She surveyed the numbers on the doors, though she knew them all by heart.
The suite was at the end of the corridor. She wheeled the trolley and then pressed the button. How could she not remember, every time she made these deliveries, the meals she and Sabato had shared? In this very hotel, meals served on trays just like these.
She plastered a smile on her face as the door opened inwards.
Life went on. Eventually, she’d catch up with it.
***
“If you want my help, Raf, you need to do better than that,” Sabato responded grimly, staring at his brother with a look of impatience.
Rafaelo, a brother in all but blood, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It is a sound investment. We need only your name to assure the bank’s confidence.”
Sabato cast his eyes over the impressive brochure Rafaelo had produced. “And I told you I would think about it. Why have you come here today? Why the urgency?”
Rafaelo sat down heavily in one of the luxurious armchairs. “It’s father,” he said finally.
Sabato focussed every fibre of his body on his adoptive brother. “Father?”
“He’s …”
“Sick?” Sabato felt a swell of concern. He’d had his differences with Nico, but the man had raised him. He’d raised him when there’d been no obligation to do so. He’d taken in a small, stray child who trusted no one and was angry at the world, and he’d turned him into Sabato Montepulciano. A man considered legendary for his strength of character and confidence.
“No.” Raf was impatient. He was so like Nico. Then again, they shared blood in their veins, and also the same facial features. “He’s anxious. About money.”
Sabato compressed his lips. Several bad investments on the trot had seen a serious devaluing of Montepulciano family wealth. Though even a tenth of what they’d once possessed would still leave them with extreme wealth, the decline was regrettable. “I see,” he remarked slowly, reminding himself that Rafaelo had never been groomed for this life. Controlling the family’s business interests had fallen to him only when he, Sabato, had refused to take up the mantle.
“He would be pleased to see us working together,” Rafaelo tried another tack. “You know he misses you.”
Sabato grunted. “I see him often enough.”
“Bah. A few times a year. And you make it obvious that you can’t wait to leave from the moment you arrive.”
Sabato reclined in the chair thoughtfully. “You know why.”
“Yes. Because of the affair.” Rafaelo brushed it aside as though it were of little matter. “Di niente,” he muttered. “If mama can forgive him, why do you find it so difficult?”
That question was a mystery, even to Sabato. He scanned the room, forcibly ignoring the memories of the last time he’d been in the luxurious suite. “I value honesty,” he said, finally, though that alone didn’t explain the antipathy he felt to his father.
“It was ten years ago, Sab.”
“Si,” he shrugged.
“Are you coming home for mother’s birthday?” Raf asked, pouring two glasses of mineral water from a bottle on the bar.
“I’ll be there at some point,” Sabato said guardedly.
“It is one weekend. You truly cannot make it?”
Sabato stared long and hard at the man he’d been raised alongside.
“I’ll think about it,” he agreed finally.
“And you can tell father, there, that you and I are working together on this.”
Sabato’s laugh was without humour. “You’re a stubborn bastard, Rafaelo.”
“Takes one to know one,” he responded drily. “Now, shall we head downstairs for dinner? I’m starving.”
Sabato flashed hot then cold. Downstairs. Where Emily might be. Where he might see her. His groin tightened instantly at memories of the woman he’d once been with. “No,” he spoke harshly. His dark eyes sought Rafaelo’s. “I’ve got work to do. I’ll just order something in.”
“You work too much,” Rafaelo complained.
Sabato resisted, but only barely, the temptation to point out that his company was a self-made billion dollar empire, whereas Raf had overseen the decimation of the Montepulciano fortune. It was a comparison that didn’t need to be highlighted. He nodded instead. “This project in the Docklands has hit a snag. It is why I am here.”
“Yes, I know. Okay, have it your way. Mind if I join you?”
Sabato couldn’t have said. The distraction would be welcome, and yet it would pain him to be in the suite and not be free to reminisce. His phone seemed to be burning inside of his pocket, begging him to call her. But to what end? He was only going to be in London for one night. Emily would be offended if he cast her as some kind of international booty call. He might want her with a profound ache, but for her sake he had to be strong enough to ignore it.
“Suit yourself,” he said, when he realised Raf was waiting for an answer.
“What do you feel like?” He perused the menu, running his finger down the page to take in the offerings.
Sabato stood and ran a hand over the back of his neck. What did he feel like? Emily, Emily, Emily.
He stared at Rafaelo without seeing him. “You decide. I’m going to grab a shower. Whatever you want is fine.”
He strode through the suite, wilfully ignoring the bedroom he’d shared with Emily.
The shower was warm and reviving. He’d arrived in London early that morning and had back-to-back meetings all day. Returning to his hotel suite to find Rafaelo waiting for him had been the cherry on top of an already frustrating situation.
He took his time under the hot jets of water. He stood in the shower, waiting and waiting for thoughts of Emily to wash away. They didn’t of course, but he consoled himself that he only had one night to get through and then he’d leave London, and Emily behind.
Again.
