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  Thank goodness she was on the pill and didn’t have to worry about condoms breaking. She didn’t want another surprise pregnancy. If she was ever to have another child and – she admitted to herself, sometimes late at night – she really, really would, it wasn’t going to be a bolt from the blue, that was for damn sure.

  Waves of guilt rushed over her. Whenever Caro thought about Toby and his conception, she was flooded with conflicting emotions. It hadn’t been easy. Of course it hadn’t been easy.How could it have been? Telling your parents that their eighteen-year-old smart, bright, college-going daughter was going to be a mother and then – the kicker for the rest of her family, especially her brothers and her dad – refusing to tell them who the father was?

  She promised them, truthfully, it hadn’t been through violence or a random hook-up but that she’d been in a relationship with the baby’s father. And that had been all true. She just never told them that the dad had wanted nothing to do with her when she told him the news. That had been so humiliating, so hurtful, so lonely. But Toby, from the second she felt him kick inside her rounding belly, had never, ever, been unwanted.

  Not by her.

  And as it turned out, not by her family. They all loved him and included him in everything they could – sports, culture, music and the love of his life, cooking. Ali often let Toby into her kitchen on a slow day during his holidays, or the odd Saturday afternoon before the rush. And he was a help – his knife skills improving every day. She’d ordered a set of really special chef knives as a Christmas gift and knew he’d be thrilled and, more importantly, that he’d treat them with respect.

  So, what else was bothering her re her upcoming affair with Nick what’s-his-name hunk of manhood? The sex part. No getting away from it – for a woman her age, in this day and age, she was woefully inexperienced.

  Woefully.

  And that was a massive embarrassment. Should she warn him how pathetic she was? How ignorant of what was expected? The sex the other night had been magical, but she’d let go because she’d never see him again! Could she keep that level of freedom and inhibition up? And not simply die if he expected her to be super athletic or adventurous? Bloody fucking Fifty Shades – the ante had been seriously upped, and now every man probably expected handcuffs and whips as a side dish, let alone all the other erotic things she’d read about.

  Oh, God. Caro put her empty water bottle into the recycling bin, locked her windows and headed into her bedroom. She stripped off, hung up her clothes because she was really trying to be tidy and organised, and turned out the light. She slid under the covers and turned on her side to pull open her nightstand drawer. The purple vibrator stared back at her. She grabbed hold of it and closed her eyes. Practice makes perfect, right?

  Chapter 6

  Naomi placed a vase of fresh flowers on her desk and inhaled the light, crisp scent. Perfect. She loved popping to the flower markets on her way to work and she always managed to find a small bunch for her workspace as well as some beauties for the front desk at reception. It wasn’t in her job description, but she loved that start to the day and was happy to do it. No point in two Paradiso employees buying flowers for the hotel, when she could do it literally on her way.

  She pulled out her chair, fired up her computer and sorted through the post as she sat down carefully. Her back was niggling and she was grateful she’d brought her pain meds with her. Some days were worse than others and often she had weeks without pain. It’s all good, she reminded herself, it’s all good, as she sipped a sweetened, milky coffee freshly made from that cool machine Nick had recently installed in their open-space area. He figured constantly calling down to the kitchen wasted everyone’s time and sometimes the wait for the caffeine delivery felt interminable. Or so he said.

  The lift pinged and Vito sauntered into the foyer. For such a big man he never seemed in a hurry – everything was done at a deceptively leisurely pace. She knew it was deceptive, as Naomi had seen him move at high speed last summer during a frightening moment that had involved Nick’s young cousin, Mia. Only thirteen, she’d been crossing the street towards the hotel, when a taxi had veered out of control. Naomi and a group of other employees had been standing at the kerbside, paralysed with fear as the car veered at high speed directly, it seemed at the time, at the young girl.

