Roman Holiday Read online

  How hard could it be?

  She whipped out the papers and studied her speech again. It wasn’t too long, as the “meet and greet” reception being hosted was to introduce the few visiting lecturers to the faculty, so its sponsors, and each of the “newbies” like herself, had just a few minutes to introduce themselves and their chosen topic to the invited audience. She assumed it would be an academic crowd so had slanted her brief talk accordingly. She sat at the little table, fired up her laptop and began making some changes.

  Glancing at her watch a few hours later, she figured she had time for one more church visit before it was time to beautify herself for the evening and – now that Toby wasn’t here to manage her meals – she’d better be an adult and feed herself. She grabbed an apple from the bowl of fruit left by the landlord and headed to the door. Then she yanked out her phone and quickly took a selfie, complete with piece of fruit, and sent it to her son – See? I’m eating! – then closed the door carefully behind her.

  Nick walked briskly from his office out to the open-plan area where the business hub of the hotel was located.

  “Byrney?” He stopped by his assistant’s desk and handed a sheaf of papers to her outstretched hand as she continued speaking into the phone tucked under her chin.

  She briefly made eye contact with him and nodded her understanding of his unspoken request. Nick continued towards the glass doors leading to an elegant hallway on the second floor of his hotel. All the running of the premises was done from this corner of the building – housed together for convenience and time-saving reasons.

  Nick hadn’t wanted the welcoming atmosphere of the reception area on the ground floor to be “contaminated” by the nuts and bolts of the actual wheels of the operation. Although at first he’d thought the top floor would be the best new location for the offices, it was, realistically, just too far from any problems that might occur at reception level – so, half the second floor now became the dedicated workspace. It was as beautifully decorated as the rest of the charming boutique hotel, Nick and his crew believing that a comfortable workforce was a happy one.

  The di Luca family owned a string of such hotels around the world but this one, here in Rome, was the flagship of the fleet, so to speak. It, or a version of it, had been in the family since the early 1900s and every member of the large family had got their training right here, be it in the kitchens, making beds, carrying luggage, sweeping floors, greeting guests or polishing silver.

  Everyone but Nick.

  And yet, here he was, the “unofficial”, if temporary, head of the hotel family and general manager of the “empire”.

  He headed down to reception, using the back stairs, his tall, athletic body moving with ease and speed. He paused for a moment at the side entrance to the foyer and took in the sight. It almost always brought a swell of pride but this evening, not so much. He’d been bad-tempered and short with his staff all day. He’d literally snapped at the on-duty concierge earlier and he still needed to apologise. He knew many managers of his rank wouldn’t dream of admitting failures to those considered beneath him, but Nick didn’t buy into that hierarchical crap. Either someone deserved an apology or they didn’t. Either you’d screwed up, been rude, acted like an ass or you hadn’t – there was no grey area in his mind. Maybe the fact that he came to the hotel business later than most, certainly later than any member of his extended family, gave him a different perspective.

  He was from the New York branch of the di Lucas, a Sullivan, to be precise, and the “black sheep” branch, to be specific. His grandfather, Paolo di Luca, had left Italy at seventeen, escaping a regime he’d wanted nothing to do with to start afresh in the good old U.S. of A.

  And, not surprisingly, had ended up tossing pizzas in Brooklyn at the age of eighteen. Still, in Paolo’s mind, it was an escape, as his tyrannical father was out of the picture and ergo, not slapping him up the side of the head for every tiny misdemeanour. Old Nico had been a right bastard, by all accounts, and Nick had heard stories from his nonno that made him very grateful he hadn’t had to grow up in Italy.

  Paolo had hated carrying bags for the wealthy and elite, and he’d hated feeling like he was never going to amount to anything – well, when old Nico kept telling him that in a million different ways, it was hard not to begin to believe it. But Paolo was made of sterner stuff and his new life in America gave him the confidence to showcase his own talents, something he believed would never have happened had he stayed behind.

