Billionaire Brides: Four sexy cinderella romances

by Clare Connelly

“You are right, cara, and yet I want you to stay.”

  Emily ground her teeth together. “You’re used to this. I’m not.”

  “You could come and see me,” he prompted, not sure where the idea had come from. What had got into him? Sabato wasn’t interested in that kind of relationship. Even with someone as fascinating as Emily. “Or not,” he added nonchalantly.

  Emily’s heart shifted in her chest. “We move in different worlds,” she said prosaically. “It’s been fun, pretending I belong here with you. I’ve had fun…”

  “Fun?” He said, something hot and fierce lancing him.

  “Yeah.”

  “Fun?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  Nothing. Everything. He didn’t want her to have had fun. He wanted her to … to what? Have fallen in love with him? To want to spend the rest of her life with him? The thought sobered him as nothing else could have. “Nothing,” his smile was false. “I’ve had fun too. And now, as you say, it’s time to get back to the real world.”

  Emily nodded, her throat thick with unshed tears. She had to leave, and soon. “Well then, good bye.”

  She’d never been slapped, and she’d certainly never been shot, but saying that simple sentence felt surely as painful.

  Sabato stalled her with his gravelly question. “If I gave you my number, would you use it if you ever needed anything?” He pulled the door open and handed over her handbag in one swift motion.

  Emily stared up at him, her heart beating. What would be the point? Undoubtedly he’d have a new lover in a week’s time. In a month, she’d be a very distant memory. How could she call him, and experience the mortification of his not remembering her? Waiting uncomfortably for him to recall just which Emily was ringing him?

  “No,” she said with revulsion of the very idea. “Definitely not.”

  Sabato made a noise of frustration and kissed her passionately, pressing her back against the wall. The door slammed shut, and Emily wrapped her arms around his neck. He fumbled with her pants, pushing at them, then pushing her top, trying desperately to get nearer to her.

  “It is so important to you to relegate this time to the past that you will not even take my phone number?”

  She groaned and pushed at his jeans. “Shut up, Sabato. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snapped, releasing him from his boxers. She gripped him with both hands, thrilling at his ready arousal.

  “I know that this hasn’t just been fun,” he whispered against her ear. “I know you want more of me.”

  Mortification flooded her. She wanted so much more of him. So much more than he could give her. They made love, one last time, and then, Emily forced herself to leave.

  It wasn’t until she’d arrived back at her tiny, dark flat, a few minutes walk from her dark bus stop, that Emily found them. The earrings. Slipped into her hand bag at some point during the night with a small note.

  She clutched it in her hand, as she lay in the cold, lonely sofa bed. “Thank you for a memorable weekend. Ciao, Sabato.”

  And so, it was over.

  Chapter 5

  Three months later

  “Hello, Emily,” Rhonda called from the kitchen, her ample rear poking in the air as she surveyed various ‘best before’ dates and officiously marked them off on a register.

  “Hi there,” Emily called back, slipping an apron on over her head.

  “Thanks for helping me out again, lovey. We’re getting used to you around here.”

  “I like it,” Emily promised. In fact, she loved it. Anything that kept her busy and distracted from the mess her life was. “I can still only work the five hours. I have to be home before Andrew gets in from rehearsals. That suits?”

  “Oh, yeah, just help us get through the dinner rush. Room service. That kind of thing.”

  “No worries.” She’d been putting in more and more time in the kitchen lately, and the change of pace was surprisingly enjoyable. It was a whole different kettle of fish to housekeeping. The interaction with customers that had, at one time, scared her, was now a highlight of her day.

  “We’ve got a pile of orders waiting. You right to get straight to it?”

  “Absolutely,” Sarah agreed. The busier she was, the better. “The more the merrier.” She picked up the first docket and put her gloved hands on the tray. It was Autumn in London, and the day had broken rainy and grey. Cold, too. Sarah had rugged up, and tried to find optimism in the promise of winter and Christmas. All of the fun things she could do with Andrew when the weather turned cold; and there was a trip to Milly and Jacob to plan.

