Sicilian's Baby Of Shame. Carol Marinelli

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      Sophie was naïve, she knew that, but she was strong too.

      Strong enough to say no to a man and a marriage she hadn’t wanted.

      ‘Buongiorno.’

      A deep voice snapped her to attention and Sophie turned around as she realised that she had just been caught daydreaming, and by an important guest in his own suite!

      She went to apologise but her flustered breath was literally taken away for there, lying in bed and idly watching her, was possibly a sight more arresting than the one she had just been feasting on. He was tall—she could see his length in the huge bed. His hands were behind his head and the sheet low on his stomach revealed his naked torso.

      He really was magnificent, with olive skin and jet-black hair. The only blot on perfection was a jagged scar on his cheek, yet it only seemed to make him more beautiful. Most of all, it was his eyes that drew Sophie’s. They were grey and piercing and as she met his gaze she found that her breath hitched in her chest and that she could not tear her gaze away. That was rare in itself for Sophie. In her job, she was very used to rich and beautiful men but with this one, with this one, she found that her eyes did not divert and, instead of an apology, her cheeks went a little bit pink.

      ‘I was just preparing the view for you, Signor Conti,’ Sophie said, and he gave a small smile in return as she made a little joke—as if she had been arranging the scenery outside specifically for him.

      ‘Thank you.’ He glanced towards the window and the million-euro view. ‘You did a good job.’

      And then he looked back at her.

      When he had thought her to be taking her time Bastiano had opened his eyes to tell her to hurry up and leave, but there was something about her that halted his usual impatience.

      And she mesmerised him now.

      The eyes that met his were a very dark brown. He already knew from watching that she was as slender as a blade and wearing a pale green dress and flat shoes, both of which looked to be a little too big for her. Now he examined her face and saw that her thick black hair was worn up in a messy bun with a few long strands escaping.

      She looked tired, Bastiano thought, and he guessed that her shift was just finishing rather than starting.

      She had made him smile, just a little, but that was a surprise in itself given the dream he had so far failed to banish from his mind. The bedroom was rather messy and he was quite sure that the very sumptuous lounge was not much better; no doubt it was a stray bottle of champagne in the floor that had caused her small expletive on the way in.

      ‘Would you like me to serve your breakfast?’ she offered, still a little flustered and not just from being caught staring. Sophie made her way over to the breakfast trolley and lifted one of the silver domes.

      ‘No, thank you,’ Bastiano said. ‘Actually, if you could bring me coffee that would be fine.’

      ‘Would you like some water, or juice, too?’ she offered, and then he saw the slight twitch to her lips and a certain knowing tone in her voice as she spoke on. ‘Or perhaps you would like both?’

      Again he smiled as she revealed her suspicions of his crashing hangover.

      ‘Please.’

      She brought over two glasses and Bastiano drank the cold water as she went back to the trolley and poured his coffee from the pot.

      Usually Bastiano poured his own coffee for he did not like attempts at idle conversation, yet it was he who was pursuing it now.

      ‘Sicilian?’ he asked as she carried the cup to his bedside. She nodded and then, as she placed it on the table, she gave a little grimace, realising that he must have heard her swear.

      ‘Me too,’ he said calmly, and something in the delivery of his words told her that he got it, for the air was a touch bluer back home.

      ‘What is that?’ he asked, gesturing to the trolley, for despite the fact she had replaced the dome and covered the food there was now a rich, spicy scent mingling into the air.

      ‘Shakshuka,’ Sophie said. ‘Middle Eastern baked eggs.’

      The gorgeous guest screwed up his nose and Sophie was worried that the kitchen had got the orders mixed up so she quickly checked the paperwork on the trolley but, no, it was correct. ‘You ordered it.’

      ‘What was I thinking?’ he drawled.

      ‘I’ve heard that they’re amazing,’ Sophie said, and if the smell was anything to go by then her recommendation was bang on. ‘Would you like me to take them back down and have something else sent to you?’

      ‘It’s fine.’ He gave a shake of his head. ‘Just leave it.’

      ‘I hope you enjoy your day,’ Sophie offered, and he gave a slight mirthless laugh and then nodded.

      ‘You too.’

      She went to close the bedroom door but he told her to leave it open.

      As she left, Sophie picked up the bottle she had tripped over on her way in and put it on a tray. The room was a disaster and she would love, right this minute, to set about straightening things up, but it was not her job today and it was far too early to service a suite.

      Anyway, as of now, she was off duty and so she headed to clock off and collect her things.

      ‘What are you doing, delivering breakfasts?’ Inga asked as Sophie retrieved her jacket from her locker. Just to be polite, Sophie had made a casual comment as to why she was a few minutes late coming off duty but Inga had, in her usual critical way, pounced. ‘That is for the more senior chambermaids.’

      ‘I 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 СКАЧАТЬ