Rumours: The One-Night Heirs

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 because he could—Raul gestured with his index and middle fingers towards the small china cup on his table. The motion was subtle, barely noticeable to many, and yet it was enough to indicate to the attentive waiter that Raul had changed his mind and would now like another coffee.

Raul knew that his preferential treatment would incense the diner to his right.

From the huff of indignation as his drink was delivered, it did.

Good!

Yes, Raul decided, he wanted this hotel.

Raul read through the figures again and decided to make some further calls to try to get behind the real reason the Sultan was selling such an iconic hotel. Even with Raul’s extensive probing he could see no reason for the sale. While the outgoings were vast, it was profitable indeed. The crème de la crème stayed at the Grande Lucia, and it was here that their children were christened and wed.

There had to be a reason Alim was selling, and Raul had every intention of finding out just what it was.

Just as Raul had decided to leave he glanced up and saw a woman enter the dining room.

Raul was more than used to beautiful women, and the room was busy enough that he should not even have noticed, but there was something about her that drew the eye.

She was tall and slender and she wore a taupe dress. Her long blonde hair appeared freshly washed and tumbled over her shoulders. Raul watched as she had a brief conversation with the maître d’ and then started to walk in his direction.

Still Raul did not look away.

She made her way between the tables with elegant ease, and Raul noted that she carried herself beautifully. Her complexion was pale and creamy, and suddenly Raul wanted her to be close enough so that he could know the colour of her eyes. She lifted a hand and gave a small wave, and Raul, who was rarely the recipient of a sinking feeling where women were concerned, felt one now.

She was with him, Raul realised—she was here to have breakfast with the obnoxious man who sat to his right.

Pity.

The blonde beauty walked past his table, and he could not help but notice the delicate row of buttons that ran from neck to hem on her dress. But he pointedly returned his attention to his computer screen rather than mentally undress her.

That she was with someone rendered her of no interest to him in that way.

Raul loathed cheats.

Still, the morning scent of her was fresh and heady—a delicate cloud that reached Raul a few seconds after she had passed and lingered for a few moments more.

‘Good morning,’ she said as she took a seat, and unlike her companion’s the woman’s voice was pleasant.

‘Hmph.’

Her greeting was barely acknowledged by the seated Englishman. Some people, Raul decided, simply did not know how to appreciate the finer things in life.

And this lady was certainly amongst the finest.

The waiter knew that too.

He was there in an instant to lavish attention upon her and was appreciative of her efforts when she attempted to ask for Breakfast Tea in schoolgirl Italian, remembering her manners and adding a clumsy ‘per favour’.

Such poor Italian would usually be responded to in English, in arrogant reprimand, and yet the waiter gave a nod. ‘Prego.’

‘I’ll have another coffee,’ the man said and then, before the waiter had even left, added rather loudly to his companion, ‘The service is terribly slow here—I’ve had nothing but trouble with the staff since the moment I arrived.’

‘Well, I think it’s excellent.’ Her voice was crisp and curt, instantly dismissing his findings. ‘I’ve found that a please and a thank-you work wonders—you really ought to try it, Maurice.’

‘What are your plans for today?’ he asked.

‘I’m hoping to do some sightseeing.’

‘Well, you need to shop—perhaps you should consider something a little less beige,’ Maurice added. ‘I asked the concierge and he recommended a hair and beauty salon a short distance from the hotel. I’ve booked you in for four.’

‘Excuse me?’

Raul was about to close his laptop. His interest had waned the second he had realised she was with someone.

Almost.

But then the man spoke on.

‘We’re meeting Bastiano at six, and you want to be looking your best.’

The sound of his nemesis’s name halted Raul and again the couple had his full attention—though not by a flicker did he betray his interest.

‘You’re meeting Bastiano at six,’ the blonde beauty responded. ‘I don’t see why I have to be there while you two discuss business.’

‘I’m not arguing about this. I expect you to be there at six.’

Raul drained his espresso but made no move to stand. He wanted to know what they had to do with Bastiano—any inside knowledge on the man he most loathed was valuable.

‘I can’t make it,’ she said. ‘I’m meeting a friend tonight.’

‘Come off it!’ The awful man snorted. ‘We both know that you don’t have any friends.’

It was a horrible statement to make, and Raul forgot to pretend to listen and actually turned his head to see her reaction. Most women Raul knew would crumble a little, but instead she gave a thin smile and a shrug.

‘Acquaintance, then. I really am busy tonight.’

‘Lydia, you will do what is right by the family.’

Her name was Lydia.

As Raul continued to look at her, perhaps sensing her conversation was being overheard, she glanced over and their eyes briefly met. He saw that they were china blue.

His question as to the colour of her eyes was answered, but now Raul had so many more.

She flicked her gaze away and the conversation was halted as the waiter brought their drinks.

Raul made no move to leave.

