Sicilian's Baby Of Shame. Carol Marinelli

over the last year. Sophie was no Inga!

      ‘Enjoy.’

      ‘I am.’ He had torn open the brioche and as she left, the scent that reached him was the one of home and he spoke, really without thinking. ‘I used to collect these from the bakery.’

      ‘Ha!’ Sophie said, turning around. ‘Until I came to Rome I used to work at a bakery.’

      ‘For how long?’

      ‘Seven years,’ Sophie said. ‘Since I left school.’

      And it was very easy—too easy—to speak of home.

      She missed it.

      Oh, Sophie loved the life she had made here in Rome, but there was an ache for home at times, so for a moment they chatted, really just about the food and the stunning Strait of Sicily. He guessed that she was also from the west. He was about to ask her exactly where but then Sophie yawned.

      ‘Excuse me,’ Sophie said. ‘I really do have to go, all this talk of...’ And she stopped because he had invited her to eat already and it might seem that she was angling for him to ask her again if she said just how hungry she felt.

      Maybe she was angling?

      Later she would look back and try to remember exactly how she had felt at that moment.

      Happy and relaxed. It felt nice to be in his company.

      ‘Have breakfast,’ Bastiano said.

      There was no motive.

      That in itself was beyond rare for Bastiano, for he lived by motive, he did nothing without motive, yet all he saw this morning was that she was tired and probably hungry after a long shift.

      And she heard, absolutely, the kindness in his offer and so, with just the briefest hesitation, she nodded.

      ‘Thank you.’

      Sophie could not know that kindness in Bastiano generally did not exist.

       CHAPTER TWO

      IT WAS AS natural as that.

      The conversation between them came readily and it was simply pleasant to be with him. Sophie put her jacket on a chair and poured herself some chilled water and placed it on a tray. To that she added the plate of shakshuka and then looked around, wondering where she should take it to eat. First she glanced over at the chair where she had placed her jacket but it was rather full as his was there too. It was inside out so she could see the deep aubergine lining as well as a crumpled white shirt on the floor beside it. She looked at Bastiano, who was moving more to the centre of the bed, as if to make room for her to sit there, and so, instead of the chair, she made her way over to the bed.

      Yes, it was as natural as that to walk over and sit on the edge of the huge bed, not too close, but alongside his thighs. She placed the tray on her lap.

      The cloche had kept warm the eggs that were nestled in a rich-looking sauce, and she took her first tentative taste. It was a little spicier than expected and Sophie missed his smile as she reached for her water.

      ‘Nice?’ Bastiano asked.

      She turned and looked at him and her eyes moved briefly to the scar on his cheek—Sophie would have loved to know its source—but then she looked back to his eyes. ‘You know when you have wanted to try something for a very long time and then finally you do...’

      Her words were not meant as provocative and they were not taken as such, for he was waiting for her to screw up her nose and to say that it was not as nice as she had thought it would be, but then she smiled. ‘It is better than I expected.’

      It was then that her words were provocative, though only to Sophie—for the pleasure of his company had her thoughts taking her mind to places they had never been.

      He was stunningly attractive, yes, and she was no fool as to her situation, yet as Sophie looked at him her throat seemed to close in on itself and she could feel the pulse beat in her neck.

      She was innocent from the lips down, and those lips had determinedly stayed as closed as they could when she had kissed her fiancé.

      She had never shared a meal in a man’s bedroom, or sat on a bed with a man and chatted so easily.

      And neither had she ever stared so readily into another’s eyes.

      It truly was better than expected.

      Was it the hot Baharat mix in the shakshuka that made her cheeks suddenly redden, or was it the first stirrings of desire?

      Sophie did her best not to dwell on that thought. She tore her gaze from his and spoke on quickly. ‘Apparently Sultan Alim has put a lot of new things on the menu since he took over the hotel.’

      ‘Sultan?’ Bastiano asked. He and Alim were friends. The Grande Lucia was Bastiano’s favoured hotel when in Rome, and he and Alim often painted the town a rich shade of red but, despite lavish spending and wild ways, as far as Bastiano knew, Alim had always kept his royal status under wraps as best he could.

      ‘We only found out that he was royal a few months ago,’ Sophie revealed. ‘His family came to stay and so of course the desk staff soon worked it out.’ She thought for a moment. ‘He’s a good boss.’

      ‘In what way?’ Bastiano asked. He liked to hear the things that were important to staff, and knew that that sort of information could not readily be gleaned from a questionnaire or an appraisal. He didn’t want to admit it, but he also just liked hearing her thoughts.

      ‘He knows all of his staff by name,’ Sophie said. ‘And he is fair and kind. There was a Christmas meal and gift for all the staff who were working over the festive season.’ She was silent for a moment as she thought back to that lonely day—coming to work had been the brightest part.

      ‘How long have you worked here?’ Bastiano asked.

      ‘For nearly ten months. I’ve been in Rome for just over a year.’ Sophie thought back to when she had first arrived and how nervous she had been, for she had never spent so much as a night away from home until then. ‘It took a few weeks to find a job. I would have taken anything, but then I came for my interview and I wanted to work here so badly. I never thought I would get it as there was two months’ training involved, but Benita took me on.’

      ‘Benita?’

      ‘The head of housekeeping,’ Sophie explained. ‘It is so much better than my old job.’

      ‘I guess working at a bakery would have meant many early starts?’

      ‘So early!’ Sophie nodded and rolled her eyes. ‘The shifts here are much better and the staff are really friendly. Well,’ she added, thinking of Inga, ‘most of them are.’

      ‘Most?’

      ‘There is always the odd person that you don’t get on with in any workplace.’ Sophie shrugged. ‘I enjoy working here; I can’t believe my luck really. It is, for me, the perfect job.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘I like order,’ Sophie said. ‘I like things to be neat and tidy. When I see a suite such as yours, I itch to have it back as it should be.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Yes, really.’ She nodded her head in the direction of the chair. ‘I would have that jacket hanging up and that shirt put away.’ Then she looked back at him. ‘I would have that bed made, even with you in it...’ And she hesitated. It was something that she often said as a joke to guests, usually the ones on the twelfth floor when she shooed them out to service their room.

      It was not something that would ever be said to a guest such as Bastiano; he would never be shooed out, even jokingly.

      It was not just that thought that had her pause, it