He rarely opened the safe. In it were documents and rolls of plans, and there were also the coroner’s and police reports from the deaths of his parents and brother, but there was also one thing of beauty nestled atop them.
‘Come here,’ Gian told her.
Those words sent an unfamiliar shiver through her, so unfamiliar that Ariana did not ask why, or what for. Instead, she followed his command and walked over.
He removed a faded velvet box from the safe. It might once have been gold, but it had faded now to a silver beige, yet it was beautiful still. The box was studded with gold tacks and the clasp was so intricate that she wondered how he flicked it open so easily.
‘Look,’ Gian said.
Fiordelise’s ring was the rarest of treasures. It was a swirl of stunning Italian rose gold, and in the centre was a ruby so deep and so vibrant it made her breath hitch.
‘I’ve never seen a ruby of that colour,’ Ariana breathed. ‘It’s the colour of a pomegranate kernel, although it’s bigger...’
‘It’s called pigeon-blood red,’ Gian corrected. ‘The colour of the first drops after a kill.’
‘Don’t.’ Ariana shuddered. ‘I like pomegranate better.’
‘Then pomegranate red it is.’ Gian smiled and then closed up the box. ‘I found this five years after I inherited the place.’
‘Where did you find it?’
‘Under the very spot you were seated a short while ago,’ Gian told her. ‘When the suite was being renovated they pulled up the floor. There was a hidden basement and in it was a box. There was a shawl and some sketches of Fiordelise, and also this...’
‘What happened to the sketches?’ Ariana asked.
‘I had them restored and framed.’
‘And the shawl?’
‘I gave that to an aunt. But this...’ He replaced the box in the safe. ‘God alone knows it would have been easier to have found this some five years earlier.’
‘You’d have sold it?’ Ariana frowned. She knew that he had inherited his estate from his family in the direst of conditions, and that La Fiordelise had been on the brink of collapse, yet she could not believe he would have sold something as precious and sentimental as this ring.
But Gian was adamant. ‘Absolutely I would have.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Then you don’t know me,’ Gian said, closing up the safe. He turned to her. ‘I shall have Luna bring your coat.’
‘Thank you,’ Ariana said, trying to quash the thud of disappointment that he hadn’t suggested, given the hour, that they have dinner together. Well, she would soon see about that. ‘Gosh, it’s almost seven!’ Ariana exclaimed. ‘No wonder I’m so hungry.’
‘Indeed,’ Gian said. ‘I should let you get on.’
She tried to stall him again. ‘What about my uniform? Don’t I need to be measured?’
‘You’ll be working as a chambermaid for the first few weeks of your rotation. That uniform comes in small, medium or large, I believe.’
There was the tiniest wrinkle of her pretty nose and then she shrugged. ‘I lied,’ Ariana admitted. ‘I do want the tartan and pearls.’
‘I know you do.’
‘And I shall get them one day. I shall be the best guest services manager you’ve ever had.’ She pictured her pretty pink business cards with her name embossed in rose gold: Ariana Romano, VIP Guest Services Manager.
Perhaps she shouldn’t be so vocal with her dreams, but when she looked up she was startled by the glimmer of a smile softening his mouth.
It was a smile she had never seen on him before.
Ariana had known him for a long time. If there was trouble in her life—and all too often there was—it was Gian she ran to. And when, inevitably, she thanked him for sorting whatever problem she had placed in his lap, he would nod and give her his grim, somewhat weary smile. There was another smile she knew: each year they sat side by side at the Romano Ball, and each year he performed a duty dance, and so of course she was privy to his duty smile.
Yes, his duty smile, she called it, for that was exactly what it was.
She saw it used on guests, on dignitaries and on herself as recently as this evening when she had first walked in. This smile, though, was different. This off-duty smile felt as if it was just for her, though it was fading now and his grey eyes returned to guarded.
‘I really do need to get on,’ Gian said as Luna appeared with her coat.
As she and Gian walked out, Ariana saw the stunning woman from the Pianoforte Bar smile over at him. ‘I’ll be with you in just a moment.’ Gian nodded to her and from the lack of affection in his tone she assumed he had another client.
‘I thought I was your last appointment,’ Ariana said.
‘You were.’
He stalked off then to the waiting woman, who lifted her face to him, clearly expecting a most thorough kiss, but instead Ariana heard his slight rebuke. ‘I said I would meet you at the theatre, Svetlana.’
‘I thought we might have dinner in the restaurant,’ Svetlana purred and needlessly fiddled with the lapel of his jacket. ‘You still haven’t taken me there.’
Oh!
Ariana’s face was on fire, yet she could not look away. It was unsettling to see him with a woman when of course it should not be, given his reputation. It just felt different seeing it first-hand and flicked a little knife toward her heart.
‘Maybe after...?’ Svetlana persisted.
Gian was not enamoured of women who purred, or those who felt the need to pick an imaginary piece of lint from his lapel, and Svetlana had been doing a lot of both of those of late.
He had already decided they were over, and was about to tell Svetlana, but with Ariana so close, for reasons he did not care—or dare—to examine, he chose not to. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘we’ll be late.’
