Rumours: The One-Night Heirs

Raul could see that it would be, but he did not get involved in such details and told Alim so.

‘I leave all that to my managers to organise,’ Raul said.

Alim nodded. ‘Usually I do too, but when I took over the Grande Lucia there had been many cost-cutting measures. It was slowly turning into just another hotel. It is not just the lighting in the ballroom, of course. What I am trying to explain is that this hotel has become more than an investment to me. Once I return to my homeland I shall not be able to give it the attention it deserves.’

‘The next owner might not either,’ Raul pointed out.

‘That is his business. But while the hotel is mine I want no part in her demise.’

Raul knew he was now hearing the true reason for the sale. To keep this hotel to its current standard would be a huge undertaking, and one that Raul would play no major part in—he would delegate that. Perhaps he’d do so more carefully, given what he had been told. But at the end of the day managers managed, and Raul had neither the time nor the inclination to be that heavily involved.

‘Now you have given me pause for thought,’ Raul admitted.

‘Good.’ Alim smiled. ‘The Grande Lucia deserves the best caretaker. Please,’ Alim said, indicating that their long day of meetings had come to an end, ‘take all the time you need to look around and to enjoy the rest of your stay.’

Sultan Alim excused himself and Raul stood in the empty ballroom, watching the light dancing around the walls like a shower of stars.

He thought of home.

And he understood Alim’s concerns.

Last year Raul had purchased a stunning Venetian Gothic palazzo on the Grand Canal.

It required more than casual upkeep.

The house was run by Loretta—the woman who had warned his mother of Gino’s imminent return home all those years ago.

She ran the staff—and there were many.

Raul looked around the ballroom at the intricate cornices and arched windows.

Yes, he knew what Alim was talking about. But this was a hotel, not a home.

Raul would play no part in her demise.

He was going to pass.

So there was no need to linger.

His mind went back to that morning and he hoped very much that Lydia would be there to meet him tonight—not just to score a point over Bastiano and to rot up his plans.

Raul had enjoyed her company.

His company was not for keeps.

Lydia knew that.

She sat in her button-up dress in the hairdresser’s at four and asked for a French roll, but the hairdresser tutted, picked up a long coil of blonde and suggested—or rather, strongly suggested—curls. After some hesitation finally Lydia agreed.

Whatever had happened to her this morning, it was still occurring.

She felt as if she were shedding her skin, and at every turn she fought to retrieve it.

Her lashes were darkened, and then Lydia opened her eyes when the beautician spoke.

‘Porpora…’

Lydia did not know that word, but as the beautician pushed up a lipstick Lydia managed, without translation, to work out what it meant.

Crimson.

‘No.’ Lydia shook her head and insisted on a more neutral shade.

Oh, Lydia wanted to be back in her cocoon—she was a very unwilling butterfly indeed—but she did buy the lipstick, and on her way back to the hotel she stopped at the boutique and bought the red dress.

And then she entered the complex world of sexy shoes.

Lydia had bought a neutral pair to go with the caramel dress and thought she was done. But…

‘Red and red,’ the assistant insisted.

‘I think neutral would look better.’

‘You need these shoes.’

Oh, Lydia was starting to take advice from strangers for she tried them on. They were low-heeled and slender and a little bit strappy.

‘It’s too much,’ Lydia said, but both women knew she was not protesting at the price.

‘No, no,’ the assistant said. ‘Trust me—these are right.’

Oh, Lydia didn’t trust her.

But she bought them anyway.

For him.

Or rather to one day dress up alone to the memory of him.

As she arrived back at the hotel Lydia looked at the restaurant across the street, to the roped-off section and the table he had reserved for them.

Of course he wasn’t there yet.

Yet.

Knowing he would be—knowing she could be—made tonight somehow worse.

Her mother called, but she let it go to voicemail.

A pep talk wasn’t required.

Lydia didn’t need to be told that everything hinged on tonight. That the castle was at the very end of the line and that it would come down to her actions tonight to save it.

