by Penny Jordan
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 i
t’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.’
Don’t miss
THE INNOCENT’S SECRET BABY
by USA Today bestselling author
Carol Marinelli,
available March 2017 wherever
Harlequin Books and ebooks are sold.
www.Harlequin.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-488-02927-1
THE FRIENDSHIP BARRIER
Copyright © 1984 by Penny Jordan
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com