Читать книгу The Italian's Virgin Bride - Trish Morey - Страница 6

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!