Sicilian's Baby Of Shame
CAROL MARINELLI
Seduced…When hotel chambermaid Sophie delivers room service to Sicily’s most dark-hearted tycoon, Bastiano Conti, his raw sexuality tempts her to take the ultimate risk – surrendering her untouched body to his!Shamed…Bastiano’s ruthlessness is renowned, but even his conscience flickers when Sophie is fired for their indiscretion – the memories of which are branded onto his very soul – and disappears.Pregnant!Bastiano finds Sophie working in a bar – disgraced, destitute and pregnant! Rejected by his own family, Bastiano is determined to claim his child…by seducing defiant Sophie into wearing his ring!
Seduced...
When hotel chambermaid Sophie delivers room service to Sicily’s most dark-hearted tycoon, Bastiano Conti, his raw sexuality tempts her to take the ultimate risk—surrendering her untouched body to his!
Shamed...
Bastiano’s ruthlessness is renowned, but even his conscience flickers when Sophie is fired for their indiscretion—the memories of which are branded onto his very soul—and disappears.
Pregnant!
Bastiano finds Sophie working in a bar—disgraced, destitute and pregnant! Rejected by his own family, Bastiano is determined to claim his child...by seducing defiant Sophie into wearing his ring!
There was a gap between their chests, but so in tune was Sophie with Bastiano’s every move that she felt as if their bodies touched.
It was time to stay or go. Sophie knew that. Even at this stage she could smooth it over and make her farewells.
Or she could meet those lips and discover bliss.
‘Come here,’ Bastiano moaned, and his hand came up and pulled her head down to his.
Always she had avoided such contact, and yet now she craved it.
His mouth was soft, and the dark shadow of his skin did not make her skin crawl with its tickle; instead it was rough and delicious and matched the building desire in her.
Now, instead of resisting, she opened her lips, wanting and willing.
His tongue felt like a reward as it coiled around hers. They tasted each other, and they inflamed each other—and not just with their mouths. He was stroking her breast through the fabric of her dress and Sophie ached for bed.
His bed.
Billionaires & One-Night Heirs (#ufed0e5e5-fc5c-5caf-9f6b-405f0226ff20)
Secret babies they are determined to claim!
Raul, Alim and Bastiano—three billionaires renowned the world over for their charisma and commanding ways.
Lydia, Gabi and Sophie—three innocents who cannot resist their seductive appeal.
And when sizzling nights lead to nine-month consequences there is no other option—these billionaires will claim their heirs!
The Innocent’s Secret Baby
Bound by the Sultan’s Baby
Sicilian’s Baby of Shame
Available now!
You won’t want to miss this addictive new trilogy from Carol Marinelli!
Sicilian’s Baby of Shame
Carol Marinelli
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CAROL MARINELLI recently filled in a form asking for her job title. Thrilled to be able to put down her answer, she put ‘writer’. Then it asked what Carol did for relaxation and she put down the truth—‘writing’. The third question asked for her hobbies. Well, not wanting to look obsessed, she crossed her fingers and answered ‘swimming’—but, given that the chlorine in the pool does terrible things to her highlights, I’m sure you can guess the real answer!
Books by Carol Marinelli
Mills & Boon Modern Romance
Billionaires & One-Night Heirs
The Innocent’s Secret Baby
Bound by the Sultan’s Baby
One Night With Consequences
The Sheikh’s Baby Scandal
The Billionaire’s Legacy
Di Sione’s Innocent Conquest
Irresistible Russian Tycoons
The Price of His Redemption
The Cost of the Forbidden
Billionaire Without a Past
Return of the Untamed Billionaire
Mills & Boon Medical Romance
Their Secret Royal Baby
Paddington Children’s Hospital
Their One Night Baby
The London Primary Hospital
Playboy on Her Christmas List
Visit the Author Profile page
at millsandboon.co.uk (http://millsandboon.co.uk) for more titles.
For my wonderful editor Flo Nicoll.
Thank you for being you.
Carol xxx
Contents
Cover (#ub744ed9c-add9-5ec4-86bd-e64a2016e1b8)
Back Cover Text (#u5108022b-9b75-521f-963a-51e3535b2cb3)
Introduction (#u4027f546-6b85-586e-88b9-ddebe8b8cf1e)
Billionaires & One-Night Heirs (#u1c47ec7f-0c66-5fef-9841-94f46b3c68bc)
Title Page (#ufc1a65ff-63be-5619-a444-028fcacd2dbe)
About the Author (#u11dade60-383e-58ba-bcbb-52d05a835356)
Dedication (#u794f00de-448d-5809-9815-8e3f22498a8e)
PROLOGUE (#u32854db6-643d-5834-86fc-3b575c84cbdf)
CHAPTER ONE (#u4cfd245f-a631-5165-b657-71083696674c)
CHAPTER TWO (#u734027b4-e76d-5c72-9fe3-fb952973cb81)
CHAPTER THREE (#u66244d41-39ee-51aa-8700-771caa2813bd)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#ufed0e5e5-fc5c-5caf-9f6b-405f0226ff20)
BASTIANO CONTI HAD been born hungry.
And born a problem.
His mother had died giving birth to him and had never disclosed who his father was. All she had owned had been left to him—a ring.
It was Italian gold with a small emerald in its centre and some seed pearls dotted around it.
Bastiano’s uncle, who had four children of his own, had first suggested that the nuns raise the orphaned baby who’d lain crying in the small maternity ward in the Valley of Casta. There was a convent that overlooked the Sicilian Strait and orphans had usually been sent there.
But the convent was on its last legs.
The nurses were busy but occasionally one would take pity and hold Bastiano a little longer than it took to feed him.
Occasionally.
‘Familia,’ the priest had said to his uncle. ‘Everyone knows that the Contis look after their own.’
The Contis ruled the valley to the west and the Di Savos held the east.
Loyalty to their own was paramount, the priest told him.
And so, after a stern talk from the priest, Bastiano’s zio and his reluctant wife had taken the little bastard to their house but it had never, for Bastiano, been a home.
Always Bastiano had been considered an outsider. If something had gone wrong, then he’d been the first to be blamed and the last to be forgiven.
If there had been four brioches for lunch, they had not been split to make five.
Bastiano had done without.
Sitting in school next to Raul Di Savo, Bastiano had started to understand why.
‘What would your parents save in a fire?’ Sister Francesca had asked her class. ‘Raul?’
Raul had shrugged.
‘Your father,’ she prompted, ‘what would be the first thing that Gino reached for?’
‘His wine.’