He didn’t even glance in Ariana’s direction as he headed off. After all, if he stopped to say goodbye to each member of staff, he would never get out of the door.
Ariana Romano as staff?
Ariana in his hotel each and every day...
Instantly, he regretted his decision to take her on.
But then, on Monday morning, an hour after Ariana should have commenced her first shift, he received a text.
Gian, I am sorry! There has been an Extraordinary Board Meeting called!!!! Can I start in the afternoon instead?
Very deliberately, Gian didn’t respond.
He didn’t even scold her for her excessive use of exclamation marks; after all, Ariana personified them. This could never, ever work, and when she came in, hours late, on her very first day, Gian would tell her exactly why.
At lunchtime, rather than text she called him, no doubt with yet more excuses.
‘Gian—’
‘I don’t want to hear it,’ Gian cut in abruptly. ‘Ariana, I simply do not want to know. Even after I gave explicit instructions not to do so, you still think you can call and text me with excuses for why you’re late or not coming in. I don’t deal with junior—’
‘Gian, please, just listen to me...’
She was starting to cry, but Gian was way too used to her crocodile tears. ‘I knew on Friday you were unsuitable for the role and your behaviour today merely confirms it. This could never have worked.’
‘Gian...’ she sobbed, but though he refused to be moved his mask slipped and he forgot to be polite. ‘You sat in this office and pleaded for a start, and I gave you one. The contracts were drawn up and waiting to be signed, but clearly something more enticing has come along. I don’t want to hear about extraordinary board meetings. The only extraordinary thing was that I actually thought you had changed your precocious, self-serving ways, but clearly you have not.’
Problem solved, Gian thought as he terminated the call. He was a little breathless, and barely holding onto his temper but he
also felt a strange disappointment that, yet again, Ariana had let herself down. She was incapable of seeing things through. She was absolutely devoid of any sense of responsibility. She was always onto the next best thing the second it showed up.
Yet there was a mounting sense of disquiet to have heard her tears, for there had been an unfamiliar rasp to them that had, on reflection, sounded real.
She’d probably been putting it on, Gian told himself. If Ariana really wanted a career then perhaps she should have considered acting.
The ridiculous thing was, as he sat there, he was envisioning her in the blush pink tartan suit and the string of pearls that she had admitted she secretly desired.
Ariana, whether he wanted her to or not, made him smile, and for Gian that was rare indeed.
His private phone was buzzing and he saw that it was Dante who was calling, no doubt hoping to sway Gian from his decision.
‘Pronto,’ Gian said.
There was silence for a moment.
‘Dante?’ Gian checked. ‘Look, if you’re calling to excuse Ariana and ask—’
‘Gian,’ Dante interrupted. ‘I don’t know what you’re referring to. I just wanted to call you before word got out. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but a short while ago my father...’ Dante cleared his throat. ‘Rafael has passed away.’
CHAPTER FIVE
GIAN DE LUCA MIGHT be the last Duke of Luctano, but to him Rafael Romano had always been King.
In modern times, Rafael Romano had put Luctano on the map far more than the De Lucas, who had long ago sold off their land and moved to Rome.
This cold grey morning he flew in to bid farewell to a man Gian considered not just a brilliant business mind but a man he had been proud to call a friend.
The landscape beneath his navy helicopter was familiar. A lattice of bare vines weaved across the hills and down into the valley but, deep in winter, the poppy fields were bare and silver with ice. The lake, beside which Rafael was to be buried, was at first a black, uninviting mirror, but now rippled as his helicopter neared its location.
It was to be a private burial, for Rafael’s wife and children only, and Gian was there just for the church service.
The family would now all be at the house, and though Dante had invited him to have his pilot land there, without Rafael, Gian felt he would be invading on this solemn day.
A driver had been arranged to meet him and as he took the steps down from the helicopter Gian felt a blast of bitterly cold air: the weather in Luctano was always more extreme than in Rome. He wore a long black wool coat over his tailored black suit. His thick black hair had not quite been due for a trim, but his barber had come to his apartment that morning to ensure a perfect cut and he was particularly close shaven.
With good reason.
As a car took him to the church, he recalled Rafael’s words from long ago. ‘Look immaculate,’ Rafael had once told him. ‘You are not a university student any more but the owner-manager of a five-star hotel. Get your hair cut, and for God’s sake, shave.’ His advice had not ended there. ‘See a tailor, buy fine shoes...’
At the age of twenty, Gian had been studying architecture and living in the residences, having turned his back on his family two years previously. His scholarship had covered accommodation and his bar work funded books and food, but barely stretched to a haircut, let alone designer clothes. ‘I can’t afford to,’ a proud Gian had dared to admit.
‘You can’t afford not to. Now, listen to me, it is imperative that you look the part...’
But Gian had held firm. After the tragic death of his family, he’d discovered the financial chaos his parents had left behind and the many jobs that depended on him. ‘No, the accounts are a disaster. Before the fancy suits, first the staff are to be paid.’
‘It doesn’t work like that.’
