Читать книгу The Greek's Pregnant Cinderella - Мишель Смарт, Michelle Smart - Страница 9

TABITHA BRIGSTOCK WHEELED her trolley to the laundry room and heaved the sack of dirty linen and towels from the suites she’d spent the morning cleaning into the white dirty washing tub, then left the laundry to wheel the trolley further up the corridor to the storage room, where she locked it away with the other trollies. Her hands were red and sore but there was no time to go to her room to rub the hand lotion on them that sometimes stopped them cracking too badly. The staff quarters were right at the other end of the hotel, a good fifteen-minute walk away.

Instead she climbed the stairs and headed to the far end of the first floor. She knocked on the door out of habit then used her master key to unlock it.

‘Hi, Mrs Coulter,’ she said cheerfully as she walked into the opulent suite. ‘How are you feeling? Sorry I couldn’t pop in earlier but they needed me to help out on the second floor.’

At eighty-three, Mrs Coulter was the oldest guest at Vienna’s Basinas Palace Hotel and had been in residence for three months. The poor woman had been floored by a virus that had left her bed-bound for two weeks. Tabitha had been very concerned and had taken to dropping in on her regularly to make sure she was okay. Thankfully, Mrs Coulter had been much improved the last couple of days, and today she was up and dressed and eating her lunch at the table by the window that overlooked the palace’s vast grounds.

Mrs Coulter smiled, the twinkle in her eye that had been missing all week very much back. ‘I’m feeling much better, thank you. And thank you for getting Melanie to check on me earlier.’

‘Not a problem. I’ve got the vitamins you asked for.’ She pulled the small plastic pot out of her handbag and put it on the table.

Gnarled arthritic hands covered hers. ‘You are an angel. Will you sit and have a cup of tea with me?’

As Tabitha still had twenty minutes of her lunch break left, she took the offered seat and poured them both a cup from the bone-china pot.

It felt wonderful to sit after six straight hours of physical exertion. The hotel was in a state of great excitement. The Greek owner, Giannis Basinas, was hosting a masquerade ball there that evening for the world’s elite.

Tabitha had caught a glimpse of him earlier. She’d just finished cleaning a room and was wheeling her trolley down the corridor when he’d strolled past. Her heart had soared to see him but, as normal, he didn’t spare her so much as a glance.

In the five months since she’d started working there, she had seen the billionaire widower, who was rumoured to be descended from Greek royalty, only a handful of times. The Basinas Palace Hotel was but a small part of his vast empire. When he did bother to show his face in Vienna, the excitement and fear amongst the staff was palpable. The hotel had once been a royal palace and was now regarded as Europe’s most prestigious hotel with a price tag to match. Working there was a coup in itself but, should standards be deemed to have dropped, the risk of being fired was all too real.

Tabitha could not afford to lose her job and had no idea what it was about Giannis that meant every rare glimpse of him played on her mind so much or made her stomach come alive with butterflies. As a live-in member of staff, to be fired would be to be made homeless. The salary here was much better than her old job in a small English hotel, and the tips were often amazing, but even with all the overtime she grabbed she still hadn’t saved anywhere near enough for a deposit on her own home.

That was all she wanted. A place of her own. A home where she could be safe. A home that no one could ever take away from her.

‘I was hoping you would come see me this lunchtime,’ Mrs Coulter said.

Tabitha raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you ready for a game of cards?’ The two women had taken to playing rummy most days when Tabitha’s day shift was over.

‘My head’s still too fuzzy for that, my dear. No, I wanted to discuss tonight’s ball.’

‘The masquerade ball?’

‘Is there another one I should know about?’

Tabitha laughed. ‘I hope not. I’m grateful for the extra shifts it’s giving me but I’d need a holiday to recoup if we had another one too soon.’ And she could not afford a holiday.

The twinkle reappeared in Mrs Coulter’s eye. ‘I have a ticket for it.’

‘No way!’ Tickets for the ball were forty-thousand euros. To have the privilege of forking out that astronomical amount of money, you had to be invited. To be invited, you had to be rich and part of the global elite. It was an open secret that all the single women who’d been invited were under the age of thirty, the rumour—not denied—being that Giannis Basinas was using the ball as a means of finding himself a new wife. Mrs Coulter was rich and recently widowed but she was not part of the global elite and she absolutely was not under the age of thirty. ‘How did you get that?’

Mrs Coulter winked and tapped her nose. ‘A lady has her secrets, dear.’

Tabitha felt a surge of excitement for her. To go to the ball... She’d seen all the preparations for it, heard all the whispered talk, and it was obvious it was going to be the ball of century. ‘Do you want me to do your hair and nails for it? My shift finishes at four, so I’ll have time...’

‘No, dear. The ticket is for you.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I bought the ticket for you.’