The class had laughed and Sister Francesca, growing more exasperated with each passing moment, had turned her attention from Raul.
‘Bastiano,’ she snapped. ‘Who would your zia save?’
His serious grey eyes had lifted to hers and Bastiano had frowned even as he’d given his response. ‘Her children.’
‘Correct.’
She had turned back to the board and Bastiano had sat there, still frowning, for indeed it was the correct answer—his zia would save her children. But not him.
He would never be first.
However, aged seven, Bastiano was sent to collect the brioches and the baker’s wife ruffled his hair and so unused to affection was he that his face lit up and she said that he had a cute smile.
‘You do too,’ Bastiano told her, and she laughed.
‘Here.’ She gave him a sweet cannoli just for brightening her morning and Bastiano and Raul sat on the hill and ate the gooey treat.
The boys should have been sworn enemies—for generations the Contis and the Di Savos had fought over the vines and properties in the valley—yet Bastiano and Raul became firm friends.
The small encounter at the baker’s was enough for Bastiano to learn that he could get by better on charm.
Oh, a smile worked wonders, and later he learnt to flirt with his eyes and was rewarded with something far sweeter than cannoli.
Despite their families’ protests, Bastiano and Raul remained friends. They would often sit high on the hill near the now vacant convent and drink cheap wine. As they looked out over the valley, Raul told him of the beatings his mother endured and admitted that he was reluctant to leave for university in Rome.
‘Stay, then.’
It was that simple to Bastiano. If he’d had a mother, or someone who cared for him, he would not leave.
And he did not want Raul to go, though of course Bastiano did not admit that.
Raul left.
One morning, walking down the street, he saw Gino storm out of Raul’s house, shouting and leaving the front door open.
Raul was gone and, given what his friend had told him, Bastiano thought he ought to check that his mother was okay.
‘Signora Di Savo...’ He knocked on the open door but she did not answer.
He could hear that she was crying.
His zia and zio called her unhinged but Maria Di Savo had always been kind to Bastiano.
Concerned, he walked inside and she was kneeling on the floor of the kitchen, crying.
‘Hey.’ He poured her a drink and then he got a cloth and ran it under the water and pressed it to the bruise on her eye.
‘Do you want me to call someone?’ he offered.
‘No.’
He helped her to stand and she leant on him and cried and Bastiano did not know what to do.
‘Why don’t you leave him?’ he asked.
‘I’ve tried many times.’
Bastiano frowned because Raul had always said that he’d pleaded with her to leave yet she’d always refused.
‘Could you go and stay with Raul in Rome?’ Bastiano suggested.
‘He doesn’t want me there. He left me,’ Maria sobbed. ‘No one wants me.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘You mean it?’
She looked up then and he went to correct her to say that what he had meant was that he was sure there were people who wanted her...
Not him.
She put a hand up to his face and held his cheek. ‘You’re so handsome.’
Maria ran a hand through his thick black hair and it did not feel like when the baker’s wife had; this felt more than an affectionate ruffle and, confused, Bastiano removed her hand and stepped back. ‘I have to go,’ he told her.
‘Not yet.’
She wore just a slip and her breast was a little exposed; he did not want Maria to be embarrassed when she realised that she was on display, so he turned to leave.
‘Please don’t go,’ she called out to him.
‘I have to go to work.’
He had left school and worked now in the bar that was a front for the seedier dealings of his zio.
‘Please, Bastiano...’ Maria begged. She reached for his arm and when he stopped she came around so that she stood in front of him. ‘Oh,’ she apologised as she looked down and saw that her breast was exposed to him, but Bastiano did not look. He was still pretending that he had not noticed.
And she would cover herself now, Bastiano thought, yet she did not. In fact, she took his hand and placed it on her plump, ripe skin.
He was good with the girls but in those cases he was the seducer. Maria was around forty, he guessed, and, for heaven’s sake, she was the mother of his best friend.
‘Signora Di Savo...’ Her hand pressed his as he went to remove it.
‘Maria,’ she said, and her voice was low and husky. He could feel and hear her deep breathing and when she removed her hand, Bastiano’s remained on her breast.
‘You’re hard,’ Maria said, feeling him.
‘Gino might—’
‘He won’t be back till dinner.’
Bastiano was usually the leader and instigator, but not on this hot morning. Maria was back on her knees but this time by her own doing. It was over within minutes.
As he left, he swore he would never return there.
But that very afternoon Bastiano made a trip to the pharmacy for protection, and an hour later they were in bed.
Hot, forbidden, intense—they met whenever they could, though it was never enough for Maria.
‘We’re getting out,’ Bastiano told her. He had been paid and, if all else failed, he had his mother’s ring. He could not stand the thought of her with Gino for even a moment longer.
‘We can’t,’ she told him, even as she asked to see the ring and he watched as she slipped it on.
‘If you love me,’ Maria said, ‘you would want me to have nice things.’
‘Maria, give me back the ring.’
It was all he had of his mother but still Maria did not relent. Bastiano left.
He walked up the hill to the convent and sat looking out, trying to figure it all out. All his life he had wanted a taste of this elusive thing called love, only to find out he did not care for it. It was Bastiano who now wanted out.
And he wanted his mother’s ring.
He stood, walking with purpose to the town below, where he saw it unfold.
A car driving at speed took a bend too fast. ‘Stolto,’ he muttered, and called the driver a fool as he watched him take another bend...and then the car careered from the road.
Bastiano ran in the direction of the smoking wreck but as he approached he was held back and told that it was Gino’s car that had been in the accident.
‘Gino?’ Bastiano checked.
‘No!’ a woman who worked in the bar shouted. ‘I called Maria to say that Gino was on his way home and angry. He had found out about you! She took the car and—’
* * *
Maria’s death and the aftermath had not painted Bastiano in a very flattering light.
Raul returned from Rome and on the eve of the funeral they stood on the hill where once they had sat as boys.
‘You had your pick of the valley!’ Raul could barely contain his fury.
‘I went to check on her—’
But Raul did not want to hear that his mother had been the seducer. ‘And you turned on that fake charm...’ Raul had seen him in action after all. He knew how Bastiano could summon even the shyest woman with his eyes and melt restraint with a smile. ‘I was a fool to trust you,’ Raul said. ‘You as good as killed her.’
Yes, he was the first to be blamed and the last to be forgiven.
‘Stay away from the funeral,’ Raul warned him.
But Bastiano could not.
And the next day things went from bad to worse. After a bloody fight at the graveside, it later transpired that half of Maria’s money had been left to Bastiano.
