Читать книгу: «The Italian's Virgin Bride»
The Italian’s Virgin Bride
Trish Morey
MILLS & BOON
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
To Mum and Dad because, obviously, you guys have so much to answer for
Almost fi fty years together—that takes a certain kind of resilience, if not a special brand of love.
Thanks for everything.
CHAPTER ONE
DOMENIC SILVAGNI was only one third through the report when the intercom buzzed for the second time in five minutes. He growled in irritation and slammed his fountain pen down so fast it skidded right across the leather-bound blotter.
His father again.
No one else could have made it past the snarling Ms Hancock, the human Rottweiler he’d been assigned as his PA during his visit to the Silvers hotel chain’s premier Sydney hotel, and who ran interference for him with ruthless efficiency. Which was exactly what he needed if he was ever to analyse this report. Somewhere amidst this mountain of facts and figures and market research lay the solution to the hotel chain’s flagging fortunes in Australia. And he was determined to discover whatever it was in time to make his flight to Rome tonight.
So much for demanding ‘no calls’. Trust his father to pull rank on him. And he wasn’t in the mood for another lecture. Not if it concerned those photos again—the two photos published in the gossip rag Caught In The Act. He considered his personal life his own business but that magazine had just made it everybody’s.
And Guglielmo Silvagni knew damned well the playboy image the rag bestowed upon his son was a pure fabrication, but he was still less than happy about it.
‘You can do better than supermodels and starlets,’ he’d asserted. ‘Find someone with some intelligence, some spunk—someone to give you a run for your money.’
Emma and Kristin might justifiably have been offended had they heard his father’s assessment of them. After all, even rising Hollywood starlets and supermodels couldn’t make it on looks alone, though they had those in abundance.
Not to mention jealousy. Both had taken it pretty personally when the photos were published.
Without doubt the whole episode had been an inconvenience. But that didn’t mean he’d be better off settling down, as his father kept suggesting. He wasn’t looking for a wife. He wasn’t looking for a family. No matter how many times his father lectured him he was leaving it too late.
Too late! Hell, he was only thirty-two. Hardly over the hill.
The light on the intercom button kept flashing at him accusingly. Liar, it seemed to say. He groaned in frustration—now he was starting to think like his father—and lifted the handset.
‘Tell my father I’ll call him back later. After I’ve got through this report.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Silvagni, it’s…actually not your father…’
He cocked an ear. Something was wrong. She’d lost her usual ‘take-no-prisoners’ tone. And for the first time since he’d arrived, he’d even say the snapping Ms Hancock sounded flustered.
‘There’s this woman…’ she continued.
He gritted his teeth. A pity his Rottweiler had lost hers.
He could understand Guglielmo Silvagni getting past this line of last defence. He was Silvers Hotels. Together with his own father, Domenic’s late grandfather, he had developed it from a three-room operation in Naples into a worldwide five-star success. And even though his father had retired to the rural countryside of Tuscany after a lengthy battle with cancer, and it was Domenic who now headed up the international operation, his father still wielded power. But a woman?
‘I told you, absolutely no calls.’
‘She’s not on the phone,’ she squeezed out on a breath, before he had a chance to terminate the conversation. ‘She’s here. She said it’s urgent, that you’d want to see her.’
Domenic leaned back in his leather executive chair, drumming his fingers on the edge of the broad desk. ‘Who is it?’ he asked, while his brain did a quick scan of the known whereabouts of his latest companions. Last thing he heard Emma was on location in Texas shooting her latest film, while Kristin was doing a photo shoot for Vogue in Morocco. And neither of them was speaking to him after that damned photo fiasco, so neither even knew he’d made this last-minute trip to Australia.
‘Her name is Opal Clemenger. From Clemengers. It’s a family-owned chain of three prestige boutique hotels. There’s one just down at the Rocks—’
‘I know all about Clemengers,’ he snapped. ‘What does she want?’
‘She said she has a deal for you. An opportunity too good to refuse. Should I send her in?’
Opal held her breath as she stood next to the PA’s desk, white-knuckled fingers clutching the file of material she’d hastily assembled in preparation, hoping above hope that he would agree to this last-minute meeting.