He wanted to know more.

A family had come into the restaurant and were being seated close to them. The activity drowned out the words from the table beside him, revealing only hints of the conversation.

‘Some old convent…’ she said, and the small cup in his hand clattered just a little as it hit the saucer.

Raul realised they were discussing the valley.

‘Well, that shows he’s used to old buildings,’ Maurice said. ‘Apparently it’s an inordinate success.’

A baby that was being squeezed into an antique high chair started to wail, and Raul frowned in impatience as an older child loudly declared that he was hungry and he wanted chocolate milk.

‘Scusi…’ he called to the waiter, and with a mere couple of words more and a slight gesture of his hand in the family’s direction his displeasure was noted.

Noted not just by the waiter—Lydia noted it too.

In fact she had noticed him the moment the maître d’ had gestured to where her stepfather, Maurice, was seated.

Even from a distance, even seated, the man’s beauty had been evident.

There was something about him that had forced her attention as she had crossed the dining room.

No one should look that good at eight in the morning.

His black hair gleamed, and as she had approached Lydia had realised it was damp and he must have been in the shower around the same time as her.

Such an odd thought.

That rapidly turned into a filthy one.

Her first with the recipient in the same room!

She had looked away quickly as soon as she had seen that he was watching her approach.

Her stomach had done a little somersault and her legs had requested of their owner that they might bypass Maurice and be seated with him.

Such a ridiculous thought, for she knew him not at all.

And he wasn’t nice.

That much she knew.

Lydia turned her head slightly and saw that on his command the family was being moved.

They were children, for goodness’ sake!

This man irritated her.

This stranger irritated her far more than a stranger should, and she frowned her disapproval at him and her neck felt hot and itchy as he gave a small shrug in return and then closed his computer.

You were already leaving, Lydia wanted to point out. Why have the family moved when you were about to leave?

Yes, he irritated her—like an itch she needed to scratch.

Her ears felt hot and her jaw clenched as the waiter came and apologised to him for the disruption.

Disruption?

The child had asked for chocolate milk, for goodness’ sake, and the baby had merely cried.

Of course she said nothing. Instead Lydia reached for her pot of tea as Maurice droned on about their plans for tonight—or rather, what he thought Lydia should wear.

‘Why don’t you speak to a stylist?’

‘I think I can manage. I’ve been dressing myself since I was three,’ Lydia calmly informed him, and as she watched the amber fluid pour into her cup she knew—she just knew—that the stranger beside her was listening.

It was her audience that gave her strength.

Oh, she couldn’t see him, but she knew his attention was on her.

There was an awareness between them that she could not define—a conversation taking place such as she had never experienced, for it was one without words.

‘Don’t be facetious, Lydia,’ Maurice snapped.

But with this man beside her Lydia felt just that.

The sun was shining, she was in Rome, and the day stretched before her—she simply did not want to waste a single moment of it with Maurice.

‘Have a lovely day…’ She took her napkin and placed it on the table, clearly about to leave. ‘Give Bastiano my regards.’

‘This isn’t up for debate, Lydia. You’re to keep tonight free. Bastiano has flown us to Rome for this meeting and housed us in two stunning suites. The very least you can do is come for a drink and thank him.’

‘Fine,’ Lydia retorted. ‘But know this, I’ll have a drink, but it’s not the “very least” I’ll do—it’s the most.’

‘You’ll do what’s right for the family.’

‘I’ve tried that for years,’ Lydia said, and stood up. ‘I think it’s about time I did what’s right by me!’

Lydia walked out of the restaurant with her head still high, but though she looked absolutely in control she was in turmoil, for her silent fears were starting to come true.

This wasn’t a holiday.

And it wasn’t just drinks.

She was being offered up, Lydia knew.

‘Scusi…’

A hand on her elbow halted her, and as she spun around Lydia almost shot into orbit when she saw it was the man from the next table.

‘Can I help you?’ she snapped.

‘I saw you leaving suddenly.’

‘I wasn’t aware that I needed your permission.’

‘Of course you don’t,’ he responded.

His voice was deep, and his English, though excellent, was laced heavily with a rich accent. Her toes attempted to curl in her flat sandals at its sound.

Lydia was tall, but then so was he—she didn’t come close to his eye level.

It felt like a disadvantage.

‘I just wanted to check that you were okay.’

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘I heard some of what was said in there.’

‘And do you always listen in on private conversations?’

‘Of course.’ He shrugged. ‘I rarely intervene, but you seemed upset.’

‘No,’ Lydia said. ‘I didn’t.’

She knew that as fact—she was very good at keeping her emotions in check.

She should have walked off then. Only she didn’t. She continued the conversation. ‘That baby, however, was upset—and I didn’t see you following him across the dining room.’

‘I don’t like tantrums with my breakfast, and the toddler is now throwing one,’ he said. ‘I thought I might go somewhere else to eat. Would you like to join me?’

