The Italians: Rico, Antonio and Giovanni. Kate Hardy

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      He just had to find the right words to tell her who he really was, and that he’d been a little economical with the truth. Hopefully she’d understand that he hadn’t been trying to hurt her or cheat her; he’d just wanted her to see him for himself, not as Rico the hard-headed businessman or Rico the boyfriend with deep pockets. Then maybe, just maybe, they could find the time to explore where this was taking them.

      After breakfast, Ella finished packing and headed down to the hotel reception area to organise leaving her luggage in their secure storage area. Rico was already there, though he was busy talking to some of the other hotel staff. They were speaking rapid Italian, so she didn’t have a clue what they were saying; but something struck her as odd. The hotel receptionist seemed very deferential when she was talking to him. Given that Rico was a tour guide, surely his status would be the same as that of the receptionist? They were colleagues, not boss and employee.

      And then she heard the receptionist say, ‘Sì, Signor Rossi.’

      That was definitely deferential. Why wasn’t the receptionist calling him by his first name?

      ‘May I help you, signorina?’ the other receptionist asked.

      ‘I—um, yes. Grazie. I’d like to check out.’

      ‘Of course.’ The receptionist sorted out the bill and gave Ella an extra receipt for the city tax.

      ‘May I ask … who’s that man over there?’ Ella gestured over to Rico, who was still earnestly in conversation with the other receptionist.

      ‘Signor Rossi. He’s very easy on the eye, no?’ The receptionist smiled.

      Yes. Rico was very easy on the eye. But this was the second person to use his formal name rather than his first name. Rossi. Something rang a bell there, and she couldn’t remember why. ‘Who is he?’ she asked.

      ‘The CEO of Rossi Hotels. We have three sister hotels in Rome,’ the receptionist explained, ‘though Signor Rossi is based here.’

      Rico owned the hotel.

      So he wasn’t a tour guide at all. He’d lied to her. Ella felt sick. How rubbish was her judgement? Even for a casual fling that wasn’t supposed to matter, she’d managed to find herself someone who lied. So much for the promise she’d made her mother at her deathbed. Promise me you won’t make the same mistakes I did, Ella. Ella had promised. And what had she done? She’d planned to marry a cheat and a liar. OK, so she’d found out the truth in time to stop her making it worse and actually marrying Michael, but here she was in Rome, making the same mistake all over again; having a fling with a handsome, charming and faithless man—someone who’d lied to her right from the start.

      What an idiot she’d been. Stupid, naïve and oh, so gullible. She’d thought she’d connected with him—that she knew him. But she hadn’t known him at all.

      Well, she’d had more than enough lies in her life. And lying was the one thing she couldn’t forgive or forget: her own, very personal, hot button. If Rico could lie over something as unimportant as his job, what else would he lie about? Had he lied about being single, too? Was that why he’d never suggested spending the night with her—because he’d gone home to his partner?

      The idea made her feel sick. And she really, really wanted to go home. Right now.

      ‘Would you be able to order me a taxi, please?’ she asked the receptionist. ‘To the airport?’

      ‘Of course, signorina. What time would you like it?’

      ‘Now, please.’

      ‘Sì, of course. Would you like to wait in the lounge, round the corner? I’ll come and find you as soon as your taxi arrives.’

      ‘Grazie.’ With one last look at Rico—the man who’d made her feel like a million dollars, yet had lied to her consistently—Ella went into the lounge.

      Please let the taxi be quick.

      It was the first time Rico had ever regretted living at the flagship hotel in the Rossi chain. Normally he didn’t mind dropping everything to sort out a problem with a difficult guest. But why did it have to be now?

      Stupidly, he hadn’t taken a note of Ella’s mobile phone number, so he couldn’t call her to tell her he was going to be a little late. ‘Mr Banks is waiting for me in his room, yes? I need you to stall him for three minutes, Gaby, while I make a phone call,’ he said.

      ‘Will do,’ Gabriella said, looking relieved. ‘Thank you, Signor Rossi.’

      ‘Prego,’ he said politely, trying not to show his irritation.

      He rang Ella’s room; there was no answer. So either she was still having breakfast in the hotel’s restaurant or she was in the shower, he guessed.

      ‘Gaby, can I ask you to get a message to Signora Chandler for me? She’s in the honeymoon suite. Tell her I’ve been delayed, and I’ll be with her as soon as I can. If she’d like coffee, whatever, then it’s on the house, OK?’

      ‘Of course, Signor Rossi,’ the receptionist said.

      Rico took a deep breath and summoned a smile. From what Gabriella had told him, Mr Banks sounded like the kind of guest who’d complain if he couldn’t find something to complain about. But, all the same, he was a guest and deserved courtesy and attention. Hopefully Rico would be able to sort out all the misunderstandings—and then Ella would be waiting for him.

      Ella sat in the back of the taxi, barely paying any attention to her surroundings as the driver took her through the outskirts of Rome and onto the motorway towards the airport.

      Why had he lied to her? That was what she didn’t understand. Why had he pretended to be somebody else? Was he so rich, spoiled and bored that he got his kicks from making a fool out of people?

      What an idiot she’d been, letting herself fall for every word he’d said. Accepting everything at face value. She really ought to have known better. The man she’d spent three days with—the man she’d let into her bed and started to let into her heart—just didn’t exist. Rico the tour guide was a complete fabrication. Rico the CEO was a complete stranger; she knew nothing of his true self.

      As for that coin she’d thrown into the Trevi Fountain—well, she had no intention of ever coming back to Rome.

      Finally, Rico left Mr Banks smiling and satisfied. The man had to be the most difficult guest he’d ever encountered—the room was too small, the towels were the wrong size and hadn’t been laundered, the pillows were too flat, the bed was too hard, the air-conditioning didn’t suit him, and as for the city tax that tourists had to pay on top of an already extortionate hotel bill …

      Rico had listened, empathised and made suggestions. And he’d upgraded the man’s room, even though he suspected that Mr Banks was the kind of customer who booked the cheapest room in every hotel he stayed at and then complained until he was upgraded to the best suite. He’d gently explained that anyone staying in Rome had to pay the city tax, and Mr Banks’ travel agent should have told him when he booked that several other cities in Italy, including Venice and Florence, levied the same tax on visitors. And he’d also very politely pointed out the notice in the СКАЧАТЬ