Книга - The Italian’s Virgin Bride

The Italian's Virgin Bride
Trish Morey


Opal Clemenger's facing bankruptcy, and the only man who can rescue her is ruthless tycoon Domenic Silvagni.Domenic's filthy rich, and he thinks money can purchase him anything–including a wife. So he agrees to help Opal, but only if she consents to his marriage ultimatum.Opal has no choice but to marry Domenic, but then he makes another demand: she must provide him with an heir. But Domenic quickly realizes that there's one thing he can't buy–his wife's love….









The Italian’s Virgin Bride



Trish Morey









www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN


To Mum and Dad because, obviously, you guys have so much to answer for




Almost fi fty years together—that takes a certain kind of resilience, if not a special brand of love.

Thanks for everything.




CHAPTER ONE


DOMENIC SILVAGNI was only one third through the report when the intercom buzzed for the second time in five minutes. He growled in irritation and slammed his fountain pen down so fast it skidded right across the leather-bound blotter.

His father again.

No one else could have made it past the snarling Ms Hancock, the human Rottweiler he’d been assigned as his PA during his visit to the Silvers hotel chain’s premier Sydney hotel, and who ran interference for him with ruthless efficiency. Which was exactly what he needed if he was ever to analyse this report. Somewhere amidst this mountain of facts and figures and market research lay the solution to the hotel chain’s flagging fortunes in Australia. And he was determined to discover whatever it was in time to make his flight to Rome tonight.

So much for demanding ‘no calls’. Trust his father to pull rank on him. And he wasn’t in the mood for another lecture. Not if it concerned those photos again—the two photos published in the gossip rag Caught In The Act. He considered his personal life his own business but that magazine had just made it everybody’s.

And Guglielmo Silvagni knew damned well the playboy image the rag bestowed upon his son was a pure fabrication, but he was still less than happy about it.

‘You can do better than supermodels and starlets,’ he’d asserted. ‘Find someone with some intelligence, some spunk—someone to give you a run for your money.’

Emma and Kristin might justifiably have been offended had they heard his father’s assessment of them. After all, even rising Hollywood starlets and supermodels couldn’t make it on looks alone, though they had those in abundance.

Not to mention jealousy. Both had taken it pretty personally when the photos were published.

Without doubt the whole episode had been an inconvenience. But that didn’t mean he’d be better off settling down, as his father kept suggesting. He wasn’t looking for a wife. He wasn’t looking for a family. No matter how many times his father lectured him he was leaving it too late.

Too late! Hell, he was only thirty-two. Hardly over the hill.

The light on the intercom button kept flashing at him accusingly. Liar, it seemed to say. He groaned in frustration—now he was starting to think like his father—and lifted the handset.

‘Tell my father I’ll call him back later. After I’ve got through this report.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Silvagni, it’s…actually not your father…’

He cocked an ear. Something was wrong. She’d lost her usual ‘take-no-prisoners’ tone. And for the first time since he’d arrived, he’d even say the snapping Ms Hancock sounded flustered.

‘There’s this woman…’ she continued.

He gritted his teeth. A pity his Rottweiler had lost hers.

He could understand Guglielmo Silvagni getting past this line of last defence. He was Silvers Hotels. Together with his own father, Domenic’s late grandfather, he had developed it from a three-room operation in Naples into a worldwide five-star success. And even though his father had retired to the rural countryside of Tuscany after a lengthy battle with cancer, and it was Domenic who now headed up the international operation, his father still wielded power. But a woman?

‘I told you, absolutely no calls.’

‘She’s not on the phone,’ she squeezed out on a breath, before he had a chance to terminate the conversation. ‘She’s here. She said it’s urgent, that you’d want to see her.’

Domenic leaned back in his leather executive chair, drumming his fingers on the edge of the broad desk. ‘Who is it?’ he asked, while his brain did a quick scan of the known whereabouts of his latest companions. Last thing he heard Emma was on location in Texas shooting her latest film, while Kristin was doing a photo shoot for Vogue in Morocco. And neither of them was speaking to him after that damned photo fiasco, so neither even knew he’d made this last-minute trip to Australia.

‘Her name is Opal Clemenger. From Clemengers. It’s a family-owned chain of three prestige boutique hotels. There’s one just down at the Rocks—’

‘I know all about Clemengers,’ he snapped. ‘What does she want?’

‘She said she has a deal for you. An opportunity too good to refuse. Should I send her in?’



Opal held her breath as she stood next to the PA’s desk, white-knuckled fingers clutching the file of material she’d hastily assembled in preparation, hoping above hope that he would agree to this last-minute meeting.

Surely his interest was piqued? Surely he would be asking himself why the owner of the only six-star boutique hotel in Sydney would be dropping by at late notice? Surely he wouldn’t think it was a social call?

And he had to agree to see her. The future of Clemengers and its staff depended on it.

‘Tell her to make an appointment,’ the voice over the intercom snapped back. ‘I’ll be back in two weeks. Oh, and I’ll work through lunch. Can you send in some coffee and something to eat?’

The receptionist confirmed the order and then looked up at Opal apologetically as her master’s voice disappeared with a final crackle of static. ‘I’m sorry, dear. It’s so unusual for me to interrupt him; I really thought he’d be curious to see you. I’m afraid you’ll have to come back. Can you do that?’

Opal shook her head, teeth raking her bottom lip. Two weeks was far too late. She had two days to stitch up this deal. Just two days to find someone to invest in Clemengers, someone who would understand and continue the business as a going concern. Someone totally unlike McQuade, a corporate vulture just out to pick up bargain real estate in prime locations so that he could knock the buildings down and put up yet more overpriced blocks of flats.

In just over a day tenders would close, and unless she found a white knight to come to the rescue of Clemengers, McQuade was front-runner to win the tender, her family would lose everything they’d worked for and at least two hundred loyal staff would lose their jobs.

And there was no way she’d let the hotel go to McQuade.

‘I have to see him today,’ she said. ‘I have no choice.’ She turned away, moving automatically over the plush rose-coloured carpet and searching for solutions but finding none amongst the gentle pastel artwork adorning the walls, only half aware of Ms Hancock in the background speaking to Room Service.