Surely his interest was piqued? Surely he would be asking himself why the owner of the only six-star boutique hotel in Sydney would be dropping by at late notice? Surely he wouldn’t think it was a social call?
And he had to agree to see her. The future of Clemengers and its staff depended on it.
‘Tell her to make an appointment,’ the voice over the intercom snapped back. ‘I’ll be back in two weeks. Oh, and I’ll work through lunch. Can you send in some coffee and something to eat?’
The receptionist confirmed the order and then looked up at Opal apologetically as her master’s voice disappeared with a final crackle of static. ‘I’m sorry, dear. It’s so unusual for me to interrupt him; I really thought he’d be curious to see you. I’m afraid you’ll have to come back. Can you do that?’
Opal shook her head, teeth raking her bottom lip. Two weeks was far too late. She had two days to stitch up this deal. Just two days to find someone to invest in Clemengers, someone who would understand and continue the business as a going concern. Someone totally unlike McQuade, a corporate vulture just out to pick up bargain real estate in prime locations so that he could knock the buildings down and put up yet more overpriced blocks of flats.
In just over a day tenders would close, and unless she found a white knight to come to the rescue of Clemengers, McQuade was front-runner to win the tender, her family would lose everything they’d worked for and at least two hundred loyal staff would lose their jobs.
And there was no way she’d let the hotel go to McQuade.
‘I have to see him today,’ she said. ‘I have no choice.’ She turned away, moving automatically over the plush rose-coloured carpet and searching for solutions but finding none amongst the gentle pastel artwork adorning the walls, only half aware of Ms Hancock in the background speaking to Room Service.
Maybe she’d missed something. She flipped open the folio she still held, pausing over the collection of magazine and newspaper clippings and internet articles she’d put together as soon as she’d heard of Domenic’s visit to his southern-hemisphere interests. Maybe hidden amongst all these papers was the key she needed?
The pages slid apart at a glossy magazine page. There, under the heading ‘Five-Star Playboy’, were two photographs of Domenic, each photo featuring him with a different woman. Very blonde, very young women. If they were the kind of women Domenic Silvagni was interested in, then it was little wonder he’d fail to appreciate the buttoned-up talent sitting outside his office.
Her focus moved to the man each of them looked up at adoringly. Five-star playboy, indeed. The title fitted him just as perfectly as the tailored dinner suit of one photo, the silky black shirt of the other. He wore the doe-eyed women clinging to his arm like accessories.
Little wonder he could get away with it. Domenic Silvagni was one good-looking man. He stared out at her from the pictures, dark, sultry eyes outlined with the sort of thick lashes any woman in her right mind would kill for. His fringe, slightly longer than the rest of his short layered hair, was flicked to one side. Strong lips tweaked as if hinting at a secret, framed with a lean square jaw that spoke of power and influence.
Even without his money Domenic Silvagni would be a catch. With his money, well, there was no doubt a queue of willing hopefuls.
And good luck to them, she thought bitterly. You deserved whatever you got marrying a playboy. Her mother’s experience had taught her that much.
But whatever personal failings he had, she needed him. Or at least, she needed his money. And she needed it now.
Suddenly she wheeled around. ‘I’ll wait, if you don’t mind. He has to come out eventually.’
Ms Hancock’s eyes narrowed as her wrinkled lips formed a tight pucker. She looked from side to side, as if checking if anyone was in earshot. But there was no one to be seen along the wide corridor of carpet that led from the bank of brass-framed lifts to the outer office. There were no guest rooms on this fortieth floor, no visitors coming and going, no laundry hampers rolling along to interrupt proceedings.
Still, she leaned forward in her chair, and whispered conspiratorially, ‘I need to step out for five minutes, and Room Service will be bringing lunch up at any time. You wouldn’t go do anything silly, now, would you?’
Opal felt a genuine smile return to her lips. The first real smile she’d had since learning of the dire circumstances facing Clemengers three months ago. And that smile was directed right at Deirdre Hancock, former secretary to her father some twenty years ago.
She’d known it was a good omen as soon as she’d walked into the ante-office and recognised Deirdre sitting there. And Deirdre had jumped up immediately and thrown her arms around Opal for a mighty hug as if she hadn’t changed a bit, even though she’d long ago traded her six-year-old braids for a sleek shoulder-length style.
