‘Permesso.’
A ravishing stick-thin blonde with eyes like a cat’s blocked Orla’s path to the hotel’s elevator.
Orla held her hands up and tried to move around her, but the woman mimicked her moves, blocking her efforts.
‘Can I help you?’ The richness of the woman’s clothes and the expert precision of her hair and make-up made Orla think she must be the possessor of the limousine.
The woman raised an immaculately plucked eyebrow. ‘English?’
‘Irish.’
‘You give me two minutes.’
‘Err…’ Annoyed, Orla was about to push her way around the woman when the four fatal words were uttered.
‘Is about Tonino Valente.’
Prickles raced up Orla’s spine. Her abdomen clenched. ‘What about him?’
The woman raised her left hand and pointed at her wedding finger. A huge diamond ring lay snugly on it. ‘I am Sophia. Tonino’s fiancée.’
Twenty minutes later and the two women were in Orla’s hotel room. Sophia perched delicately on the small armchair while Orla sat on the floor feeling as if she’d been punched by a heavyweight with lead in his gloves. Spread on the carpet around her were photographs of Tonino and Sophia. Many photos. There were also press clippings and glossy magazines. Orla didn’t understand Sicilian but some of the words in the article needed no translation. Tonino and Sophia’s engagement party two months ago had been deemed newsworthy.
‘I sorry to tell you this,’ Sophia said in a tone that suggested she was loving every minute of it. ‘Tonino has made fool of you. He has lied to you. You are fun to him. Sì?’
‘I’ve been a bit of fun?’ Orla whispered. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Sì. That why I here. I warn you. Tonino loves me. We are to marry.’
Orla was unaware that tears were leaking down her face, and too numb to care that there was a warning in the Sicilian woman’s tone as well as in her actual words.
This must be what he’d wanted to talk to her about that night.
Fool that she was, she’d believed he wanted to discuss a future for them.
Her hand shook as she picked up the glossy magazine containing a twenty-page spread of their engagement party.
How could an ordinary hotel manager attract such a wealthy, high-maintenance woman like this? And why would an ordinary hotel manager be the recipient of the kind of press attention usually reserved for the rich and famous?
Fearing she could be sick, she groped for her phone and keyed Tonino Valente’s name into the search engine.
Ten minutes later she was still reading and searching but it was as if someone had taken possession of her body and was reading the damning evidence for her.
She felt light-headed. Boneless.
Tonino had lied about more than his marital status.
He wasn’t the manager of the hotel as he’d led her to believe. He was the owner. This hotel was just a small cog in a vast empire.
Tonino Valente was the sole owner of Valente Holdings, a chain of mostly hugely expensive hotels across Europe that catered for the filthy rich. Tonino, who was also an enthusiastic investor in start-up businesses, was filthy rich in his own right.
The man she’d opened her heart for, who she’d dared believe she could have a future with, was a cheat and a liar. The worst kind of liar. A rich, powerful liar. His grandfather was one of Sicily’s top judges. His mother was one of Sicily’s leading criminal lawyers. His father was a leading Sicilian politician.
Her Internet search revealed that the immaculately beautiful woman in the obscenely expensive outfit sitting on Orla’s hotel-room armchair was Sophia Messina. The Messinas were a Sicilian family as wealthy and powerful as the Valentes.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, meeting Sophia’s cold, unflinching eyes. ‘I knew nothing about you.’
‘Now you know…you go?’ It was framed as a question, but the underlying threat hung between them.
Orla didn’t need the threat.
‘Yes.’ Breathing heavily to quell the rising nausea, she stumbled over to the wardrobe. ‘Yes. I go.’
Four years later
‘WILL YOU KEEP still a minute?’ Orla rebuked with a shake of her head. How was she supposed to fasten her sister’s wedding dress if she didn’t stop jigging on the spot?
‘I’m trying,’ Aislin protested.
‘Try harder. These clasps are fiddly. Breathe in.’
Aislin gave a theatrical intake of breath.
Using all her limited strength, Orla hooked the second tiny clasp. Excellent. Only another fifteen of the blasted things to go. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to wear a bra?’
‘It’s a strapless dress.’
‘Then wear a strapless bra. What will you do if the dress falls down and your boobs start wobbling for all of Sicily’s high society to admire?’ If there was one thing Orla was envious of, it was her sister’s magnificent bosom. Orla barely had a handful to waste.
‘It’s a bespoke dress. It’s not going to fall down.’
She hooked the third clasp. ‘I don’t get why you won’t let the designer hoist you into it.’
‘She’s around if we need her.’
‘But she’s used to doing this. Her fingers work. My fingers are useless.’ Fourth hook clasped, Orla blew out a puff of air from the exertion.
‘Untwist your knickers and chill. Anyone would think you were the one getting married.’
‘Aren’t you the slightest bit nervous?’
‘Nope.’ Through the reflection of the full-length mirror, Orla saw the beaming smile spread over her sister’s face. And well she should smile. Not only was Aislin marrying the love of her life, but she’d discovered a month ago that she was pregnant.
That the man Orla’s sister was marrying happened to be Orla’s half-brother—Orla and Aislin had different fathers—was, to her mind, only further cause for celebration.
She just wished they were marrying in Ireland, not here in Sicily.
