Sicilian's Baby Of Shame

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 even the sweet pastry those here in the north referred to; instead, these were the most delicious plain-baked buns of home. And he had made millefoglie too—also a bun, but with raisins mixed in and sugar on the top. Sophie guessed it was exactly the breakfast this morning’s guest might wish that he had chosen.

Apart from Inga, Sophie was very well liked and popular at the Grande Lucia. She was a very good worker and always went the extra mile for guests. Signor Conti’s mirthless laugh had stayed with her and so, instead of sneaking a brioche for her walk home, she spoke with the chef. He arranged a plate of freshly baked pastries and she put a small silver dome over it and then took her jacket off and, placing it over her arm, she headed back up to Signor Conti’s suite.

She knocked and let herself in and then called out.

‘Room service.’

After the maid had left, Bastiano had got up, taken one look at the eggs and replaced the dome.

His friend Alim, the current owner of the hotel, had always suggested he try them when they met for brunch and last night as he’d squinted at the selections it had seemed a good idea.

Not now.

There was no point him even being here.

Last night Alim had told him that his plans had suddenly changed and that he would not be able to show him through the hotel today as planned.

That wasn’t all that irked Bastiano.

For once—in fact, for the first time in his life—a woman had turned him down.

In recent weeks, Bastiano had decided he would like a wife, and one with a castle in England and money problems had appeared to fit the bill.

It had seemed a decent solution at the time.

Lydia Hayward, with her breeding and porcelain looks would, he had decided, be the perfect trophy wife. It would be mutually beneficial, of course, and for his part he would help with her family’s dire financial situation. He had flown her and her stepfather, Maurice, over to Rome so that he could kill two birds with one stone—view the hotel and put in an offer that would blow Raul out of the park. And maybe return home to Casta having secured a bride.

The more he had thought about it, the more he had decided that it might just be enough to rattle Raul—for Bastiano was more than financially secure, but settled...not so much.

But his plans hadn’t exactly worked out that way.

Lydia had decided she would spend the evening catching up with friends and had left him hanging with the appalling Maurice.

Bastiano hadn’t even attempted small talk with the man; instead, he had come back to his suite, and with his mood too dark to hit the clubs he had hit the bottle instead.

A foolish choice, in retrospect, for it had not been Lydia who had crept into his mind as he’d slept.

It had been Maria.

Fifteen years on and he could not fathom that he had ever cared for another person, for he cared for no one now.

No one.

Bastiano had a reputation for cold-hearted ruthlessness that ran from the boardroom to the bedroom.

Beating Raul Di Savo was the only thing that interested him.

He heard a knock at his door and a voice that was too cheerful for his black mood announce that room service was here.

Again!