She had a shallow bath, so as not to mess up her new curls, and as she washed she tried to remind herself how good-looking Bastiano was.

Even his scar did not mar his good looks.

He had been attending a wedding when they’d first met.

Maybe this time when he kissed her she would know better how to respond.

Try as she might, though, she couldn’t keep her focus on Bastiano. Her thoughts strayed to Raul.

With a sob of frustration Lydia hauled herself out of the bath and dried herself.

In a last-ditch attempt, Lydia rang Arabella. Searching for an excuse—any excuse—to get out of this meeting tonight.

‘Lydia!’ Arabella was brusque. ‘I meant to call you. You didn’t say it was this weekend you were in Rome.’

Of course Lydia had.

‘I’ve actually got a party on tonight,’ Arabella said.

‘Sounds good.’

‘Invitation only.’

And of course Lydia was not invited.

And there she sat again, like a beggar beside the table, waiting for Arabella’s crumbs.

‘That’s fine.’

Lydia rang off.

Maurice was right. She had no friends.

Arabella was her only contact from her first school, but she kept her at arm’s length, and there hadn’t even been a semblance of friendship at the other school.

Lydia could remember the howls of laughter from the other students when she had shaken hands and made a small curtsey for the teacher at the end of her first day.

It was what she had been taught, but of course her norms weren’t the norms of her new school.

She didn’t fit in anywhere.

Yet this morning Lydia had felt she did.

Oh, Raul had been far too forward and suggestive, but when they had spoken she had felt as if she were confiding in a friend—had felt a little as if she belonged in the world.

But all Raul wanted was sex.

Lydia had hoped for a little more.

Not a whole lot, but, yes, perhaps a little romance would be a nice side dish for her first time.

Wrong dress, Lydia thought as she looked in the mirror.

Wrong shoes, Lydia thought as she strapped on her neutral heels.

Wrong man, Lydia knew as she walked into the bar and saw Bastiano waiting.

Oh, he was terribly good-looking—even with that scar—and yet he did not move her. But perhaps this was romance, Lydia thought sadly, for he was charming as he ordered champagne. He was the perfect gentleman, and on the surface it was all terribly polite.

As was her life.

She thanked him for his generous hospitality. ‘It’s so lovely to be here. We’ve been looked after so well.’

‘It is my pleasure,’ Bastiano said. ‘Are you enjoying Rome?’

‘Absolutely.’ Lydia smiled and thought of her far more honest response this morning with Raul.

It was after six, and she knew—just knew—that Raul wouldn’t wait for very long.

And that she would regret it for ever if she missed out on tonight.

‘I was thinking,’ Bastiano said, ‘that for dinner we might—’

‘Actually…’ Maurice interrupted, and put his fingers to his temples.

Lydia knew he was going to plead a headache and excuse himself from dinner. Leaving her alone with Bastiano.

It was seven minutes past six and she made her choice.

‘Oh, didn’t Maurice tell you?’ Lydia spoke over Maurice, before he could make his excuses and leave.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Maurice clench the glass he was holding, and she could feel his eyes shoot a stern warning, and yet Lydia spoke on.

‘I’m catching up with a friend tonight—we’re heading off to dinner soon. I wanted to stop by and say thank you, though.’ She gave Bastiano her best false smile, but it wasn’t returned. ‘I don’t want to get in the way of your business talk.’

‘I don’t think you could ever be in the way.’ Bastiano’s response was smooth.

‘Oh, you’re far too polite!’ Lydia offered a small laugh to a less than impressed audience.

It sank like a stone.

‘I’ll leave you two to talk castles.’

She placed her unfinished drink on the table and said her farewells, and simply ignored the fury in Maurice’s eyes and the muscle flickering in Bastiano’s scarred cheek.

Oh, there would be consequences, Lydia knew.

But she was prepared to bear them.

For now she was free.

She wanted the red dress and the lipstick to match. She had, Lydia acknowledged, bought them for this moment, after all.

But there just wasn’t time.

He could be gone already, Lydia thought in mild panic as she swept out through the revolving door.