***
Emily smothered a yawn with the back of her hand. She’d painted until late the night before. Far later than she should have, given the fact she had a shift at the hotel the next day. But inspiration had struck, and Emily was its mistress. Always wiling to be a slave to ideas, when they flowed easily. And the resulting portrait had been a good start. She was still in the sketching phase, but the style and tone were becoming clearer to her.
She checked the docket and swallowed down the sense of panic. She’d made deliveries to the penthouse before. It was painful, because it brought back his presence in a very real way, but it was also just a part of her job. She tethered herself to that pragmatic conclusion and did a quick scan of the food. She was diligent about ensuring the meals ordered matched the docket.
Everything about the walk to the room flooded her with reminders of that weekend. The smell of the corridor was pleasing: a mix of the cleaning products the hotel used, and the smell of toiletries; it was floral and light. The lighting was golden; it was autumn now, and the hotel permanently felt cosy and warm. She walked on legs that weren’t quite steady towards the luxurious suite. Her finger was tentative on the doorbell. She sucked in a deep breath, and waited.
The door was pulled inwards and Emily felt relief flood through. Relief, yes, and disappointment too.
It wasn’t Sabato.
It never was.
“Ciao,” the handsome man greeted her, his interest obvious. “Do come in.” He stood back to allow her entry into the suite. And, as she always did when she returned to the scene of the crime, so to speak, she stared at the cream carpet. Not the dining table. Not the chairs. Not the sofa. Not anywhere she’d been with Sabato.
She stopped the trolley and flicked the brakes on. “If you’ll just sign here, sir,” she murmured, lifting the electronic pad towards him.
“You don’t set the table?” The man, his voice accented in a way that was painfully familiar, was curious.
Emily groaned inwardly. In her desperation to get out of the suite, she’d forgotten that guests of the penthouses were offered extra serv
ices. She smiled at him politely. “Of course, sir, if that’s your preference.”
“Indeed,” he sat down on one of the chairs, his eyes glued to Emily’s face. “If it gives me more time with una bella donna such as you,” he murmured.
Emily felt her cheeks flush pink. “Shall I set the table for one?” She asked, neatly sidestepping his flirtatious remark.
“Two,” he corrected.
Emily thought then, sympathetically, of his companion. Presumably a wife or girlfriend, completely unaware that she’d ended up with a total creep. “Yes, sir,” she agreed, moving elegantly into the kitchen.
The bench. The stool. The floor.
She blocked out the memories and reached for the elegant cutlery then returned quickly to the table. If she didn’t get out of the room, she knew she’d have a panic attack.
Her fingers were still quivering as she placed the cutlery onto the glass table top.
The man watched her for a moment and then leaned forward. “What is your name?”
“Emily,” she said coldly, conveying as clearly as possible that she had no interest in anything other than delivering his meals and getting out of there.
“I’m Raf,” he said with a grin.
Emily didn’t reply. What was there to say? She lifted the plates onto the table, aware of his eyes on her as she crouched down to locate the napkins in the bottom of her tray.
“There you are, sir,” she said with a professional nod. “Enjoy your meal.”
She was so close to leaving. So close.
She spun on her heel, intent on closing the distance between herself and the door just as quickly as possible. And then, she saw him.
As if she’d conjured him from her dreams and hopes.
Sabato. Moisture clinging to his bare chest, a hotel issue white towel draped low and firm around his hips. She lost her footing, and might have fallen, had Raf not reached for her waist and caught hold of her.
It was only a moment. A brief moment of weakness. And in that time, realisation after realisation flooded Emily’s mind.
She wanted him. She loved him. He’d come to London and not told her. She would never – could never – have him again.
Emily straightened, pulling out of Rafaelo’s helpful grip. “Excuse me,” she spoke to him, and not Sabato. “I must have caught my toe.”
She walked quickly away from the desperate scene, her heart racing, her brow damp with perspiration. He was back. For how long?
And why?
She reached for the door and went to pull it inwards at the same time that Sabato held it closed. He was right behind her, his warm, muscled frame almost touching her. She tilted her head to stare up at him, hoping she didn’t look as overcome by emotion as she felt. His eyes were devouring her, taking in every single detail in her appearance.
“It’s you,” he said finally, his eyes still locked to her face.
Her heart was actually hurting, it had been so totally broken by his absence. She squared her shoulders, forcing herself not to show her pain. “Your dinner will get cold, sir,” she murmured with icy distance in her tone.
“Stop,” he responded firmly, when she moved to exit the suite. “You cannot go.”
“Oh, really?” Her mask of polite disinterest was dropping. “Just watch me.”
“Emily,” he grabbed her hand, and electricity arced between them, fierce and flammable. She pulled away as though he’d burned her.
“Good night, Mr Montepulciano,” she responded firmly, spinning away from him and walking with as much poise as she could muster, down the hallway and back to the lifts.
She was both surprised and hurt that Sabato had let her go. In her heart of hearts, she’d hoped he would follow her. That he would have some means to explain why he hadn’t called her.
He’d never promised he would, she reminded herself, dashing away angry tears as the elevator hurtled to the ground floor of the hotel. In fact, she’d told him she didn’t want his number, because she wouldn’t call him. “Oh, shut up,” she groaned, pressing her fingers against her temples. This was certainly not the time to be reasonable and make excuses for him.
