ANTONIETTA WAS UP long before the Sicilian winter sun. For a while she lay in the dark bedroom of her little stone cottage, listening to the sound of the waves rolling in and crashing on the rocks below. It might have worked in the meditation of monks of old, and it might be a tranquil backdrop for the guests, but it brought little peace to Antonietta.
It was two weeks until Christmas and since her return there had been little progress with her family. If anything the situation had worsened, with rude stares and muttered insults whenever she ventured into the village, and when she had gone to her parents’ home the door had been closed in her face by her father.
Yet she had glimpsed a pained look in her mother’s eyes from the hallway—as if her mamma had something she wanted to say.
It was for that reason Antonietta persisted.
Sylvester had married and moved away from the village, so there was little chance of bumping into him. And it was good to walk on the beach or in the hillsides she knew. Work was going incredibly well too; her colleagues were friendly and supportive and her training was first class.
Having showered, she went into her wardrobe to select her uniform. It varied—when she was working at the Oratory she wore white, but today she was working on cleaning the suites, so would need her regular uniform.
But as she went to take out her uniform her fingers lingered on the new addition to her wardrobe.
Yes, Aurora was a wonderful seamstress indeed, and the scarlet dress had arrived yesterday! However, just as Antonietta had been reluctant to hand over the fabric, she was even more reluctant to try it on. The dress was bold and sensual and everything she was not.
Still, there was not time for lingering. Her shift started soon, so she pulled out her uniform and got dressed.
The uniforms were actually stunning: the Persian orange linen went well with her olive skin and her slender figure suited the cut of the dress. Antonietta wore no make-up, either in or out of work, so getting ready didn’t take long. She pulled her hair into a neat ponytail and then, having slipped on a jacket, made her way across the grounds towards the monastery.
Her little cottage was quite some distance from the main building. Still, it was a pleasant walk, with the sky turning to navy as the sleepy stars readied themselves to fade for the day, and there was a crisp, salt-laden breeze coming in from the Mediterranean.
And there was already activity at the Old Monastery!
A couple of dark-suited gentlemen were walking around the perimeter of the building and Pino, the chief concierge, was looking very dapper this morning as he greeted her warmly. ‘Buongiorno, Antonietta.’
‘Buongiorno, Pino,’ she responded.
‘We have a new guest!’
The hotel housed many guests, but with the extra security visible Antonietta had already guessed there was a VIP in residence.
Pino loved to gossip and was determined to fill her in. ‘We are to address him as Signor Louis Dupont. However...’ Pino tapped the side of his nose ‘...the truth is he is really—’
‘Pino...’ Antonietta interrupted.
She adored Pino, and always arrived early to allow herself time to chat with him. Pino had recently lost his beloved wife of forty years, Rosa, and she knew that work was the only thing keeping him sane. Still, given that Antonietta was already a main source of gossip in the village, she refused to partake in it now.
‘If that is how he wants to be addressed, then that is enough for me.’
‘Fair enough,’ Pino said, and then he took a proper look at her. ‘How are you doing, Antonietta?’
‘I’m getting there,’ she said, touched that with all that was going on in his world he still took the time to ask about her. ‘How about you?’
‘I’m not looking forward to Christmas. Rosa always made it so special. It was her favourite time of the year.’
‘What will you do? Are you going to visit your daughter?’
‘No, it is her husband’s family’s turn this year, so I’ve told Francesca that I’ll work. I decided that would be better than sitting at home alone. What about you—has there been any progress with your family?’
‘None,’ Antonietta admitted. ‘I have been to the house several times but they still refuse to speak with me, and my trips to the village are less than pleasant. Perhaps it’s time I accept that I’m not wanted here.’
‘Not true,’ Pino said. ‘Not everyone is a Ricci—or related to one.’
‘It feels like it.’
‘Things will get better.’
‘Perhaps—if I live to be a hundred!’
They shared a small wry smile. Both knew only too well that grudges lasted for a very long time in Silibri.
‘You’re doing well at work,’ Pino pointed out.
‘Yes!’
And the fact that she had committed to the therapy course was the main reason Antonietta had stayed even when it had become clear that her family did not want her around. With each shift, both as a chambermaid and while training as a therapist, she fell in love with her work a little more. Working at the Old Monastery was so different from the bars and café jobs that had supported her while she lived in France, and she preferred the tranquil nature of Silibri to the hustle and bustle of Rome.
‘Work has been my saviour,’ she admitted.
‘And mine,’ Pino agreed.
