Best Modern Romances Of The Year 2017. Maisey Yates

arose in him. ‘It’s dark now.’

      Oh, it was.

      And busy and noisy.

      It was everything Rome should be.

      The Trevi Fountain had kept its promise, because she had made a wish to be back under better circumstances and now she was.

      They walked for miles, and though the cobbled streets weren’t stiletto-friendly Lydia felt as if she were wearing ballet slippers—the world felt lighter tonight.

      ‘Where are we now?’ Lydia asked.

      ‘Citta Universitaria—my home for four years.’

      ‘I would have loved to have gone to university,’ Lydia said. ‘I wanted to study history.’

      ‘Why didn’t you?’

      ‘I failed my exams.’

      Another truth she rarely told.

      She hadn’t decided to go straight into the family business, as her mother often said.

      Lydia had failed all her exams.

      Spectacularly.

      ‘I messed up,’ Lydia admitted.

      She offered no reason or excuse although there were so many.

      He knew that.

      ‘I had to repeat some subjects after my mother died,’ Raul told her. He rarely revealed anything, and certainly not his failings, yet it seemed right to do so now. ‘I hit the clubs for a while.’

      His honesty elicited both a smile and an admission. ‘I wish that I had.’

      ‘I moved here from Sicily to study under great protest—my father wanted me to work for him. Filthy money,’ he added. ‘Anyway, after my mother died for a while I made it my mission to find out how wild Rome could be at night.’

      ‘Where in Si—’

      ‘I lived there,’ he said, pointing across the street.

      She had been about to ask whereabouts in Sicily, Raul knew, but she had mentioned the convent a couple of times and perhaps knew its location. Certainly he didn’t want her knowing that he and Bastiano were from the same place. So he interrupted her and gave more information about himself than he usually would.

      Raul pointed upwards and Lydia found herself looking at a hotel. It was far smaller than the one they were staying at, but it was beautifully lit and from the smart cars pulling up and the guests spilling out it seemed rather exclusive.

      ‘How could a student afford to stay in that hotel?’ Lydia asked.

      ‘It was flats back then. In fact they were very seedy.’

      ‘And then the developers came along?’

      ‘That was me.’

      And she stared at a hotel—in the centre of Rome, for goodness’ sake—and found out that he owned it.

      ‘How?’

      But Raul did not want to revisit those times.

      ‘Come on...’

      It was late—after midnight—and he’d had enough of taxis to last a lifetime, and so, despite the hour, he texted Allegra and very soon a vehicle appeared.

      It wasn’t a taxi!

      She sat in the back and he climbed in and sat so he faced her.

      It was bliss to sink into the seats. ‘My feet are killing me,’ Lydia admitted. ‘These shoes really weren’t made for walking.’

      ‘Take them off, then,’ Raul said, and he leant over and lifted her foot and placed it in his lap.

      Lydia could feel his solid thigh beneath her calf, and though she willed herself to relax her leg was trembling as he started to undo the strap.

      He ran his hand along her calf and found the muscle was a knot of tension. He worked it with deft fingers.

      The muscle did not relax.

      In fact it tightened.

      And when her toes curled to his touch he placed her foot so that she could feel his desire for her.

      She ought to tell him she was a virgin.

      But she rather guessed that Raul wouldn’t find her innocence endearing.

      His fingers continued to work on the tense muscle till it loosened. High in her thigh she contracted, and then he removed the sandal and lifted her naked foot.

      ‘Please don’t,’ she choked as he lifted it towards his mouth. ‘I’ve been walking...’

      ‘Dirty girl.’

      He kissed the arch of her foot, and she tried again to pull away, but only because the wicked sensation his tongue delivered shot straight between her legs.

      ‘Raul...’ She pronounced it correctly for the first time—it simply rolled off her tongue. ‘Someone might see.’

      ‘They can’t see in.’

      She could see, though.

      For that moment Lydia felt as if she could see inside herself.

      And she was...

      The feeling was so unfamiliar it took a second for Lydia to recognise just what it was.

      She was happy.

      Just that.

      ‘We’re here,’ Raul said, and released her foot, and that tiny glimpse of carefree happiness was over.

      Just like that.

      For she saw him—Maurice—standing outside the hotel.

      He was smoking a cigar and on his phone—no doubt to her mother.

      ‘We’ll use the side entrance.’

      Raul went to the intercom to inform the driver, but her hand stopped him.

      ‘No.’

      It was over.

      The windows were dark and she knew that Maurice couldn’t see in—neither would he be expecting her to return in such a luxurious vehicle.

      ‘I need to face things.’

      ‘Tomorrow,’ Raul said.

      And she looked at this man who chose not to get close enough to anyone to remember a birthday.

      A man who did not live by the rules.

      She did.

      ‘I think it would be better dealt with tonight. It might be a little more difficult to take the moral high road about Bastiano with my knickers in my purse.’

      ‘Lydia...’ Raul started, but then halted. He had no qualms over a one-night stand, but he conceded with a nod that she made a valid point.

      ‘Go and tell him to get the hell out of your life, and then come to my suite.’ He gave her the floor and the number, while knowing the night he had planned was gone. ‘Will you be okay?’

      ‘Of course I will.’ Lydia gave a scoffing laugh. ‘I’m twenty-four—he can hardly put me on curfew.’

      ‘Will you be okay?’ Raul asked again.

      ‘Yes.’ Lydia nodded. ‘This needs to be dealt with.’

      It did.

      He asked his driver to move a little way down the street, and in that space of time Raul did something he rarely did. He took out a card.

      Not the one he generally gave out.

      ‘This is my number—you’ll get straight through to me. If there is any problem...’

      ‘There won’t be,’