Tabitha was momentarily struck dumb. She stared at the wizened old woman with the white wispy hair and twinkling eyes and wondered when she’d gained such an evil sense of humour. It had to be a joke. Who would spend forty-thousand euros on a ticket to a ball for a chambermaid?

The gnarled hand covered hers again. ‘Tabitha,’ she said earnestly. ‘You have been a godsend to me. You have looked after me since I first arrived in Vienna and often in your own personal time. You’ve cared for me this week when my own selfish children could hardly be bothered to call to see if I was okay. You work your fingers to the bone for little money and you never complain. You’re a ray of sunshine in a dark world and I wanted to show my love and appreciation for all that you do.’

Tabitha swallowed. A ray of sunshine? Her?

The only people who had ever said such nice things to her had been her father and paternal grandmother. Her lovely grandmother had died when she’d been seven but her memories of her were strong. Mrs Coulter had the same mischievous twinkle her grandmother had had and the same easy affection. Tabitha supposed that was what had drawn her to the elderly lady to begin with and partly why she felt such deep affection for her.

‘The ticket is in my name. Tonight, you will be Amelia Coulter, and you will dance with handsome men and drink champagne and spend an evening being who you were born to be.’

Tabitha blinked, partly to push back the tears threatening to spill down her face and partly in shock.

Being who you were born to be...?

She had spent the past four years trying her hardest to forget her birth right. The memories were too painful. All she could do was tackle each day as it came and look to the future.

Her heart thumped. Did Mrs Coulter know...?

The twinkling eyes were steady on hers. If Mrs Coulter knew Tabitha’s true identity, she was keeping her cards close to her chest.

But Tabitha had never hidden her true self. Her name was the only thing her stepmother had been unable to take from her. She’d taken everything else, though. Her home, her education, her money, her future...

‘Take a look in my wardrobe. Go on, dear.’

On legs that felt strangely drugged, Tabitha stepped through to the bedroom.

‘Right-hand door,’ Mrs Coulter called.

‘What am I looking for?’

‘You’ll see.’

And she did see.

When she opened the right-hand door of the wardrobe, all that hung on the rail was a floor-length ball gown that could have leapt off the pages of a fairy tale.

She stretched out a hand and ran her fingers over the delicate material, her eyes soaking up the pastel-pale pinks and greens overlaid with embellished gold-threaded patterns and encrusted with jewels and the palest of pink roses. An eighteenth-century princess would have been thrilled to wear something so beautiful.

On the shelf above it lay a pair of white-gold high-heeled shoes, a white eye-mask with gold detailing and gold braiding around its edges and a plume of wispy pale pink feathers shaped into a flower on the left cheek.

Hands now shaking, she took hold of a shoe and examined it in awe.

It was her size.

Dazed, she went back to the living area of the suite. ‘How...?’

Mrs Coulter smiled. ‘A lady has her ways.’

‘I can’t. I wish...’ She took a deep breath and hugged the shoe to her chest. ‘I wish I could go but I can’t. If I get caught, I’ll be fired. We’ve all been warned.’ And warned unambiguously. Any member of staff caught trying to enter the ball would have their contract of employment terminated.

But Mrs Coulter was not to be deterred. ‘We will make you unrecognisable. No one will know it’s you—no one will be expecting you to be there. In my experience, people see what they want and expect to see. They will not see a chambermaid. Come back here at five. I’ve arranged for a beautician to join us. She will turn you into a princess. And then tomorrow you can join me for lunch and tell me all about it.’ She gave a tinkle of laughter. ‘I admit, I’m not being entirely altruistic. I’m too old and my knees too shot to go to the ball myself but I can live it vicariously through you.’

Hot tears prickled the back of Tabitha’s eyes. No one had ever done such a thing for her before.

‘Do not be afraid, my dear. Tonight you will be a princess and you will go to the ball, and I will not hear another word of argument about it.’

* * *

Giannis Basinas left the apartment he used as a base when in Vienna and strolled up the rose-hedged path that led to his hotel. He could have earmarked one of the suites for his own use but he preferred to give himself at least an illusion of privacy. Privacy was a concept frequently ignored by his large, exuberant family.

It was partly down to his family that he was making this walk now dressed in an all-black, leather swallowtail suit and hosting this masquerade ball. His sisters had been dropping hints since he’d turned thirty-five that he needed to find a new wife. He’d come to the reluctant conclusion that they were right.

When his oldest friend Alessio Palvetti had pulled in a favour owed from their school days and asked him to host a masquerade ball, using a specific event team to manage it, Giannis had figured the ball could work in his favour. He could repay his debt and let his sisters believe he was serious about finding a wife. Everyone would be happy.

He didn’t hold much hope that his ideal woman would emerge tonight but this was as good an opportunity to find her as any. He’d even let Niki, his youngest sister and the biggest socialite in his family, select fifty of the four hundred guests to invite. These fifty guests were unmarried women, their wealth determined by their ability to pay the forty-thousand-euro price tag he’d set the tickets at.