Maybe she’d missed something. She flipped open the folio she still held, pausing over the collection of magazine and newspaper clippings and internet articles she’d put together as soon as she’d heard of Domenic’s visit to his southern-hemisphere interests. Maybe hidden amongst all these papers was the key she needed?

The pages slid apart at a glossy magazine page. There, under the heading ‘Five-Star Playboy’, were two photographs of Domenic, each photo featuring him with a different woman. Very blonde, very young women. If they were the kind of women Domenic Silvagni was interested in, then it was little wonder he’d fail to appreciate the buttoned-up talent sitting outside his office.

Her focus moved to the man each of them looked up at adoringly. Five-star playboy, indeed. The title fitted him just as perfectly as the tailored dinner suit of one photo, the silky black shirt of the other. He wore the doe-eyed women clinging to his arm like accessories.

Little wonder he could get away with it. Domenic Silvagni was one good-looking man. He stared out at her from the pictures, dark, sultry eyes outlined with the sort of thick lashes any woman in her right mind would kill for. His fringe, slightly longer than the rest of his short layered hair, was flicked to one side. Strong lips tweaked as if hinting at a secret, framed with a lean square jaw that spoke of power and influence.

Even without his money Domenic Silvagni would be a catch. With his money, well, there was no doubt a queue of willing hopefuls.

And good luck to them, she thought bitterly. You deserved whatever you got marrying a playboy. Her mother’s experience had taught her that much.

But whatever personal failings he had, she needed him. Or at least, she needed his money. And she needed it now.

Suddenly she wheeled around. ‘I’ll wait, if you don’t mind. He has to come out eventually.’

Ms Hancock’s eyes narrowed as her wrinkled lips formed a tight pucker. She looked from side to side, as if checking if anyone was in earshot. But there was no one to be seen along the wide corridor of carpet that led from the bank of brass-framed lifts to the outer office. There were no guest rooms on this fortieth floor, no visitors coming and going, no laundry hampers rolling along to interrupt proceedings.

Still, she leaned forward in her chair, and whispered conspiratorially, ‘I need to step out for five minutes, and Room Service will be bringing lunch up at any time. You wouldn’t go do anything silly, now, would you?’

Opal felt a genuine smile return to her lips. The first real smile she’d had since learning of the dire circumstances facing Clemengers three months ago. And that smile was directed right at Deirdre Hancock, former secretary to her father some twenty years ago.

She’d known it was a good omen as soon as she’d walked into the ante-office and recognised Deirdre sitting there. And Deirdre had jumped up immediately and thrown her arms around Opal for a mighty hug as if she hadn’t changed a bit, even though she’d long ago traded her six-year-old braids for a sleek shoulder-length style.

Whatever Deirdre was now doing at Silvers, Opal had no idea, but working for Domenic Silvagni was obviously no picnic. The man was downright rude from the exchange she’d heard, while Deirdre was a treasure. Sure, she might look like a dragon, in her severe navy suit and sensible court shoes, but from what she remembered her father saying, Deirdre had never been anything less than organised, efficient and polite. And she was doing her best to get her in to see him. Domenic didn’t deserve her.

She winked back. ‘Not a chance,’ she said.

Five minutes later, Deirdre bundled a bunch of papers together and Opal sensed the imminent arrival of the lunch trolley. Adrenaline kicked into her veins at the same time as the sudden realisation of what the PA was actually risking. ‘Look, Deirdre, I don’t want you to lose your job over this.’

Ms Hancock sniffed. ‘Who knows, dear?’ She leaned her tiny frame closer and squeezed her arm. ‘He might even thank me for it. Besides which, I’m retiring next week. What’s he going to do—sack me? Now, I’ve switched the phone through to the copy room, where I’ll be, so you won’t be interrupted.’ Opal barely had time to murmur her thanks before she was gone.

Less than a minute later Room Service rolled the silver-domed trolley alongside Ms Hancock’s desk. The fresh-faced young man looked around, his gaze finally settling on Opal. ‘Ms Hancock’s order,’ he half said, half asked.

‘She’ll be right back.’

He nodded and, apparently satisfied, headed back to the service lift, disappearing in a hum of lift motors and cushioned doors.

She took one more rapid-fire breath and pushed herself off her chair. This was it!




CHAPTER TWO


‘WHO are you?’

Opal made it no more than three paces into the expansive office before the man sitting behind the broad mahogany desk glanced up.

‘And where’s Ms Hancock?’

For a second Opal’s feet wouldn’t move. But she had to get more than a metre inside the door. She couldn’t make her case from here. Barely looking up, in case his face was darker than his words, she plastered on a bright smile totally at odds with her churning insides and pressed on, wheeling the trolley closer to the desk. ‘I’ve brought your lunch.’

Studiously avoiding his gaze, she was aware of his body swinging up in his seat and his elbows colliding with the table. ‘I can see that,’ he growled. ‘But how did you get in here?’

Opal busied herself with the trolley. She lifted the silver lid from one salver—pasta with artichokes and bacon. The other revealed veal escalopes with asparagus in a brandy cream sauce. ‘I think the pasta first,’ she said, transferring the first dish to a vacant spot on his desk.

He ignored her and strode to the door, flinging it open. ‘Ms Hancock!’ he shouted. ‘Ms Hancock!’

‘I think you’ll find she’s in the copy room. I didn’t want your lunch to get cold in the meantime.’

He turned then. Without looking up, Opal felt it like a blast from a furnace. ‘Who the hell are you?’

Fortified with a deep gulp of air, she finally lifted her eyes to face him and straight away wished she hadn’t. It was Domenic all right. Those dark eyes, the strong jaw. She should have been ready. And yet—the picture torn from a magazine was just a mere facsimile of the man who stood before her. Nothing in those photos revealed the power, the sheer presence of the man, the masculine physicality he projected.

The heat!

Under her silk suit her skin prickled and firmed. She swallowed involuntarily, tasted fear and kicked up her chin in defiance. She had a job to do. And he was just a man, after all. A playboy to boot—the very worst kind of man.

She battled to remind herself of that as she searched for the words that should have fallen off her tongue much more easily.

‘Opal Clemenger.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘Thank you for finding the time to see me. I appreciate you’re very busy.’

He snorted and pulled the door open wide.

‘I’m not finding the time to see you. I said you could come back in two weeks. Better still, not at all.’ He gestured to the open door with his free hand. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’

‘But I haven’t had a chance to tell you my proposal yet.’

