The Sicilian's Marriage Arrangement. Lucy Monroe

with men I can see any day of the week, I would prefer you to show me to the buffet table. I came late and did not eat dinner tonight.”

      She’d already known he had come late. Actually, she had thought he was not coming at all. The first she had known of his arrival had been the debacle by the banana tree. “Then, by all means, allow me to show you to the food table.”

      It was her duty as hostess, after all.

      She turned to lead the way and almost stopped in shock as she felt his hand rest lightly against her waist. By the time they reached the buffet, her emotions and heart rate were both chaotic.

      “The food,” she croaked out and waved her hand toward the table.

      “Will you sit with me while I eat? I prefer not to do so alone.”

      What choice had she? To refuse would be churlish. “Yes, of course.”

      She stifled a sigh. She had thought he would let her escape once they arrived in the reception room of the old Boston mansion, but she’d been wrong. The only thing that equaled Sicilian revenge was Sicilian guilt. She wondered how much penance Luciano’s guilt would require before he would feel comfortable relegating her to the background once more.

      Usually, she would be rejoicing at the opportunity to spend time in his company. He had fascinated her since their first meeting five years ago. She had seen him two or three times a year since as he and her grandfather had many business interests in common. Even now, she found being the focus of his attention a heady experience, no matter that compassion and guilt were the reasons for it.

      She waited until he had filled a plate and then led him to one of the many small duet tables surrounding the room. There were larger tables where someone else would undoubtedly join them, but selfishly she thought that if these few moments were all she would have of him, she wanted them private.

      “Are you still working as a bookkeeper at the women’s shelter?”

      Surprised he had remembered, she said, “Yes. We’re opening another facility outside of Boston in a few weeks.”

      He asked her about it and then spent the next twenty minutes listening to her talk about the women’s shelter and the work they were doing. They catered to victims of domestic violence, but did a great deal for single mothers down on their luck as well. Hope loved her job and could talk about the shelter for hours.

      “I suppose they can always use donations?” Luciano asked.

      So, that was how he planned to finish mitigating his guilt for making her cry. Not that it was really his fault. He could not be blamed for her lack of urbanity, but she wouldn’t refuse him regardless.

      He had plenty of money to donate to such a worthy cause. He was so rich, he traveled with not simply a bodyguard, but a whole security team. The only reason he was alone now was because Grandfather’s security was known to be some of the most stringent in the East Coast big business community.

      “Yes. They bought the furniture for the upstairs with my fur coat, but there’s still the downstairs to furnish.”

      He smiled and her insides did that imitation of melting Godiva chocolate they always did when those sensual lips curved in humor. “So, you sold the mink, hmm?”

      “Oh no. That wouldn’t be right. It was a gift after all. I gave it to the shelter.” She winked and then felt herself blushing at her own temerity. “They sold it.”

      “You’ve got a streak of minx in you I think.”

      “Perhaps, signor. Perhaps.”

      “Do you have contact information for the shelter?”

      “Naturally.”

      “I should like to give it to my P.A., and instruct that a donation large enough to furnish several rooms is made on my behalf.”

      “I’ve got a business card upstairs in my room, if you’ll wait a moment while I get it?” What she would never do on her own behalf, she did for the shelter with total equanimity.

      “I will wait.”

      Hope pulled a white business card for the women’s shelter from the top drawer of the escritoire in the small study attached to her suite of rooms. As she turned to head back downstairs, she realized it was less than ten minutes before midnight. She stopped and stared at the ornamental desk clock, biting her lip. If she waited just a few minutes to return downstairs, she could avoid the ritual of kissing someone on the stroke of midnight.

      She didn’t fear being accosted by one of the many male guests at her grandfather’s party. She was aware that the most likely scenario would be her standing alone and watching others kiss. Her stomach tightened at the thought of watching Luciano locking lips with some gorgeous woman. And there were plenty of them downstairs.

      Rich businessmen attracted beautiful women who had a chic she envied and could not hope to emulate.

      She wasn’t worried about leaving Luciano to his own devices. Even now, she had no doubt he was no longer sitting alone while he waited for her. He might not even wait at the table, but expect her to come find him once she returned downstairs. Now that his guilt had been appeased, she would no longer qualify for his undivided attention.

      Going back downstairs at this moment in time would serve no purpose other than to further underscore the humiliating fact that she did not fit amidst her grandfather’s guests. She might have been born to his world, but she could never feel like she belonged in it. Perhaps because she had never felt like she belonged anywhere.

      From the clock, her gaze shifted to the plaque hanging on the wall. It was a saying by Eleanor Roosevelt and it reminded her that she might not be able to help her shyness, but she did not have to be craven as well.

      Luciano became aware of Hope instantly when she arrived once again in the periphery of his vision. She said and did nothing, but the sweet scent he associated with her reached out to surround him. He turned from the Scandinavian cover model who had approached him within seconds of Hope’s disappearance from their table.

      “You’re back.”

      Her gaze flicked to the model and back to him. “Yes.” She reached her hand out, a small white card between her delicate thumb and forefinger. “Here’s the contact information for the shelter.”

      He took it and tucked it into the inner pocket of his formal dinner jacket. “Grazie.”

      “You’re welcome.”

      Suddenly noisemakers started blaring around them and a ten second count down began in the other room. The model joined in as did the other guests surrounding him and Hope. Hope did as well, but an expression he did not understand crossed her features. Why should it make her sad to ring in the New Year?

      He could not look away from the almost tragic apprehension turning her lavender eyes so dark, they appeared black. The blonde put her hand on his arm and he realized that men and women were pairing off. Ah, the traditional kiss to bring in the New Year with luck. And in a split second of clarity he understood Hope’s sadness and that he had a choice. He could kiss the sexy, extremely world savvy woman to his left, or he could kiss Hope.

      Her expression was carefully guarded, but he could tell that she expected him to kiss the model. She had grown accustomed to neglect and although she seemed more than willing to talk to him, she was terribly shy around others. She expected to kiss no one. And the expectation had put that sadness in her eyes. It was not right.

      She was gentle and generous. What was the matter with the men of Boston that they overlooked this delicate but exotic bloom?

      He shook off the blonde’s hold and stepped toward Hope. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth stopped moving in the countdown, freezing in a perfect little O. Placing his hands on both sides of her face, he tilted it up for his kiss. A cacophony of Ones sounded around him and then he lowered his mouth to hers. He would kiss her gently, nothing too involved.

      He