Rafael had taken a reluctant Gian to Via dei Condotti—a fashionable street in Rome—where he had met with artisan tailors and been fitted for bespoke Italian shoes in the only true handout that Gian had ever received. But better than the trip had been the glimpse of having if not a father then a mentor to advise him.
The day had ended at a Middle Eastern barbershop, with hot towels and a close shave. Rafael continued with the sage advice: ‘You need to attract only the best clients.’
‘How, though?’ Gian had asked, staring at his groomed reflection and barely recognising himself. ‘La Fiordelise’s reputation is in tatters and the building is in disrepair.’ Gian loathed the destruction of history—how there were only a few decent areas remaining in the once elegant building. The rest was cordoned off and for the most part the hotel was faded and unkempt.
But Rafael remained upbeat. ‘La Fiordelise has survived worse. It has a new owner now and its reputation will recover: all we need is a plan.’
A couple of weeks later they had contrived one.
A plan that, to this day, few knew about.
Yes, Rafael Romano had been far more of a father to Gian than his own, and Gian would miss him very much indeed.
Arriving at the church, he could feel eyes on him as the absent Duke made a rare return. Gian declined the offer of being guided to a pew and instead stood at the back of the small church and did his level best to keep from recalling the last time he’d been here—at his own family’s funeral. He pondered his handling of Ariana when she had tried to tell him her father had died. Of course he had tried to call her back and apologise, but had been sent straight to voicemail...
Gian’s words, though, had been an unwitting lifeline.
It was Gian’s deep, calm voice on this terrible morning that brought Ariana a little solace.
‘Ariana,’ Dante snapped as they all stood in the entrance hall of their father’s home, preparing to head out for the funeral procession. It was exquisitely awkward as of course it was Mia’s home too. Her older brother was in a particularly picky mood. ‘Surely you can get off your phone for five minutes?’
But Ariana ignored him as she listened again to Gian’s message.
‘I should have let you speak. Ariana, I apologise and I am so deeply sorry for your loss. Call me if you want to, if not...’ His deep voice halted for a few seconds. ‘You will get through this, Ariana. You are strong. Remember that.’
Ariana didn’t feel very strong, though.
She was weak from having to comfort her mother through the day, and at night, though exhausted, she could barely sleep. She felt as if she were holding a million balls in the air and that at any moment one might drop, for her family, scattered by Mia’s presence, had not been under one roof since the divorce, let alone the roof of a church.
Surely her mother would not create a scene?
Or her aunts or uncles...
As well as the worry of that, as she headed out to the waiting cars, the loneliest morning of her life felt even more desolate when Dante decided to take a seat in the front vehicle with Mia, rather than make her travel to the church by herself. That left Ariana with Stefano and Eloa, which lately felt like the equivalent of being alone.
As the cortège moved through the hills to the village, Ariana tried to come to grips with a world without her father while acknowledging a disquieting truth.
Since her father had found Mia, he too had pushed her aside.
For two years, she had felt like a visitor in the family home and later at his hospital bedside. Perhaps she could have accepted Mia more readily if they had accepted her more into their world. Yes, she regretted now not going to the wedding, but the truth was her father hadn’t exactly pushed for her to attend.
In fact, he’d seemed a touch relieved when Ariana had declined.
Once she had been the apple of her father’s eye and they would talk and laugh. They would fly to the London office together, and she had felt there was a real place for her on the Romano board, but since Dante had taken over a
ll she had felt was supernumerary.
Ariana didn’t just miss her father today; she had missed him for the last two years of his life. And now she would miss him for ever, with no time left to put things to rights.
‘We’re here,’ Eloa announced, breaking into her thoughts, and Ariana looked up and saw they were at the church.
The doors were opened and the trio stepped out. Her legs felt as if they had been spun in brittle steel wool, and might snap as she walked over the cobbles and into the church. Her heart felt like a fish flopping in her chest that might jump out of her throat if she let out the wail she held in. The sight of her father’s coffin at the front of the church, though expected, was so confronting that she wanted to turn around and flee, unsure whether she was capable of getting through the ceremony.
But then, just as she felt like panic would surely take over, came an unexpected moment of solace.
Gian was here.
Of course he was, but it was the actual sight of him, the glimpse of him, that allowed Ariana to draw a deeper breath.
He looked more polished and immaculate than she had ever seen; his black hair was brushed back from his face and she could see both the compassion and authority in his grey eyes.
Yes, authority, for him standing at the back with a full view of proceedings instantly calmed Ariana.
Gian would not let things get out of hand.
He would keep things under control.
And then she knew that it wasn’t the hotel, or the haven in Rome that Gian had created, that calmed her.
It was Gian himself who made the world safe.
The look they shared lasted less than a moment—Gian gave her a small, grim smile of sympathy, a nod of his noble head, more by way of understanding than greeting—but time had taken on a different meaning, for the velvet of his eyes and the quiet comfort they gave would sustain her through the service.
You are strong.
He had told her so.
And so she did her best to get through the eulogy and the hymns and the hell.
Gian had been through this before, Ariana reminded herself as she did her level best not to stare at the coffin.
The Italian's Forbidden Virgin (Mills & Boon Modern) (Those Notorious Romanos, Book 2) Page 5