‘Does it occur to you, Ms Clemenger, that may be because I’m not interested?’

She made no move towards the door and she could feel the anger rising in the man facing her. ‘Your pasta is getting cold.’

‘Then the sooner you remove yourself, the sooner I can eat.’

‘We can talk while you have lunch.’

‘I was going to work while I had lunch.’

‘That’s not healthy.’

‘Arguing with women who don’t know when they’ve outstayed their welcome is not healthy. Leave. Now.’

‘Not until you hear what I have to offer.’

‘Or do I have to make you?’ His head tilted, and his lips curled, as if he was speculating on whether he’d have to, and her fear cranked up a notch. If he so much as touched her…

‘I have an opportunity for you,’ the words spilt out, before she could think too far along that disturbing path, ‘a chance to give the Silvers hotel chain the edge it’s looking for—the edge it needs.’

‘I see I’m going to have to make you.’ He moved away from the door, each step bringing him closer. Instinctively she felt herself draw back. She hadn’t been prepared for his height, nor for his sheer animal power. Right at that moment she felt more like an animal of prey than the owner and CEO of Australia’s most prestigious boutique hotel chain, with Domenic the hunter, drawing ever closer, ever more threatening.

She knew she was speaking fast. But she had to get through to him. Had to make an impression. Before the opportunity was lost to her forever.

‘Something to lift Silvers beyond this five-star mediocrity…’

He stopped, not two paces from her, and scoffed. ‘Five-star what?’

She seemed to grow a good inch taller, though his six-foot-two frame still cleared hers by six inches or so, and fire flickered in the depths of her blue-green eyes. The corners of her mouth tweaked up in such a way that told him she thought she’d just scored some kind of point.

She had a nerve, this woman. Somehow managing to get past his assistant, forcing her way into his office and accusing his business of mediocrity. Nerve, or stupidity. Either way, she was leaving.

‘Mediocrity, Mr Silvagni. Five-star used to mean something special. Now it just means more of the same. People don’t want that. People want an experience. People want to feel special.’

‘Thank you, Ms Clemenger, for your astute observations. But if I need to have my business analysed, I’m sure I can find more qualified people than you to do it.’

‘Is that so? Then if it’s so easy, why are you in Sydney at all? You’d have the resources for an army of analysts to devise the kind of strategies Silvers needs. Surely you’ve got better things to do with your time?’

He bristled, recognising the attempt he’d made to undermine her position had backfired. She’d made it backfire. Ms Clemenger was really starting to get his back up, yet for all that he was curious. Silvers did have a problem. Would it hurt to hear her out? He crossed his arms and rested one hip on the side of the desk.

‘You’ve got five minutes,’ he said. ‘Start talking.’

For a few seconds she seemed at a loss for words and for that he was grateful. For once he didn’t have to concentrate on her words, and he had a chance to focus on the forthright Ms Clemenger herself.

She wasn’t half the challenge to look at as she was to listen to. Brown hair. No, not quite brown. More like the colour of warm syrup. Full, lush mouth. Clear, almost translucent skin, with eyes that knew both intelligence and emotion. He’d noticed the way they’d widened when she’d finally raised her eyes to meet his, the flare of recognition and something else—shock or fear? But if she’d been scared, still she hadn’t backed off. He liked that.

His appraisal moved down.

Her cobalt-blue suit fitted her well enough, yet hinted at curves not quite revealed, and maybe, just maybe, if she sat down in the chair behind her that skirt might just ride up enough for him to tell if the rest of her long legs were as shapely as those calves suggested.

She remained standing.

‘Mr Silvagni.’

He dragged his attention back from speculation about her legs to her mouth—and those lips.

‘Domenic, please.’

She looked at him and for a moment he thought she was going to fight about even that. Then she nodded slightly.

‘Domenic,’ she said softly, as if testing. He liked the way she said his name. Her voice was warm and mellow and somehow her slight yet unmistakable Australian accent helped to smooth the rhythm of the syllables. She had the kind of voice you wouldn’t mind waking up to—now the desperation factor had gone from it.

‘Like other major hotel chains in Australia and, indeed, even worldwide, the Silvers chain is suffering from a downturn in occupancy rates. There just isn’t the volume of travellers to fill the hotels. The pie has shrunk and the pieces are smaller. Marketing might increase one chain’s share over another, but it’s a short-term gain and can be easily lost in the next round of media advertising.’

He shifted, unfolded his arms and dropped his hands to his thighs. Nothing she said was new. He’d been reading the same bleak news in the report that was still sitting atop his desk.

‘And assuming that your assessment is right, I take it you have a solution to this problem?’ If she thought he sounded doubtful, she was right.

She clutched her hands together and he noticed her long fingers and clear buffed nails. No rings.

‘I have an opportunity for Silvers Hotels, if you’re astute enough to appreciate it.’

‘I see,’ he said, ignoring the none-too-subtle rebuke. ‘And that “opportunity” is?’

She took a deep breath. There was no way he couldn’t notice, with her chest at his eye level. She had shape, under that suit. More than a hint now. There were breasts and hips and a cinched-in waist. He shifted his gaze upwards and was immediately rewarded by a distinct flush to her cheeks. How about that? The lady was shy.

He cocked an eyebrow, questioning.

‘Clemengers owns three six-plus-star boutique hotels, located on prime sites in each of Sydney, Melbourne and Brisbane, and was founded by my late father over fifty years ago. Many of our staff have been with us for over twenty years, some more like forty. We’re a family company that never outgrew its roots, its original mission statement—to be the best, to give the best, to the best.

‘This downturn,’ she continued, ‘has affected us of course, but not to the same extent as it has Silvers. You have to ask yourself why.’

Domenic didn’t want to ask, not her, but he wanted to know. He hadn’t read anything about this in that report and one of the questions he was going to ask his finance manager once he got hold of him was why he had to learn this from the opposition, when he’d expected a comprehensive report.

‘You don’t want to know why?’ she asked.

‘I’m still listening,’ he conceded with a nod. ‘You tell me what you think.’

‘I know,’ she emphasised, ‘Clemengers offers more than just a place to stay. Clemengers offers an experience.’