Raul, once his friend, now accused Bastiano of engineering Maria’s death and swore the rest of his days would be devoted to bringing him down.
‘You’re nothing, Conti,’ Raul told him. ‘You never have been and, even with my mother’s money, you never will be.’
‘Watch me,’ Bastiano warned.
It is said that it takes a village to raise a child.
The Valley of Casta had never really been kind to Bastiano, but when the entire population considered you a cheat, a liar, a seducer, a bastard...that’s what you become.
So, when a drunken Gino came to confront him, instead of taking it on the chin, Bastiano fought back, and when Gino called Maria a whore, Bastiano saw red and did not stay quiet. Instead, he gestured with his hand in the sign of horns and tossed Gino the biggest insult of all.
‘Cornuto!’
Cuckold.
Bastiano, the villagers agreed, was the worst of the worst.
CHAPTER ONE (#ufed0e5e5-fc5c-5caf-9f6b-405f0226ff20)
SOME NIGHTS WERE HELL.
‘Bastiano!’
He heard the familiar, syrupy call of his name and knew that he must be dreaming, for Maria was long dead.
Unusually, he was alone in bed and as dawn sneaked over Rome, Bastiano fought to wake up.
‘Bastiano!’
She called his name again.
When he reached his hand down and felt that he wasn’t hard for her, it was a triumph, and Bastiano smiled a black smile as he silently told her she didn’t do it for him any more.
Maria slapped his cheek.
She wore his mother’s ring on her finger and he felt the cold metal as she delivered a stinging slap, one that had his hand move to his face for the wound was gaping. His cheek was sliced open and there was blood pouring between his fingers.
Bastiano fought with himself even in sleep. He knew that he was dreaming, for the savage fight with Raul had happened at the graveyard; the wound to his cheek had come after Maria had been lowered to the ground.
Everyone had said that it was Bastiano’s fault she was dead.
And it was the reason that he was here, some fifteen years later—lying in one of the presidential suites at Rome’s Grande Lucia hotel.
Raul Di Savo was considering its purchase, which meant that it had been placed on the top of Bastiano’s must-have list.
Bastiano forced himself to wake up. He lay there in the darkness and glanced over at the hotel’s bedside clock. Reaching over, he switched off the alarm. He had no need for it. He would not be going back to sleep.
Bastiano knew the reason that Maria was back in his dreams.
Well, she had never really left them, but that dream had been so vivid and he put it down to the fact that he and Raul were staying at the same hotel.
He heard the soft knock at the main door to his suite and then the quiet attempt to wheel in his breakfast trolley.
‘Puzza!’
Bastiano smiled when he heard the small curse as the maid knocked into something and knew from that one word that the maid was Sicilian.
The door to the master bedroom had been left open but she quietly knocked again.
‘Entra,’ he said.
Bastiano was more than used to room service. Not only was he considering the purchase of this hotel but he was the owner of several premium establishments of his own. He closed his eyes, indicating, as she came in, that he wanted no conversation.
* * *
Sophie could see that he had made no move to sit up so she did not offer him a ‘Good morning’.
The rules were very specific at the Grande Lucia and the staff were well trained.
Sophie loved her job, and though she did not usually do the breakfast deliveries she had been asked to do this one before her night shift ended. She had been called in to work late last night and so had missed the handover where the staff were told of any important guests, their idiosyncrasies and specific requests. Sophie, of course, knew that any guest staying in one of the presidential suites was an important one, and she had checked his name on his breakfast order.
Signor Bastiano Conti.
Being as quiet as she could, Sophie opened some heavy drapes and the shutters behind them so that the guest, when he sat up, would be greeted by the stunning view of Rome in all her morning glory.
And what a glorious day it was turning out to be!
It was as if the theatre curtains were opening on a beautifully set stage, Sophie thought.
There were a few clouds high in the sky that would soon burn off, for it was going to be a warm summer’s day. The Colosseum was picture-postcard perfect and its ancient beauty gave her goosebumps.
Oh, it was a good day indeed for had she not made difficult choices and declined her family’s desire for her to marry Luigi, today would have been the eve of her first wedding anniversary.
For a moment, Sophie forgot where she was and stood there simply taking in the view as she reflected on the past year. Yes, hard choices had been made but she was completely sure that they had been the right ones.
Oh, she was curious about men, of course she was, and though her mother would never understand it, she could readily separate that thought from marriage.
When she had tried to picture her wedding night and sleeping with Luigi, Sophie’s blood had run cold. She had been out with a couple of younger men during her time in Rome but Luigi’s wet, whiskery kisses had left their legacy and, though curious, Sophie had found herself ducking her head from any male advances.
Her parents imagined she was living a sinful life here in Rome.
Sadly, that couldn’t be further from the truth!
Sophie was naïve, she knew that, but she was strong too.
Strong enough to say no to a man and a marriage she hadn’t wanted.
‘Buongiorno.’
A deep voice snapped her to attention and Sophie turned around as she realised that she had just been caught daydreaming, and by an important guest in his own suite!
She went to apologise but her flustered breath was literally taken away for there, lying in bed and idly watching her, was possibly a sight more arresting than the one she had just been feasting on. He was tall—she could see his length in the huge bed. His hands were behind his head and the sheet low on his stomach revealed his naked torso.
He really was magnificent, with olive skin and jet-black hair. The only blot on perfection was a jagged scar on his cheek, yet it only seemed to make him more beautiful. Most of all, it was his eyes that drew Sophie’s. They were grey and piercing and as she met his gaze she found that her breath hitched in her chest and that she could not tear her gaze away. That was rare in itself for Sophie. In her job, she was very used to rich and beautiful men but with this one, with this one, she found that her eyes did not divert and, instead of an apology, her cheeks went a little bit pink.
‘I was just preparing the view for you, Signor Conti,’ Sophie said, and he gave a small smile in return as she made a little joke—as if she had been arranging the scenery outside specifically for him.
‘Thank you.’ He glanced towards the window and the million-euro view. ‘You did a good job.’
And then he looked back at her.
When he had thought her to be taking her time Bastiano had opened his eyes to tell her to hurry up and leave, but there was something about her that halted his usual impatience.
And she mesmerised him now.
The eyes that met his were a very dark brown. He already knew from watching that she was as slender as a blade and wearing a pale green dress and flat shoes, both of which looked to be a little too big for her. Now he examined her face and saw that her thick black hair was worn up in a messy bun with a few long strands escaping.
She looked tired, Bastiano thought, and he guessed that her shift was just finishing rather than starting.
