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And so to breakfast.
Lydia stepped out of her suite and took the elevator down to the dining room. As she walked through the lavish foyer she caught sight of herself in a mirror. Those deportment classes had been good for something at least—she was the picture of calm and had her head held high.
Yet she wanted to run away.
* * *
‘No, grazie.’
Raul Di Savo declined the waiter’s offer of a second espresso and continued to read through reports on the Hotel Grande Lucia, where he now sat having just taken breakfast.
At Raul’s request his lawyer had attained some comprehensive information, but it had only come through this morning. In a couple of hours Raul was to meet with Sultan Alim, so there was a lot to go through.
The Grande Lucia was indeed a sumptuous hotel, and Raul took a moment to look up from his computer screen and take in the sumptuous dining room that was currently set up for breakfast.
There was the pleasant clink of fine china and a quiet murmur of conversation and, though formal, the room had a relaxed air that had made Raul’s stay so far pleasurable. There was a certain old-world feel to the place that spoke of Rome’s rich history and beauty.
And Raul wanted the hotel to be his.
Raul had been toying with the idea of adding it to his portfolio, and had just spent the night in the Presidential Suite as a guest of Sultan Alim.
Raul hadn’t expected to be so impressed.
He had been, though.
Every detail was perfection personified—the décor was stunning, the staff were attentive yet discreet, and it appeared to be a rich haven for both the business traveller and the well-heeled tourist.
Raul was now seriously considering taking over this landmark hotel.
Which meant that so too was Bastiano.
Fifteen years on and their rivalry continued unabated.
Mutual hatred was a silent, yet daily motivator—a black cord that connected them.
And Bastiano would be arriving later today.
Raul knew that Bastiano was also a personal friend of Sultan Alim. Raul had considered if that might have any bearing on their negotiations but had soon discounted it. Sultan Alim was a brilliant businessman, and his friendship with Bastiano would have no sway over his dealings, Raul was certain of that.
Raul rather hoped his presence at the hotel might cause Bastiano some discomfort, for though they moved in similar circles in truth their paths rarely crossed. Raul, even on his father’s death, had never returned to Casta.
There had been no respects to pay.
Yet Casta had remained Bastiano’s base.
He had converted the old convent into a luxury retreat for the seriously wealthy.
It was actually, Raul knew, an extremely upmarket rehab facility.
His mother would be turning in her grave.
Raul’s black thoughts were interrupted when the portly middle-aged gentleman sitting to his right made his disgruntled feelings known.
‘Who do you have to sleep with around here to get some service?’ he muttered in well-schooled English.
It would seem that the tourists were getting impatient!
Raul smiled inwardly as the waiter continued to ignore the pompous Englishman. The waiter had had enough. This man had been complaining since the moment he had been shown to his table, and there was absolutely nothing to complain about.