‘You’re trying to say that Silvers doesn’t offer an experience? We’re one of the biggest hotel chains in the world. We would never have got there if we didn’t offer the best.’

‘But you don’t offer a point of difference. You offer a fine product, a quality five-star product, but it’s not the same thing. Just look at your clientele, for example—’

‘What’s wrong with it?’ he interjected. ‘Mick Jagger stayed in Silvers hotels during his last tour.’

‘Exactly,’ she continued. ‘You have rock stars, businessmen, and tourists who like comfort. Clemengers, on the other hand, has prime ministers, sheikhs and those who appreciate luxury.’

He pushed off from the desk, strode three paces across the room and turned around. ‘So what are you offering, then?’

‘Simply the chance to share in the most prestigious hotel market in Australia. The chance to benefit and learn from our methods, so that you might strengthen the rest of your business. I’m offering a share of Clemengers.’

It was a crazy proposal and certainly there was nothing at all like it mooted in the report he’d been wading through this morning. And yet maybe it was just the sort of strategy Silvers should be looking at. Maybe that was what was lacking in that report. It was so much ‘same old, same old’. Maybe it was about time someone thought outside the box.

‘So what’s in it for Clemengers? I can’t believe you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart, to strengthen your own competition.’

She crossed to the window, gazing out across the vista of harbour bridge and opera house, ferry traffic and sails on a harbour that sparkled and shimmered in the early-afternoon sun, though he suspected she saw none of it.

‘You could say,’ she said, still facing the window, ‘that Clemengers has a small cash-flow problem. My father took some bad advice that got him into trouble with the taxation department. I had no idea until after he died that we even had a problem. Six months ago I discovered how big that problem was. The banks were prepared to help—for a while.’ She shook her head. ‘We were making headway, until the latest tax office penalty notices came in. Now the banks won’t extend.’

‘How much is involved?’

She looked over and rattled off a figure that had him raising his eyebrows. ‘That’s exactly why the lawyers advised that Clemengers be sold. If the banks weren’t interested—where else could we go? And yet the business is profitable—I can show you the figures to back that up. It’s just that the outstanding back tax and penalties have to be paid, and soon.’

She sighed and gave a wan smile. Right now she looked tired. Tired and so vulnerable, not at all the intrepid, risk-taking female who’d pushed her way into his office demanding he listen to her proposal. Her head tilted to one side as she looked up at him.

‘Clemengers has quietly been on the market for two months—why hasn’t Silvers expressed any interest? For a business looking for solutions to its own problems, I would have thought someone might have made an expression of interest, or at least made some enquiries.’

Domenic didn’t know. His Australian finance director had never passed on the information that the boutique hotel business was for sale. And while he may have had good reason to have discounted any opportunities the Clemenger deal might offer, why was there not even a mention of it in the report?

There was one way to find out. ‘I think I’ve heard just about enough.’ He moved to the desk, picked up the phone and dialled the finance director’s number. She watched him from where she still stood, near the window, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, as if she’d been on the verge of saying something, copper flecks in her hair suddenly brought to life. Did she realise how beautiful she looked right now? Was that why she’d chosen that particular spot to stand, with the sunlight washing over her in a golden sheen?

Probably not, he decided while the phone rang at the other end, she seemed to lack the guile of the women he usually associated with.

Evan Hooper answered on the third ring and Domenic dragged his eyes from Opal and focused on the wall, where those peculiar eyes—not quite blue, not quite green—couldn’t distract him. ‘Evan, what can you tell me about the Clemengers sale?’

Opal drew in a deep breath. For a moment, just a moment, she’d thought he was going to call Security and have her thrown out. Instead, she was still in with a chance. And he just had to see the benefits—there was far too much at stake for him not to.

‘And the finances?’ Domenic’s terse questions to the finance director were meeting with very long answers.

‘Then why?’ His voice kicked up a few decibels before, on a muttered curse, he flung the phone down. For a second he stayed where he was, leaning his weight with his hands on the desk, his chest heaving, until he looked up at her and pushed himself upright. He swiped up his jacket.

‘Come on, then, Ms Clemenger. Or may I call you Opal?’

‘Of course, but—where are we going?’

‘Where do you think? You’re going to show me that six-plus-star hotel you’re so proud of.’

She motioned to the desk, the plates of food still untouched. ‘Your lunch…’ she said.

‘Leave it,’ he said, putting a hand under her arm and guiding her towards the door. His face turned to hers and she caught his scent—woody tones over a mantle of male. It suited him. His teeth flashed as his mouth paused to smile. ‘I want to see what you’ve got to offer.’

His touch was warm through her jacket, yet that still didn’t stop the shiver that coursed through her. He meant the hotel, of course. Why would she imagine for a minute that she’d seen something else in the dark, heady gaze he’d turned her way? Sure he might be a playboy, but he was hardly likely to come the playboy with her—she wasn’t the type, which was exactly the way she wanted it.

All she wanted from Domenic Silvagni was an investment, funds to ensure the future of Clemengers and its staff. If it took a playboy to save it, then so be it. Right now she couldn’t afford to be too choosy.

Deirdre Hancock was back at her desk when they left the office. If she was surprised or pleased to see them together, she was the consummate professional again and didn’t show it.

‘I’ll be out for the next couple of hours,’ he said as he surged by. ‘Would you arrange a car to pick us up downstairs?’

‘Certainly, Mr Silvagni. By the way, your father rang again. I told him you were in conference.’

He stopped dead in his tracks, allowing Opal the opportunity to slip from his arm and retrieve her folio from the chair where she’d left it earlier.

‘Did he leave a message?’

‘He wonders if you’re free Thursday evening in Rome. He and your mother have met a charming young woman they’d like to introduce you to.’

A noise like a deep snarl emanated from his throat.

‘Do you have a message for him?’ Deirdre asked.

‘No. I’ll deal with it later.’ Then he turned to Opal and held out his hand towards the lift and she fell into step alongside him. She glanced back over her shoulder and caught an uncharacteristic thumbs-up Deirdre sent her way. Thank you, she mouthed back.

He followed her into the lift, his size dwarfing hers in the reflection from the highly polished mirrors lining the interior. She turned to face the door, expecting Domenic to do the same, but he continued to face the back of the lift—and her—as the car hummed downwards. Her eyes sought anywhere to look but at him, and they sought refuge by studying the recession of numbers, which was altogether too slow for her liking.

