AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Antonietta headed to the drapes to open them, though it was not a simple matter of pulling them apart. The windows were vast and the dark velvet curtains heavy; pulling with both hands on the cord was truly like parting the curtains at a theatre, as if a play was about to unfold before her eyes.
The August Suite was her favourite. It occupied an entire wing of the Old Monastery, which allowed for panoramic views. The view from the lounge looked across the ocean, and the dining room looked over the valley, but here in the master bedroom there was a view of the ancient temple ruins.
Antonietta drank it in for a moment. There, as fingers of red light spread across the sky, the ocean danced to the rising sun and she felt she could happily gaze on it for ever. The view, though, was not hers to enjoy just now.
Antonietta turned around, and as she did so she started slightly when she first laid eyes on the guest.
He wasnothinglike she had imagined. From Francesca’s description she had been expecting a possibly aging, somewhat bedridden and rather large man. But, while he was indeed large, he was certainly not overweight. Instead he was incredibly tall, judging by the amount of space he took up in the large bed. He was also broad and muscular, and thankfully covered by the sheet where it mattered.
And she guessed he might be around thirty.
Francesca had been right, though, to warn her about the bruises, for they really were shocking—purple and black, they covered his arms and chest and one eye, and his top lip was swollen. Signor Dupont, or whatever his real name was, had thick black hair that was rather messy, and also very matted—Antonietta guessed with blood. Of course she made no comment, but for the first time she found herself more than a little curious as to what had happened to a guest.
‘Poor decision,’ Signor Dupont said, and she guessed he was referring to the sun, for he was shielding his eyes as he struggled to sit up in the bed.
‘I can close them...’ Antonietta offered.
‘No, leave them.’
He would get used to the bright light soon, Rafe told himself, even as his pulse roared in his ears. But brighter than the sun were the shards of memory painfully surfacing in his brain—the absolute knowledge that this fall had been serious.
Rafe did not fear death for himself, but for a seemingly endless moment he had glimpsed the grief and chaos he would leave behind and had fought to right himself. He could not shake the memory of the looks of horror on his bodyguards’ faces, the sense of panic all around, which seemed at odds with the soft voice speaking to him now.
‘Would you like me to pour your coffee, Signor Dupont?’
For a moment he wondered who she was referring to. And then he remembered.
Ah, yes, security was extra-tight, for it would be disastrous if news of this near-miss leaked out.
So Rafe nodded and watched as the maid poured his drink, but as she removed one of the linen covers on the tray the sweet scent of bread and pastry reached him, and with it a wave of nausea.
‘I only asked for coffee.’
‘Ah, but you are in Silibri,’ she responded. ‘Here there is no such thing as “just coffee.”’
‘Please tell the chef that he is not to misinterpret my orders,’ Rafe snapped.
‘I shall pass that on.’
‘Leave and take the trolley with you.’ He dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
‘Of course.’
Antonietta was only too happy to go. ‘Testy’ didn’t come close to describing him. However, there was one thing that needed to be sorted out before she left. ‘When would you like me to return and service the suite, Signor Du—?’
‘Please!’ His interruption was irritated rather than polite, and his dark eyes held hers in reprimand. ‘Don’t call me that again. Just use my first name.’
‘Very well.’ Antonietta felt a nervous flutter in her stomach, and it had nothing to do with his surly tone, and more to do with the deep navy of his eyes, which reminded her of the sky that morning. ‘So, Louis, when would you—?’
‘Rafe!’ he snapped, and then softened his tone. It was not her fault there were so many restrictions on publicising his identity. ‘You are to call me Rafe. And, no, I do not want my room serviced. If you could make up the bed while I have my coffee, that will suffice.’
He moved to climb out of bed, but then perhaps he got dizzy, because instead of heading to the bedside chair he remained sitting on the edge with his head in his hands, his skin turning from pale to grey.
He should be in hospital, Antonietta thought. ‘Would you like me to—?’
‘I can manage,’ he snapped.
They’d both spoken at the same time, and Antonietta had not finished her sentence. Now she did. ‘Would you like me to fetch the nurse to help you get out of bed?’