  Without appearing to move from his position, Vito was suddenly swooping her from harm’s way and dropping to the ground with Mia clutched to his chest, his back to the road, just inches from where the driver crashed the taxi into a lamp post. She’d been unhurt though naturally quite shocked.

  Naomi had been stunned at Vito’s quick actions and then charmed by his gentle and tender treatment of Mia. It was unusual to see such a hulk of a man, hunkered down in front of a trembling girl, calming her as they waited for her mother to emerge from the front doors of the hotel, oblivious to what had just occurred.

  Naomi was reminded of the incident as Vito gave a small smile in her direction. It was a gentle, calming smile, much like he’d given Mia. Why was she suddenly so aware of him? The last week or so, every time he went through the office, met with Nick or any of the other employees, she sensed him.

  Knew he was there.

  Could actually feel him in the vicinity. That was just madness, as Naomi had never had an ounce of extrasensory perception. If she had, then her life would have turned out a lot differently – the pain in her back was a pretty constant reminder of just how lacking in “sense” she was.

  Vito walked over to the coffee machine and with cup in hand turned towards her. “Like a refill?” His voice was rough and low, his normal voice but . . . more.

  “Sure,” Naomi answered, quickly gulping down her cooling brew when he turned his back to her and played with the controls.

  Without speaking, he brought her a cup of milky coffee, placed it carefully next to her keyboard then handed her the exact amount of sweetener she used and a small silver spoon.

  “Enjoy,” he said, simply, then picking up his own cup he walked over to Nick’s office, rapped twice and entered.

  With trembling fingers, Naomi tore open the paper packets of sugar, making a mental note to buy some brown sugar and put it in a lidded bowl, and poured it into the dark beige liquid. It was exactly how she liked it. He knew exactly how she liked it. Oh, goodness. Why that small thing somehow felt like a big deal she wasn’t sure, but the awareness that he knew that little, private thing about her was something.

  The phone on her desk buzzed insistently and she reached for it, automatically putting on her professional PA voice. Time to put Vito Maloney out of her mind and focus on her workday.

  Nick liked to juggle. Not actual clubs or balls or even oranges, but ideas. Decisions. Concepts. He liked the way it made his mind stretch and focus on things that weren’t always obvious. He liked the surprises that mind-juggling brought him and more often than not, the win. He liked when several ideas were flying around in his mind at the same time, vying for position to be thoroughly vetted, then compartmentalised till the next option arose to play, joust and pounce. On the days when several decisions had to be made, Nick was at his most brilliant and his most content. Today was one of those days.

  Several issues in their hotels in Bordeaux, New Orleans and Edinburgh needed attention – fixing. And only he could finalise those decisions. He Skyped Bordeaux and quickly and smoothly sorted their staffing problem. He was ruthless. He knew that by the time he closed down the screen, the manager there despised the very sight of him but was also grateful that an unpleasant task was taken out of his hands. So much easier to blame the boss in Rome and save his own skin.

  Nick knew this and used the physical distance to advantage when he had to. But there had been times when he’d simply told a hotel to stall while he got on a plane and presented himself in their foyer within a matter of hours. He knew his hotels. He knew the nuts and bolts, the quirks and charms. And he knew his people.

  Although not a businessman first and fo
remost, skills gained in his training and practice in architecture showed in some creative problem-solving – always looking and thinking outside the box.

  And juggling.

  A client didn’t always know what he or she actually needed until the designer showed the options and then how the results could conceivably look. Nick had taken those talents to the hotel world and so far, it worked. Now, he needed to bring the goods to his burgeoning affair with Caroline Fitzgerald and he figured he knew exactly how to do it.

  He knew her world was art and artists and that any entrée into that side of life in Rome would give her the edge when she discussed it with her colleagues at a later date. Not bothering to ask why making her look good in front of her co-workers mattered to him, he flicked though his calendar. He narrowed his eyes as he saw that tomorrow, Thursday, Caroline’s next lecture evening, there was a reception at a small private gallery in Trastevere, one of his favourite neighbourhoods.