But even avoiding his face, there was no escaping the raw heat of his proximity, the frank assessment of his gaze. Her body could feel it and responded, her skin tingling, her breasts firming, even as her eyes attempted to deny it. Even his scent, masculine and woody, seemed to taunt her. Try to ignore me, it mocked.

There was no ignoring him. But she could still show how unimpressed she was. Another time maybe she might have been intrigued, might have been attracted by the intense magnetism this man projected.

Another time and another man. But not now, not with Domenic Silvagni. Never with a playboy.

‘How old are you?’ he finally asked.

Her eyes snapped back to his. So that was what all the close inspection had been about. He’d been studying her for age lines. Given the adolescents he was used to dating, he was no doubt none too familiar with those.

‘Is that relevant?’

‘Twenty-four? Twenty-five?’

She straightened her spine, kicked up her chin. ‘How old are you?’

‘Thirty-two.’

‘Oh.’ Her indignation evaporated in the realisation she’d been churlish. He was only asking her age after all. It wasn’t exactly privileged information. ‘I was twenty-six in June.’

He arched one eyebrow high. ‘And neither married nor engaged. Why is that?’

Self-consciously she covered one hand with the other, even though it was patently already too late.

‘Maybe I have a boyfriend.’

‘And do you? I wouldn’t be surprised. You are a disarmingly beautiful woman.’

She felt the heat rise to her face and stared at the numbers—twenty-eight, twenty-seven—willing them to speed up before her cheeks were as red as the lights flashing their progress. ‘Disarmingly beautiful’—what kind of a backhanded compliment was that? But there was no way she was going to ask.

Instead she said, ‘I can’t see what that has to do with the sale of Clemengers.’

He spun back against the wall of the lift, head raised to the ceiling. ‘You’re right. This isn’t your problem.’

For a moment she was confused. Then realisation sank in. ‘The phone call,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘The phone call. My father thinks I should be married. My mother makes it her career to interview every finishing-school graduate or European princess she comes across.’

Opal was reminded of the women photographed with Domenic. Clearly neither finishing-school graduates nor princesses. So what did he expect? His parents were no doubt concerned he’d end up hitched to one of those photo opportunists. In spite of herself, she felt a smile flirt around the corners of her mouth. ‘I can see how that might be a problem—for someone like you.’

Her words snagged into him, their ragged edges scratching barbs across his consciousness. But if she expected that to put him on the defensive, she was very much mistaken. Notwithstanding his family connections, he hadn’t got to where he was by rolling with the punches. That was something Ms Clemenger was going to have to learn.

He swung around and took a step closer, cramping her up against the back of the lift before dropping an arm each side of her to the brass handrail. She was trapped.

He saw the fright flicker in her widening eyes, the spark of alarm that glowed red in their greenish-blue depths, and was glad. ‘Someone like me? That sounds very much like some kind of put-down, Ms Clemenger.’

But even as he waited for her response, something else happened in her eyes. The momentary flare cooled, a sheen of varnish turning them hard and cold and unreadable.

‘Opal,’ she said, only a touch shakily around the edges even though he could see the tightening white-knuckled grip on her folio, held up as a barrier between them. ‘I said you could call me Opal.’

In spite of himself, he liked the way she said her name. Liked the way her mouth opened and then pouted to form the ‘p’, widening once more until her pink tongue brushed her top teeth over the ‘l’. There was something very sexy about the way her lips made that word. Come to think of it, there was something very sexy about her lips, period.

If only her eyes gave the same message.

‘Opal,’ he said, his lips curling but a few centimetres from hers. ‘You wouldn’t try to put down the man who was thinking about saving your business?’

This time her eyes met his savagely. ‘And here was I thinking I was offering a solution for yours.’

He smiled. Those lips were so close he could just about reach over and sample them. ‘That’s not how it sounded to me.’

Now he had her nervous, her eyes darting from side to side, searching for escape almost as if she could read his mind. Her tongue flicked out, moistened her lips before darting back in.

‘So maybe you weren’t listening,’ she said, her eyes fixed on the wall to his left.

‘Oh, I’ve been listening,’ he crooned, ‘and watching, and wondering.’

Without Opal turning her head, her eyes found his before fleeing to fix on the wall once more.

‘Wondering what?’

He dropped his head even closer. ‘Whether that mouth tastes as good as it looks.’

He dipped his head, banishing the remaining few centimetres between them. His lips brushed hers, catching her sharp intake of air, and tasted warmth, life and just a hint of sweetness, before the lift doors behind him dinged, heralding their arrival at the ground floor and then opening with a whoosh.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, sounding a little bit breathless as she ducked her face, pushing past his arm and out to the freedom of the richly decorated marble foyer beyond. ‘I think this is where I get off.’

He watched her shapely rear view as she fled for the safety of the foyer. She was some surprise package all right. He’d set out to intimidate her, not kiss her, but that didn’t stop him thinking about the possibilities of a second chance.

‘Lady,’ he muttered under his breath as he followed her, ‘this ride has only just begun.’




CHAPTER THREE


SHE was a fool. Opal poured herself a cup of Earl Grey tea from the silver pot, watching a flurry of tiny leaves swirl and tumble through the amber liquid. She didn’t need to be a fortune-teller to know they were telling her the selfsame thing.

It was at least two hours since Domenic had pressed her against the back of the lift, had brushed her lips with his own and frozen her to the spot, and still she couldn’t think about anything else.

He would be back to finish his coffee any moment, after excusing himself to take a private call on his mobile phone, and here she was, still thinking about what might have happened if those lift doors had not opened when they had, when she should be thinking about how to convince him to invest in the business.

By all accounts he had been impressed with the luxury and sheer class of Clemengers, from the moment Sebastian, the doorman, had greeted their entry with a formal nod to them both, his top hat and tails setting the tone for the tour to follow. He’d appreciated the generous size and furnishings of the suites, the bold antique tones that decorated each room, their sumptuous furnishings spelling wealth, luxury and prestige, with not a bland pastel water-colour print in sight.

He hadn’t even balked when she’d shown him the figures, just studied them, nodding where he was clear, asking pertinent questions exactly where she’d expect anyone with the analytical ability to know when to drill down for further details.

