of photographers assembled downstairs.
His eyes landed on a particularly beautiful woman. Tall and blonde, barely dressed in a scrap of black fabric draped artfully across her chest and to just beneath her rear. Her heels were black leather, very high. He recognised her from somewhere. A movie perhaps, or a magazine cover. He allowed himself to study her in detail. Her skin was a honey caramel; a deep tan covered her all over. Her eyes were enormous and so blue he presumed she was wearing contact lenses. Her hair was cropped short and fashionably around her stunning face.
A small flicker of interest sparked in his gut. He didn’t really have the time for a romantic liaison on this trip. He was in London to finalise the details of his newest acquisition – a string of rundown apartments in the docklands. He’d demolish them, and build a behemoth of steel and glass. A tribute to the area’s industrial past, with a lot of modern glamour for a discerning buyer.
While the negotiations were proving trickier than he’d anticipated, he wasn’t sure he could flatly rule out the possibility of a fling. Especially given the temptations on offer.
He was, after all, a perfectly red-blooded Italian.
He straightened his back and squared his shoulders.
Despite the fact it had been made for him, the suit he wore felt wrong. It felt constrictive and disingenuous.
He moved inside and was immediately greeted by a member of hotel staff. “Champagne, sir?”
He barely looked at the young man. “A Macallan.”
“A … I’m sorry sir, I don’t know if we …”
Sabato compressed his lips and flicked his dark eyes to the waiter. “It’s in my private selection.”
“Of course, sir.” His whole face glowed as red as a cherry under the Italian’s obvious impatience. “I’ll s-s-see to it.”
“Excellent.”
Sabato moved through the crowd, pausing as necessary to talk to those he recognised. The blonde was in his peripheral vision, but he wasn’t prepared to make a selection so early. The night was young, and there were many beautiful women in the room.
* * *
“But… I’m not a waitress,” Emily pointed out logically. She stared down at the roster as though a name was going to magically leap out at her. A solution to her manager and friend’s problem.
Ewan shook his head. “I know, Emme. I don’t need you to do much more than keep your eyes peeled. If someone has an empty glass, take it away. Ask if they want anything else; that kind of thing.”
Her cheeks flushed with betraying colour. “But Ewan,” she breathed out, her eyes round in her pretty face as she tilted her head to stare at him beseechingly. “I’m not good with people.”
“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” He unhooked one of the fashionable black and white aprons from a row of hooks behind them and slipped it over her head. It had the name Agnes embroidered on the front, putting Emily in mind of one of the girls she barely knew. Polish with long blonde hair and years of waitressing experience. “Why would you not be good with people?”
“You know. Because I’m … ”
“Well-spoken? Kind? Hospitable?”
She pulled a face. Panic was swelling in her breast. “I can’t do this.” Despite her assertion, her fingers were fumbling with the apron, looping it around her slender waist. “People make me nervous.”
“It’ll be good for you,” he promised. “Besides, I’m utterly desperate or I wouldn’t ask.”
“I don’t understand. How can so many people have called in sick?”
Ewan shrugged. “Six of them live together. They’ve all got the same gastro bug. No way can I have them here. Especially not when Lord Fancy Pants himself is hosting an event upstairs.”
“Who’s that?” Emily was momentarily pulled out of her nervousness to smile at her old friend’s nickname.
“Sabato Montepulciano.”
Her frown showed her lack of comprehension.
“The moneybags who owns the joint.”
“The joint?” She frowned. “You mean the hotel?” Her eyes widened as comprehension dawned. “Oh, God, Ewan. You seriously owe me! What if I spill something on him?”
“Don’t go near him,” Ewan advised with a grin. “There are hundreds of people upstairs. You probably won’t even see him.”
She sucked in a deep breath. “I hate you.”
“And I love you.”
She took a sip of water from her bottle then tucked it back in her staff room locker. “Okay. Who do I report to?”
It took Ewan a little over ten minutes to run Emily through the protocol she’d need to know, and by the time he’d finished explaining how the evening would run, she felt a marginal lift in her spirits. It was, after all, just one night of her life. With hundreds of high profile guests milling about, who would even notice her?
She consoled herself with that assurance the whole way up to the top floor of the hotel. The doors of the staff elevator pinged open straight into the kitchen on the top floor. It was a hive of activity. She took a moment to observe the hasty comings and goings of both chefs and wait staff before shaking her head.
She had a job to do.
“Agnes?” Someone called, beetling towards her.
“She’s sick. I’m Emily.”
The woman was somewhere in her early thirties. She had black hair pulled into a fashionable bun, and wore the same uniform as Emily. “I’m Rhonda, the floor manager tonight.”
“Hiya,” Emily said, extending a hand. “Ewan just asked me to fill in.”
“Great. We’re really stuck. Grab a tray and start circulating.”
“A tray?”
Rhonda nodded. “Over here.” She walked brusquely across the floor. “You won’t cross this line unless the chefs ask you to. Come and collect a tray and walk around the room slowly, allowing people to take what you’ve got on offer. When it’s near enough to empty, begin to make your way back to the kitchen.” Rhonda caught Emily’s eye. “Always make sure you know what’s on the trays. Nothing is more infuriating to our guests than wait staff who can’t remember which hors d’oeuvre they’re serving.”
“Right, sure, of course.”
“These are scallops in pancetta,” A middle age chef with a French
accent clarified, passing a beautifully presented platter of food up onto the counter.
“You’re up, Agnes.”
“It’s Emily,” she responded under her breath, but Rhonda had already click-clacked off, to check on the milling guests.
When Emily emerged into the busy ballroom seconds later, she was momentarily wowed by the elaborate setting. It was her first time in the formal entertaining space, and she’d never fathomed just how grand and elegant a room it was. Chandeliers hung sparklingly from the ceiling, and two of the walls were solid glass, displaying a stunning view of London. Of course, it was reasonably obstructed by the hundreds of beautiful people partying in front of her.
Nerves made her fingers tingle, but she concentrated on the tray in her hands. It was just one shift. She could do this.
God, but these people were beautiful.
She moved from group to group, a smile firmly in place. In the end, she needn’t have known what food she was offering. No one really acknowledged her, except to ease her burden piece by piece. It took about an hour, but Emily eventually realised she was enjoying herself.
She liked her housekeeping job because it was anonymous. She spoke to no one. She was seen by no one. And waitressing, despite the hundreds of people in her vicinity, was similar. On the edges of their conversations, she was still invisible. People didn’t make an effort to check what they were discussing, meaning she was able to listen without compunction.
“Oh, Ella, you know big eyebrows are back. You should fire your stylist. What are you? A Friends character circa nineteen ninety seven?”
“That’s harsh,” the painfully thin brunette responded. “I think they enhance my bone structure.”
The curvaceous blonde rolled her eyes. “By being bone-like themselves?”
Emily suppressed the twitch of her lips with great difficulty and moved onto the next group.
Seduced by the Italian Tycoon: From the first moment they met, she was powerless to resist him Page 1