She had made him smile, just a little, but that was a surprise in itself given the dream he had so far failed to banish from his mind. The bedroom was rather messy and he was quite sure that the very sumptuous lounge was not much better; no doubt it was a stray bottle of champagne in the floor that had caused her small expletive on the way in.
‘Would you like me to serve your breakfast?’ she offered, still a little flustered and not just from being caught staring. Sophie made her way over to the breakfast trolley and lifted one of the silver domes.
‘No, thank you,’ Bastiano said. ‘Actually, if you could bring me coffee that would be fine.’
‘Would you like some water, or juice, too?’ she offered, and then he saw the slight twitch to her lips and a certain knowing tone in her voice as she spoke on. ‘Or perhaps you would like both?’
Again he smiled as she revealed her suspicions of his crashing hangover.
‘Please.’
She brought over two glasses and Bastiano drank the cold water as she went back to the trolley and poured his coffee from the pot.
Usually Bastiano poured his own coffee for he did not like attempts at idle conversation, yet it was he who was pursuing it now.
‘Sicilian?’ he asked as she carried the cup to his bedside. She nodded and then, as she placed it on the table, she gave a little grimace, realising that he must have heard her swear.
‘Me too,’ he said calmly, and something in the delivery of his words told her that he got it, for the air was a touch bluer back home.
‘What is that?’ he asked, gesturing to the trolley, for despite the fact she had replaced the dome and covered the food there was now a rich, spicy scent mingling into the air.
‘Shakshuka,’ Sophie said. ‘Middle Eastern baked eggs.’
The gorgeous guest screwed up his nose and Sophie was worried that the kitchen had got the orders mixed up so she quickly checked the paperwork on the trolley but, no, it was correct. ‘You ordered it.’
‘What was I thinking?’ he drawled.
‘I’ve heard that they’re amazing,’ Sophie said, and if the smell was anything to go by then her recommendation was bang on. ‘Would you like me to take them back down and have something else sent to you?’
‘It’s fine.’ He gave a shake of his head. ‘Just leave it.’
‘I hope you enjoy your day,’ Sophie offered, and he gave a slight mirthless laugh and then nodded.
‘You too.’
She went to close the bedroom door but he told her to leave it open.
As she left, Sophie picked up the bottle she had tripped over on her way in and put it on a tray. The room was a disaster and she would love, right this minute, to set about straightening things up, but it was not her job today and it was far too early to service a suite.
Anyway, as of now, she was off duty and so she headed to clock off and collect her things.
‘What are you doing, delivering breakfasts?’ Inga asked as Sophie retrieved her jacket from her locker. Just to be polite, Sophie had made a casual comment as to why she was a few minutes late coming off duty but Inga had, in her usual critical way, pounced. ‘That is for the more senior chambermaids.’
‘I just do as I’m told,’ Sophie said, and poked her tongue out at Inga’s departing back.
They did not get on.
Inga liked to deliver the breakfasts, especially to the very rich men, and though turning tricks was strictly forbidden, Sophie was quite certain that was the reason it was a designer bag that Inga had just put into her locker.
It wasn’t for Sophie to judge and she tried not to.
Her dislike for Inga was simply due to the frequent disparaging comments and the endless digs that were sent her way. Sophie did her best to shrug them off but it was difficult at times. She didn’t even know what she had done to incur Inga’s wrath.
Still, she chose not to dwell on it. Sophie was more than ready for home—she was tired, hungry and ached for bed. Instead of heading out of the side entrance, Sophie, as she often did, decided to exit through the kitchen.
The reason was twofold.
It took her out to the alley, which was closer to the small flat she shared with two others.
And her little diversion would hopefully mean a free breakfast!
There were several chefs that worked in the kitchens, of course, but her favourite was Sicilian and he was just taking a batch of brioches out from the oven as she made her way over. Not the French brioche or even the sweet pastry those here in the north referred to; instead, these were the most delicious plain-baked buns of home. And he had made millefoglie too—also a bun, but with raisins mixed in and sugar on the top. Sophie guessed it was exactly the breakfast this morning’s guest might wish that he had chosen.
Apart from Inga, Sophie was very well liked and popular at the Grande Lucia. She was a very good worker and always went the extra mile for guests. Signor Conti’s mirthless laugh had stayed with her and so, instead of sneaking a brioche for her walk home, she spoke with the chef. He arranged a plate of freshly baked pastries and she put a small silver dome over it and then took her jacket off and, placing it over her arm, she headed back up to Signor Conti’s suite.
She knocked and let herself in and then called out.
‘Room service.’
After the maid had left, Bastiano had got up, taken one look at the eggs and replaced the dome.
His friend Alim, the current owner of the hotel, had always suggested he try them when they met for brunch and last night as he’d squinted at the selections it had seemed a good idea.
Not now.
There was no point him even being here.
Last night Alim had told him that his plans had suddenly changed and that he would not be able to show him through the hotel today as planned.
That wasn’t all that irked Bastiano.
For once—in fact, for the first time in his life—a woman had turned him down.
In recent weeks, Bastiano had decided he would like a wife, and one with a castle in England and money problems had appeared to fit the bill.
It had seemed a decent solution at the time.
Lydia Hayward, with her breeding and porcelain looks would, he had decided, be the perfect trophy wife. It would be mutually beneficial, of course, and for his part he would help with her family’s dire financial situation. He had flown her and her stepfather, Maurice, over to Rome so that he could kill two birds with one stone—view the hotel and put in an offer that would blow Raul out of the park. And maybe return home to Casta having secured a bride.
The more he had thought about it, the more he had decided that it might just be enough to rattle Raul—for Bastiano was more than financially secure, but settled...not so much.
But his plans hadn’t exactly worked out that way.
Lydia had decided she would spend the evening catching up with friends and had left him hanging with the appalling Maurice.
Bastiano hadn’t even attempted small talk with the man; instead, he had come back to his suite, and with his mood too dark to hit the clubs he had hit the bottle instead.
A foolish choice, in retrospect, for it had not been Lydia who had crept into his mind as he’d slept.
It had been Maria.
Fifteen years on and he could not fathom that he had ever cared for another person, for he cared for no one now.
No one.
Bastiano had a reputation for cold-hearted ruthlessness that ran from the boardroom to the bedroom.
Beating Raul Di Savo was the only thing that interested him.
He heard a knock at his door and a voice that was too cheerful for his black mood announce that room service was here.
Again!
Bastiano put a towel around his hips and walked out, more than ready to tell her to get the hell out and that, had he wanted a second delivery, he would have picked up the phone himself.