Hell, he’d looked good. She checked her reflection in the mirror. Her face was pale, her eyes suspiciously bright. She pinched her cheeks and blinked furiously, pausing a few moments before heading back to the kitchen.
The rest of the night passed, somehow, but Emily had no recollection of anything beyond that moment. She ran on autopilot, carrying out her duties, her body going through the motions while her mind was totally absorbed. She’d never been so relieved as when the end of her shift finally loomed before her.
She signed out and grabbed her coat and bag, ducking out of the service entry and into the dark, cold night.
And there he was.
Waiting for her, reclining indolently against the side of the building. He was staring straight ahead, his posture relaxed, his dress formal. A suit, and a long coat, that fell to his knees. He looked heavenly, and he looked expensive. Untouchable.
His eyes met hers, and her world tilted swiftly off its axis.
“What are you doing here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
She pulled her coat tighter around herself, embarrassed now at the threadbare quality of it. It was just another physical reminder of how different they were. “I have to go,” she said, her voice low and quiet against the background hum of central London. A bus hurtled past, a streak of red and orange lights.
She began to walk brusquely towards her stop. He fell into step beside her. “You’re angry with me.”
A statement, not a question. Her annoyance was evident. “No.”
“Yes,” he contradicted, looping her bag off her shoulder and clutching its weight for her.
She looked at him in consternation. “You don’t need to do that.”
“I don’t need to do anything,” he agreed with all the appearance of affability.
“What do you want?” She stopped walking and looked up at him.
His smile echoed her own sentiments. What he wanted was Emily. “I want to talk to you,” he responded earnestly, his expression intense.
“Sure you do,” she scoffed, a small laugh punctuating their conversation. She looked down the street, at the bus heading their way. “Another time,” she shrugged nonchalantly, though her heart was pounding and her pulse was racing. “This is me.” She put her hand out for her bag, but Sabato didn’t move.
“I will take you home.”
“No,” she responded angrily. “I take the bus.”
“So tonight, my driver will take you.”
“No!” She reached for her bag and he didn’t resist. Emily pulled it tight over her body then fished out her Oyster card.
The bus stopped with the sound of grinding brakes. “Goodbye, again,” she said, not able to look at him. Her heart raced as she stepped up onto the bus. She moved down the aisle, and chose a seat far from anyone else. She wanted to be alone.
She placed her bag beside her to emphasise the point then looked forward. Sabato, in his expensive suit and wool coat, was stepping onto the bus. His wallet – soft, black leather – was unfolded, and he had removed a pile of bank notes. The driver was shaking his head, and she heard his cockney accent dispute, “Correct change only, mate.”
Emily’s lips quirked in a smile despite her inner-turmoil. It was very clear that Sabato had no idea how a bus worked. He flicked open the coin compartment of his wallet. “How much?”
The driver stated the fare and Sabato compressed his lips in frustration. “Take the fifty. Think of it as a tip.” He stalked down the bus, his natural athleticism an easy match for the bumpy departure of the surprised driver. Every head in the seats was angled to watch his progress; he had that effect on people.
But Sabato didn’t notice. He only had eyes for Emily.
He lifted her bag without asking and sat beside her, his broad frame invading all of her senses. She spun around in the seat, so t
hat she could look at him properly.
“What are you doing?” She hissed, scanning his face.
“I want to speak with you.”
“Yes,” she rolled her eyes. “You said that. But what about?”
He put a hand on her knee but she jerked away. “Don’t.” She bit down on her lip, hating the sting of tears she felt in her eyes.
Sabato took a deep breath, searching for his forbearance. “Emily, please try to be reasonable.”
She glared at him angrily. “Reasonable?” She retorted fiercely. “You don’t think it would have been reasonable to tell me you were in the hotel? Or, I don’t know, the city?”
“You didn’t want to see me,” he reminded her. “You insisted, if I remember, that we leave the weekend as it was.”
“Yes,” she nodded. “And I meant it.” Liar! “I only mean as a matter of courtesy, that you should have told me you’d be in the penthouse.”
“So that you could avoid me?”
“Yes!” She nodded.
“Why? Why would you not want to see me again?”
Her cheeks flamed. She turned away from him and stared out of the window. The bus was logged in traffic, and barely moving. Despite the noise of the engine, the silence between them crackled with animosity. “What if you’d had a woman with you?” She pointed out, after a few moments of unbearable quiet.
“I didn’t.”
“That’s just good luck,” Emily retorted hotly.
Sabato reached up and touched her cheek. This time, Emily didn’t pull away. But her eyes were lost, her expression mournful, as she stared across at him. “I want to forget you.”
He brushed his hand over her hair. “Did it occur to you that you’re not the only one struggling to leave that weekend behind?”
Her eyes locked to his. Hope flared in her chest, but died almost instantly. “No.” She bit down on her lip. “I know you, Sabato. If you’d … wanted to see me again, you would have called me. Or come back sooner.” She licked her lower lip. “How long are you here for?”
Seduced by the Italian Tycoon: From the first moment they met, she was powerless to resist him Page 8