  She had so much on her agenda that she hardly had time to think about Sabato. In fact, barely a day went past when she didn’t think of him less than a thousand times.

  The memories seemed to intensify the higher she went in the hotel. The few times she’d had to make deliveries to the suite at the very top, she’d come over faint and weak afterwards. The memories and the bliss were too hard to process.

  But three months had passed, and it was all a very distant memory. He hadn’t contacted her, and she hadn’t called him. What they’d been to each other, for a brief window of time, had been proven to be false. They were sex, and nothing else. Just like she’d said.

  And more fool her to believe someone like Sabato Montepluciano would ever want to be with her. No doubt he’d slept with plenty of women since her. The thought made her physically ill and so she suppressed it.

  She surveyed the numbers on the doors, though she knew them all by heart.

  The suite was at the end of the corridor. She wheeled the trolley and then pressed the button. How could she not remember, every time she made these deliveries, the meals she and Sabato had shared? In this very hotel, meals served on trays just like these.

  She plastered a smile on her face as the door opened inwards.

  Life went on. Eventually, she’d catch up with it.

  “If you want my help, Raf, you need to do better than that,” Sabato responded grimly, staring at his brother with a look of impatience.

  Rafaelo, a brother in all but blood, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It is a sound investment. We need only your name to assure the bank’s confidence.”

  Sabato cast his eyes over the impressive brochure Rafaelo had produced. “And I told you I would think about it. Why have you come here today? Why the urgency?”

  Rafaelo sat down heavily in one of the luxurious armchairs. “It’s father,” he said finally.

  Sabato focussed every fibre of his body on his adoptive brother. “Father?”

  “He’s …”

  “Sick?” Sabato felt a swell of concern. He’d had his differences with Nico, but the man had raised him. He’d raised him when there’d been no obligation to do so. He’d taken in a small, stray child who trusted no one and was angry at the world, and he’d turned him into Sabato Montepulciano. A man considered legendary for his strength of character and confidence.

  “No.” Raf was impatient. He was so like Nico. Then again, they shared blood in their veins, and also the same facial features. “He’s anxious. About money.”

  Sabato compressed his lips. Several bad investments on the trot had seen a serious devaluing of Montepulciano family wealth. Though even a tenth of what they’d once possessed would still leave them with extreme wealth, the decline was regrettable. “I see,” he remarked slowly, reminding himself that Rafaelo had never been groomed for this life. Controlling the family’s business interests had fallen to him only when he, Sabato, had refused to take up the mantle.

  “He would be pleased to see us working together,” Rafaelo tried another tack. “You know he misses you.”

  Sabato grunted. “I see him often enough.”

  “Bah. A few times a year. And you make it obvious that you can’t wait to leave from the moment you arrive.”

  Sabato reclined in the chair thoughtfully. “You know why.”

  “Yes. Because of the affair.” Rafaelo b
rushed it aside as though it were of little matter. “Di niente,” he muttered. “If mama can forgive him, why do you find it so difficult?”

  That question was a mystery, even to Sabato. He scanned the room, forcibly ignoring the memories of the last time he’d been in the luxurious suite. “I value honesty,” he said, finally, though that alone didn’t explain the antipathy he felt to his father.

  “It was ten years ago, Sab.”

  “Si,” he shrugged.

  “Are you coming home for mother’s birthday?” Raf asked, pouring two glasses of mineral water from a bottle on the bar.

  “I’ll be there at some point,” Sabato said guardedly.

  “It is one weekend. You truly cannot make it?”

  Sabato stared long and hard at the man he’d been raised alongside.

  “I’ll think about it,” he agreed finally.

  “And you can tell father, there, that you and I are working together on this.”

  Sabato’s laugh was without humour. “You’re a stubborn bastard, Rafaelo.”