Yet she smiled so nicely as she took the lid from the plate she carried and held it out.
‘Better?’ she asked, as his eyes went to the plate.
Now, that was breakfast.
And his eyes went back to hers. No, they were not simply dark brown, they were the amber of a fox, and her smile was so bright that Bastiano could not bring himself to chide her. ‘Much,’ he rather reluctantly replied.
‘I thought so too. Would you like another coffee?’
‘That would be good.’
He got back into bed with the towel still round his hips and breakfast was served for the second time.
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ Bastiano commented as, once in bed, she handed him the plate.
He guessed she must know that he was the potential new owner, for all the staff were walking on eggshells around him.
‘I know.’ She smiled ‘But I also know that we have the best Sicilian chef here at the Grande Lucia. I was going to sneak a brioche for the walk home and it made me think of you.’
Perhaps she did not know that he might soon be the new owner? Bastiano could not care less about her sneaking a pastry. His staff all got meals on their shifts anyway, he made sure of that, but many owners were strict about such things.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Sophie.’ She saw him glance at the jacket over her arm. ‘Really, it’s not a problem—I am at the end of my shift.’
‘Then would you like to stay and have some Middle Eastern eggs?’ he offered, teasing her by replaying her words. ‘I have been told that they’re amazing.’
‘No, thank you.’ Sophie let out a small laugh as she shook her head. She wasn’t unused to suggestions from businessmen and had declined her share over the last year. Sophie was no Inga!
‘Enjoy.’
‘I am.’ He had torn open the brioche and as she left, the scent that reached him was the one of home and he spoke, really without thinking. ‘I used to collect these from the bakery.’
‘Ha!’ Sophie said, turning around. ‘Until I came to Rome I used to work at a bakery.’
‘For how long?’
‘Seven years,’ Sophie said. ‘Since I left school.’
And it was very easy—too easy—to speak of home.
She missed it.
Oh, Sophie loved the life she had made here in Rome, but there was an ache for home at times, so for a moment they chatted, really just about the food and the stunning Strait of Sicily. He guessed that she was also from the west. He was about to ask her exactly where but then Sophie yawned.
‘Excuse me,’ Sophie said. ‘I really do have to go, all this talk of...’ And she stopped because he had invited her to eat already and it might seem that she was angling for him to ask her again if she said just how hungry she felt.
Maybe she was angling?
Later she would look back and try to remember exactly how she had felt at that moment.
Happy and relaxed. It felt nice to be in his company.
‘Have breakfast,’ Bastiano said.
There was no motive.
That in itself was beyond rare for Bastiano, for he lived by motive, he did nothing without motive, yet all he saw this morning was that she was tired and probably hungry after a long shift.
And she heard, absolutely, the kindness in his offer and so, with just the briefest hesitation, she nodded.
‘Thank you.’
Sophie could not know that kindness in Bastiano generally did not exist.
CHAPTER TWO (#ufed0e5e5-fc5c-5caf-9f6b-405f0226ff20)
IT WAS AS natural as that.
The conversation between them came readily and it was simply pleasant to be with him. Sophie put her jacket on a chair and poured herself some chilled water and placed it on a tray. To that she added the plate of shakshuka and then looked around, wondering where she should take it to eat. First she glanced over at the chair where she had placed her jacket but it was rather full as his was there too. It was inside out so she could see the deep aubergine lining as well as a crumpled white shirt on the floor beside it. She looked at Bastiano, who was moving more to the centre of the bed, as if to make room for her to sit there, and so, instead of the chair, she made her way over to the bed.
Yes, it was as natural as that to walk over and sit on the edge of the huge bed, not too close, but alongside his thighs. She placed the tray on her lap.
The cloche had kept warm the eggs that were nestled in a rich-looking sauce, and she took her first tentative taste. It was a little spicier than expected and Sophie missed his smile as she reached for her water.
‘Nice?’ Bastiano asked.
She turned and looked at him and her eyes moved briefly to the scar on his cheek—Sophie would have loved to know its source—but then she looked back to his eyes. ‘You know when you have wanted to try something for a very long time and then finally you do...’
Her words were not meant as provocative and they were not taken as such, for he was waiting for her to screw up her nose and to say that it was not as nice as she had thought it would be, but then she smiled. ‘It is better than I expected.’
It was then that her words were provocative, though only to Sophie—for the pleasure of his company had her thoughts taking her mind to places they had never been.
He was stunningly attractive, yes, and she was no fool as to her situation, yet as Sophie looked at him her throat seemed to close in on itself and she could feel the pulse beat in her neck.
She was innocent from the lips down, and those lips had determinedly stayed as closed as they could when she had kissed her fiancé.
She had never shared a meal in a man’s bedroom, or sat on a bed with a man and chatted so easily.
And neither had she ever stared so readily into another’s eyes.
It truly was better than expected.
Was it the hot Baharat mix in the shakshuka that made her cheeks suddenly redden, or was it the first stirrings of desire?
Sophie did her best not to dwell on that thought. She tore her gaze from his and spoke on quickly. ‘Apparently Sultan Alim has put a lot of new things on the menu since he took over the hotel.’
‘Sultan?’ Bastiano asked. He and Alim were friends. The Grande Lucia was Bastiano’s favoured hotel when in Rome, and he and Alim often painted the town a rich shade of red but, despite lavish spending and wild ways, as far as Bastiano knew, Alim had always kept his royal status under wraps as best he could.
‘We only found out that he was royal a few months ago,’ Sophie revealed. ‘His family came to stay and so of course the desk staff soon worked it out.’ She thought for a moment. ‘He’s a good boss.’
‘In what way?’ Bastiano asked. He liked to hear the things that were important to staff, and knew that that sort of information could not readily be gleaned from a questionnaire or an appraisal. He didn’t want to admit it, but he also just liked hearing her thoughts.
‘He knows all of his staff by name,’ Sophie said. ‘And he is fair and kind. There was a Christmas meal and gift for all the staff who were working over the festive season.’ She was silent for a moment as she thought back to that lonely day—coming to work had been the brightest part.
‘How long have you worked here?’ Bastiano asked.
‘For nearly ten months. I’ve been in Rome for just over a year.’ Sophie thought back to when she had first arrived and how nervous she had been, for she had never spent so much as a night away from home until then. ‘It took a few weeks to find a job. I would have taken anything, but then I came for my interview and I wanted to work here so badly. I never thought I would get it as there was two months’ training involved, but Benita took me on.’
‘Benita?’