As she walked into the softly lit foyer the gorgeous scent of pine reached her, and Antonietta took a moment to breathe it in. Apart from the stunning Nebrodi fir tree, adorned with citrus fruits, there were no other Christmas decorations. As Nico had pointed out, many of their guests were retreating to escape Christmas, and did not need constant reminders—but Aurora, being Aurora, had insisted on at least a tree.
Still, thought Antonietta, as magnificent and splendid as the tree was, it was just a token, and somehow it just didn’t feel like Christmas once had in Silibri.
Heading into the staff room, she dropped off her bag and jacket and made her way to the morning briefing from Maria, the head of housekeeping.
Francesca, the regional manager, was also in early, and was looking on as the chambermaids were informed that a new guest had just arrived into the August Suite, which was the premier suite of the hotel.
‘I don’t have his photo yet,’ said Maria.
All the staff would be shown his photograph, so he could be recognised and greeted appropriately at all times, and so that all charges could be added to his suite without any formalities.
‘Signor Dupont is to be given top priority,’ Francesca cut in. ‘If there are any issues you are to report them directly to me.’
Ah, so that was the reason she was here so early, Antonietta thought. She was always very aware of Francesca. Antonietta liked her, but because Francesca was a close friend of her mother there was a certain guardedness between them.
‘Antonietta, that is where you shall be working today,’ Maria continued with the handover. ‘When you are not busy, you can assist Chi-Chi in the other superior suites, but Signor Dupont is to take priority at all times.’
Antonietta had been surprised at how quickly she had moved through the ranks. She was now regularly allocated the most important guests and Francesca had told her she was perfect for the role.
The August, Starlight and Temple Suites were sumptuous indeed, and the guests they housed could be anything from visiting royalty to rock stars recovering from their excesses, or even movie stars recuperating after a little nip and tuck.
The reason that Antonietta was so perfectly suited to working in the suites was her rather private nature. She had enough problems of her own and didn’t care to delve into other people’s. Nor did she have stars in her eyes, and she was not dumbstruck by celebrity, fame or title. Generally polite conversation was all that was required, and Antonietta could certainly do that. Silence was merited on occasion, and she was more than happy to oblige. She was polite to the guests, if a little distant, but she did her work quietly and well and let the guests be.
At the end of the handover, Francesca pulled Antonietta aside and gave her the pager for the August Suite. She offered a little more information.
‘Signor Dupont has declined the services of a butler. He has stated that he wants privacy and is not to be unnecessarily disturbed. Perhaps you can sort out with him the best time to service his suite—he might want to get it over and done with—but I shall leave that to you.’
A guest in the August Suite could have the rooms serviced a hundred times a day if he so demanded.
‘Also, Signor Dupont might need some assistance getting out of bed. If he—’
‘I am not a nurse,’ Antonietta interrupted. She had firm boundaries.
‘I know that,’ Francesca said, and gave her rather surly chambermaid a tight smile. ‘Signor Dupont already has a nurse—although he seems rather testy and insists that he does not need one. Should he require her assistance, she can be paged. I should warn you that he is very bruised, so don’t be shocked.’
‘Okay.’
‘Antonietta, I probably shouldn’t tell you who he is, but—’
‘Then please don’t,’ Antonietta cut in.
For her it really was as simple as that. She did not gossip and she did not listen to gossip either. Oh, the staff here were wonderful, and their gossip was never malicious. Certainly it would not reach the press, which was why there were so many exclusive guests at the hotel.
The same courtesy was extended in the village. The locals were all thrilled at the vibrancy that had returned to the town with the new hotel, and so the Silibri people looked after its guests as their own. In fact, they looked after the guests better than their own—Antonietta had been treated shabbily by many of them.
‘I don’t want to know his real name, Francesca,’ she said now, ‘because then I might slip up and use it. Tell me only what I need to know.’
‘Very well—he has his own security detail and you will need to show them your ID. He’s booked in until Christmas Eve. Although, from what I gather, I believe it is doubtful he will last until then.’
‘He’s dying?’ Antonietta frowned.
‘No!’ Francesca laughed. ‘I meant he will grow bored. Now, he wants coffee to be delivered promptly at seven.’
‘Then I had better get on.’
Francesca carried on chatting as they both made their way to the kitchen. ‘I have just finalised the roster,’ she told her. ‘And I have you down for an early start on Christmas Day.’
Antonietta stopped in her tracks, and was about to open her mouth to protest, but then Francesca turned and she saw the resigned, almost sympathetic look on her manager’s face. Francesca wasn’t just telling her that she was to work on Christmas Day, Antonietta realised. Her mother must have made it clear to her friend that Antonietta would not be invited to partake in the family’s festivities.