  “Takes one to know one,” he responded drily. “Now, shall we head downstairs for dinner? I’m starving.”

  Sabato flashed hot then cold. Downstairs. Where Emily might be. Where he might see her. His groin tightened instantly at memories of the woman he’d once been with. “No,” he spoke harshly. His dark eyes sought Rafaelo’s. “I’ve got work to do. I’ll just order something in.”

  “You work too much,” Rafaelo complained.

  Sabato resisted, but only barely, the temptation to point out that his company was a self-made billion dollar empire, whereas Raf had overseen the decimation of the Montepulciano fortune. It was a comparison that didn’t need to be highlighted. He nodded instead. “This project in the Docklands has hit a snag. It is why I am here.”

  “Yes, I know. Okay, have it your way. Mind if I join you?”

  Sabato couldn’t have said. The distraction would be welcome, and yet it would pain him to be in the suite and not be free to reminisce. His phone seemed to be burning inside of his pocket, begging him to call her. But to what end? He was only going to be in London for one night. Emily would be offended if he cast her as some kind of international booty call. He might want her with a profound ache, but for her sake he had to be strong enough to ignore it.

  “Suit yourself,” he said, when he realised Raf was waiting for an answer.

  “What do you feel like?” He perused the menu, running his finger down the page to take in the offerings.

  Sabato stood and ran a hand over the back of his neck. What did he feel like? Emily, Emily, Emily.

  He stared at Rafaelo without seeing him. “You decide. I’m going to grab a shower. Whatever you want is fine.”

  He strode through the suite, wilfully ignoring the bedroom he’d shared with Emily.

  The shower was warm and reviving. He’d arrived in London early that morning and had back-to-back meetings all day. Returning to his hotel suite to find Rafaelo waiting for him had been the cherry on top of an already frustrating situation.

  He took his time under the hot jets of water. He stood in the shower, waiting and waiting for thoughts of Emily to wash away. They didn’t of course, but he consoled himself that he only had one night to get through and then he’d leave London, and Emily behind.

  Again.

  Emily smothered a yawn with the back of her hand. She’d painted until late the night before. Far later than she should have, given the fact she had a shift at the hotel the next day. But inspiration had struck, and Emily was its mistress. Always wiling to be a slave to ideas, when they flowed easily. And the resulting portrait had been a good start. She was still in the sketching phase, but the style and tone were becoming clearer to her.

  She checked the docket and swallowed down the sense of panic. She’d made deliveries to the penthouse before. It was painful, because it brought back his presence in a very real way, but it was also just a part of her job. She tethered herself to that pragmatic conclusion and did a quick scan of the food. She was diligent about ensuring the meals ordered matched the docket.

  Everything about the walk to the room flooded her with reminders of that weekend. The smell of the corridor was pleasing: a mix of the cleaning products the hotel used, and the smell of toiletries; it was floral and light. The lighting was golden; it was autumn now, and the hotel permanently felt cosy and warm. She walked on legs that weren’t quite steady towards the luxurious suite. Her finger was tentative on the doorbell. She sucked in a deep breath, and waited.

  The door was pulled inwards and Emily felt relief flood through. Relief, yes, and disappointment too.

  It wasn’t Sabato.

  It never was.

  “Ciao,” the handsome man greeted her, his interest obvious. “Do come in.” He stood back to allow her entry into the suite. And, as she always did when she returned to the scene of the crime, so to speak, she stared at the cream carpet. Not the dining table. Not the chairs. Not the sofa. Not anywhere she’d been with Sabato.

  She stopped the trolley and flicked the brakes on. “If you’ll just sign here, sir,” she murmured, lifting the electronic pad towards him.

  “You don’t set the table?” The man, his voice accented in a way that was painfully familiar, was curious.

  Emily groaned inwardly. In her desperation to get out of the suite, she’d forgotten that guests of the penthouses were offered extra services. She smiled at him politely. “Of course, sir, if that’s your preference.”

