tickle of…certainty.
Carefully he catalogued her features. Dark hair pulled back sleekly from a pleasant but unremarkable face. Her nose was pert, a trifle short. Her eyes were surprisingly light for her brunette colouring. Her mouth was wide.
She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t exotic enough to turn heads. And yet she had…something. A charisma the photographer had seen and capitalised on.
Alessandro traced the angle of her cheekbone, the gentle curve of her jaw, to pause on the lush promise of her lips.
There it was again. That tingle of presentiment. The intuition that she was no stranger. It drew every muscle and sinew in his body tight, as if in readiness for action.
Behind the opaque gauze of his faulty memory something shifted.
Sensation, soft as the tentative brush of those lips against his. That taste again, of sun-ripened cherries. Irresistible. The phantom caress of delicate fingers along his jaw, over his rapidly pulsing heart. The sound of feminine sighs, the aftermath of ecstasy.
Alessandro’s chest heaved as if from intense physical exertion. Sweat prickled his nape and brow as his body stirred with arousal.
Impossible!
Yet instinct clamoured with a truth he couldn’t ignore.
He knew her. Had met her. Held her. Made love to her.
His nostrils flared on a surge of wholly masculine possessiveness. The primitive sense of ownership, of a male scenting his mate, was unmistakeable.
He stared at the image of a stranger from the other side of the world. If he hadn’t visited Melbourne, had she travelled here to Lombardia?
Frustration at those missing months simmered.
For long minutes Alessandro considered the photograph, his thumb absently caressing the curve of her cheek.
Impossible as it seemed, the certainty grew that this woman held the key to his locked memories. Could she open them? Restore what he’d lost and obliterate the sense that he was somehow less than he’d been. The gnawing hint of dissatisfaction with his world.
Alessandro reached for the phone. He intended to have answers, no matter what it took.
‘Thanks, Sarah, you’re a lifesaver.’ Relief flooded Carys. Today everything that could go wrong had. At least this one thing, the most important, was sorted.
‘No worries,’ her neighbour and babysitter responded. ‘Leo will be fine staying over.’
Carys knew Sarah was right, but that didn’t stop the twinge of regret, sharp in her chest. When she’d taken this job at the Landford Hotel it was with the expectation she’d be home most days at a reasonable hour. Early enough to look after her son.
She didn’t want Leo growing used to an absentee parent too busy with her career to spend time with him. The sort of home life Carys had taken for granted as a child.
Especially since Leo only had her.
The twinge beneath her breast intensified, catching her breath as pain ripped through her. Even after all this time she couldn’t suppress the shaft of regret and longing that pierced her whenever she remembered.
She needed to toughen up. Once upon a time she’d chased her dream, but she wasn’t fool enough to believe in it any more. Not after she’d learned so cruelly how futile that dream was.
‘Carys? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ Hastily she forced a smile, knowing Sarah could read her tone even over the phone. ‘I owe you one.’
‘You sure do. You can babysit for us next weekend. We’ve got plans for a night on the town, if you can mind Ashleigh.’
‘Done.’ She looked at her watch. She had to get back before the next crisis hit. ‘Don’t forget to give Leo a goodnight kiss from me.’ Stupid to feel that catch in her throat because tonight she wouldn’t feed him his evening meal or kiss his plump pink cheek at bedtime.
Her son was in good hands and, she told herself sternly, she was lucky to have landed a job that usually gave her regular time with him. She was grateful the management had been impressed enough to allow her reasonably family-friendly hours.
Today was the exception. The flu that ravaged the Landford’s staff had hit at the worst possible time. More than a third of the staff was off sick just when there was a series of major functions.
It didn’t matter that Carys had already spent more than a full day on the job. The collapse just an hour ago of David, the senior functions manager, with a soaring temperature, meant Carys had to step into that role too.
Nerves fluttered in her stomach. This was her chance to prove herself and justify David’s faith in her, having taken her on despite her incomplete qualifications. He’d been a good friend and a terrific mentor. She owed him not only her position, but the hard-won self-confidence she’d slowly built since coming to Melbourne.
‘I don’t know what time I’ll be back, Sarah. Probably in the early hours.’ Steadfastly Carys refused to worry about how she’d manage the trip home. She couldn’t rely on public transport at that time, and the cost of a cab was prohibitive. ‘I’ll see you around breakfast time, if that’s OK?’
‘That’s fine, Carys. Don’t fret. We’ll see you when we see you.’
Slowly Carys replaced the phone and stretched her hunched shoulders. She’d been working at the computer and on the phone without a break for so long her body ached all over.
She glanced at the monitor before her and saw the lines of the spreadsheet she’d opened dance and jumble before her eyes. She pinched the bridge of her nose, knowing that no matter how hard she concentrated, working on the document would be a test of endurance and determination.
Sighing, she reached for her tinted reading glasses and leaned forward.
She had to finish this. Only then could she make last minute checks on the arrangements for tonight’s masked ball.
Carys stood in the corner of the ballroom near the door to the kitchens, listening to the head waiter’s whispered update. It was mayhem in the kitchen with more staff struck down by this virulent flu. Only a couple of the extra waitstaff had arrived to replace those who’d phoned in ill, and the chefs were barely able to cope.
Fortunately, the guests hadn’t noticed anything wrong. The Landford prided itself on superb service, and the staff were doing everything to live up to that reputation.
The ballroom, all black and gold, was gracious and formally elegant. Antique chandeliers sparkled, casting a glow that set jewels scintillating among the A-list crowd. The guests looked impossibly chic as befitted one of Fashion Week’s major events.
The room smelled of exclusive fragrances, hothouse flowers and money. Serious money. Celebrities, designers, buyers, the crème de la crème of Australian society, were here tonight and plenty of international high-flyers too.
And they were all her responsibility.
Carys’