‘Working is better than sitting alone in that cottage,’ Francesca said as they resumed walking and headed into the kitchen. ‘I shall be here too, and so will Pino and Chi-Chi...’
All the lonely hearts were working over Christmas then, Antonietta thought sadly.
‘I’m on over Christmas too,’ said Tony, the very portly head chef—which only confirmed Antonietta’s thoughts.
Tony was married to his job, and put all his care and love into his food, and there was no exception this morning. There was a huge silver pot of coffee for their new guest, and cream and sugar, but there was also a basket of pastries and bread, a meat and cheese platter, and a fruit platter too. All the chefs, and especially Tony, could not refrain from adding Sicilian flair to every dish.
‘Tony,’ Antonietta pointed out as she checked the order, ‘he only ordered coffee, but you have prepared a feast.’
‘He is a guest.’ Tony shrugged.
‘And he’s a big man!’ Francesca said, holding out her hands high and wide. ‘Huge! He needs to eat!’
It was the Silibri way—even in the poorest home there would be biscotti and pizzelles served alongside coffee. There was no point arguing, so Antonietta wheeled the trolley towards the elevator.
The monastery had been refurbished to perfection, and although it still looked ancient, it had all mod cons. Antonietta often saw the guests blink in surprise when they stepped behind a stone partition to reach the discreet elevator.
She took the elevator up to the top floor and, alone for a moment, slumped against the wall as she dwelt on the message behind Francesca’s words. It really was time to accept that her family simply didn’t want her. It was time to move on.
Where, though?
Back to France, perhaps? Or to Rome?
But she hadn’t felt she had belonged in either place, and there was still her training to complete...
Catching sight of her reflection, she straightened up and gave herself a mental shake. It wasn’t the guest’s fault that she was feeling blue, and she put on her game face as she stepped out and wheeled the trolley across the cloister, past the Starlight and Temple Suites, and across to the August Suite.
A suited man stood as she neared. She had known guests to bring their own security detail before, but never to this extent. What with the extra guards outside and within, this guest must be important indeed.
The guard was not exactly friendly, but without a word he looked at the photo on her lanyard and then checked Antonietta’s face before stepping aside to let her past.
She knocked gently on the large wooden door. There was no response so, as she’d been trained to do, Antonietta let herself in with a swipe of her key card. Once inside, she turned on a side light and wheeled the trolley through the dimly lit lounge and over to the entrance to the main bedroom. She gave the door a gentle knock.
No response.
Another gentle knock and then, as she carefully opened the door, Antonietta called his name. ‘Signor Dupont?’
Again there was no response, and though the room was in darkness it was clear to her that he was asleep. His breathing was deep and even, and judging from his outline Antonietta could see that he lay on his stomach in the large four-poster bed, with a sheet covering him.
‘I have coffee for you,’ Antonietta said quietly. ‘Would you like me to open the drapes? The sun is just about to rise.’
‘Si.’ He stirred in the bed as he gave his groggy reply.
Antonietta headed to the drapes to open them, though it was not a simple matter of pulling them apart. The windows were vast and the dark velvet curtains heavy; pulling with both hands on the cord was truly like parting the curtains at a theatre, as if a play was about to unfold before her eyes.
The August Suite was her favourite. It occupied an entire wing of the Old Monastery, which allowed for panoramic views. The view from the lounge looked across the ocean, and the dining room looked over the valley, but here in the master bedroom there was a view of the ancient temple ruins.
Antonietta drank it in for a moment. There, as fingers of red light spread across the sky, the ocean danced to the rising sun and she felt she could happily gaze on it for ever. The view, though, was not hers to enjoy just now.
Antonietta turned around, and as she did so she started slightly when she first laid eyes on the guest.
He was nothing like she had imagined. From Francesca’s description she had been expecting a possibly aging, somewhat bedridden and rather large man. But, while he was indeed large, he was certainly not overweight. Instead he was incredibly tall, judging by the amount of space he took up in the large bed. He was also broad and muscular, and thankfully covered by the sheet where it mattered.
And she guessed he might be around thirty.
Francesca had been right, though, to warn her about the bruises, for they really were shocking—purple and black, they covered his arms and chest and one eye, and his top lip was swollen. Signor Dupont, or whatever his real name was, had thick black hair that was rather messy, and also very matted—Antonietta guessed with blood. Of course she made no comment, but for the first time she found herself more than a little curious as to what had happened to a guest.
‘Poor decision,’ Signor Dupont said, and she guessed he was referring to the sun, for he was shielding his eyes as he struggled to sit up in the bed.