Even the meal they’d just shared in The Pearl, Clemengers’ award-winning restaurant, had been beyond reproach. Thai chilli king prawns, followed by the most tender fillet of steak, served on fried sweet-potato wedges and topped with lobster medallions in a white-wine sauce. Domenic had made a point of meeting the chefs before coffee, to compliment them personally and discuss their attitudes, their philosophies and their aspirations.

He would be doing none of this if he weren’t seriously considering the idea of investing in Clemengers.

So it would be logical at this stage for her to be thinking about how she should close the deal. That would make sense. Close the deal and ensure Clemengers wasn’t about to be gutted or razed and turned into so many more flats. Close the deal and ensure Clemengers could continue operating into the future. Close the deal…

Which didn’t help explain one bit why she kept thinking about what had happened in the lift instead. Why was it so hard to forget about the gentle brush of his lips against hers, the heat of his breath next to her cheek, and the way his touch made her senses unfurl and open, like palm fronds given birth, stretching out into the humidity of a warm tropical morning?

He’d kissed her.

And she hadn’t even attempted to stop him. From the moment she’d sensed his lips descending, she’d forgotten entirely why she was there. Even more damning, she’d forgotten what he was. He was a playboy. The lowest kind of man.

Sure he might end up investing in the hotel. For the sake of Clemengers, she’d have to look past the man’s personal life. But she herself must never forget what he was. She should only think of her mother’s sad and empty life to remind her what that would cost.

Absently she stirred a half-teaspoon of sugar into her tea. It was quiet in the restaurant. People spoke in hushed tones. The waiting staff were efficient and non-invasive, with no clatter or rattle of flatware and cutlery, and it was as if the traffic outside in the busy Rocks area didn’t exist. But that didn’t stop the prickle of awareness steadily creeping up her neck, then needling down her arms.

She was imagining it. All this thinking of the episode in the lift—she was not thinking rationally, and she was in danger of making a fool of herself. Obviously Domenic would have forgotten about it already. No doubt such incidents meant absolutely nothing to a man who had trouble committing to just one woman. She took a deep breath and focused on placing the spoon on the saucer, gently tinkling silver against porcelain.

She shivered, the creepy feeling persisting in spite of all her logical explanations. On pure impulse she looked across to her right and instantly her eyes snagged at the sight of him, Domenic, standing stock still and…and watching her.

For a second the space in the room evaporated in the arc between their eyes. Nothing happened, yet something happened between them in that infinitesimal moment that Opal could only wonder at. She felt hot, cold, shivering and flushed, all in the same amazing second his unreadable gaze washed over her. And then, just when she thought she couldn’t look at him for a moment longer, he smiled and warmth filled her senses. Instinctively she knew the smile was for her and in spite of all her reservations, in spite of all the reasons why it shouldn’t, the warmth inside her bloomed to a slow burn.

Annoyed at her burning cheeks, she battled to drag her eyes away as he moved between the tables towards her, slipping his mobile telephone into the top pocket of his fine cotton shirt as he did so.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, resuming his seat. ‘My father would not be denied any longer. I’m afraid that no matter how important any business, family must come first.’

‘You don’t need to apologise,’ she said. ‘The twins—my two sisters—and I are very close, although I don’t see them now as often as I’d like.’

He took a sip of his long black and nodded approvingly. Even Clemengers’ own special blend of coffee seemed to find favour with him. ‘Tell me about them,’ he said.

She put down her cup, thankful for the opportunity to talk about her sisters, to think about someone else. ‘Well, they’re twenty-two. Sapphy—that’s Sapphire—is the eldest by ten minutes. She’s working in fashion design in Milan right now. She’s making quite a name for herself by all accounts while she works with one of the big fashion houses. One day she wants to have her own label. And the way she’s going, I believe she’ll get it.

‘Ruby lives in Broome while she gets first-hand knowledge of the pearl industry. Jewellery design is her first love. She’s done some fabulous pieces.’

‘And all of you are named after precious stones.’

She gave a small laugh. ‘That was my mother’s idea. She was the original Pearl. This restaurant,’ she made a sweeping gesture with her hand, ‘is named for her. She said we were all uniquely beautiful and inherently precious, and she wanted to give us names to reflect that.’

She paused, memories of her mother flooding back on a bitter-sweet tide. Her tender, sad-eyed mother, who had died alone when Opal was just nine, her spirit broken and her will to live erased. Her beautiful, gentle mother, whose only crime had been to love too much.

And everyone had thought she led the perfect life. A wealthy lifestyle, three beautiful little girls and even a plush restaurant named after her. No one else had seen the empty bed, the shame of her husband’s constant infidelities and the broken-down shell of her marriage.

No one but Opal. Old enough to feel her mother’s pain but far too young to be able to do anything about it, except swear that one day, some day, she would do something to help women who were trapped in marriages they couldn’t escape.

‘I approve of her philosophy.’

His words permeated her consciousness, dragging her from her reflections of her mother’s wasted life. ‘Do you?’ She gave a brief laugh. ‘I don’t know if Dad would have though, if she’d given him a son. Somehow I can’t imagine him tolerating a son called “Garnet”.’

His lips pulled into a grimace. ‘Perhaps not. How long ago did your father die?’

‘Two years.’ She frowned—that couldn’t be right. ‘No, more like two and a half now. A massive heart attack, apparently.’

‘That’s unfortunate,’ he said. ‘The stress of running hotels can be enormous, and I’ve found is often underrated by those outside the business.’

Opal looked out the window, feigning interest in the passing foot traffic, tourists visiting the various galleries and shops, red-faced businessmen returning to their offices after long liquid lunches.

Certainly people outside the industry had little or no idea of the stresses and strains of the business. Especially when coupled with the stresses and strains of trying to impress a nineteen-year-old pole dancer who was eager to prove herself very worthy of the position of the next Mrs Clemenger. Just maybe, if he’d spent more time stressing about their tax position, he would still be alive and the business wouldn’t be in this mess now.

‘And that left you in charge. Without even your sisters to help?’

It was her turn to shrug. There was no point in thinking about maybes. She couldn’t change what had happened; though at times that knowledge didn’t make the truth any easier to deal with. For if it hadn’t been that particular girl his father had died in the arms of, it could have easily been any of a raft of others, lining up to be taken care of by a rich man old enough to be their grandfather. It was a miracle he’d never taken that final step of marrying one of them. Obviously he was a man who liked to pick and choose, and at least it had saved the business that complication.