If Giannis was going to marry again, he had three criteria. Firstly, and most importantly, his potential wife had to be independently rich. He would not make the same mistake as he’d made in his first marriage. Secondly, she must be of childbearing age, a criterion that was self-explanatory. Thirdly, and least importantly, she must be pleasant to look at. She didn’t have to be a model, or even be particularly beautiful, but if he was going to spend the rest of his life with one woman he would prefer it to be with someone he found attractive.

Slipping through a rear door into the hotel he’d bought less than two years ago, he made his way to the ballroom.

Giannis’s business interests were varied but mostly concentrated in shipping and property across the globe. This former palace he’d spent millions on renovating into a world-class hotel was his first venture into the tourism industry outside his Greek home. As a status symbol, there was none better.

About to open a side door into the ballroom, he spotted a female guest on the cantilevered stairs. Her fingers trailed the railing as she made her descent. Her other hand clutched the gold invitation all ball guests were required to show on their arrival.

There was something hesitant about her graceful walk that made him look twice.

He looked at her. Then looked again.

Although much of her face was hidden behind a white-gold eye-mask with a plume of dusky-pink feathers on the left cheek, there was something about her that set his pulses racing.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Her beautiful dress, all delicate pale greens, dusky pinks, golds and jewels that sparkled when the light caught them, was strapless and form-fitting to the waist then puffed out to fall in layers to her hidden feet.

She looked like a princess.

She could be a princess.

He imagined the dazzling circle the skirt of the dress would make on the dance floor...

Leaving the door he’d been about to enter, he approached her as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

She was shorter than he’d thought and, up close, even more ravishing. Honey-blonde hair had been coiled into an elegant knot at the base of a graceful neck adorned with a gold choker necklace covered in jewels, and roses that matched her dress and the drop earrings hanging from the lobes of her pretty ears.

She was the most exquisite creature he had ever set eyes on.

‘You look lost,’ he said in English.

A pair of cornflower-blue eyes met his from behind the mask.

Full, heart-shaped lips curved into a hesitant smile.

‘Do you need directions to the room the guests are meeting in? Or are you waiting for someone?’ She wore a glimmering diamond on her right hand but there was no ring on her left.

She shook her head in obvious shyness.

‘You don’t need directions or you’re not waiting for someone?’ Or did she not understand him? It was a rare event to meet someone in his world who did not speak English.

When she finally spoke, her cut-glass English accent contained a huskiness to it. ‘I’m not waiting for anyone.’

Better and better.

He held an arm out to her. ‘Then allow me to escort you, Miss...’

‘Tabitha.’ Colour stained what he could see of her cheeks. ‘My name is Tabitha.’

‘A pleasure to meet you, Tabitha. I’m Giannis Basinas and it would be my pleasure if you would allow me to escort you to the ball.’

Tabitha could have screamed at her stupidity.

Why had she given him her real name?

She hadn’t even reached the ballroom yet and already she’d blown her cover. And with Giannis Basinas of all people!

She was supposed to be Amelia Coulter, the name on the invitation in her hand.

She should have turned Mrs Coulter’s incredibly generous offer down but she’d been caught up in the moment, her head turned by the beautiful dress, her heart aching for one night, just one night, of freedom from the unrelenting drudgery of a life spent scrubbing bathrooms and cleaning rooms.

This was the sort of ball at which, if her father had lived, she could have been a real guest. She would have been here by right, not deception.

If Giannis suspected for a moment that she was a lowly hotel employee she would be fired on the spot.

But there was no hint of recognition.

But then, he’d never looked at her before. And why would he? He employed hundreds of people at this hotel alone. Chambermaids came bottom of the pecking order, a faceless army who flitted unobtrusively through the corridors and cleaned the rich guests’ rooms.

The thought calmed her a little but it was with a heart that raced that she slipped her hand through his offered arm, then found it racing even harder.

Tall, with dark brown hair cut short at the sides and long at the top, Giannis had a nose that was too long and his chin was a little too pointed for him to be considered traditionally handsome. But there was something about him, whether it was the high cheekbones, the clear blue eyes or the full bottom lip, that drew attention.

It had drawn her attention from her first glance.

His was a face that had lived and had the lines etched in his forehead and around the eyes to prove it.

He might not be traditionally handsome but in the black leather swallowtail suit and black leather eye-mask he wore as his masquerade costume, which gave him an almost piratical air, he was devastating.

‘Which part of England are you from?’ he asked as they strolled down a wide corridor.

‘Oxfordshire,’ she answered cautiously.

‘A beautiful county.’

It was, she thought wistfully. She’d avoided the entire county since she’d been thrown out of her home. It hurt too much to think of everything she’d lost and everything she missed.

However, she smiled, nodded her agreement and prayed for a change to the conversation.

