LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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