Secret Prince's Christmas Seduction

The reason that Antonietta was so perfectly suited to working in the suites was her rather private nature. She had enough problems of her own and didn’t care to delve into other people’s. Nor did she have stars in her eyes, and she was not dumbstruck by celebrity, fame or title. Generally polite conversation was all that was required, and Antonietta could certainly do that. Silence was merited on occasion, and she was more than happy to oblige. She was polite to the guests, if a little distant, but she did her work quietly and well and let the guests be.

At the end of the handover, Francesca pulled Antonietta aside and gave her the pager for the August Suite. She offered a little more information.

‘Signor Dupont has declined the services of a butler. He has stated that he wants privacy and is not to be unnecessarily disturbed. Perhaps you can sort out with him the best time to service his suite—he might want to get it over and done with—but I shall leave that to you.’

A guest in the August Suite could have the rooms serviced a hundred times a day if he so demanded.

‘Also, Signor Dupont might need some assistance getting out of bed. If he—’

‘I am not a nurse,’ Antonietta interrupted. She had firm boundaries.

‘I know that,’ Francesca said, and gave her rather surly chambermaid a tight smile. ‘Signor Dupont already has a nurse—although he seems rather testy and insists that he does not need one. Should he require her assistance, she can be paged. I should warn you that he is very bruised, so don’t be shocked.’

‘Okay.’

‘Antonietta, I probably shouldn’t tell you who he is, but—’

‘Then please don’t,’ Antonietta cut in.

For her it really was as simple as that. She did not gossip and she did not listen to gossip either. Oh, the staff here were wonderful, and their gossip was never malicious. Certainly it would not reach the press, which was why there were so many exclusive guests at the hotel.

The same courtesy was extended in the village. The locals were all thrilled at the vibrancy that had returned to the town with the new hotel, and so the Silibri people looked after its guests as their own. In fact, they looked after the guests better than their own—Antonietta had been treated shabbily by many of them.

‘I don’t want to know his real name, Francesca,’ she said now, ‘because then I might slip up and use it. Tell me only what I need to know.’

‘Very well—he has his own security detail and you will need to show them your ID. He’s booked in until Christmas Eve. Although, from what I gather, I believe it is doubtful he will last until then.’

‘He’s dying?’ Antonietta frowned.

‘No!’ Francesca laughed. ‘I meant he will grow bored. Now, he wants coffee to be delivered promptly at seven.’

‘Then I had better get on.’

Francesca carried on chatting as they both made their way to the kitchen. ‘I have just finalised the roster,’ she told her. ‘And I have you down for an early start on Christmas Day.’

Antonietta stopped in her tracks, and was about to open her mouth to protest, but then Francesca turned and she saw the resigned, almost sympathetic look on her manager’s face. Francesca wasn’t just telling her that she was to work on Christmas Day, Antonietta realised. Her mother must have made it clear to her friend that Antonietta would not be invited to partake in the family’s festivities.

‘Working is better than sitting alone in that cottage,’ Francesca said as they resumed walking and headed into the kitchen. ‘I shall be here too, and so will Pino and Chi-Chi...’

All the lonely hearts were working over Christmas then, Antonietta thought sadly.

‘I’m on over Christmas too,’ said Tony, the very portly head chef—which only confirmed Antonietta’s thoughts.

Tony was married to his job, and put all his care and love into his food, and there was no exception this morning. There was a huge silver pot of coffee for their new guest, and cream and sugar, but there was also a basket of pastries and bread, a meat and cheese platter, and a fruit platter too. All the chefs, and especially Tony, could not refrain from adding Sicilian flair to every dish.

‘Tony,’ Antonietta pointed out as she checked the order, ‘he only ordered coffee, but you have prepared a feast.’

‘He is a guest.’ Tony shrugged.

‘And he’s a big man!’ Francesca said, holding out her hands high and wide. ‘Huge! He needs to eat!’

It was the Silibri way—even in the poorest home there would be biscotti and pizzelles served alongside coffee. There was no point arguing, so Antonietta wheeled the trolley towards the elevator.

The monastery had been refurbished to perfection, and although it still looked ancient, it had all mod cons. Antonietta often saw the guests blink in surprise when they stepped behind a stone partition to reach the discreet elevator.

She took the elevator up to the top floor and, alone for a moment, slumped against the wall as she dwelt on the message behind Francesca’s words. It really was time to accept that her family simply didn’t want her. It was time to move on.

Where, though?

Back to France, perhaps? Or to Rome?

But she hadn’t felt she had belonged in either place, and there was still her training to complete...

Catching sight of her reflection, she straightened up and gave herself a mental shake. It wasn’t the guest’s fault that she was feeling blue, and she put on her game face as she stepped out and wheeled the trolley across the cloister, past the Starlight and Temple Suites, and across to the August Suite.

A suited man stood as she neared. She had known guests to bring their own security detail before, but never to this extent. What with the extra guards outside and within, this guest must be important indeed.

The guard was not exactly friendly, but without a word he looked at the photo on her lanyard and then checked Antonietta’s face before stepping aside to let her past.

She knocked gently on the large wooden door. There was no response so, as she’d been trained to do, Antonietta let herself in with a swipe of her key card. Once inside, she turned on a side light and wheeled the trolley through the dimly lit lounge and over to the entrance to the main bedroom. She gave the door a gentle knock.

No response.

Another gentle knock and then, as she carefully opened the door, Antonietta called his name. ‘Signor Dupont?’

Again there was no response, and though the room was in darkness it was clear to her that he was asleep. His breathing was deep and even, and judging from his outline Antonietta could see that he lay on his stomach in the large four-poster bed, with a sheet covering him.

‘I have coffee for you,’ Antonietta said quietly. ‘Would you like me to open the drapes? The sun is just about to rise.’

‘Si.’ He stirred in the bed as he gave his groggy reply.

Antonietta headed to the drapes to open them, though it was not a simple matter of pulling them apart. The windows were vast and the dark velvet curtains heavy; pulling with both hands on the cord was truly like parting the curtains at a theatre, as if a play was about to unfold before her eyes.

The August Suite was her favourite. It occupied an entire wing of the Old Monastery, which allowed for panoramic views. The view from the lounge looked across the ocean, and the dining room looked over the valley, but here in the master bedroom there was a view of the ancient temple ruins.

Antonietta drank it in for a moment. There, as fingers of red light spread across the sky, the ocean danced to the rising sun and she felt she could happily gaze on it for ever. The view, though, was not hers to enjoy just now.

Antonietta turned around, and as she did so she started slightly when she first laid eyes on the guest.

He was nothing like she had imagined. From Francesca’s description she had been expecting a possibly aging, somewhat bedridden and rather large man. But, while he was indeed large, he was certainly not overweight. Instead he was incredibly tall, judging by the amount of space he took up in the large bed. He was also broad and muscular, and thankfully covered by the sheet where it mattered.

And she guessed he might be around thirty.

Francesca had been right, though, to warn her about the bruises, for they really were shocking—purple and black, they covered his arms and chest and one eye, and his top lip was swollen. Signor Dupont, or whatever his real name was, had thick black hair that was rather messy, and also very matted—Antonietta guessed with blood. Of course she made no comment, but for the first time she found herself more than a little curious as to what had happened to a guest.

‘Poor decision,’ Signor Dupont said, and she guessed he was referring to the sun, for he was shielding his eyes as he struggled to sit up in the bed.

‘I can close them...’ Antonietta offered.