‘I can close them...’ Antonietta offered.
‘No, leave them.’
He would get used to the bright light soon, Rafe told himself, even as his pulse roared in his ears. But brighter than the sun were the shards of memory painfully surfacing in his brain—the absolute knowledge that this fall had been serious.
Rafe did not fear death for himself, but for a seemingly endless moment he had glimpsed the grief and chaos he would leave behind and had fought to right himself. He could not shake the memory of the looks of horror on his bodyguards’ faces, the sense of panic all around, which seemed at odds with the soft voice speaking to him now.
‘Would you like me to pour your coffee, Signor Dupont?’
For a moment he wondered who she was referring to. And then he remembered.
Ah, yes, security was extra-tight, for it would be disastrous if news of this near-miss leaked out.
So Rafe nodded and watched as the maid poured his drink, but as she removed one of the linen covers on the tray the sweet scent of bread and pastry reached him, and with it a wave of nausea.
‘I only asked for coffee.’
‘Ah, but you are in Silibri,’ she responded. ‘Here there is no such thing as “just coffee.”’
‘Please tell the chef that he is not to misinterpret my orders,’ Rafe snapped.
‘I shall pass that on.’
‘Leave and take the trolley with you.’ He dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
‘Of course.’
Antonietta was only too happy to go. ‘Testy’ didn’t come close to describing him. However, there was one thing that needed to be sorted out before she left. ‘When would you like me to return and service the suite, Signor Du—?’
‘Please!’ His interruption was irritated rather than polite, and his dark eyes held hers in reprimand. ‘Don’t call me that again. Just use my first name.’
‘Very well.’ Antonietta felt a nervous flutter in her stomach, and it had nothing to do with his surly tone, and more to do with the deep navy of his eyes, which reminded her of the sky that morning. ‘So, Louis, when would you—?’
‘Rafe!’ he snapped, and then softened his tone. It was not her fault there were so many restrictions on publicising his identity. ‘You are to call me Rafe. And, no, I do not want my room serviced. If you could make up the bed while I have my coffee, that will suffice.’
He moved to climb out of bed, but then perhaps he got dizzy, because instead of heading to the bedside chair he remained sitting on the edge with his head in his hands, his skin turning from pale to grey.
He should be in hospital, Antonietta thought. ‘Would you like me to—?’
‘I can manage,’ he snapped.
They’d both spoken at the same time, and Antonietta had not finished her sentence. Now she did. ‘Would you like me to fetch the nurse to help you get out of bed?’
For some reason what she said caused him to lift his head from his hands and look at her. Antonietta was sure he almost smiled, but then his expression changed to austere.
‘I don’t need a nurse and I don’t need the bed linen changed. Please, just leave.’
His tone was still brusque, but Antonietta took no offence. It was clear to her that Louis—or rather Rafe—loathed being seen in a weakened state. He was holding tightly on to the bedside table with one hand, while the other gripped the mattress, and she was certain he would prefer to be alone than have anyone witness him like this.
‘Would you like me to come back later?’
‘No.’ He gave a shake of his head, which must have hurt, because he halted midway. ‘I really don’t want to be disturbed today—if you could let everybody know?’
‘I shall.’
‘And could you block out the sun before you leave?’
It was a slightly oddly worded request, and only then did she realise that Italian wasn’t his first language. It took a second to place, but she soon realised that his Italian was tinged with an accent she loved—French.
She wanted to delve. For the first time ever Antonietta wanted to know more about a guest. He had asked that she use his real name—Rafe—and now she wanted to know it in full. She wanted to know where he was from and what had led him to this Silibri retreat to heal in secret.
Antonietta wanted to know more about this man.
But instead she wheeled out the trolley while the room was still light, and then returned. ‘I’ll close the drapes and then get out of your way. But, please, if you need anything then don’t hesitate to page me.’
Rafe nodded and glanced at her, and was slightly bemused when he noticed her eyes. It wasn’t so much that they were as black as treacle, and thickly lashed, it was more that he had never seen such sadness. Oh, it was not anything tangible—she was not downcast or grim—but there was an abject melancholy in them that tugged him out of deep introspection. And that was no mean feat, for Rafe had a lot on his mind.
An awful lot.
The black-eyed maid took out the trolley, and by the time she returned Rafe was back in bed. Before closing the drapes, she topped up the water by his bed.
‘Thank you,’ Rafe said, once the room was mercifully back to darkness. He actually meant it, for she had worked unobtrusively and had not, unlike so many others, pushed for conversation, nor dashed to help unasked. He almost smiled again when he remembered her offer to fetch the nurse rather than assist herself.
