Luna paused for slight effect, which told Gian she was about to quote directly.
‘“To save the Duke the trouble.”’
His pen paused and then Gian’s final signature of the day appeared darkly on the page as the nib of his pen pressed in firmly. ‘I see.’
‘She also asked not to be treated as a hotel guest and made to wait in Reception. Given that pre-theatre dining is about to commence, she suggested meeting you in the restaurant.’
Gian held in a weary sigh. His restaurant was not a personal dining room for entertaining lovers. As soon as his dates started throwing around his title like confetti, or attempting to pull rank with his staff, or trying to get too familiar, it signalled the end for Gian. ‘Tell her I’ll be out shortly.’
‘Except you have Ariana Romano in Reception waiting to see you.’
This time Gian could not hold in his sigh. His slate-grey eyes briefly shuttered as he braced himself for a mini-tornado, because it was always drama whenever she suddenly arrived.
If Ariana felt it, she said it.
‘What does she want now?’
‘A private matter, apparently.’
He kept his door open to her, given he was friends with her father Rafael and older brother Dante, in as much as Gian was friends with anyone. Growing up, he had been sent to Luctano each summer to stay with some distant aunt and her husband who, like his parents, hadn’t much wanted him around. Those summers had often been spent hanging out with the Romanos.
Aside from the family ties, there were business connections too. Ariana was on the committee for the Romano Foundation Ball, which was held here at La Fiordelise each year. In small doses Gian chose to tolerate her, yet she was somewhat of an irritant. Rather like heavily scented jasmine in the flower arrangement in the foyer, or when lilies were left out just a little too long. Ariana had clung and irritated long after she had left and now, on a Friday evening, he had to deal with her in person.
‘Bring her through then,’ Gian said. ‘Oh, and then take Svetlana through to the Pianoforte Bar to wait for me there...’
And there he would end their...liaison.
At thirty-five, Gian was considered one of Italy’s most eligible bachelors.
His wealth and dark brooding looks were certainly a factor, but Gian was no fool and was aware that his title was coveted. He was the Duke of Luctano, even though his family had left the Tuscan hillsides generations ago and he had been born and raised in Rome. Or, rather, Gian had raised himself, for his hedonistic parents had had no time or inclination for their son.
Gian was, in fact, Italy’s most ineligible bachelor for he had no interest in marriage or settling down and always stated up front with women that, apart from a handful of lavish dates, they would go no further than bed.
Gian had long ago decided that the De Luca lineage would end with him.
His sex life—Gian had never so much as contemplated the word ‘love’—was rather like the stunning brass revolving doors at the entrance to La Fiordelise—wealth and beauty came in, was spoiled and pampered for the duration, but all too soon was ejected back out into the real world. Svetlana’s behaviour was nothing unexpected: she had shown her true colours to his PA, and that was that.
They all did in the end.
Gian was jaded rather than bitter, and more than ready to get through this meeting with Ariana and then deal swiftly with Svetlana. So much so that he didn’t bother to step into the luxury suite behind his office to freshen up for a night at Teatro dell’Opera; the gorgeous box with its pink-lined walls would remain empty tonight.
As would the luxurious suite behind his office.
His lovers never got so much as a toe in the door of his private apartment at La Fiordelise, for Gian was intensely private.
He sat drumming his fingers silently on his large black walnut desk, waiting for Ariana to arrive. But then, on a wintry and gloomy January evening, it was as if a vertical sunrise stepped into his office. Ariana’s long black hair was slicked back into a low bun and she wore a suit and high heels. Except it was no ordinary suit. It was orange. The skirt sat just above the knee and the no doubt bespoke stockings were in exactly the same shade, as were the velvet stilettoes and large bag she carried over her shoulder. On most people the outfit would look ridiculous, but on pencil-thin Ariana it looked tasteful and bright...like a streak of burnt gold on the horizon heralding a new day.
Gian refused to be dazzled and reminded himself of the absolute diva she was. Ariana was the one who should be performing at Teatro dell’Opera tonight!
‘Gian,’ she purred, and gave him her signature red-lipped smile. It was the same smile that set the cameras flashing on the red carpets in Rome, but Gian remained steadfastly unimpressed—not that he showed it, for he was more than used to dealing with the most pampered guests.
‘Ariana.’ He pushed back his chair to stand and greet her. ‘You look amazing as always.’ He said all the right things, though could not help but add, ‘Very orange.’
‘Cinnamon, Gian,’ she wryly corrected as her heart did the oddest thing.
It stopped.
Gian should be familiar. After all, she had known him all her life, yet she was suddenly reminded of his height and the deep tone of his voice. He wore a subtly checked suit in grey with a waistcoat, though his height meant that he wore the check rather than the check wearing him.
Of course her heart had started again—had it not she would have dropped to the floor—but it was jumping around in some ungainly trot as he walked