‘The head of housekeeping,’ Sophie explained. ‘It is so much better than my old job.’
‘I guess working at a bakery would have meant many early starts?’
‘So early!’ Sophie nodded and rolled her eyes. ‘The shifts here are much better and the staff are really friendly. Well,’ she added, thinking of Inga, ‘most of them are.’
‘Most?’
‘There is always the odd person that you don’t get on with in any workplace.’ Sophie shrugged. ‘I enjoy working here; I can’t believe my luck really. It is, for me, the perfect job.’
‘Why?’
‘I like order,’ Sophie said. ‘I like things to be neat and tidy. When I see a suite such as yours, I itch to have it back as it should be.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’ She nodded her head in the direction of the chair. ‘I would have that jacket hanging up and that shirt put away.’ Then she looked back at him. ‘I would have that bed made, even with you in it...’ And she hesitated. It was something that she often said as a joke to guests, usually the ones on the twelfth floor when she shooed them out to service their room.
It was not something that would ever be said to a guest such as Bastiano; he would never be shooed out, even jokingly.
It was not just that thought that had her pause, it was more a sudden awareness of their situation that silenced her.
Yet she had let the words out, and they were how she felt.
Not so much a neat bed, of course, more the thoughts that were there—an emerging awareness that made the room feel a little warmer.
Bastiano said nothing, just held her unblinking gaze until she spoke on.
‘It really is the perfect job. Sometimes people ask me what I want to be, or they ask if I am working while studying, but I want only this—I’m happy now.’
‘That’s a very good place to be,’ Bastiano said, though he couldn’t fathom it for himself. The more he had the more he wanted, the more he achieved the further the goal seemed to stretch. ‘Do you miss your family and friends?’
‘I’ve made some friends...’ She thought of her flatmates and though they were not particularly close she got on well with them. And Sophie thought of Gabi, a wedding planner, who she had met on her first weekend here and had got on with straight away.
Usually Bastiano would leave it there. In fact, usually it would never have reached this point, for sitting in bed and chatting with a woman was not something Bastiano did regularly.
Regularly? Ha! Ever.
Yet he found he wanted to know her better.
‘Do you miss home?’ Bastiano asked, carefully rewording his question.
‘Sometimes,’ she admitted. ‘But if I was still there...’ Sophie stopped what she was about to say and put down her cutlery, even though her meal was not finished. The conversation was edging towards topics that she usually kept closed.
Her newly made friends knew little about her. To them she was Sophie, twenty-four years old and happily single.
They had no idea how hard she had fought and how much she had given up to achieve such a small victory.
‘If you were there?’ Bastiano pushed, and now he was fishing—he really did want to know more about her.
She was about to stand, to end the conversation and get on with her day. Return to the real world.
Surprisingly, she found she liked this one.
Sophie liked the peace in his bedroom and the ease with which she spoke with this man.
She thought of his kind smile when she had realised he’d heard her swear. It had been a smile that had spoken of mutual understanding and a familiarity with the ways back home.
Something told her that he would...understand.
And though she had in the main been happy, it had also been a lonely twelve months.
‘I was engaged to be married,’ Sophie admitted. ‘Had I stayed, tomorrow would have been my first wedding anniversary.’
‘Had you stayed?’ Bastiano verified. ‘So it was you who ended it?’
‘In a very mature and thoughtful way.’ Sophie nodded and then she gave a small laugh that told him she was joking about handling things in an adult fashion. ‘I ran away, if it is possible to run away from home when you are twenty-three. A month before the wedding I took a train to Rome and when I got here I called my parents and told them that I would not be marrying Luigi.’
He laughed at her explanation, although not unkindly—it was a deep, low laugh that was almost enough reward in itself for that awful phone call she had made to her parents.
Something told Sophie that he did not laugh easily, that what was happening this morning between them was both delicious and rare.
And then that low laugh faded, like a roll of soft thunder moving through her.
Lightning had already struck, Sophie realised.
She was here alone in his room and it was exactly where she wanted to be.
‘Have you been back home since?’ he asked, seemingly unaware of the dance in her mind. Sophie was terribly grateful for the resumption of conversation, and answered hurriedly for her thoughts were all over the place.
‘No, it was a big disgrace. I expected them to be cross but when it came to my birthday and my mother would not even come to the phone I realised just how bad things were.’
‘When was your birthday?’ he asked.
‘A few months after I ran away.’ She told him the date. ‘It was pretty miserable.’
Birthdays had always been about family and standing around a cake while having a hundred photos taken.
Not this time.
It had been the same at Christmas—and the reason she had been so grateful that Alim ensured his staff celebrated also. Her flatmates had all gone home to be with their families and so the meal and gift from work had been the only Christmas that Sophie had had.
‘They must miss you,’ Bastiano said, but Sophie shook her head.
‘I’m not sure that they do. I come from a big family; they wanted me married so that there would be one less. You know how things are back home.’
He nodded. Bastiano did know how things were for many but then he looked at Sophie and was still sure of one thing—they must miss her, because from the moment she had opened the drapes it had been as if an extra ray of sunshine had been let in. ‘Will you go back?’
‘I’m their only daughter...’ She shrugged but it belied the pain behind the inevitable decision. ‘If I return then I am to abide by their rules. I don’t know what will happen. For now, though, I live my dream.’
Even if it was lonely at times.
‘What about you?’ she asked.
‘I don’t have any family.’
‘None?’
He shook his head and he saw that she waited for him to elaborate. ‘I was raised by my mother’s brother and his wife.’
‘What about your mother?’
‘She died.’
‘How old were you?’
He didn’t answer.
‘What about your father?’
‘You know as much about him as I do—nothing.’
‘Not quite.’ Sophie smiled. ‘I know that he was good looking.’
Yes, she was like sunlight because until now, when he had revealed that his father was unknown, it had either terminated the conversation or resulted in averted eyes or a derisive comment. Not with Sophie, for she turned the awkwardness around as she smiled—and possibly flirted—and the conversation was far from closed.
‘What happened with your zia and zio?’ she asked.
‘I see them on occasion but we don’t really speak,’ Bastiano said, peeling off some brioche and handing it to her to mop up the last of the spicy sauce. ‘They threw me out when I was seventeen.’ He thought of the row they had had after the affair had been exposed and it had come to light that he had slept with the enemy—a Di Savo. ‘Deservedly so.’
‘So what are you doing here in Rome?’ Sophie asked. ‘Business?’