  He buzzed Byrney and asked her to procure a second invite and have it delivered to Caroline’s apartment by lunchtime. He stretched backwards in his chair, a pleasant anticipatory warmth spreading through him as he thought of her opening the envelope. And as he thought of her enjoying the evening. And enjoying him. Shit, he was getting hard just thinking about it. He sat forwards abruptly, adjusted himself and phoned Edinburgh.

  Nervous. Very nervous. Twiddly fingers and sweaty palms nervous, Caro walked determinedly along the Via Condotti looking for the right turn-off to the side street. The Paradiso was only metres maybe from where she was walking right now. What if Toni still worked there? What if he didn’t recognise her? Or she him? Or what if no one remembered him at all? Oh, God. Which was worse? Better? Was there a better?

  The nerves in her stomach were bouncing, jumping and basically making her feel sick as shit. Pausing to breathe deeply and exhale exaggeratedly, Caro looked up at the corner in front of her. That’s it. No going back now. This was why she was in Rome. She owed this to her son. Christ, she could deal with a churning stomach if she could just find her boy’s father. She could do this.

  As she neared the front portico of the hotel a weird sense of déjà vu came over her. Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me! When she’d been here with Nick she hadn’t even noticed the name over the door, engraved on the windows – okay, it had been dark, but still, for a visual person she was disgracefully unobservant, it seemed. And fourteen years ago she’d only ever met Toni at a back door, reached by an entirely different route. And with Nick, she realised as she stood at the entrance, they’d approached from the other way. Oh, the blasted irony. And he was staying here. Jesus. Could this get any more complicated? With any luck he was off out doing businessy things or whatever he did with his day. Oh, seriously, this was not the time to have gorgeous Nick in her head– not when she was trying to focus on Toni and finding him.

  She climbed the three wide marble steps to the beautifully ornate doors in front of her. As she reached out to push on a large carved handle, the door opened inwards as if by magic. A tall, slender man in a dove-grey uniform bowed very slightly as he held the door for her.

  “Buon pomeriggio, signora, e benvenuta,” he said politely.

  “Thank you.” Caroline replied in English, deciding on the spot to hold her Italian fluency to herself for now.

  “Good afternoon, madam, and welcome,” the doorman repeated.

  Caro smiled at him and continued to the front desk. The concierge was a young man in his late twenties, perfectly groomed in a grey suit, sparkling white shirt and grey tie. His reddish blond hair and blue eyes looked slightly out of place in the heart of Rome.

  She cautiously approached the front desk, unsure still how to handle the situation. She could hear her brother Devlin in her head – “Oh, just grow a pair, Caro!” he’d sneer, challenging her to face up to her fears. Her oldest brother Flynn would have an entirely different approach. His would have required research, attention to detail, factual searches and probably a visit to the town hall planning committee – okay, maybe that was a tad unfair, but Flynn’s angle would have been . . . methodical, yes, that was the word. Well, she had a bit of both of them in her, so she tilted her head enquiringly at the young gentleman who was looking questioningly at her.

  “Hello, I was wondering if you could help me,” Caro asked, suddenly breathless. “May I speak to Marco, the concierge?’

  The young redhead, name badge Sven, of all things, smiled at her but was obviously very well trained.

  “Marco, he is not on duty today, but perhaps I might help you. May I ask what it is concerning?” He smiled back at her, rather winningly, she thought.

  “You may,” Caro replied, easier now. “I’m looking for the address or even whereabouts of a man who worked here as a porter fourteen years ago.” She paused as his eyebrows raised considerably at the request. “Yes, I know it’s a long shot, but there’s no harm in asking, surely?”

  He nodded, apparently happy with her response.

  “One moment please, madam, and I will see what I can do.”