Whatever Deirdre was now doing at Silvers, Opal had no idea, but working for Domenic Silvagni was obviously no picnic. The man was downright rude from the exchange she’d heard, while Deirdre was a treasure. Sure, she might look like a dragon, in her severe navy suit and sensible court shoes, but from what she remembered her father saying, Deirdre had never been anything less than organised, efficient and polite. And she was doing her best to get her in to see him. Domenic didn’t deserve her.
She winked back. ‘Not a chance,’ she said.
Five minutes later, Deirdre bundled a bunch of papers together and Opal sensed the imminent arrival of the lunch trolley. Adrenaline kicked into her veins at the same time as the sudden realisation of what the PA was actually risking. ‘Look, Deirdre, I don’t want you to lose your job over this.’
Ms Hancock sniffed. ‘Who knows, dear?’ She leaned her tiny frame closer and squeezed her arm. ‘He might even thank me for it. Besides which, I’m retiring next week. What’s he going to do—sack me? Now, I’ve switched the phone through to the copy room, where I’ll be, so you won’t be interrupted.’ Opal barely had time to murmur her thanks before she was gone.
Less than a minute later Room Service rolled the silver-domed trolley alongside Ms Hancock’s desk. The fresh-faced young man looked around, his gaze finally settling on Opal. ‘Ms Hancock’s order,’ he half said, half asked.
‘She’ll be right back.’
He nodded and, apparently satisfied, headed back to the service lift, disappearing in a hum of lift motors and cushioned doors.
She took one more rapid-fire breath and pushed herself off her chair. This was it!
CHAPTER TWO
‘WHO are you?’
Opal made it no more than three paces into the expansive office before the man sitting behind the broad mahogany desk glanced up.
‘And where’s Ms Hancock?’
For a second Opal’s feet wouldn’t move. But she had to get more than a metre inside the door. She couldn’t make her case from here. Barely looking up, in case his face was darker than his words, she plastered on a bright smile totally at odds with her churning insides and pressed on, wheeling the trolley closer to the desk. ‘I’ve brought your lunch.’
Studiously avoiding his gaze, she was aware of his body swinging up in his seat and his elbows colliding with the table. ‘I can see that,’ he growled. ‘But how did you get in here?’
Opal busied herself with the trolley. She lifted the silver lid from one salver—pasta with artichokes and bacon. The other revealed veal escalopes with asparagus in a brandy cream sauce. ‘I think the pasta first,’ she said, transferring the first dish to a vacant spot on his desk.
He ignored her and strode to the door, flinging it open. ‘Ms Hancock!’ he shouted. ‘Ms Hancock!’
‘I think you’ll find she’s in the copy room. I didn’t want your lunch to get cold in the meantime.’
He turned then. Without looking up, Opal felt it like a blast from a furnace. ‘Who the hell are you?’
Fortified with a deep gulp of air, she finally lifted her eyes to face him and straight away wished she hadn’t. It was Domenic all right. Those dark eyes, the strong jaw. She should have been ready. And yet—the picture torn from a magazine was just a mere facsimile of the man who stood before her. Nothing in those photos revealed the power, the sheer presence of the man, the masculine physicality he projected.
The heat!
Under her silk suit her skin prickled and firmed. She swallowed involuntarily, tasted fear and kicked up her chin in defiance. She had a job to do. And he was just a man, after all. A playboy to boot—the very worst kind of man.
She battled to remind herself of that as she searched for the words that should have fallen off her tongue much more easily.
‘Opal Clemenger.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘Thank you for finding the time to see me. I appreciate you’re very busy.’
He snorted and pulled the door open wide.
‘I’m not finding the time to see you. I said you could come back in two weeks. Better still, not at all.’ He gestured to the open door with his free hand. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’
‘But I haven’t had a chance to tell you my proposal yet.’
‘Does it occur to you, Ms Clemenger, that may be because I’m not interested?’
She made no move towards the door and she could feel the anger rising in the man facing her. ‘Your pasta is getting cold.’
‘Then the sooner you remove yourself, the sooner I can eat.’
‘We can talk while you have lunch.’
‘I was going to work while I had lunch.’
