Best Modern Romances Of The Year 2017. Maisey Yates

that. Perhaps he’d do so more carefully, given what he had been told. But at the end of the day managers managed, and Raul had neither the time nor the inclination to be that heavily involved.

      ‘Now you have given me pause for thought,’ Raul admitted.

      ‘Good.’ Alim smiled. ‘The Grande Lucia deserves the best caretaker. Please,’ Alim said, indicating that their long day of meetings had come to an end, ‘take all the time you need to look around and to enjoy the rest of your stay.’

      Sultan Alim excused himself and Raul stood in the empty ballroom, watching the light dancing around the walls like a shower of stars.

      He thought of home.

      And he understood Alim’s concerns.

      Last year Raul had purchased a stunning Venetian Gothic palazzo on the Grand Canal.

      It required more than casual upkeep.

      The house was run by Loretta—the woman who had warned his mother of Gino’s imminent return home all those years ago.

      She ran the staff—and there were many.

      Raul looked around the ballroom at the intricate cornices and arched windows.

      Yes, he knew what Alim was talking about. But this was a hotel, not a home.

      Raul would play no part in her demise.

      He was going to pass.

      So there was no need to linger.

      His mind went back to that morning and he hoped very much that Lydia would be there to meet him tonight—not just to score a point over Bastiano and to rot up his plans.

      Raul had enjoyed her company.

      * * *

      His company was not for keeps.

      Lydia knew that.

      She sat in her button-up dress in the hairdresser’s at four and asked for a French roll, but the hairdresser tutted, picked up a long coil of blonde and suggested—or rather, strongly suggested—curls. After some hesitation finally Lydia agreed.

      Whatever had happened to her this morning, it was still occurring.

      She felt as if she were shedding her skin, and at every turn she fought to retrieve it.

      Her lashes were darkened, and then Lydia opened her eyes when the beautician spoke.

      ‘Porpora...’

      Lydia did not know that word, but as the beautician pushed up a lipstick Lydia managed, without translation, to work out what it meant.

      Crimson.

      ‘No.’ Lydia shook her head and insisted on a more neutral shade.

      Oh, Lydia wanted to be back in her cocoon—she was a very unwilling butterfly indeed—but she did buy the lipstick, and on her way back to the hotel she stopped at the boutique and bought the red dress.

      And then she entered the complex world of sexy shoes.

      Lydia had bought a neutral pair to go with the caramel dress and thought she was done. But...

      ‘Red and red,’ the assistant insisted.

      ‘I think neutral would look better.’

      ‘You need these shoes.’

      Oh, Lydia was starting to take advice from strangers for she tried them on. They were low-heeled and slender and a little bit strappy.

      ‘It’s too much,’ Lydia said, but both women knew she was not protesting at the price.

      ‘No, no,’ the assistant said. ‘Trust me—these are right.’

      Oh, Lydia didn’t trust her.

      But she bought them anyway.

      For him.

      Or rather to one day dress up alone to the memory of him.

      As she arrived back at the hotel Lydia looked at the restaurant across the street, to the roped-off section and the table he had reserved for them.

      Of course he wasn’t there yet.

      Yet.

      Knowing he would be—knowing she could be—made tonight somehow worse.

      Her mother called, but she let it go to voicemail.

      A pep talk wasn’t required.

      Lydia didn’t need to be told that everything hinged on tonight. That the castle was at the very end of the line and that it would come down to her actions tonight to save it.

      She had a shallow bath, so as not to mess up her new curls, and as she washed she tried to remind herself how good-looking Bastiano was.

      Even his scar did not mar his good looks.

      He had been attending a wedding when they’d first met.

      Maybe this time when he kissed her she would know better how to respond.

      Try as she might, though, she couldn’t keep her focus on Bastiano. Her thoughts strayed to Raul.

      With a sob of frustration Lydia hauled herself out of the bath and dried herself.

      In a last-ditch attempt, Lydia rang Arabella. Searching for an excuse—any excuse—to get out of this meeting tonight.

      ‘Lydia!’ Arabella was brusque. ‘I meant to call you. You didn’t say it was this weekend you were in Rome.’

      Of course Lydia had.

      ‘I’ve actually got a party on tonight,’ Arabella said.

      ‘Sounds good.’

      ‘Invitation only.’

      And of course Lydia was not invited.

      And there she sat again, like a beggar beside the table, waiting for Arabella’s crumbs.

      ‘That’s fine.’

      Lydia rang off.

      Maurice was right. She had no friends.

      Arabella was her only contact from her first school, but she kept her at arm’s length, and there hadn’t even been a semblance of friendship at the other school.

      Lydia could remember the howls of laughter from the other students when she had shaken hands and made a small curtsey for the teacher at the end of her first day.

      It was what she had been taught, but of course her norms weren’t the norms of her new school.

      She didn’t fit in anywhere.

      Yet this morning Lydia had felt she did.

      Oh, Raul had been far too forward and suggestive, but when they had spoken she had felt as if she were confiding in a friend—had felt a little as if she belonged in the world.

      But all Raul wanted was sex.

      Lydia had hoped for a little more.

      Not a whole lot, but, yes, perhaps a little romance would be a nice side dish for her first time.

      Wrong dress, Lydia thought as she looked in the mirror.

      Wrong shoes, Lydia thought as she strapped on her neutral heels.

      Wrong man, Lydia knew as she walked into the bar and saw Bastiano waiting.

      Oh, he was terribly good-looking—even with that scar—and yet he did not move her. But perhaps this was romance, Lydia thought sadly, for he was charming as he ordered champagne. He was the perfect gentleman, and on the surface it was all terribly polite.

      As was her life.

      She thanked him for his generous hospitality. ‘It’s so lovely to be here. We’ve been looked after so well.’

      ‘It is