‘In part,’ Bastiano said, but knew that he was being evasive. Sophie obviously had no clue that he was considering purchasing the hotel. He didn’t want to enlighten her for he knew that it would put a wedge between them. So to avoid speaking of work he told her something rather personal. ‘I got dumped last night.’
‘Oh!’ She smiled at his revelation. ‘I cannot imagine anyone dumping you.’
‘Neither could my ego,’ Bastiano admitted, and then he told her a bit more. ‘She’s English and lives in a castle.’
‘Nice,’ Sophie said, and he shrugged.
‘It would have been a lot of work.’
Sophie frowned, not sure what he meant by that.
‘What was your fiancé like?’ he asked, curious about the man she had left behind.
‘He was a lot older than me, more than forty years old,’ Sophie said, and screwed up her face.
‘Is that why you ended it?’
‘Not really.’ She shook her head. Looking back at that time, she remembered that moment when she had felt as if she could see her life spreading out before her, and not liking what she saw.
Sophie had never discussed it with anyone and perhaps she should not now but there was nothing regular about this morning. She had never met anyone who felt less like a stranger before. Bastiano knew more about her than her flatmates and she had lived with them for a year. More about her than Gabi, for she had been a touch elusive of late and their catch-ups had petered out. And he knew more about her than her parents, for they had never once asked for her take on things.
‘Luigi came over to my parents’ for dinner, as he often did...’
Bastiano said nothing, he even fought a slight eye rise, but at forty shouldn’t the guy have at least been entertaining her?
Sophie glanced at him—the truth was a touch personal, but his eyes were patient and finally there was a person to whom she could speak her truth.
‘That night I felt a little sick and didn’t really eat much. When my mother took away the plates and my brothers and father left us alone he asked what was wrong with me. I told him that I had gone on the Pill.’ She blushed just a little as she said it but far less than she had when she had told her fiancé. In fact, Bastiano seemed completely at ease with the sensitive topic.
Unlike Luigi.
It hadn’t been up for discussion. Sophie had had to find everything out for herself. Even the village doctor hadn’t been particularly friendly. In the end, it had been her friend at the bakery who had told her that she could skip her period entirely if she chose.
‘What was his reaction?’ Bastiano asked.
‘He seemed cross. He said, “Why would you go on that?” Then he told me that he wanted children straight away and a lot of them!’
She pulled such a horrified face that Bastiano laughed.
And there was that thunder again, only this time she was counting the minutes, for the delicious storm drew closer with each revelation and with each passing word.
‘I said that we needed my wage from the bakery and my mother came in from the kitchen. She didn’t hear the part about the Pill, of course, just me saying I would put off having children so I could work, and she said she would look after them. It’s not that I don’t want children...’
He halted her when she tried to further explain for there was no need.
‘Sophie,’ he said in that rich voice of his, ‘well done for running away.’
Bastiano was the first person she had really told about it and his reaction made her feel warm with pride for her choice, rather than sick with shame as her family had. ‘Thank you.’
Oh, they were as natural as that, for Bastiano, who rarely bothered with conversation, was telling her some more about himself.
‘I flew Lydia over from England with her stepfather, Maurice, under the guise of business. We were supposed to be meeting in the bar and then going out for dinner but when she turned up she said that she was going out with friends instead.’
Sophie gave him a quizzical look, because she really couldn’t imagine declining dinner with him, but Bastiano read her frown as curiosity.
‘I think she had worked out it wasn’t just dinner.’ He saw her cheeks darken in a blush and he further clarified that it had not been sex he was after. Bastiano had no trouble at all finding that. ‘Like your fiancé, I had got it into my head that maybe it was time to settle down.’
Though his main reason had been simply to beat Raul to it.
Bastiano had everything money could buy and so too did Raul. The only thing neither had was a family.
He had decided that he would be first.
It had been as simple as that.
‘Had you been going out with each other for long?’ Sophie asked.
‘We’d never been out.’ Bastiano yawned and it really was a relief not to have to explain that romance and love were not always prerequisites for marriage back home. ‘It just seemed like a good idea at the time, though not so much now.’ He shrugged. ‘Easy come, easy go. On reflection, I think I’m far more suited to the single life.’
‘Well, with your looks and...’ she looked around the lavish suite and stated the obvious ‘...your money, why not have fun?’
‘Oh, I do,’ Bastiano said.
Though lately he wouldn’t describe it as fun.
He lay back on the pillow, but as their eyes met the silence was heavy. She wore no make-up, not a scrap, Bastiano noted as he took in her dark lashes. He felt her gaze move to his mouth and for once he was unsure where they were going, for usually when a woman was on his bed there was no question as to what was about to happen.
Come here, he wanted to say.
Sophie knew that.
Her perfect storm had now gathered and it would be so terribly easy to be swept into it, but she really was no Inga, even if he perhaps thought of her as such.
There was a reason the maids were told not to accept gifts.
Yet there was no air of expectancy from Bastiano.
Sophie felt no pressure as she put down her cutlery, took a drink of water and then stood.
She gave him a polite smile and effortlessly she was back to being a maid. She put her plate neatly back on the trolley.
‘Thank you,’ Sophie said. ‘That was delicious.’
‘You’re more than welcome,’ Bastiano said. ‘So were the pastries.’
She came over to collect his plate.
It rested on his thigh and, though covered by the sheet, Sophie thought it was better that he be the one to retrieve it for she could see a black snake of hair on his stomach—as much as she tried not to look. There was desire pitted low in her stomach and an itch to pull the sheet down. Her hands shook a little and just like that she was no longer a maid. Their fingers met for a little too long and rather than pull back she lingered for his skin was warm and even that slight touch had her aching for more.
‘I have to go,’ she said as she fought for control.
‘Of course.’
Yet still she stood there and instead of turning away she put the plate down on the bedside table. She was not so much uncertain, more nervous of her own curiosity.
‘Thank you,’ she said again.
Bastiano could not read her, for he could feel her desire and yet sense her reticence so he moved things along a fraction. His index finger came up and he tapped it twice on the cheek nearest to her, the one that was not scarred.
A kiss to the cheek was still okay, Sophie thought, for she would kiss her friend Gabi on the cheek when they said farewell after sharing a meal. But even as she tried to convince herself, Sophie knew that this situation was nowhere near as innocent as that.
It wasn’t even a conscious decision. It was more that she might as well have been standing on a conveyer belt, for it was as if she glided towards him.
She bent forward and moved her mouth to where his finger had tapped, the place where his rough morning shadow transitioned into smooth skin. The contrast sent shivers down her spine. The warmth of him on her lips was enticing and her tongue fought not to taste as her lips lingered.
