Sicilian's Baby Of Shame. Carol MarinelliЧитать онлайн книгу.
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