“Indeed,” he sat down on one of the chairs, his eyes glued to Emily’s face. “If it gives me more time with una bella donna such as you,” he murmured.
Emily felt her cheeks flush pink. “Shall I set the table for one?” She asked, neatly sidestepping his flirtatious remark.
“Two,” he corrected.
Emily thought then, sympathetically, of his companion. Presumably a wife or girlfriend, completely unaware that she’d ended up with a total creep. “Yes, sir,” she agreed, moving elegantly into the kitchen.
The bench. The stool. The floor.
She blocked out the memories and reached for the elegant cutlery then returned quickly to the table. If she didn’t get out of the room, she knew she’d have a panic attack.
Her fingers were still quivering as she placed the cutlery onto the glass table top.
The man watched her for a moment and then leaned forward. “What is your name?”
“Emily,” she said coldly, conveying as clearly as possible that she had no interest in anything other than delivering his meals and getting out of there.
“I’m Raf,” he said with a grin.
Emily didn’t reply. What was there to say? She lifted the plates onto the table, aware of his eyes on her as she crouched down to locate the napkins in the bottom of her tray.
“There you are, sir,” she said with a professional nod. “Enjoy your meal.”
She was so close to leaving. So close.
She spun on her heel, intent on closing the distance between herself and the door just as quickly as possible. And then, she saw him.
As if she’d conjured him from her dreams and hopes.
Sabato. Moisture clinging to his bare chest, a hotel issue white towel draped low and firm around his hips. She lost her footing, and might have fallen, had Raf not reached for her waist and caught hold of her.
It was only a moment. A brief moment of weakness. And in that time, realisation after realisation flooded Emily’s mind.
She wanted him. She loved him. He’d come to London and not told her. She would never – could never – have him again.
Emily straightened, pulling out of Rafaelo’s helpful grip. “Excuse me,” she spoke to him, and not Sabato. “I must have caught my toe.”
She walked quickly away from the desperate scene, her heart racing, her brow damp with perspiration. He was back. For how long?
And why?
She reached for the door and went to pull it inwards at the same time that S
abato held it closed. He was right behind her, his warm, muscled frame almost touching her. She tilted her head to stare up at him, hoping she didn’t look as overcome by emotion as she felt. His eyes were devouring her, taking in every single detail in her appearance.
“It’s you,” he said finally, his eyes still locked to her face.
Her heart was actually hurting, it had been so totally broken by his absence. She squared her shoulders, forcing herself not to show her pain. “Your dinner will get cold, sir,” she murmured with icy distance in her tone.
“Stop,” he responded firmly, when she moved to exit the suite. “You cannot go.”
“Oh, really?” Her mask of polite disinterest was dropping. “Just watch me.”
“Emily,” he grabbed her hand, and electricity arced between them, fierce and flammable. She pulled away as though he’d burned her.
“Good night, Mr Montepulciano,” she responded firmly, spinning away from him and walking with as much poise as she could muster, down the hallway and back to the lifts.
She was both surprised and hurt that Sabato had let her go. In her heart of hearts, she’d hoped he would follow her. That he would have some means to explain why he hadn’t called her.