‘What is your name?’ he asked.
‘Antonietta.’
And that was that.
Well, almost.
She wheeled the trolley back to the elevator and then went down to the kitchen and picked up the tablet to make a note of his requests. The internal computer system for the domestic staff was easy to navigate—she checked the box to say that he had declined having his suite serviced and added a note that he was not to be disturbed.
Yet she lingered a second.
His photo was up now, and she flushed as she looked at his elegant features. He wore black dress trousers and a white fitted shirt and there was a scowl on his lips and his eyes were narrowed, as if warning the photographer off.
She accidentally clicked on his profile, but there was only his pseudonym there.
Signor Louis Dupont.
VVIP
So, he was very, very important.
And in the box where normally a guest’s requests were noted there was instead a direction.
All queries and requests to be directed to Francesca.
All hours.
‘Is everything okay, Antonietta?’
She turned to the sound of Francesca’s voice and saw she was chatting with Tony.
‘Of course. I was just about to make a note regarding a guest but I’m not able to fill it in.’
‘Because all Signor Dupont’s requests are to be relayed first to me,’ said Francesca.
‘He didn’t even try one of my pastries?’ Tony was aghast when he saw that the trolley had been returned untouched.
Francesca, of course, thought she should have done better. ‘You should have left a selection for him to nibble on.’
‘He made himself very clear,’ Antonietta said, blushing a bit as she did so, knowing that Rafe’s lack of compliments to the chef would not go down well. ‘I was just about to make a note—he has asked that the chef...’ she hesitated and slightly rephrased Rafe’s message ‘...should please not add anything to his order.’
Even that did not go down well.
Tony flounced off and she later found out from Vincenzo, the head of PR, that he had been discovered in tears.
‘You know how temperamental Tony is,’ he scolded her. ‘And he’s especially upset today because the Christmas rosters are out. Could you not at least have diluted such a prominent guest’s criticism?’
‘But I did dilute it,’ Antonietta said. ‘Anyway, I thought Tony was happy to be working on Christmas Day.’
Vincenzo just huffed off, leaving Antonietta wondering what on earth she’d said wrong this time. Still, there wasn’t time to dwell, and for the rest of the day she worked with Chi-Chi. Or rather Antonietta worked while Chi-Chi did the slowly-slowly.
The slowly-slowly was a way to look busy while getting precisely nothing done, and Chi-Chi had perfected it. She had even tried to share her method with Antonietta.
‘You can doze in the cleaning room, but keep some dusters on your lap, so that if Francesca pops her head in you can look as if you’re in the middle of folding them,’ Chi-Chi had explained when Antonietta had first started working there. ‘But never cross your legs while you sleep or it will leave a red mark on your calf, and Francesca will be able to tell you’ve been in there for ages.’
‘I don’t want a bar of it,’ Antonietta had told her.
She had known Chi-Chi her whole life, but she wasn’t a friend, exactly, just someone she knew and, unfortunately, with whom she now worked. Chi-Chi’s aim in life was to find a husband and do as little as she could get away with in the meantime. Once, Antonietta had actually seen her dozing on her arm as she supposedly cleaned a mirror, only to suddenly spring into action when Antonietta made her presence known!
‘I saw your papà yesterday,’ Chi-Chi said as she ate one of the turn-down chocolates while Antonietta dusted. ‘He couldn’t stop and speak for long, though, but he said he was busy getting things ready for the Christmas Eve bonfire. Will you be going?’ she enquired, oh, so innocently.
‘Of course,’ Antonietta said. ‘The fire in the village square is a tradition. Why wouldn’t I go?’
Chi-Chi shrugged and helped herself to another chocolate. ‘What is he like?’ she asked.
‘My papà?’ Antonietta said, pretending she had no idea to whom Chi-Chi was referring.
‘No, silly! The new man who is staying in the August Suite. I wonder what his real name is? He must be important. I have never seen so much security.’
‘All our guests are important,’ Antonietta said, refusing to be drawn.
Still, at the mention of the August Suite, and not for the first time, Antonietta glanced at her pager. But, no, Rafe had not paged her. Nor, when she checked, had he made any requests for in-suite dining. In fact later that afternoon she found out that his nurse had been given her marching orders for daring to make an unscheduled check on her patient.
Rafe had clearly meant what he’d said about not wanting to be disturbed.
At the end of her shift, as she walked back to her little cottage, Antonietta found she was glancing up in the direction of the August Suite. It was too far away for her to tell if he was on the balcony, but she wondered about him, wondered how he had spent his day and how he was.
For the first time ever Antonietta truly wondered about a man...