  He turned to use the desk phone and Caro took the opportunity to look around the foyer. It was a delightful blend of old-world style, comfortable seating, marble floors, large mirrors and ah, yes, some beautiful artwork. She spied two very interesting modern sculptures – one, a bronze ship, looked like a Behan, the other a Giacometti, but surely not, or at least not an original. And the lovely portrait over the open fireplace, she gasped, peering for a closer look . . . bloody hell, it was a Modigliani! Either this hotel had great fakes or great wealth, but whichever, it was certainly to her taste. And how charming to see such unusual pieces in an old-fashioned-type boutique hotel. She turned back to the receptionist, who was still talking on the phone.

  He paused, put his hand on the mouthpiece, and stage whispered to her.

  “I will just be another minute. We are trying to figure out what the protocol is for this kind of information.”

  He nodded back into the phone and Caro smiled. We all do it, she thought absently, nodding to someone who patently can’t see us. And it was kind of de-stressing for her to witness it, here in a hotel in Rome, just as she’d see it anywhere in Dublin. She took a calming breath. I can do this. I can find him.

  “What is the name of the employee you are tracing?” Sven interrupted her thoughts.

  “Toni Luca.”

  “Do you mean Antonio di Luca?” Sven asked after a beat.

  “Eh, I’m not sure . . . I only knew him as Toni Luca and that he worked here. Look . . . ” She paused, as something on Sven’s face was making her nervous. “It’s no problem – I’m sure there are several Toni Lucas and why would you even know mine . . . I mean, the one I knew?”

  Something was definitely off here and she could hear a woman’s voice speaking urgently via the receiver in Sven’s hand.

  “One moment, please.” He gestured with one finger held up and spoke into the handset. “Yes, Miss Byrne, she wants to know about a Toni Luca . . . ” He whispered the name and paused, as the person on the other end was obviously imparting some pretty serious information. “Yes, Miss Byrne, I will ask her to wait to speak to the boss.” Another pause. “Yes, Miss Byrne. I will ask. Ciao.” He replaced the phone in its cradle and appeared to take a few steadying breaths before saying, “Are you sure you do not wish to speak to Antonio di Luca, our owner, the one who lives at Palazzo Bellaire on Via Vincenzi?”

  Caro began to feel uneasy and that perhaps a quick departure might be in order.

  Speaking lightly, she said, “Yes, that’s probably it. Antonio di Luca from Via Vincenzi. Silly me. Thank you for your time.” She pulled the strap of her bag tightly against her shoulder and turned to leave.

  “No, no! You must not leave! Miss Byrne is having the boss come to speak with you. You must please stay.” Sven indicated an elegant but comfortable-looking leather armchair to the right of the fireplace. “I shall bring you coffee, yes?” He smiled appealingly, hopefully, at her.<
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  “Yes, sure, that would be lovely,” Caro said and the second he turned his back to make a coffee from the machine on the table behind him, she took off out of the door as speedily as she could.

  Cries of “Wait! No! No! Please wait . . . ” faded as she ducked past the doorman, who had fortuitously been holding it open for a family just arriving. The last thing she heard was Sven saying, “I am so sorry, boss . . . ” as she hopped into a passing taxi.

  Via Vincenzi was a beautiful avenue of amazing houses – well, palazzos, actually. It was like something from Hollywood, with the huge homes and amazingly landscaped gardens surrounded by high, private walls. Caro asked the taxi driver to let her out a few hundred metres from Palazzo Bellaire, as she wanted a little breathing time to herself before she announced her arrival.

  Was she doing the right thing? Was this Antonio related to her Toni? The answers lay behind these tall stone-worked barriers, and the slow walk she took along the grass verge towards the huge mansion felt interminable. But really, what had she to lose? She wasn’t doing anything wrong or inappropriate – just following a lead, as Flynn would say. Devlin’s voice boomed loud in her head, too . . . “Do it, Sis. Fuck it, they’re no better than you.” Of course neither brother actually knew she was “doing this” – searching for Toni to introduce him, if he wanted, to their son.