‘That’s not healthy.’
‘Arguing with women who don’t know when they’ve outstayed their welcome is not healthy. Leave. Now.’
‘Not until you hear what I have to offer.’
‘Or do I have to make you?’ His head tilted, and his lips curled, as if he was speculating on whether he’d have to, and her fear cranked up a notch. If he so much as touched her…
‘I have an opportunity for you,’ the words spilt out, before she could think too far along that disturbing path, ‘a chance to give the Silvers hotel chain the edge it’s looking for—the edge it needs.’
‘I see I’m going to have to make you.’ He moved away from the door, each step bringing him closer. Instinctively she felt herself draw back. She hadn’t been prepared for his height, nor for his sheer animal power. Right at that moment she felt more like an animal of prey than the owner and CEO of Australia’s most prestigious boutique hotel chain, with Domenic the hunter, drawing ever closer, ever more threatening.
She knew she was speaking fast. But she had to get through to him. Had to make an impression. Before the opportunity was lost to her forever.
‘Something to lift Silvers beyond this five-star mediocrity…’
He stopped, not two paces from her, and scoffed. ‘Five-star what?’
She seemed to grow a good inch taller, though his six-foot-two frame still cleared hers by six inches or so, and fire flickered in the depths of her blue-green eyes. The corners of her mouth tweaked up in such a way that told him she thought she’d just scored some kind of point.
She had a nerve, this woman. Somehow managing to get past his assistant, forcing her way into his office and accusing his business of mediocrity. Nerve, or stupidity. Either way, she was leaving.
‘Mediocrity, Mr Silvagni. Five-star used to mean something special. Now it just means more of the same. People don’t want that. People want an experience. People want to feel special.’
‘Thank you, Ms Clemenger, for your astute observations. But if I need to have my business analysed, I’m sure I can find more qualified people than you to do it.’
‘Is that so? Then if it’s so easy, why are you in Sydney at all? You’d have the resources for an army of analysts to devise the kind of strategies Silvers needs. Surely you’ve got better things to do with your time?’
He bristled, recognising the attempt he’d made to undermine her position had backfired. She’d made it backfire. Ms Clemenger was really starting to get his back up, yet for all that he was curious. Silvers did have a problem. Would it hurt to hear her out? He crossed his arms and rested one hip on the side of the desk.
‘You’ve got five minutes,’ he said. ‘Start talking.’
For a few seconds she seemed at a loss for words and for that he was grateful. For once he didn’t have to concentrate on her words, and he had a chance to focus on the forthright Ms Clemenger herself.
She wasn’t half the challenge to look at as she was to listen to. Brown hair. No, not quite brown. More like the colour of warm syrup. Full, lush mouth. Clear, almost translucent skin, with eyes that knew both intelligence and emotion. He’d noticed the way they’d widened when she’d finally raised her eyes to meet his, the flare of recognition and something else—shock or fear? But if she’d been scared, still she hadn’t backed off. He liked that.
His appraisal moved down.
Her cobalt-blue suit fitted her well enough, yet hinted at curves not quite revealed, and maybe, just maybe, if she sat down in the chair behind her that skirt might just ride up enough for him to tell if the rest of her long legs were as shapely as those calves suggested.
She remained standing.
‘Mr Silvagni.’
He dragged his attention back from speculation about her legs to her mouth—and those lips.
‘Domenic, please.’
She looked at him and for a moment he thought she was going to fight about even that. Then she nodded slightly.
‘Domenic,’ she said softly, as if testing. He liked the way she said his name. Her voice was warm and mellow and somehow her slight yet unmistakable Australian accent helped to smooth the rhythm of the syllables. She had the kind of voice you wouldn’t mind waking up to—now the desperation factor had gone from it.
‘Like other major hotel chains in Australia and, indeed, even worldwide, the Silvers chain is suffering from a downturn in occupancy rates. There just isn’t the volume of travellers to fill the hotels. The pie has shrunk and the pieces are smaller. Marketing might increase one chain’s share over another, but it’s a short-term gain and can be easily lost in the next round of media advertising.’
He shifted, unfolded his arms and dropped his hands to his thighs. Nothing she said was new. He’d been reading the same bleak news in the report that was still sitting atop his desk.