He was forward and he lied, for she had seen the waiter removing his plates and knew he had already had breakfast.

‘No, thank you.’ Lydia shook her head.

‘But you haven’t eaten.’

‘Again,’ Lydia replied coolly, ‘that’s not your concern.’

Bastiano was his concern, though.

For years revenge had been his motivator, and yet still Bastiano flourished.

Something had to give, and Raul had waited a long time for that day to arrive.

Now it would seem that it had—in the delicate shape of an English rose.

Raul was no fool, and even from the snippets of conversation he’d heard, he had worked out a little of what was going on.

Bastiano wanted Lydia to be there tonight.

And Lydia didn’t want to go.

It was enough to go on—more than enough. For despite her calm demeanour he could see the pulse leaping in her throat. More than that, Raul knew women—and knew them well.

There was another issue that existed between them.

She was turned on.

So was he.

They had been on sight.

From her slow walk across the dining room and for every moment since they had been aware of each other at the basest of levels.

‘Come for breakfast,’ he said, and then he remembered how she liked manners. ‘Per favore.’

Lydia realised then that every word she had uttered in the restaurant had been noted.

It should feel intrusive.

And it did.

But in the most delightful of ways.

Her breath felt hot in her lungs and the warm feeling from the brief touch of his hand on her arm was still present.

She wanted to say yes—to accept this dark stranger’s invitation and follow this dangerous lead.

But that would be reckless at best, and Lydia was far from that.

There was something about him that she could not quite define, and every cell in her body recognised it and screamed danger. He was polished and poised—immaculate, in fact. And yet despite the calm demeanour there was a restless edge. Beneath the smooth jaw was a blue hue that hinted at the unshaven, decadent beauty of him. Even his scent clamoured for attention, subtle and at the same time overwhelming.

Raul had her on the edge of panic—an unfamiliar one.

He was potent—so potent that she wanted to say yes. To simply throw caution to the wind and have breakfast with this beautiful man.

She didn’t even know his name.

‘Do you always ask complete strangers for breakfast?’ Lydia asked.

‘No,’ he admitted, and then he lowered his head just a fraction and lowered his voice an octave more. ‘But then you defy the hour.’

CHAPTER TWO

THEY DEFIED THE HOUR, Lydia thought. Because as they stepped outside the hotel surely the moon should be hanging in a dark sky.

It was just breakfast, she told herself as his hand took her elbow and guided her across the busy street.

Yet it felt like a date.

Her first.

But it wasn’t a romantic Italian evening, for the sun shone brightly and Rome was at its busy rush hour best.

Yet he made it so.

The restaurant he steered her to had a roped-off section and the tables were clearly reserved, yet the greeter unclipped the rope and they breezed through as if they were expected guests.

‘Did you have a reservation?’ Lydia asked, more than a little confused as they took their seats.

‘No.’

‘Then…’ Lydia stopped, for she had answered her own question—the best seats were permanently reserved for the likes of him. He had a confident air that demanded, without words, only the best.

Coffee was brought and sparkling water was poured. They were handed the heavy menus, but as the waiter started to explain the choices he waved him away.

Lydia was grateful that he had, for there was a real need for the two of them to be left alone.

He was an absolute stranger.

A black-eyed stranger who had led and she had followed.

‘I don’t know your name,’ Lydia said, and found she was worried a little that it might disappoint.

‘Raul.’

It didn’t.

He rolled the R just a little, and then she found herself repeating it, ‘Rau—el…’ Though it did not roll easily from her tongue.

She waited for his surname.

It didn’t come.

‘I’m Lydia.’

‘I had worked that out.’ He glanced down at the menu. He never wasted time with small talk, unless it suited him. ‘What would you like?’

She should be hungry. Lydia hadn’t eaten since the plane, and even then she had just toyed with her meal.

She had been sick with nerves last night, but now, though still nervous, the feeling was pleasant.

‘I’d like…’ Lydia peered at the menu.

Really she ought to eat something, given that breakfast was the reason she was here.

But then she blushed while reading the menu, because food was the furthest thing from her mind.

‘It’s in Italian,’ Lydia said, and could immediately have kicked herself, for it was such a stupid thing to say—and so rude to assume it should be otherwise.

But he did not chide her, and he did not score a point by stating that Italy was, in fact, where they were.

He just waited patiently as she stumbled her way through the selections till she came upon something she knew. But she frowned. ‘Tiramisu for breakfast?’

‘Sounds good.’

Perhaps he hadn’t heard the question in her voice, because Lydia had assumed it was served only as a dessert, but Raul was right—it sounded good.

The waiter complimented their choice as he took their orders, and very soon she tasted bliss.

‘Oh…’ It was light and not too sweet, and the liquor made it decadent. It really had been an accidental perfect choice.