‘That’s just the way things turn out. And both Sapphy and Ruby have such artistic flair—it would be unfair to make them work in the hotel business when they have a calling in another field. Whereas I’ve had a passion for Clemengers ever since I can remember, always wanting to help, always wanting to be involved. I can’t imagine doing anything else.’

His eyebrows peaked. ‘Which is where I come in, I take it. It would be understandably hard to let go.’

His words bristled. For want of something to do she pushed aside her now empty teacup and saucer.

‘There’s more to saving Clemengers than what I want. For a start, there are more than two hundred staff who depend on this hotel chain continuing to operate for their own and for their families’ livelihoods.

‘And,’ she continued, ‘there’s a tradition. No one else provides the type and scale and class of accommodation as Clemengers. That has to be worth saving.’

He held up a hand. ‘And you say this McQuade is likely to win the tender? How can you know that in advance?’

Her lips tightened as she nodded, the name sticking into her as effectively as a knife. ‘I was due for an appointment with the broker and I was just paying the taxi driver when I overheard two office juniors discussing the bids over a cigarette outside the building.’

‘But you’re sure?’

‘No doubt at all. I was so shocked I confronted the broker and he eventually confirmed it. I can be pretty persuasive when I want to be, you know.’

The corners of his mouth turned up and his eyes gleamed. ‘I had noticed something of the sort.’

She looked up at him sharply, not entirely certain he wasn’t laughing at her.

‘So you need a bidder who will outbid McQuade.’

‘Yes,’ she said, recovering some composure. ‘The bids close tomorrow at five o’clock, so there’s not much time.’

‘I see. And assuming I win the tender, I assume control of Clemengers and its three hotels and everything that goes with it.’

‘Well, sort of.’ She licked her lips. ‘I was thinking maybe more of a share of the business.’

‘What do you mean, a share of the business? If my offer is the highest, I win the business lock, stock and barrel.’

‘In a way, but I thought that maybe if I continued to manage the operation, and run it as a separate entity within the Silvers hotel chain, then you might accept a smaller share.’

‘How much of a smaller share?’

‘I was thinking, maybe forty-nine per cent?’

‘Now you are joking.’ His voice went up a number of decibels. ‘You expect me to outbid every other offer in the market, each of which is for ownership of Clemengers outright, I assume…’ he took her silence as assent before continuing ‘…and yet I will own and control only forty-nine per cent. That is not a deal worth making. That is not a deal at all.’

‘I assure you it’s no joke. You get a large share of the business and you get continuity in management—good management. I will stay on, working with Clemengers and with Silvers Hotels, where required. And within a year you’ll be reaping the rewards of a positive cash flow and you’ll be able to use the techniques you find in Clemengers in Silvers’ own operations. There have to be huge spin-offs for your other hotels. So even with less than complete ownership, you’re still getting a great deal.’

It had to sound convincing. It was the only way she was going to be able to keep Pearl’s Place—the refuge she’d established in a run-down inner-city terraced house four years ago—open for business.

Pearl’s Place was her secret, something she’d done because even though she’d never been able to help her own mother, other women would have a place to go, a place to flee. She’d bought the property with her own money and most of her own personal allowance went direct to the refuge, but without control of Clemengers there was no doubt what small funding it required would be one of the first sacrifices of the new merger. If she could retain fifty-one per cent of the business, however, her secret would be safe and funding would be ensured.

It was a far better scenario than if McQuade’s offer succeeded. Then there would barely be enough to satisfy the demands of the taxation department and the banks. She’d be able to make some sort of contribution out of any remaining share of her own, but after that Pearl’s Place would be on its own. She wouldn’t let that happen.

He shook his head. ‘No. This is not complete ownership. It is not even control of the business you are offering. It is a junior partner you want, but for the greatest investment. No one would accept a deal that one-sided, least of all a Silvagni.’ His hand slammed down on the table so hard she flinched.

‘There is no way I would ever accept less than fifty per cent on principle, especially where I have just paid over the odds for one hundred per cent. But if you really think your management skills are worth something, I will ensure you receive a suitable remuneration package. It will be worth your while continuing.’

‘That’s all you can offer? After I have brought you this opportunity? Don’t you see that you wouldn’t even have had this chance if it weren’t for this huge tax liability hanging over our heads?’

‘That, as they say in the classics,’ he said, with a look of complete satisfaction, ‘is not my problem.’

‘But you would have missed out on this opportunity entirely without my intervention. Your finance department hadn’t even considered Clemengers’ sale as worthy of your notice. Surely, if the deal is worth something, you should be prepared to acknowledge that fact.’

‘And surely you realised that once the business was sold, you would lose control completely.’

‘Yes, but that was before I spoke with you. I thought you understood this business, could see the benefits of a joint operation.’

‘You forget, first and foremost, I am a businessman. I am not running a charitable institution.’

‘I am not looking for charity!’

‘Then why do you expect something from me that you have not asked from the other bidders?’

She couldn’t tell him. Not the real reason. ‘I just thought you were more attuned to the business, that you might understand. I now see I was wrong to expect you to look at it my way.’

‘So my offer still stands. A higher bid than McQuade, you end up with an appropriate remuneration package, and Clemengers is saved from the bulldozers.’

She was silent for a few seconds and Domenic wondered what was going through her mind. Her eyes swirled with colour and he could practically see the machinations going on behind them. She couldn’t be serious. Any normal person would be satisfied with saving her precious hotels from destruction. Well, she’d made her stand and he hoped she understood his. There was no way he’d accept anything less than one hundred per cent ownership. No way.

‘I’ll have to think about it,’ she said at last, rising from the table as if he’d been dismissed.

He looked up sharply without saying a word. He didn’t have to say a word—she should be able to tell he was furious. He’d just wasted hours and all for nothing. No one had ever turned down a deal like the one he was offering. No one would. No one in their right mind, that was.

He had to hand it to her. Here she was with a solid offer to save her business, by far the best offer she had on the table and the best offer she was going to get in the twenty-four hours she had left, and she wanted to think about it, as if the ball was in her court.