  “Indeed,” he sat down on one of the chairs, his eyes glued to Emily’s face. “If it gives me more time with una bella donna such as you,” he murmured.

  Emily felt her cheeks flush pink. “Shall I set the table for one?” She asked, neatly sidestepping his flirtatious remark.

  “Two,” he corrected.

  Emily thought then, sympathetically, of his companion. Presumably a wife or girlfriend, completely unaware that she’d ended up with a total creep. “Yes, sir,” she agreed, moving elegantly into the kitchen.

  The bench. The stool. The floor.

  She blocked out the memories and reached for the elegant cutlery then returned quickly to the table. If she didn’t get out of the room, she knew she’d have a panic attack.

  Her fingers were still quivering as she placed the cutlery onto the glass table top.

  The man watched her for a moment and then leaned forward. “What is your name?”

  “Emily,” she said coldly, conveying as clearly as possible that she had no interest in anything other than delivering his meals and getting out of there.

  “I’m Raf,” he said with a grin.

  Emily didn’t reply. What was there to say? She lifted the plates onto the table, aware of his eyes on her as she crouched down to locate the napkins in the bottom of her tray.

  “There you are, sir,” she said with a professional nod. “Enjoy your meal.”

  She was so close to leaving. So close.

  She spun on her heel, intent on closing the distance between herself and the door just as quickly as possible. And then, she saw him.

  As if she’d conjured him from her dreams and hopes.

  Sabato. Moisture clinging to his bare chest, a hotel issue white towel draped low and firm around his hips. She lost her footing, and might have fallen, had Raf not reached for her waist and caught hold of her.

  It was only a moment. A brief moment of weakness. And in that time, realisation after realisation flooded Emily’s mind.

  She wanted him. She loved him. He’d come to London and not told her. She would never – could never – have him again.

  Emily straightened, pulling out of Rafaelo’s helpful grip. “Excuse me,” she spoke to him, and not Sabato. “I must have caught my toe.”

  She walked quickly away from the desperate scene, her heart racing, her brow damp with perspiration. He was back. For how long?

  And why?

  She reached for the door and went to pull it inwards at the same time that S
abato held it closed. He was right behind her, his warm, muscled frame almost touching her. She tilted her head to stare up at him, hoping she didn’t look as overcome by emotion as she felt. His eyes were devouring her, taking in every single detail in her appearance.

  “It’s you,” he said finally, his eyes still locked to her face.

  Her heart was actually hurting, it had been so totally broken by his absence. She squared her shoulders, forcing herself not to show her pain. “Your dinner will get cold, sir,” she murmured with icy distance in her tone.

  “Stop,” he responded firmly, when she moved to exit the suite. “You cannot go.”

  “Oh, really?” Her mask of polite disinterest was dropping. “Just watch me.”

  “Emily,” he grabbed her hand, and electricity arced between them, fierce and flammable. She pulled away as though he’d burned her.

  “Good night, Mr Montepulciano,” she responded firmly, spinning away from him and walking with as much poise as she could muster, down the hallway and back to the lifts.

  She was both surprised and hurt that Sabato had let her go. In her heart of hearts, she’d hoped he would follow her. That he would have some means to explain why he hadn’t called her.

  He’d never promised he would, she reminded herself, dashing away angry tears as the elevator hurtled to the ground floor of the hotel. In fact, she’d told him she didn’t want his number, because she wouldn’t call him. “Oh, shut up,” she groaned, pressing her fingers against her temples. This was certainly not the time to be reasonable and make excuses for him.

  Hell, he’d looked good. She checked her reflection in the mirror. Her face was pale, her eyes suspiciously bright. She pinched her cheeks and blinked furiously, pausing a few moments before heading back to the kitchen.

  The rest of the night passed, somehow, but Emily had no recollection of anything beyond that moment. She ran on autopilot, carrying out her duties, her body going through the motions while her mind was totally absorbed. She’d never been so relieved as when the end of her shift finally loomed before her.