  Nick glanced over at the beautiful marble-topped desk and watched his cousin, Marco, the head concierge, charm an elegant elderly couple as he checked them into the hotel. He wondered, did Marco resent him, a blow-in, taking over the running of the hotel from him in spite of the family connections? It certainly didn’t seem so – Marco was an affable, gentle man with his own ambitions, and for the most part he and Nick rubbed along just fine. Still, an apology was warranted and Nick pushed himself away from the doorjamb where he’d been leaning, lost in memory.

  “Marco,” he said in English.

  Nick made a point of speaking English to all the staff to keep them fresh with the language, regardless of their own native tongue.

  Marco turned from his computer to catch his boss’s eye warily.

  “Need something?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Nick stuck out his hand. “I need to apologise for being an asshole earlier. I was in foul humour and took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

  Marco took his hand, a smile spreading on his handsome features.

  “No problemo,” he quipped, apparently happy to see Nick back to his usual congenial self.

  His mood that morning had been atypical – Nick liked to be in control of all things at all times – and being rattled upset the natural flow of how the hotel ran. Everyone took their cue from their boss and usually it felt right, natural, but this morning, it had been out of sync.

  The concierge chuckled and saluted Nick as his replacement for the front desk approached. A buzzer went and Marco answered the internal line. After a few moments, he tucked the phone under his chin and called out to Nick, who was studying a report intently.

  “Boss, Signorina Byrne says not to forget the Accademia reception for this evening. She says . . . ” He listened closely and then continued, “That it’s important for the hotel to be seen at these types of things.” Marco replaced the receiver and studied Nick. “You have got that?”

  “Yes, Marco. Loud and clear. It’s not like she didn’t put it in my calendar.” He whipped out his device and quickly checked his diary. “Sì, it’s here.” He smiled conspiratorially at Marco. “That woman forgets nothing.” He shoved the phone back in his inside pocket. “Ciao.”

  He nodded and headed out of the beautiful gilt-adorned double front doors of the hotel, exchanging a few words with Gianni, the doorman, as he strolled down the marble steps. He had just enough time to go home, shower, change and grab a piece of fruit before he was due across the city. Sighing deeply, still a little on edge, he left work behind.

  Caro looked at the selection of outfits laid out on the bed. What, or rather who, she needed right now was her sort-of-sister-cum-best friend Frankie, who had an amazing eye for style. There was a floral, floaty thing that her mum had insisted she buy before she left Dublin, assuring her daughter it would “take her anywhere”. And, indeed, maybe it would, but not here, Caro decided and cast it aside.

  She was slim but curvy and her average height meant she could wear most things relatively well, even if heels were de rigueur at times. Damn– the shoe option was just another bloody obstacle to face. She groaned and reached for an old reliable: a simple linen-mix sheath dress to the knee in a sapphire blue almost the exact colour of her eyes. It skimmed her curves and wasn’t too tight, so she could sit without it sliding halfway up her thighs. It was sleeveless but she had a silver shrug cardigan and silver kitten heel mules that went perfectly with it, so she was set. She discarded the towel wrapped about her torso and
began dressing.

  A bit of a lingerie junkie, she selected a beautiful dove-grey-lace balconette bra and matching panties then slid into her clothes. No one who knew Caro would ever imagine the gorgeous underclothes she wore. Usually, for work, she donned some version of formal trousers and a buttoned cardigan with a jacket thrown on in winter and left behind in summer – it was easy that way and she didn’t have to think or plan her wardrobe – who had time? But her lingerie was her secret self – a little bit of femininity she guarded closely. Her tastes in underwear were expensive and she had good old Frankie to thank for that, Frankie with her endless budget, but Caro didn’t mind – it made her feel womanly and wanton all at once, and it meant her outward self was one even her son couldn’t be too embarrassed about.

  She highlighted her eyes with a bit of blue kohl and coated her dark lashes in her typical speedy fashion. Grateful for her natural dark arched brows, she ignored them – only the odd tweeze and they were good to go – as she dusted a touch of blusher on her cheeks. Her younger sisters, Ali and Moll, had the same good fortune: strong eyes, lashes and brows – a plus in any woman’s toolbox and meant a lot less hassle at the beauty salon. Ali, of course, darkened hers even more to contrast with the almost white-blonde spiky hair she sported, but Moll left hers alone as her Pre-Raphaelite curls took up a lot of visual space.