‘And assuming that your assessment is right, I take it you have a solution to this problem?’ If she thought he sounded doubtful, she was right.
She clutched her hands together and he noticed her long fingers and clear buffed nails. No rings.
‘I have an opportunity for Silvers Hotels, if you’re astute enough to appreciate it.’
‘I see,’ he said, ignoring the none-too-subtle rebuke. ‘And that “opportunity” is?’
She took a deep breath. There was no way he couldn’t notice, with her chest at his eye level. She had shape, under that suit. More than a hint now. There were breasts and hips and a cinched-in waist. He shifted his gaze upwards and was immediately rewarded by a distinct flush to her cheeks. How about that? The lady was shy.
He cocked an eyebrow, questioning.
‘Clemengers owns three six-plus-star boutique hotels, located on prime sites in each of Sydney, Melbourne and Brisbane, and was founded by my late father over fifty years ago. Many of our staff have been with us for over twenty years, some more like forty. We’re a family company that never outgrew its roots, its original mission statement—to be the best, to give the best, to the best.
‘This downturn,’ she continued, ‘has affected us of course, but not to the same extent as it has Silvers. You have to ask yourself why.’
Domenic didn’t want to ask, not her, but he wanted to know. He hadn’t read anything about this in that report and one of the questions he was going to ask his finance manager once he got hold of him was why he had to learn this from the opposition, when he’d expected a comprehensive report.
‘You don’t want to know why?’ she asked.
‘I’m still listening,’ he conceded with a nod. ‘You tell me what you think.’
‘I know,’ she emphasised, ‘Clemengers offers more than just a place to stay. Clemengers offers an experience.’
‘You’re trying to say that Silvers doesn’t offer an experience? We’re one of the biggest hotel chains in the world. We would never have got there if we didn’t offer the best.’
‘But you don’t offer a point of difference. You offer a fine product, a quality five-star product, but it’s not the same thing. Just look at your clientele, for example—’
‘What’s wrong with it?’ he interjected. ‘Mick Jagger stayed in Silvers hotels during his last tour.’
‘Exactly,’ she continued. ‘You have rock stars, businessmen, and tourists who like comfort. Clemengers, on the other hand, has prime ministers, sheikhs and those who appreciate luxury.’
He pushed off from the desk, strode three paces across the room and turned around. ‘So what are you offering, then?’
‘Simply the chance to share in the most prestigious hotel market in Australia. The chance to benefit and learn from our methods, so that you might strengthen the rest of your business. I’m offering a share of Clemengers.’
It was a crazy proposal and certainly there was nothing at all like it mooted in the report he’d been wading through this morning. And yet maybe it was just the sort of strategy Silvers should be looking at. Maybe that was what was lacking in that report. It was so much ‘same old, same old’. Maybe it was about time someone thought outside the box.
‘So what’s in it for Clemengers? I can’t believe you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart, to strengthen your own competition.’
She crossed to the window, gazing out across the vista of harbour bridge and opera house, ferry traffic and sails on a harbour that sparkled and shimmered in the early-afternoon sun, though he suspected she saw none of it.
‘You could say,’ she said, still facing the window, ‘that Clemengers has a small cash-flow problem. My father took some bad advice that got him into trouble with the taxation department. I had no idea until after he died that we even had a problem. Six months ago I discovered how big that problem was. The banks were prepared to help—for a while.’ She shook her head. ‘We were making headway, until the latest tax office penalty notices came in. Now the banks won’t extend.’
‘How much is involved?’
She looked over and rattled off a figure that had him raising his eyebrows. ‘That’s exactly why the lawyers advised that Clemengers be sold. If the banks weren’t interested—where else could we go? And yet the business is profitable—I can show you the figures to back that up. It’s just that the outstanding back tax and penalties have to be paid, and soon.’
She sighed and gave a wan smile. Right now she looked tired. Tired and so vulnerable, not at all the intrepid, risk-taking female who’d pushed her way into his office demanding he listen to her proposal. Her head tilted to one side as she looked up at him.
‘Clemengers has quietly been on the market for two months—why hasn’t Silvers expressed any interest? For a business looking for solutions to its own problems, I would have thought someone might have made an expression of interest, or at least made some enquiries.’