Sophie sensed him holding his breath and hers now came a little too fast in response. She pulled her head back and moved to kiss the other cheek.
Bastiano jerked his head a little, for he did not like anyone touching his scar. He would by far prefer her mouth to meet his and usually he got what he wanted.
Not this time.
She misread the small signal and her mouth moved to his other cheek. Once on his scar, her lips lingered there, kissing him softly as if she didn’t care about the damage beneath.
CHAPTER THREE (#ufed0e5e5-fc5c-5caf-9f6b-405f0226ff20)
THERE WAS A gap between their chests, but so in tune was Sophie with his every move that she felt as if their bodies touched.
It was time to stay or go, Sophie knew. Even at this stage she could smooth it over and make her farewells.
Or she could meet those lips and discover bliss.
With Luigi, she had dreaded a kiss, let alone sex.
Not now.
When she had left home at twenty-three, Sophie had been considered a disgrace for her failure to commit.
She was twenty-four now and there was no disgrace to be had here.
It was better than her dreams. And so much better than the reality she had run from.
‘Come here,’ he moaned, and his hand came up and pulled her head down onto his.
Always she had avoided such contact, yet now she craved it.
His mouth was soft, and the dark shadow of his skin did not make her skin crawl with its tickle; instead, it was rough and delicious and matched the building desire in her.
Now, instead of resisting, she opened her lips, wanting and willing.
His tongue felt like a reward as it coiled around hers, and then he slowly suckled the tip. They tasted each other, and they inflamed each other and not just with their mouths. He was stroking her breast through the fabric of her dress. His thumb was teasing her nipple and Sophie ached for bed.
His bed.
She pulled back, and knew that even now she could walk out having shared no more than a kiss.
‘You taste spicy,’ Bastiano said.
‘And you taste sweet.’
‘But I’m not,’ he warned her.
‘I’m working,’ she told him, for she would get into the most terrible trouble if anyone found out.
‘You finished an hour ago,’ he reminded her, and then he stretched out an arm and she heard the click of a button that would turn on the Do Not Disturb sign outside.
‘I’m in my uniform...’
‘Good,’ he said.
He thought her experienced, Sophie suspected.
Perhaps now would be the time to tell him she was not. That this morning was, in fact, a most irregular occurrence for her.
But Sophie knew that would change things. And there was nothing about this man and this morning she would change, even if she could.
Sophie wondered if she was on that conveyer belt again, for she moved so easily to be closer to him and when he guided her so that she sat on his stomach, she went readily.
Bastiano looked up as his fingers undid the buttons to her uniform and revealed a threadbare bra so sheer that her nipples could almost part the fabric and he could see the dark of her areolae. His hands cupped her breasts and he wanted her to shrug off the dress, to discard the bra and to lower her head, yet she closed her eyes in bliss as he toyed with her breasts.
‘Take down your hair,’ he told her, for he wanted the curtain between them when she took him in her mouth; he guided her back so that she sat on his thighs and the sheet moved with her.
She saw him erect, and since it was the first time she had seen, let alone touched, such a thing she held him in her hands.
‘Sophie,’ he said, for he did not want hands and tentative fingers even as he grew to them.
He was mesmerised, though, watching as she stroked.
Simply touching him was compelling. The feel of soft skin was a contrast to the strength in her palm and there was a coil of want that seemed to tighten within him as she gripped him more firmly.
‘Take down your hair,’ he said again, yet Sophie did not care for his orders, for the pleasure that grew was not just his. Her knickers were damp and she ached to feel him there. She wanted to stand and remove them, yet her legs felt clamped to his thighs.
She ran a finger over the tip and teased out a silver drop; the moan he gave had her rise to her knees.
He lifted the skirt of her dress, taking his own thick length and running it over her covered mound.
Sophie knelt up with her hands on his chest, biting on her lip at the exquisite pleasure he delivered. Oh, it was wrong! If she examined it, then she knew that was the only conclusion that could be drawn.
Yet there was so much that she had not even known was missing and she felt like a colourblind person able to see a rainbow for the first time.
She had for a long time dreaded sex and that dread had now completely gone. Sophie was turned on like she had never been in her life. Even in her imaginings there had never been desire such as this.
Despite the barrier of fabric he pushed in just a little way, enough to incite and make her ache for more.
He reached into the bedside drawer for condoms while she hovered and teased, and then he held a condom out for her once she had peeled off her knickers.
‘Put it on,’ he said, his voice ragged as his fingers met the pink lips that would soon enclose his length. ‘Sophie...’ His impatience was building for he had to be inside her. ‘Put it on.’
And then she spoke and the words that she said stilled him.
‘I don’t know how.’
Bastiano’s conscience had left him a long time ago.
He had thought it buried alongside Maria, for he cared nothing for anyone, but when it hit that he would be her first, his conscience made itself known once more.
Bastiano knew very well how things worked, especially in hotels, and often he didn’t need to go out or even pick up the phone for sex to drop into his lap.
Sophie wasn’t his usual style—an innocent conversation and a breakfast.
Sophie really was sweet.
‘What the hell are you doing here, then?’ he asked.
‘The same as you,’ she told him, and his lips pressed together as he got first hand a taste of her defiant streak.
‘I think you should go.’ His conscience seemed to stand in the wings and, like a prompter, told him the words he should say. ‘I’m not looking to get involved with anyone. I’m back to the single life, Sophie.’
‘You already told me that,’ she said.
‘You’ve been saving yourself, and a one-night stand in a hotel room—’
‘It’s morning,’ Sophie interrupted, but Bastiano was having none of it and he tipped her from his lap and pulled up the sheet.
‘Go.’
There was no air of negotiation to his tone but still she sat there.
‘Out,’ he told her, and Sophie climbed from the bed.
Humiliated, she stuffed her knickers into her uniform pocket as Bastiano looked at the ceiling, or rather anywhere than at Sophie.
And again she could see her life spreading out before her.
Regret.
Utter regret that her first time had not been with someone as beautiful and sensual as him.
She was twenty-four and she ached to know such intimacies.
Bastiano was exquisite.
He was male beauty personified, expensive yet raw too, with a visceral undercurrent that finally matched hers.
That was why she had waited—to find someone who was her match.
Maybe later she would finally give in to her parents’ silent demands and return home. Perhaps someday she would settle and marry and pretend that it was her first time, while holding the secret that it had been him all along.
Almost.
‘You’re right,’ she said, and went to do up some of the buttons on her uniform. ‘I have been saving myself—for a time and a person of my choosing.’
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