When she glanced across the street she felt the crush of disappointment when she saw that Raul wasn’t there.

But then she heard him.

‘You’re late.’

Lydia turned and there he was, tie loosened, tall and gorgeous, and, yes, she had made her choice.

‘For the first time in my life.’

He was going to kiss her, she was sure, but she walked on ahead.

‘Come on,’ Lydia said quickly, worried that Maurice might follow her out.

They walked briskly, or rather Lydia did, for his stride beside her seemed slow and more measured. She felt fuelled by elation as they turned into a side street.

‘Where to now?’ Raul asked, and they stopped walking and she turned.

‘You’re the expert.’

Oh, he was—because somehow she was back against the wall with his hands on either side of her head.

She put her hands up to his chest and felt him solid beneath her palms, just felt him there for a moment, and then she looked up to his eyes.

His mouth moved in close, and as it did so she stared deeper.

She could feel heat hovering between their mouths in a slow tease before they met.

Then they met.

And all that had been missing was suddenly there.

The gentle pressure his mouth exerted, though blissful, caused a mire of sensations—until the gentleness was no longer enough.

Even before the thought was formed, he delivered.

His mouth moved more insistently and seemed to stir her from within.

Raul wanted her tongue, and yet he did not prise—he never forced a door open.

No need to.

There it was.

A slight inhalation, a hitch in her breath, and her lips parted just a little and he slipped his tongue in.

The moan she made went straight to his groin.

At first taste she was his and he knew it, for her hands moved to the back of his head, and he kissed her as hard as her fingers demanded.

More so, even.

His tongue was wicked, and her fingers tightened in his thick hair, and she could feel the wall cold and hard against her shoulders.

It was the middle of the city, just after six, and even down a side street there was no real hiding from the crowds.

Lydia didn’t care.

He slid one arm around her waist to move her body away from the wall and closer to his, so that her head could fall backwards.

If there’d been a bed she would have been on it.

If there’d been a room they would have closed the door.

Yet there wasn’t, and so he halted them—but only their lips.

Their bodies were heated and close and he looked her right in the eye. His mouth was wet from hers and his hair a little mussed from her fingers.

‘What do you want to do?’ Raul asked, knowing it was a no-brainer.

It was a very early bedtime and that suited him fine.

But the thought of waltzing her past Bastiano and Maurice no longer appealed.

A side entrance, perhaps, Raul thought, and went for her neck.

She had never thought that a kiss beneath her ear could make it impossible to breathe, let alone think.

‘What do you want to do?’ he whispered to her skin, and then blew on her neck, damp from his kisses. He raised his head and met her eye. ‘Tonight I can give you anything you want.’

‘Anything?’ Lydia checked.

‘Oh, yes.’

And if he was offering perfection, then she would take it.

‘I want to see Rome at night—with you.’

‘It’s not dark yet.’

He could suggest a guided tour of his body—a very luxurious one, of course—but then he looked into her china-blue eyes.

‘I want some romance with my one-night stand.’

‘But I don’t do romance.’

‘Try it,’ Lydia said. She didn’t want some bauble in the morning and so she named her price. ‘For one night.’

And Raul, who was usually very open to experiments, found himself reluctant to try.

Yet he had cancelled his flight for this.

And she had had the most terrible time here on her last visit, Raul knew.

The bed would always be there.

And he had invited her to state her wants.

He had known from the start that Lydia would make him work for his reward.

‘I know just the place to start,’ Raul said. ‘While it’s still light.’

CHAPTER FOUR

THIS WAS ROME.

He would have called for a car, but she hadn’t wanted to go to the front of the hotel and risk seeing Maurice.

And so Raul found himself in his first taxi for a very long time.

He would not be repeating it!

Still, it was worth it for the result.

He took her to Aventine Hill. ‘Rome’s seventh hill,’ he told her.

‘I know that,’ Lydia said. ‘We came past it on a bus tour.’

‘Who were you sitting with?’ Raul nudged her as they walked.

‘The teacher.’

‘They really hated you, didn’t they?’

