Sicilian's Baby Of Shame

Bastiano put a towel around his hips and walked out, more than ready to tell her to get the hell out and that, had he wanted a second delivery, he would have picked up the phone himself.

Yet she smiled so nicely as she took the lid from the plate she carried and held it out.

‘Better?’ she asked, as his eyes went to the plate.

Now, that was breakfast.

And his eyes went back to hers. No, they were not simply dark brown, they were the amber of a fox, and her smile was so bright that Bastiano could not bring himself to chide her. ‘Much,’ he rather reluctantly replied.

‘I thought so too. Would you like another coffee?’

‘That would be good.’

He got back into bed with the towel still round his hips and breakfast was served for the second time.

‘You didn’t have to do that,’ Bastiano commented as, once in bed, she handed him the plate.

He guessed she must know that he was the potential new owner, for all the staff were walking on eggshells around him.

‘I know.’ She smiled ‘But I also know that we have the best Sicilian chef here at the Grande Lucia. I was going to sneak a brioche for the walk home and it made me think of you.’

Perhaps she did not know that he might soon be the new owner? Bastiano could not care less about her sneaking a pastry. His staff all got meals on their shifts anyway, he made sure of that, but many owners were strict about such things.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Sophie.’ She saw him glance at the jacket over her arm. ‘Really, it’s not a problem—I am at the end of my shift.’

‘Then would you like to stay and have some Middle Eastern eggs?’ he offered, teasing her by replaying her words. ‘I have been told that they’re amazing.’

‘No, thank you.’ Sophie let out a small laugh as she shook her head. She wasn’t unused to suggestions from businessmen and had declined her share over the last year. Sophie was no Inga!

‘Enjoy.’

‘I am.’ He had torn open the brioche and as she left, the scent that reached him was the one of home and he spoke, really without thinking. ‘I used to collect these from the bakery.’

‘Ha!’ Sophie said, turning around. ‘Until I came to Rome I used to work at a bakery.’

‘For how long?’

‘Seven years,’ Sophie said. ‘Since I left school.’

And it was very easy—too easy—to speak of home.

She missed it.

Oh, Sophie loved the life she had made here in Rome, but there was an ache for home at times, so for a moment they chatted, really just about the food and the stunning Strait of Sicily. He guessed that she was also from the west. He was about to ask her exactly where but then Sophie yawned.

‘Excuse me,’ Sophie said. ‘I really do have to go, all this talk of...’ And she stopped because he had invited her to eat already and it might seem that she was angling for him to ask her again if she said just how hungry she felt.

Maybe she was angling?

Later she would look back and try to remember exactly how she had felt at that moment.

Happy and relaxed. It felt nice to be in his company.

‘Have breakfast,’ Bastiano said.

There was no motive.

That in itself was beyond rare for Bastiano, for he lived by motive, he did nothing without motive, yet all he saw this morning was that she was tired and probably hungry after a long shift.

And she heard, absolutely, the kindness in his offer and so, with just the briefest hesitation, she nodded.

‘Thank you.’

Sophie could not know that kindness in Bastiano generally did not exist.

CHAPTER TWO (#ufed0e5e5-fc5c-5caf-9f6b-405f0226ff20)

IT WAS AS natural as that.

The conversation between them came readily and it was simply pleasant to be with him. Sophie put her jacket on a chair and poured herself some chilled water and placed it on a tray. To that she added the plate of shakshuka and then looked around, wondering where she should take it to eat. First she glanced over at the chair where she had placed her jacket but it was rather full as his was there too. It was inside out so she could see the deep aubergine lining as well as a crumpled white shirt on the floor beside it. She looked at Bastiano, who was moving more to the centre of the bed, as if to make room for her to sit there, and so, instead of the chair, she made her way over to the bed.

Yes, it was as natural as that to walk over and sit on the edge of the huge bed, not too close, but alongside his thighs. She placed the tray on her lap.

The cloche had kept warm the eggs that were nestled in a rich-looking sauce, and she took her first tentative taste. It was a little spicier than expected and Sophie missed his smile as she reached for her water.

‘Nice?’ Bastiano asked.

She turned and looked at him and her eyes moved briefly to the scar on his cheek—Sophie would have loved to know its source—but then she looked back to his eyes. ‘You know when you have wanted to try something for a very long time and then finally you do...’

Her words were not meant as provocative and they were not taken as such, for he was waiting for her to screw up her nose and to say that it was not as nice as she had thought it would be, but then she smiled. ‘It is better than I expected.’

It was then that her words were provocative, though only to Sophie—for the pleasure of his company had her thoughts taking her mind to places they had never been.

He was stunningly attractive, yes, and she was no fool as to her situation, yet as Sophie looked at him her throat seemed to close in on itself and she could feel the pulse beat in her neck.

She was innocent from the lips down, and those lips had determinedly stayed as closed as they could when she had kissed her fiancé.

She had never shared a meal in a man’s bedroom, or sat on a bed with a man and chatted so easily.

And neither had she ever stared so readily into another’s eyes.

It truly was better than expected.

Was it the hot Baharat mix in the shakshuka that made her cheeks suddenly redden, or was it the first stirrings of desire?

Sophie did her best not to dwell on that thought. She tore her gaze from his and spoke on quickly. ‘Apparently Sultan Alim has put a lot of new things on the menu since he took over the hotel.’