“I’ll be there at some point,” Sabato said guardedly.
“It is one weekend. You truly cannot make it?”
Sabato stared long and hard at the man he’d been raised alongside.
“I’ll think about it,” he agreed finally.
“And you can tell father, there, that you and I are working together on this.”
Sabato’s laugh was without humour. “You’re a stubborn bastard, Rafaelo.”
“Takes one to know one,” he responded drily. “Now, shall we head downstairs for dinner? I’m starving.”
Sabato flashed hot then cold. Downstairs. Where Emily might be. Where he might see her. His groin tightened instantly at memories of the woman he’d once been with. “No,” he spoke harshly. His dark eyes sought Rafaelo’s. “I’ve got work to do. I’ll just order something in.”
“You work too much,” Rafaelo complained.
Sabato resisted, but only barely, the temptation to point out that his company was a self-made billion dollar empire, whereas Raf had overseen the decimation of the Montepulciano fortune. It was a comparison that didn’t need to be highlighted. He nodded instead. “This project in the Docklands has hit a snag. It is why I am here.”
“Yes, I know. Okay, have it your way. Mind if I join you?”
Sabato couldn’t have said. The distraction would be welcome, and yet it would pain him to be in the suite and not be free to reminisce. His phone seemed to be burning inside of his pocket, begging him to call her. But to what end? He was only going to be in London for one night. Emily would be offended if he cast her as some kind of international booty call. He might want her with a profound ache, but for her sake he had to be strong enough to ignore it.
“Suit yourself,” he said, when he realised Raf was waiting for an answer.
“What do you feel like?” He perused the menu, running his finger down the page to take in the offerings.
Sabato stood and ran a hand over the back of his neck. What did he feel like? Emily, Emily, Emily.
He stared at Rafaelo without seeing him. “You decide. I’m going to grab a shower. Whatever you want is fine.”
He strode through the suite, wilfully ignoring the bedroom he’d shared with Emily.
The shower was warm and reviving. He’d arrived in London early that morning and had back-to-back meetings all day. Returning to his hotel suite to find Rafaelo waiting for him had been the cherry on top of an already frustrating situation.
He took his time under the hot jets of water. He stood in the shower, waiting and waiting for thoughts of Emily to wash away. They didn’t of course, but he consoled himself that he only had one night to get through and then he’d leave London, and Emily behind.
Again.
Emily smothered a yawn with the back of her hand. She’d painted until late the night before. Far later than she should have, given the fact she had a shift at the hotel the next day. But inspiration had struck, and Emily was its mistress. Always wiling to be a slave to ideas, when they flowed easily. And the resulting portrait had been a good start. She was still in the sketching phase, but the style and tone were becoming clearer to her.
She checked the docket and swallowed down the sense of panic. She’d made deliveries to the penthouse before. It was painful, because it brought back his presence in a very real way, but it was also just a part of her job. She tethered herself to that pragmatic conclusion and did a quick scan of the food. She was diligent about ensuring the meals ordered matched the docket.
Everything about the walk to the room flooded her with reminders of that weekend. The smell of the corridor was pleasing: a mix of the cleaning products the hotel used, and the smell of toiletries; it was floral and light. The lighting was golden; it was autumn now, and the hotel permanently felt cosy and warm. She walked on legs that weren’t quite steady towards the luxurious suite. Her finger was tentative on the doorbell. She sucked in a deep breath, and waited.
The door was pulled inwards and Emily felt relief flood through. Relief, yes, and disappointment too.
It wasn’t Sabato.
It never was.
“Ciao,” the handsome man greeted her, his interest obvious. “Do come in.” He stood back to allow her entry into the suite. And, as she always did when she returned to the scene of the crime, so to speak, she stared at the cream carpet. Not the dining table. Not the chairs. Not the sofa. Not anywhere she’d been with Sabato.
She stopped the trolley and flicked the brakes on. “If you’ll just sign here, sir,” she murmured, lifting the electronic pad towards him.
“You don’t set the table?” The man, his voice accented in a way that was painfully familiar, was curious.
Emily groaned inwardly. In her desperation to get out of the suite, she’d forgotten that guests of the penthouses were offered extra services. She smiled at him politely. “Of course, sir, if that’s your preference.”