But he put his arm around her shoulders as he said it, and it was something in the way he spoke that made her smile as she answered.

‘They did.’

And then they stopped walking.

‘This is the headquarters of the Order of the Knights of Malta,’ he told her. ‘Usually it is busy.’ But tonight the stars had aligned, for there was a small group just leaving. ‘Go on, then.’

‘What?’

And she waited—for what, she didn’t know. For him to open the door and go through?

They did neither.

‘Look through the keyhole.’

Lydia bent down and did as she was told, but there was nothing to see at first—just an arch of greenery.

And then her eye grew accustomed to the view and she looked past the greenery, and there, perfectly framed in the centre, was the dome of St Peter’s.

He knew the moment she saw it, for she let out a gasp.

It was a view to die for.

The soft green edging framed the eternal city and she bent there for a while, just taking it in.

It was a memory.

A magical one because it made Rome a secret garden.

Her secret garden.

By the time she stood there were others lined up, all waiting for their glimpse of heaven, and her smile told them it would be worth the wait.

Raul refused to be rushed.

‘Don’t you want a photo?’ he asked. Assuming, of course, that she would.

‘No.’

She didn’t need one to remember it.

Even if Raul took her back to the hotel now, it would still be the best night ever.

In fact if Raul were to suggest taking her back to the hotel she would wave the taxi down herself, for he was kissing her again—a nice one, a not-going-anywhere one, just sharing in her excitement.

He did not take her back yet.

They walked down the hill, just talking, and he showed her the tiny streets she would never have found. He took her past the Bocca della Verità sculpture—the Mouth of Truth—though he did not tell her the legend that the old man would bite off the hand of liars.

For perhaps she might test him.

Though Raul told himself he did not lie.

He just omitted certain information.

And he continued to do so, even when the opportunity arose to reveal it.

They were now sitting on a balcony, looking out to the Colosseum, and a waiter placed their drinks down on the table.

Cognac for Raul and a cocktail that was the same fiery orange as the sky for Lydia.

He didn’t assume champagne, as Bastiano had.

Like this morning at breakfast, she let her eyes wander through the menu selections.

She chose hers—he knew his.

Raul gave her choice at every turn, and that was something terribly new to Lydia.

Finally she had good memories of Rome.

‘Salute,’ Raul said, and they clinked glasses.

Wonderful memories, really.

It wasn’t the sight of the Colosseum that brought a lump to her throat but the fact that now there were candles and flowers on the table, and that at every turn Raul had surprised her with his ease and enjoyment.

He did not sulk, nor reluctantly trudge along and put up with things before taking her to bed.

Raul led.

But she must remember it could never—for her—be the City of Love.

Raul didn’t do love.

‘How did Bastiano take your leaving?’ Raul asked, and his question caught her by surprise, for her mind had long moved on from the hotel.

Raul himself had only just remembered the real reason he was there.

‘He was fine,’ Lydia replied. ‘Well, he was polite. I can’t blame him for being fed up—anyone would be, stuck with Maurice for the night.’

He was about to say that he doubted Bastiano would hang around anywhere he didn’t choose to be, but stopped himself.

For the first time since they had met Lydia looked truly relaxed. The conversation flowed easily, and quite simply he did not want to take the chance of ruining a very nice night.

But he did need to know more. And he did not need to delve, for a very at ease Lydia was now talking.

‘I know he can’t stand Maurice.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because Bastiano told me.’

She was stirring her drink and didn’t see the sudden tension in his features. It dawned on Raul that Bastiano and Lydia might already be lovers for all he knew.

‘There was a wedding at the castle one weekend,’ Lydia explained. ‘It was a very good one. Of course Maurice had been through the guest list, and he made a bit of a beeline for Bastiano. He’d found out that he’d converted an old convent into a retreat, and Maurice wanted to hear his thoughts on doing something similar with the castle.’

Raul gave a disparaging laugh, and Lydia assumed it was in reference to Maurice’s gall at approaching a guest.

But Raul was mocking Maurice’s ignorance—Bastiano would never part with his knowledge for free.