  Ready to go, Caro decided on a quick call to her mum to check on Toby and his intended school outing.

  “Darling, you look lovely.” Jo peered into the laptop screen as Caro twirled for her. “Have you got your speech ready? Oh, I’m sure you have it all sorted; you’re always prepared when it comes to work. Patrick!” she called to her husband, who was out of sight. “Come see Caro all dolled up for the reception this evening.”

  Caro’s father, Professor Patrick Fitzgerald, popped his head into the screen view and smiled benignly at his eldest daughter.

  “Bella donna,” he said and he blew her several kisses in a ridiculously exaggerated manner.

  “Oh, Dad! You two are biased so it doesn’t count!” Caro replied, laughing back at her parents.

  She missed them, she admitted to herself, and immediately added internally, thank God. She knew too many women of her age whose parents got on their nerves, or worse, had no relationship with them at all. Her parents, they were the best – and not just because they adored her and her son but because, even after all these years with the stress and drama she’d inflicted on them almost fourteen years ago when she’d fallen pregnant, they loved her unconditionally. No rebukes, no recriminations, no scoldings.

  “Thanks, Parents, but I have to go or I’ll be late. Kiss Toby for me and don’t give him too much pocket money for the school trip; he’ll only spend it.”

  “Of course we’ll kiss him for you. You just missed him. He ran down to the village to grab some bread from the new deli. And of course he’ll spend the money we give him, you daft girl. That’s what spending money is for! Now, go. Have fun and send a picture later if you get the chance.”

  Her mum sounded cheery and in control of the situation. All was good.

  Jo and Patrick waved at their computer screen then reached forwards to switch off the app, still smiling and waving.

  Yup, best parents ever.

  Chapter 2

  The Accademia building was beautiful in the way only an old Roman building could be – simple, clean lines dotted with ornamentation that really shouldn’t work but did. The interior was flooded with early evening light, but even as Caro walked around the airy reception room, wall sconces were lit in a warm glow and a gorgeous mellow hue filled the room.

  To the left, a banquet table was loaded with antipasti and further on, another table was laden with open bottles of wine and numerous soft drinks. Boy, these Romans sure liked to enjoy themselves, she thought as she reached for a small plate and helped herself. Hopeless with unusual food, she had no clue what she was eating, but it tasted delicious. She carefully took a glass of something sparkling and balanced her load while trying to ensure her evening bag strap didn’t fall off her shoulder.

  God, how did people do this stuff regularly?

  She rested her glass on the table and took a bite of another filo-wrapped parcel and it was vile. “Ugh!” she squealed before she realised she had spoken aloud and grabbed a napkin to spit into. Christ! that was gross. Some revoltingly smelly cheese thing – this was where Toby came in handy, to direct her through the food maze.

  She twisted to find a bin to dump her squidgy napkin in and bumped up against a hard body. A hard, male person body, she registered quickly. Taking a step back, she took instant note of a beautifully tailored navy suit, crisp white shirt and dove-grey tie. Silk, probably, she thought absently as she raised her eyes to speak and apologise to the gentleman.

  “Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me,” Caro mumbled to herself as she stared into the face of the man she had already bumped into earlier that morning. “Not again.”

  With a facility that bordered on sublime, the man reached for her scrunched napkin, tossed it neatly into a nearby receptacle, scooped up her glass of fizz and handed it back to her.

  “Not to everyone’s taste.”

  He smiled into her eyes and she stood there. Mesmerised. Holy hell.This man was delectable. He was tall, over six feet, anyway, as he was easily her brother Flynn’s height. His dark hair was brushed back from a strong, broad forehead, like a model in a fashion magazine for Armani. The lightly tanned skin seemed natural as opposed to the “I’m back from my hols” colour she was used to in Ireland. His nose was long and straight, and his eyes were, well, dark, was all she could come up with as she continued to stare at him like a loon. And his mouth . . . oh! sweet divine.