‘Nice,’ Raul said, and watched her hurriedly swallow and clear her mouth before speaking.

‘Yes.’ Lydia nodded. ‘Very.’

‘I wasn’t asking a question.’

Just observing.

He looked at her mouth, and Lydia wondered if she had a crumb on her lip, but she resisted putting out her tongue to check.

And then he looked at her mouth, and the pressure within built as still she resisted that simple oral manoeuvre. Instead she pulled her bottom lip into her mouth and ran her tongue over it there.

No crumb.

Her eyes met his and she frowned at his impertinence as they asked a question—Are you imagining what I think you are?

Of course she said no such thing, and his features were impassive, but those black eyes offered his response.

Yes, Lydia, I am.

Had she had her purse with her, Lydia might well have called for the bill and fled, because she felt as if she were going insane. She looked around. Almost certain that the spectacle she was creating would have the world on pause and watching.

Yet the waiters were waiting, the patrons were chatting, the commuters were commuting and the word was just carrying on, oblivious to the fire smouldering unchecked in this roped-off section.

And so too must Raul be—oblivious, that was. For his voice was even and his question polite. ‘How are you finding Rome?’

Lydia was about to nod and say how wonderful it was, or give some other pat response, but she put down her spoon, let go of the end of her tether and simply stated the truth.

The real reason she was in Rome.

‘I’m determined to love it this time.’

‘Okay…’ Raul said. His stance was relaxed and he leant back in the seat, seemingly nonchalant, but in his mind he was searching for an angle—how to get her to speak of Bastiano without too direct a question.

Lydia was terribly formal—very English and uptight. One wrong move, Raul knew, and he would be the recipient of a downed napkin and he’d have to watch her stalk off back to the hotel.

She was so incredibly sexy, though.

A woman who would make you earn that reward.

Lydia did not flirt, he noted.

Not a fraction.

No playing with her hair, no leaning forward, no secret smiles and no innuendo.

Really, the way she was sitting so upright in the chair, he could be at a breakfast meeting with Allegra, his PA.

Except Raul was aroused.

He was here to garner information, Raul reminded himself, and took his mind back to their conversation.

Or tried to.

‘How long are you here for?’

‘Till Sunday,’ Lydia answered. ‘Two nights. How about you?’

‘I’m here for business.’

Raul should not be taking this time now. He had a very packed day. First he would meet with Alim and his team. Then, if time allowed, he would drop in unexpectedly on the other hotel he owned in Rome.

But he always made Bastiano his business.

‘When do you leave?’ she asked.

‘When business is done.’ Raul’s jet was in fact booked for six this evening, but he did not share his itinerary with anyone outside his close circle. ‘So, you’ve been to Rome before?’

‘Yes, I came to Italy on a school trip and had a rather miserable time. I don’t think my mood then did the place justice.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘Rome, Florence and Venice.’

‘Which was your favourite?’

Lydia thought for a moment. ‘Venice.’

‘And your least favourite?’

Oh, that was easy—Lydia didn’t have to think to answer that, even if he didn’t understand her response. ‘Venice.’

He did understand.

So much so that Raul again forgot that he was trying to steer the conversation. Even though Bastiano was the reason Raul was there, for now he left Raul’s mind.

He thought of Venice—the city he loved and now called home.

Not that he told her that.

Raul gave away nothing.

Then suddenly he did.

For as she looked over she was rewarded with the slow reveal of his smile.

And his smile was a true and very rare gift.

She saw those full dark lips stretch and the white of his teeth, but the real beauty was in eyes that stared so deeply into hers she felt there was nowhere to hide.

And nor did she want to.

‘Venice,’ Raul said, in that deep, measured voice, ‘can be the loneliest place in the world.’

‘Yes,’ Lydia admitted. ‘It was.’

It was as if she was seventeen again, walking alongside the Grand Canal alone and wanting to be in love with the city.

To be in love.

Of course nearly every schoolgirl on a trip to Italy secretly hoped for a little romance.

But on that day—on that terribly lonely day—Lydia would have been happy with a friend.

One true friend.

Raul was right. Lydia had felt utterly alone then, and for the most part she had felt the same since.

She was looking at him, but not really, and then his voice brought her back.

‘And you forgive her because how could you not?’

‘Her?’ Lydia checked, her mind still on friendships that had failed.

‘Venice.’

‘I wasn’t there long enough to forgive her,’ Lydia admitted.

‘What happened?’

‘Just being a teenager…’

She could easily dismiss it as that, but it had been more. Oh, she didn’t want to tell him that her father had just died and left behind him utter chaos, for while it might explain her unhappiness then, it wasn’t the entire truth—it had been more than that.

‘Schoolgirls can be such bitches.’

‘I don’t think it is exclusive to that age bracket.’

‘No!’ Lydia actually laughed at his observation because, yes, those girls were now women and probably still much the same.