Scandals Of The Powerful. Sarah Morgan

her phone, she realised that she had spoken out loud. Her eyes jerked up to the gorgeous stranger, her face burning red as the elevator doors opened and she realised she was at her floor. He wasn’t even looking at her; he was lounging against the elevator wall reading from his phone. He probably couldn’t speak English anyway, Emily consoled herself as she stepped out.

      ‘Fattispecie.’

      Just as she got out of the elevator, his deep voice halted her and she turned around and looked at him, wishing he weren’t wearing dark glasses just so she could know the colour of his eyes when she dreamt about him tonight. ‘Actus reus,’ he translated, and even though he still didn’t, Emily found herself smiling as the elevator doors closed, as that delicious stranger gave her the legal term for a lie by omission.

      Ah, fattispecie, Emily thought, letting herself into her room and thinking of Adam and Dianne standing in the pouring rain at the wrong lake.

      Such a lovely word.

       CHAPTER TWO

      EMILY WASN’T going to find out anything in her hotel room, so she freshened up with a shower, then put on a summer dress and some make-up before she went for a wander.

      It was early evening and the streets were teeming. Everyone was chattering excitedly about the upcoming nuptials. There were scores of reporters and the police were combing the church with detectors and dogs. Emily dictated a few lines and then put away her recorder. Everything was cordoned off. Even the barriers for the press were set farther back than usual. There really wasn’t a hope of getting closer. Even the most seasoned Italian reporters would have their work cut out, so Emily knew she didn’t stand much of a chance. She walked across to the reception venue but that and the gardens too were cordoned off.

      Damn.

      It was then she saw him again, and despite the dark glasses, she could see that he was unashamedly watching her. ‘Signor Fattispecie!’ Emily smiled.

      ‘The name is Anton.’ He made his way over and introduced himself. Emily waited for him to give his surname, to reveal a bit more as to who he was.

      He did neither.

      ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Emily.’ He watched her frown as she tried to fathom how he knew her name. ‘I heard your contact speak. So, you’re here to cover the wedding?’

      Emily nodded. ‘You?’

      ‘To observe,’ he said.

      ‘Oh!’

      He could be a Corretti. He was dark and delicious, and like them—well, according to her research, anyway—he gave nothing away. His voice was low and richly accented, and there was that urge again to rip off his glasses, that wish for this man to reveal just a little more of himself to her.

      ‘So,’ Anton asked, ‘covering a wedding is a sore point?’

      Yes, he’d understood every word.

      ‘Can I ask why?’

      ‘My career’s just been shot.’ Emily was honest. His presence was just so consuming that there wasn’t the room in her mind to fathom lying or watering down the truth. ‘Well, slowly strangled.’ She looked at him and saw just a hint of a small smile lift the edge of a very beautiful mouth, and so she proceeded on. ‘Prolonged suffocation.’

      ‘What do you usually work on?’

      ‘I’m an investigative journalist.’ Emily sighed. ‘Or I thought I was till I was sent here. Still, this wedding sounds pretty interesting.’ He did not respond to her probe. ‘I heard there was a lot of rivalry between the families.’

      ‘Heard?’ Anton checked.

      ‘Read,’ Emily admitted.

      ‘Read what exactly?’

      She breathed out through her nostrils, feeling as if she was being tested. She was unsure just whom she was speaking to, but she so badly needed to know more. ‘That Antonioni Battaglia is the minister of trade and industry.’ She watched as from behind his glasses one perfect eyebrow raised. ‘That his backing is needed for the regeneration of the docklands.’ She was aware he could be a member of either family, but it was all or nothing and Emily chose to push on. ‘And I read that the Correttis want the docklands project.’

      ‘Do you really want to cover more than just the wedding?’ He made her a little nervous, or was it just that he made her breathless?

      ‘Yes.’ Emily nodded. ‘Are you related to them?’

      He gave a small, mirthless laugh and shook his head in clear distaste.

      ‘Do you know them, then?’

      ‘Very well, though sometimes they would prefer that I did not.’

      Emily blinked.

      ‘Tomorrow Antonioni will see his daughter, Alessia, married into the Corretti dynasty. Unlike his father and grandfather, Antonioni could never amass his own fortune. He’s an embittered politician and only too happy to buy into power.’

      ‘So, how do you know all this?’

      ‘Because I make it my business to know.’

      Emily was used to getting information from others, but she knew full well that Anton was revealing this by choice, not because of her excellent interviewing skills. She just didn’t know why. Yet she wanted more from him, more insight and information and... Emily swallowed. She didn’t want their conversation to be over. She wanted more time with this intriguing man.

      ‘Scusi,’ he said, and she stood waiting as he took a phone call, feeling a bit awkward when he glanced over to her and then proceeded to make another.

      ‘I’ll go....’

      ‘Wait,’ he said, reaching out and taking her wrist, and Emily stood there, terribly aware of the contact but choosing to wait as instructed. Clearly he knew the families. It might be her only way in.

      ‘Do you want to know more about them?’ Anton asked.

      ‘Of course.’ Emily nodded. ‘Would you be happy to answer a few of my questions?’ She found she was blinking, only rather rapidly. Oh God, she was flirting, which she hadn’t done in forever.

      ‘Over dinner?’

      ‘That would be lovely.’ She gave a small swallow. There was this strange charge to the air and she decided to make it very clear that this would be a working dinner. ‘If you’re willing to be interviewed, then the paper can pay.’

      ‘Good.’ There was a twist of a smile on the edge of his mouth. ‘I just booked us a table for eight p.m.’

      Had he been so sure she’d say yes?

      ‘I’ll meet you in the hotel foyer just before that.’

      There was a flutter in her stomach that wasn’t just from nervousness as he continued speaking. ‘Wear something nice.’

      ‘Nice?’

      ‘Formal.’

      Emily frowned. She didn’t want formal; she wanted a small cafe where they could properly talk. She didn’t have time to shop for something nice for some fancy restaurant. But already he was gone.

      Emily heard the bells of the church and realised she had less than an hour to get ready. She headed back to the hotel and dashed up to her room. The only formal item of clothing she had was the dress she had brought in the vague hope of squeezing into the wedding, but surely it was far too much for dinner?

      She really didn’t have much choice.

      Emily was used to getting ready at a moment’s notice, but as she did her hair and make-up, there was a slight tremor to her hand at the prospect of dinner with Anton.

      Why