‘Bastiano wasn’t interested,’ Lydia said.

‘Maurice told you that?’ Raul checked.

‘No, Bastiano did.’ Lydia gave a soft laugh and looked out onto the street as she recalled that night. ‘I was serving drinks, and Bastiano made some comment about saving him from the most boring man… I laughed. I knew exactly who he was referring to. But then I felt guilty, as if I ought to defend my family, and so I told him that Maurice was my stepfather.’

And there was the difference between them. Raul felt no guilt in not admitting the truth.

Perhaps a slight niggle, but he easily pushed that aside.

‘You told Bastiano that Maurice was your stepfather?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ Lydia nodded. ‘Bastiano apologised and said he would speak with him again and pay attention this time.

‘And that was it?’ Raul checked.

‘Sorry?’ Lydia frowned.

‘That was all that happened between you two?’

She went pink.

‘Excuse me,’ Raul said. ‘That is none of my business.’

The thought, though, did not sit well with him.

But then she told him.

‘Just a kiss.’

She screwed up her nose as Raul breathed out in relief that they had never been lovers.

Then the relief dissolved and he loathed the fact that they had even shared a kiss.

‘Come on,’ he said, confused by the jealousy that arose in him. ‘It’s dark now.’

Oh, it was.

And busy and noisy.

It was everything Rome should be.

The Trevi Fountain had kept its promise, because she had made a wish to be back under better circumstances and now she was.

They walked for miles, and though the cobbled streets weren’t stiletto-friendly Lydia felt as if she were wearing ballet slippers—the world felt lighter tonight.

‘Where are we now?’ Lydia asked.

‘Citta Universitaria—my home for four years.’

‘I would have loved to have gone to university,’ Lydia said. ‘I wanted to study history.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘I failed my exams.’

Another truth she rarely told.

She hadn’t decided to go straight into the family business, as her mother often said.

Lydia had failed all her exams.

Spectacularly.

‘I messed up,’ Lydia admitted.

She offered no reason or excuse although there were so many.

He knew that.

‘I had to repeat some subjects after my mother died,’ Raul told her. He rarely revealed anything, and certainly not his failings, yet it seemed right to do so now. ‘I hit the clubs for a while.’

His honesty elicited both a smile and an admission. ‘I wish that I had.’

‘I moved here from Sicily to study under great protest—my father wanted me to work for him. Filthy money,’ he added. ‘Anyway, after my mother died for a while I made it my mission to find out how wild Rome could be at night.’

‘Where in Si—’

‘I lived there,’ he said, pointing across the street.

She had been about to ask whereabouts in Sicily, Raul knew, but she had mentioned the convent a couple of times and perhaps knew its location. Certainly he didn’t want her knowing that he and Bastiano were from the same place. So he interrupted her and gave more information about himself than he usually would.

Raul pointed upwards and Lydia found herself looking at a hotel. It was far smaller than the one they were staying at, but it was beautifully lit and from the smart cars pulling up and the guests spilling out it seemed rather exclusive.

‘How could a student afford to stay in that hotel?’ Lydia asked.

‘It was flats back then. In fact they were very seedy.’

‘And then the developers came along?’

‘That was me.’

And she stared at a hotel—in the centre of Rome, for goodness’ sake—and found out that he owned it.

‘How?’

But Raul did not want to revisit those times.

‘Come on…’

It was late—after midnight—and he’d had enough of taxis to last a lifetime, and so, despite the hour, he texted Allegra and very soon a vehicle appeared.

It wasn’t a taxi!

She sat in the back and he climbed in and sat so he faced her.

It was bliss to sink into the seats. ‘My feet are killing me,’ Lydia admitted. ‘These shoes really weren’t made for walking.’

‘Take them off, then,’ Raul said, and he leant over and lifted her foot and placed it in his lap.

Lydia could feel his solid thigh beneath her calf, and though she willed herself to relax her leg was trembling as he started to undo the strap.

He ran his hand along her calf and found the muscle was a knot of tension. He worked it with deft fingers.