  Caro felt fidgety just looking at those lips – she never looked at men’s lips, or thought about their shape or how they might feel . . . Abruptly, Caro came to her senses and pasted a polite smile on her own face, mortified that this stranger must be well aware of her gauche behaviour.

  “I’m terribly sorry. Again. I just . . . I didn’t particularly like the texture of that . . . that whatever it was, canapé.”

  Brilliant conversationalist, she congratulated herself, inwardly hand-smacking her forehead. She suddenly realised he seemed to find her amusing, as there was a hint of a smile twitching at one corner of his mouth. Nooo. Don’t look at the mouth. Avoid the mouth. She dragged her gaze up to meet his and blinked in shock. Crikey. His eyes were almost as sinful as his lips. Dark and smoky. Chocolate, bitter and sharp was what came to mind. But they held a twinkle of mischief as he looked unerringly at her now.

  “An acquired flavour, I assure you.”

  He spoke quietly, his voice a gorgeous rumble. Mind you, if a man had a deep voice, pretty much anything spoken in Italian sounded dangerous and enticing.

  “And may I express my renewed apologies for this morning’s encounter?”

  She nodded blindly, just listening to the cadence of his words.

  “I was in a rush and I was unforgivably rude,” he continued smoothly.

  “Not at all.” Caro managed to squeak out as she took a quick gulp from her glass and promptly sneezed.

  The damn bubbles! She’d forgotten it was champagne and had taken a large swallow, with all the bubbly bits flying up her nose. Oh, God, this was getting ridiculous – she was a grown-up, for goodness’ sake, not a starry-eyed teen. She needed to get a hold of herself.

  “Apology accepted. And thank you for coming to my rescue with the napkin contents.” She inclined her head towards the waste bin.

  “My pleasure,” His Divineness replied and took a step back.

  Good move, she thought, I’m most likely either going to spill something on you or, heaven help me, jump your bones. Startled at her own thoughts, Caro shook her head slightly and looked at the offending glass. What was in this stuff? She sipped, cautiously this time, and before she could drum up something intelligent to say, she caught the eye of the professore beckoning her to
come to the raised dais at the top of the room. She heard a voice speaking over a microphone announcing that the speeches and introductions were about to take place and sighed in relief.

  Good. This was something she could do without screwing up. This, she knew and knew well.

  She turned to the long drink of hunk standing slightly behind her and smiled chirpily.

  “This is me. I mean, I’m on. Oh, never mind.”

  She blew out a frustrated breath and inwardly kicked herself to the curb. She’d very obviously missed the class, or indeed any lesson on flirting with handsome men, regardless of nationality. She tried another half-smile, handed him her glass – she had no idea why – and, clutching her bag to her side, headed to the front of the room to meet the other lecturers.

  Nick watched her weave her way through the crowd, shaking his head in bemusement. He’d got quite the surprise upon arriving at the reception to spot the woman from the café this morning. He’d felt his nerves tingle, and the sexual awareness, just like earlier when he’d watched her laughing, had crept around him like a cloak.

  The woman whom he’d just encountered seemed nothing like the ladylike creature he’d presumed her to be – this woman was nervous and clumsy and . . . earthy was the word he was searching for, he supposed. She looked beautiful in that deep blue, which made her gorgeous eyes spark, and it hit just at knee length, showing off lovely toned legs that promised heaven. But her manner was direct and almost naïve. Innocent. Non-filtered.

  Nick was used to beautiful women flirting with him, touching him, being all sophisticated and worldly, coming on to him. This woman was the exact opposite and she intrigued the hell out of him. They had spoken in Italian and for some reason Nick felt it important, for now at least, to conceal his identity and his fluency with several languages, most notably English. He sipped from her glass and watched her become the elegant, stylish lady from this morning as she interacted with the learned gentlemen hosting the evening’s entertainment.