She was not like the people he usually dealt with; people who exchanged properties and investments and millions of dollars with hardly a blink, who knew when to take a good deal and when to break one. Who knew when they were asking too much.

Opal Clemenger didn’t fit that mould. Opal Clemenger came with her own. He let his eyes wander over her woven-silk-clad figure, the rise and fall of her chest betrayed by the play of light over the textured fabric, the swell of her hips accentuated by the nipped-in waist of her jacket, and felt his eyebrows rise in appreciation as his anger turned into an entirely different emotion.

It was some mould. Even through the expensive fabric, he could just about picture the skinscape underneath—the firm, silky breasts and the subtle hollows he’d find below her ribcage, the bare swell of her tummy and the dip to the rise of her hip bones, and then down, beyond…

What would she be like in bed? How would it feel to have those long legs wrapped around him, her breasts peaked and firm and her eyes flickering green and blue when she lost control?

He would pay dearly to find out. It was some time since he’d had a woman, and something told him Opal Clemenger would be all woman. No one could be as passionate as she was about saving her hotels, and yet be cold and lifeless in bed. That kind of passion didn’t just come with a cause. It came with character. It came from within.

No, Opal was as polished and refined as the gem whose name she bore, and just as he’d seen it in the precious stone he’d seen the fire and the flame that lurked within her, below the surface, the sparks that erupted when provoked.

And she was interesting to provoke. It was interesting to try and work out what made her tick. She needed his money, but still she treated him almost as if he was the enemy. Peculiar. Most women were too happy to agree with him and pander to his every need, yet she seemed happier when they were disagreeing.

It would be no easy task orchestrating her into his bed.

And he wanted her there. Wanted her lush curves bucking beneath him. Begging for more. Wild. Unrestrained. Insatiable.

And he would have her.

Maybe there was a way, a way that could satisfy them both.

She was looking at him strangely, as if she was expecting something, and he smiled to himself, knowing there was no way she’d be expecting him to make a complete turn-around. Why would she, when it was a surprise to even himself?

‘Maybe there’s a way we can work this out,’ he said at last.

She looked confused and tugged nervously at the hem of her Chanel jacket as he continued to sit. ‘I don’t see how, if you’re not prepared to accept less than one hundred per cent control.’

‘Maybe there’s a chance I will accept your conditions then,’ he said.

‘You will?’ She sat down again.

‘But only on one proviso,’ he added.

He followed the bump in her neck as it moved, the gentle rise and fall of her throat, as she swallowed back her nervousness.

‘And that proviso is…?’

‘It’s quite simple,’ he started, ‘and no doubt something we can both benefit from. You’ll get the white knight you need to bail out your business and I’ll get an interest in a six-star hotel chain that has much to offer.’

She looked lost for a while, her features searching for the answer. ‘But…how is this different from the offer I made you before?’

‘Quite simply, I will pay what you require and accept a forty-nine per cent share of the business. Something, I must point out, a Silvagni has never done. You only have to agree to do one thing.’

‘And…and what would that be?’

He looked her squarely in the eyes. ‘Marry me, Opal Clemenger. I will invest in your hotel chain, on your terms, if you will agree to become my wife.’




CHAPTER FOUR


‘YOUR wife! You have to be kidding. Why the hell would I want to agree to that?’ Opal noticed the turned heads, remembered where she was and sucked in a deep breath. ‘I think it might be a sensible idea to conclude this matter in my office.’

In truth it was an attempt to gain breathing space. As soon as she had him in the office she was telling him where to well and truly get off. It would not be a prolonged conversation.

He followed her, too close, unnecessarily close, so that his expensive cologne taunted her, even though it was she who led the way to her modestly sized but well-appointed office.

Dammit—it wasn’t his cologne taunting her. It was him. He projected an aura of power and control that filled the small space of her office and made her wish she’d thought of somewhere roomier, maybe the boardroom, for this confrontation. There was nowhere here to get away from Domenic Silvagni, and right now she wanted to be as far away from him as she could get. But first, she had to put paid to his ridiculous suggestion.

Standing with her back to the wall, she crossed her arms, all too aware of the heart hammering away inside her chest. ‘My offer of a share in Clemengers,’ she said, with all the calmness she could muster, ‘is a serious one. I’d appreciate it if you treated it accordingly.’

He smiled from his position near the closed door, tilting his head to one side and sliding his hands casually into his pockets. Her eyes followed the movement, the fine shirt exposed, the perfect fit of his clothes all but screaming the firmness of the body beneath. She swallowed and dragged her eyes back to his face, where the smile slid away and his eyes took on a predatory gleam.

‘I’m perfectly serious. You agree to marry me and I’ll rescue your precious hotels. It’s quite simple.’

‘It’s quite ridiculous!’

‘And expecting me to come away from this deal with only a minor partner’s share is not?’ His hands flew from his pockets, sweeping through the air in a potent Mediterranean gesture as he moved closer to the desk between them. ‘Surely you didn’t expect me to agree to your demands so easily. Surely you would have expected me to have counter-demands.’

‘But marriage? You must have some ego if you think I would be falling over myself to agree to that!’

‘You would prefer, perhaps, to become my mistress?’

The shock must have been all too obvious on her face and he seemed to take a sadistic pleasure from it. ‘The idea is not without its attraction…’ He paused, studying her closely, his gaze searing a trail along the length of her, while he stroked his chin, as if seriously considering the idea. ‘But no, I think my parents would be happier if I was finally to put a ring on a woman’s finger.’

‘I will be neither your mistress nor your wife.’

‘You think marriage to me would be such an imposition?’ He moved closer, hands on hips, until less than a metre separated them. ‘You are a very beautiful woman. I see the fire in your eyes, even though you try to pretend it’s not there. I think we could be very good together.’

‘You seem to think, Signor Silvagni,’ she whispered in almost a snarl, determined not to let him intimidate her by his proximity, ‘I have some interest in you as a man. Let me put it to you straight, so there are no more misunderstandings. This is a business transaction, pure and simple. I’m not interested in your body—just your money.’

Eyebrows raised, he looked down at her, and lifted one hand, gently tracing the pad of his thumb across her lips. ‘Are you entirely sure about that?’

‘Oh, quite sure,’ she said, when the thumping in her heart had quietened enough for her to speak. ‘I never put sex before business.’





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