Claiming His Shock Heir

by Penny Jordan

  And she had.

  Though not because of her mother’s instruction—more because she did not know how to let her guard down.

  People thought her aloof and cold.

  Better they think that than she reveal her heart.

  And so, by default, she had saved herself.

  Lydia had secretly hoped for love.

  It would seem not in this lifetime.

  Tonight she would be left alone with him.

  The towel fell away and, though she was alone, Lydia pulled it back and covered herself.

  She was on the edge of a panic attack, and she hadn’t had one since…

  Rome.

  Or was it Venice?

  Venice.

  Both.

  That awful school trip.

  She had said yes to this trip to Rome, hoping to lay a ghost to rest. Lydia wanted to see Rome through adult eyes, yet she was as scared of the world now as she had been as a teenager.

  Pull yourself together, Lydia.

  And so she did.

  Lydia got up from the bed and got dressed.

  She was meeting Maurice, her stepfather, at eight for breakfast. Rather than be late she just quickly combed her long blonde hair, which had dried a little wild. She had bought a taupe linen dress to wear, which had buttons from neck to hem—though perhaps not the best choice for her shaking hands.

  They are not expecting you to sleep with him!

  Lydia told herself she was being utterly ridiculous even to entertain such a thought. She would stop by for a drink with this man tonight, with her stepfather, thank him for his hospitality, and then explain that she was going out with friends. Arabella lived here now, and had said they should catch up when Lydia got here.

  In fact…

  Lydia took out her phone and fired off a quick text.

  Hi, Arabella,

  Not sure if you got my message.

  Made it to Rome.

  I’m free for dinner tonight if you would like to catch up.

  Lydia

  And so to breakfast.

  Lydia stepped out of her suite and took the elevator down to the dining room. As she walked through the lavish foyer she caught sight of herself in a mirror. Those deportment classes had been good for something at least—she was the picture of calm and had her head held high.

  Yet she wanted to run away.

  * * *

  ‘No, grazie.’

  Raul Di Savo declined the waiter’s offer of a second espresso and continued to read through reports on the Hotel Grande Lucia, where he now sat having just taken breakfast.

  At Raul’s request his lawyer had attained some comprehensive information, but it had only come through this morning. In a couple of hours Raul was to meet with Sultan Alim, so there was a lot to go through.

  The Grande Lucia was indeed a sumptuous hotel, and Raul took a moment to look up from his computer screen and take in the sumptuous dining room that was currently set up for breakfast.

  There was the pleasant clink of fine china and a quiet murmur of conversation and, though formal, the room had a relaxed air that had made Raul’s stay so far pleasurable. There was a certain old-world feel to the place that spoke of Rome’s rich history and beauty.

  And Raul wanted the hotel to be his.

  Raul had been toying with the idea of adding it to his portfolio, and had just spent the night in the Presidential Suite as a guest of Sultan Alim.

  Raul hadn’t expected to be so impressed.

  He had been, though.

  Every detail was perfection personified—the décor was stunning, the staff were attentive yet discreet, and it appeared to be a rich haven for both the business traveller and the well-heeled tourist.

  Raul was now seriously considering taking over this landmark hotel.

  Which meant that so too was Bastiano.

  Fifteen years on and their rivalry continued unabated.

  Mutual hatred was a silent, yet daily motivator—a black cord that connected them.

  And Bastiano would be arriving later today.

  Raul knew that Bastiano was also a personal friend of Sultan Alim. Raul had considered if that might have any bearing on their negotiations but had soon discounted it. Sultan Alim was a brilliant businessman, and his friendship with Bastiano would have no sway over his dealings, Raul was certain of that.

  Raul rather hoped his presence at the hotel might cause Bastiano some discomfort, for though they moved in similar circles in truth their paths rarely crossed. Raul, even on his father’s death, had never returned to Casta.

  There had been no respects to pay.

  Yet Casta had remained Bastiano’s base.

  He had converted the old convent into a luxury retreat for the seriously wealthy.

  It was actually, Raul knew, an extremely upmarket rehab facility.

  His mother would be turning in her grave.

  Raul’s black thoughts were interrupted when the portly middle-aged gentleman sitting to his right made his disgruntled feelings known.

  ‘Who do you have to sleep with around here to get some service?’ he muttered in well-schooled English.

  It would seem that the tourists were getting impatient!

  Raul smiled inwardly as the waiter continued to ignore the pompous Englishman. The waiter had had enough. This man had been complaining since the moment he had been shown to his table, and there was absolutely nothing to complain about.

  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 finger 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 highchair 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 were 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 t
ried 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.