And she had.
Though not because of her mother’s instruction—more because she did not know how to let her guard down.
People thought her aloof and cold.
Better they think that than she reveal her heart.
And so, by default, she had saved herself.
Lydia had secretly hoped for love.
It would seem not in this lifetime.
Tonight she would be left alone with him.
The towel fell away and, though she was alone, Lydia pulled it back and covered herself.
She was on the edge of a panic attack, and she hadn’t had one since…
Rome.
Or was it Venice?
Venice.
Both.
That awful school trip.
She had said yes to this trip to Rome, hoping to lay a ghost to rest. Lydia wanted to see Rome through adult eyes, yet she was as scared of the world now as she had been as a teenager.
Pull yourself together, Lydia.
And so she did.
Lydia got up from the bed and got dressed.
She was meeting Maurice, her stepfather, at eight for breakfast. Rather than be late she just quickly combed her long blonde hair, which had dried a little wild. She had bought a taupe linen dress to wear, which had buttons from neck to hem—though perhaps not the best choice for her shaking hands.
They are not expecting you to sleep with him!
Lydia told herself she was being utterly ridiculous even to entertain such a thought. She would stop by for a drink with this man tonight, with her stepfather, thank him for his hospitality and then explain that she was going out with friends. Arabella lived here now and had said they should catch up when Lydia got here.
In fact…
Lydia took out her phone and fired off a quick text.
Hi, Arabella,
Not sure if you got my message.
Made it to Rome.
I’m free for dinner tonight if you would like to catch up.
Lydia
And so to breakfast.
Lydia stepped out of her suite and took the elevator down to the dining room. As she walked through the lavish foyer she caught sight of herself in a mirror. Those deportment classes had been good for something at least—she was the picture of calm and had her head held high.
Yet she wanted to run away.
‘No, grazie.’
Raul Di Savo declined the waiter’s offer of a second espresso and continued to read through reports on the Hotel Grande Lucia, where he now sat, having just taken breakfast.
At Raul’s request his lawyer had attained some comprehensive information, but it had come through only this morning. In a couple of hours Raul was to meet with Sultan Alim, so there was a lot to go through.
The Grande Lucia was indeed a sumptuous hotel, and Raul took a moment to look up from his computer screen and take in the sumptuous dining room that was currently set up for breakfast.
There was the pleasant clink of fine china and a quiet murmur of conversation and, though formal, the room had a relaxed air that had made Raul’s stay so far pleasurable. There was a certain old-world feel to the place that spoke of Rome’s rich history and beauty.
And Raul wanted the hotel to be his.
Raul had been toying with the idea of adding it to his portfolio and had just spent the night in the Presidential Suite as a guest of Sultan Alim.
Raul hadn’t expected to be so impressed.
He had been, though.
Every detail was perfection personified—the décor was stunning, the staff were attentive yet discreet, and it appeared to be a rich haven for both the business traveller and the well-heeled tourist.
Raul was now seriously considering taking over this landmark hotel.
Which meant that so too was Bastiano.
Fifteen years on and their rivalry continued unabated.
Mutual hatred was a silent, yet daily motivator—a black cord that connected them.
And Bastiano would be arriving later today.
Raul knew that Bastiano was also a personal friend of Sultan Alim. Raul had considered if that might have any bearing on their negotiations but had soon discounted it. Sultan Alim was a brilliant businessman, and his friendship with Bastiano would have no sway over his dealings, Raul was certain of that.
Raul rather hoped his presence at the hotel might cause Bastiano some discomfort, for though they moved in similar circles in truth their paths rarely crossed. Raul, even on his father’s death, had never returned to Casta.
There had been no respects to pay.
Yet Casta had remained Bastiano’s base.
He had converted the old convent into a luxury retreat for the seriously wealthy.
It was actually, Raul knew, an extremely upmarket rehab facility.
His mother would be turning in her grave.
Raul’s black thoughts were interrupted when the portly middle-aged gentleman sitting to his right made his disgruntled feelings known.
‘Who do you have to sleep with around here to get some service?’ he muttered in well-schooled English.
It would seem that the tourists were getting impatient!
Raul smiled inwardly as the waiter continued to ignore the pompous Englishman. The waiter had had enough. This man had been complaining since the moment he had been shown to his table, and there was absolutely nothing to complain about.
Raul was not being generous in that observation. Many of his nights were spent in hotels—mainly those that he owned—and so more than most he had a very critical eye.
There were certain ways to behave, and despite his accent this man did not adhere to them. He seemed to assume that just because he was in Rome no one would speak English and his insults would go unnoticed.
They did not.
And so—just