Domenic didn’t know. His Australian finance director had never passed on the information that the boutique hotel business was for sale. And while he may have had good reason to have discounted any opportunities the Clemenger deal might offer, why was there not even a mention of it in the report?
There was one way to find out. ‘I think I’ve heard just about enough.’ He moved to the desk, picked up the phone and dialled the finance director’s number. She watched him from where she still stood, near the window, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, as if she’d been on the verge of saying something, copper flecks in her hair suddenly brought to life. Did she realise how beautiful she looked right now? Was that why she’d chosen that particular spot to stand, with the sunlight washing over her in a golden sheen?
Probably not, he decided while the phone rang at the other end, she seemed to lack the guile of the women he usually associated with.
Evan Hooper answered on the third ring and Domenic dragged his eyes from Opal and focused on the wall, where those peculiar eyes—not quite blue, not quite green—couldn’t distract him. ‘Evan, what can you tell me about the Clemengers sale?’
Opal drew in a deep breath. For a moment, just a moment, she’d thought he was going to call Security and have her thrown out. Instead, she was still in with a chance. And he just had to see the benefits—there was far too much at stake for him not to.
‘And the finances?’ Domenic’s terse questions to the finance director were meeting with very long answers.
‘Then why?’ His voice kicked up a few decibels before, on a muttered curse, he flung the phone down. For a second he stayed where he was, leaning his weight with his hands on the desk, his chest heaving, until he looked up at her and pushed himself upright. He swiped up his jacket.
‘Come on, then, Ms Clemenger. Or may I call you Opal?’
‘Of course, but—where are we going?’
‘Where do you think? You’re going to show me that six-plus-star hotel you’re so proud of.’
She motioned to the desk, the plates of food still untouched. ‘Your lunch…’ she said.
‘Leave it,’ he said, putting a hand under her arm and guiding her towards the door. His face turned to hers and she caught his scent—woody tones over a mantle of male. It suited him. His teeth flashed as his mouth paused to smile. ‘I want to see what you’ve got to offer.’
His touch was warm through her jacket, yet that still didn’t stop the shiver that coursed through her. He meant the hotel, of course. Why would she imagine for a minute that she’d seen something else in the dark, heady gaze he’d turned her way? Sure he might be a playboy, but he was hardly likely to come the playboy with her—she wasn’t the type, which was exactly the way she wanted it.
All she wanted from Domenic Silvagni was an investment, funds to ensure the future of Clemengers and its staff. If it took a playboy to save it, then so be it. Right now she couldn’t afford to be too choosy.
Deirdre Hancock was back at her desk when they left the office. If she was surprised or pleased to see them together, she was the consummate professional again and didn’t show it.
‘I’ll be out for the next couple of hours,’ he said as he surged by. ‘Would you arrange a car to pick us up downstairs?’
‘Certainly, Mr Silvagni. By the way, your father rang again. I told him you were in conference.’
He stopped dead in his tracks, allowing Opal the opportunity to slip from his arm and retrieve her folio from the chair where she’d left it earlier.
‘Did he leave a message?’
‘He wonders if you’re free Thursday evening in Rome. He and your mother have met a charming young woman they’d like to introduce you to.’
A noise like a deep snarl emanated from his throat.
‘Do you have a message for him?’ Deirdre asked.
‘No. I’ll deal with it later.’ Then he turned to Opal and held out his hand towards the lift and she fell into step alongside him. She glanced back over her shoulder and caught an uncharacteristic thumbs-up Deirdre sent her way. Thank you, she mouthed back.
He followed her into the lift, his size dwarfing hers in the reflection from the highly polished mirrors lining the interior. She turned to face the door, expecting Domenic to do the same, but he continued to face the back of the lift—and her—as the car hummed downwards. Her eyes sought anywhere to look but at him, and they sought refuge by studying the recession of numbers, which was altogether too slow for her liking.
But even avoiding his face, there was no escaping the raw heat of his proximity, the frank assessment of his gaze. Her body could feel it and responded, her skin tingling, her breasts firming, even as her eyes attempted to deny it. Even his scent, masculine and woody, seemed to taunt her. Try to ignore me, it mocked.