What would be even better would be an increase to the pace Giannis had set. They were walking so slowly a tortoise could have overtaken them.

Her mind raced as to how she could slip away from him before she had to hand over the invitation written in the name of a woman who was not Tabitha.

If she had left Mrs Coulter’s room a minute earlier or later she wouldn’t have bumped into the one person she’d really needed to avoid.

‘I went to university in Oxford,’ he said. ‘Boarding school at Quilton House in Wiltshire. Do you know it?’

That explained his flawless English.

‘I know of it.’ Quilton House was one of the oldest schools in the world and certainly the most expensive. Only the filthy rich could afford to send their children there. A few of her school friends’ brothers had attended it.

‘What school did you go to?’ he asked.

‘Beddingdales.’

He laughed, a deep, rumbly sound that played melodically in her ears. ‘My first girlfriend went to Beddingdales. I would ask if you knew her, but I suspect you’re a lot younger than me.’

‘Probably.’

He laughed even louder. ‘You don’t waste words, do you?’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...’

He stopped walking and fixed clear blue eyes on hers. ‘Don’t apologise. Honesty is a rare, refreshing trait in this world we live in.’

They reached the door that led into the area where the guests were to wait before the ball was declared open. In a moment she would have to hand over the invitation for her name to be confirmed on the guest list.

Her heart pounded.

She needed to slip away.

Before she could think of an excuse to flee, Giannis took hold of the hand tucked into his arm and brought it to his lips. His eyes sparkled as he razed the lightest of kisses against the knuckles. ‘I have a couple of things I need to check on before the ball starts. I will find you.’

Then he bowed his head and turned on his heel, leaving nothing but the scent of his spicy cologne in his wake.

Tabitha slowly released the breath she’d been holding and closed her eyes.

Her heart still pounded, although whether that was an effect of the kiss on her hand or the close call she’d just had she couldn’t determine.

‘Are you coming in, miss?’

The uniformed guard had opened the door for her.

She swallowed.

It wasn’t too late. She didn’t have to do this.

But then she caught sight of a waiter holding a tray of champagne and the longing in her heart overshadowed the fear.

She could stay for one glass of champagne, she reasoned. That couldn’t do any harm. One glass of champagne and then, when the ball was declared open, slip away and return to her room and the safe anonymity of her servile life.

But she would have one glass of champagne first.

She stepped into a small holding room. Another uniformed guard stood on the other side of the door, a large tablet in his hand. Her heart almost stopped.

She recognised him. She’d spoken to him numerous times in the staff room.

There was not a flicker of recognition in his returning stare.

He greeted her with a polite smile. ‘May I see your invitation please, miss?’

Hoping he didn’t notice the tremor in her hand, she passed it to him.

He peered at it closely then turned his attention to his tablet until he found her name on the list. He pressed his finger to it then smiled again at her and nodded at the double doors at the other side of the room. ‘Guests are assembling through that door. Enjoy your evening, Miss Coulter.’

Air rushed out of her lungs.

Mrs Coulter had been right. The dress and the mask acted as the perfect disguise.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured.

Straightening her back, Tabitha held her head high. Yet another doorman opened the double doors for her to step through.

The noise she was greeted with from the reception room made her blink. The guests already congregated were in high spirits. Laughter and the buzz of excited chatter filled the air, melding with the music coming from the corner, where a pianist was playing a familiar tune.

She soaked up all of this in the time it took to step over the threshold.

A waitress holding a tray of champagne approached her.

Tabitha took a flute with a smile and restrained herself from tipping the contents down her throat in one swallow.

Whatever the circumstances of her life now, she’d been raised to be a lady. Ladies did not tip drinks down their necks.

She brought the flute to her mouth and took a small sip.

The explosion of bubbles in her mouth was enough to make her want to cry.

Only twice in her life had she tasted champagne. The first time had been at her father’s wedding when she’d been ten. The second had been when she’d been fourteen. Her stepmother had thrown an eighteenth birthday party for Fiona, the oldest of Tabitha’s stepsisters. The party had been an elaborate affair with no expense spared.

The celebrations for Tabitha’s own eighteenth birthday had been markedly different. Her stepmother had celebrated by throwing Tabitha out of the family home.

The big wide world she’d looked forward to embracing had shrunk overnight.

Any alcohol she’d consumed since then had been whatever was cheapest. No Freshers’ Week at university for her. While her school friends had scattered to various higher education institutions around the country—the majority intent on having a fantastic three years getting drunk and attending the odd lecture when they could fit it in their busy social schedules—Tabitha had already been gaining callouses on her hands from working as a cleaner in the small family-owned hotel. The pay had been terrible but the job had come with accommodation.

The call for silence broke through her sad reminiscences.

The master of ceremonies greeted the four hundred guests and then, with a flourish, declared the masquerade ball open.