Anything for You Ch. 09

"Roxy won't care so long as I manage to get her an internship with your father next summer," I muttered.

Marco laughed. "She wants an internship with Salvani?"

"I know. She sets her sights high, that one. Of course, I told her I probably wouldn't be able—"

"Done."

I stared at him, a choke of laughter leaving my throat. "What?"

He grinned. "I'll arrange it. She's a talented girl, I've already seen that."

"You can arrange it? But—"

"My father and I are getting on better now. I think I've finally managed to make him understand what I want to do with Maretti, how I wanted to build up a business of my own. But I've promised him I'll start taking on more responsibility at Salvani in the coming year. So I can arrange an internship, no problem. But on one condition, cara." He met my gaze, his dark eyes boring into mine, his tone serious. "You agree to take a few days off before you begin working for me. Otherwise..." He made a slashing movement with his hand. "No deal."

"Marco!" But I knew I was beaten. Marco wasn't in the habit of making promises he couldn't keep. I had no doubt at all he'd follow through with his offer if I agreed to the conditions—and how could I deny Roxy the opportunity of a lifetime? I sighed. "Three days."

"As a starting point for negotiation." His triumphant smile broadened when I grimaced at him. "Ah Samantha, you might even enjoy it. When did you last take some time for yourself?"

I didn't answer him, just as I hadn't answered Alice when she asked the same question. Instead, I listened in resignation as he reeled off a list of all the sights I should see, at the same time doing my utmost to quash a mounting sense of despair. It probably would be better than I was imagining, I told myself when we finally turned off the busy ring road and headed into town, Marco gesturing towards the window at intervals, pointing out various local landmarks, most of which I couldn't really see through the misty gloom. But the weather wouldn't be this bad all the time, would it? And it might be fun to wander the streets, explore ancient churches, to absorb the history and the culture. Drink endless cups of cappuccino whilst people-watching from a café overlooking a piazza.

Alone.

"Here we are."

I looked out through the rain-spattered side window as the car drew to a halt and did a double take. "H-here?"

"Yes, cara. Where else?" He sounded amused.

I stared up at the imposing white-washed building, at its arch-shaped windows, at the flags neatly interspersed between ornate balconies bedecked with greenery. And then, as my gaze came back down, I made out the lettering above the portico. Clocked the five gold stars. "But you said—" I stopped, realising Marco was already out of the car and was retrieving my suitcase. "You said the hotel belonged to your uncle," I accused the moment he opened my door. "This is a Lombardi hotel!"

He grinned. "Yes and it belongs to my mother's brother," he said, a uniformed porter stepping forward to relieve him of my bag. "Well, okay. To my mother's family, to be accurate."

"Your mother's family own the Lombardi hotel chain? The international hotel chain?" My mouth suddenly felt very dry. "All of it?"

Laughing now, Marco extended his hand to help me out of the car. "Another secret I've kept from you, huh?" he said as a second porter appeared and opened a large green umbrella above Marco's head. "Sorry, Samantha." He tilted his head in mock-apology. "Now you know everything about me."

I rolled my eyes at him, allowing him to escort me inside. Though it was just as well he was still holding my hand when we entered Reception because if that hadn't been the case, I suspect I might have turned around and bolted. "Marco..."

The circular atrium was a vast expanse of cream and gold-streaked marble, even the pillars lining the main thoroughfare to the front desk glittering in the light cast from a series of enormous crystal chandeliers. In the semi-circles to the left and right were elegant cream leather sofas and glass-topped tables. But most mesmerising of all, right in the centre, was a huge Christmas tree, perfectly decorated with hundreds of glass ornaments and further embellished by what must surely be more than a thousand tiny yellow fairy lights.

Seemingly as much unaffected by this sight as I was entranced, Marco's fingers tightened around mine as he half-led, half-dragged me around the tree towards the desk then commenced a rapid-fire exchange in Italian with one of the reception staff.

"Marco." I tugged at his sleeve as soon as there was a break in proceedings. "This is too much. It's very kind but I really can't stay here."

"Samantha." He raised a finger and pressed it to my lips. "Hush."

"But—"

Grinning, he turned away as the receptionist came back and moments later, I'd been relieved of my passport and given a keycard in exchange. Only then did Marco turn back to me. Resting his hands on my upper arms, he peered down into my face, his expression now unexpectedly solemn. "Okay," he said. "This man here," he indicated to the porter still guarding my suitcase, "will see you to your room. It's on the top floor. I'm assured it has beautiful views over the canal and across the city."

I looked back up at him, unnerved. "You're going? You can't stay for a while?"

He didn't answer, instead continuing to gaze at me as though he was trying to solve a particularly taxing problem. Then he shook his head and smiled. "Call me tomorrow," he said softly, dipping his head to kiss my left cheek and then my right. "But only when you're ready. No hurry."

I watched him stride away. "I'll call you in the morning then, okay?"

But Marco merely glanced back over his shoulder and waved. "Buona serata, bella," he called cheerfully then disappeared from view behind the Christmas tree.

Buona serata. Have a good evening. Right.

I looked at the porter. "Well," I faltered. "Um..."

With an obliging nod, he picked up my suitcase and motioned towards a bank of lifts and, after taking one last hopeful look in the direction of the Christmas tree, I trailed after him across the atrium.

The top floor turned out to be the fourth floor, my room at the very end of a wide, panelled corridor. And after motioning that I should hand over my keycard with a deferential "Signorina?" he opened the door and ushered me inside.

After the splendour of the Reception area, I probably shouldn't have been shocked. But my breath hitched as I gazed around the room, taking in the burgundy damask wallpaper, the gold-trimmed mahogany furniture, the dark-framed windows to the front and side sumptuously dressed by heavy burgundy and gold-fringed curtains, the parquet floor...

The huge mahogany four-poster bed.

"Oh dear God," I said faintly, unable to prevent myself from touching the nearest highly-polished turned wood post and staring at the burgundy and gold striped canopy, the matching drapes and damask bedclothes. "This isn't at all over the top."

At the sound of a faint but polite cough, I came back to my senses long enough to appreciate the porter had parked my suitcase on a luggage stand and was now hovering for a tip. I scrabbled in my bag and finally produced five Euros, hoping it was enough. "Grazie."

He took it with a smile, thanked me in return and left.

The silence, after the door clicked closed behind him, was absolute. I was suddenly acutely aware of my heartbeat, of my breathing, of how my knees felt weak and jelly-like. Of how very close I was to bursting into tears.

"No," I said, my voice sounding peculiarly loud. "Come on, Sam. Pull yourself together."

Yikes, was I going to turn into one of those people who talked to themselves now, who felt the need to narrate their every move? Was that what a few days of being on my own in a hotel room might do to me? "Please let it only be a few days," I whispered, responding to my own thought and in doing so, compounding the fear I might be going ever so slightly mad. Oh well. "Let's find out what we can see from up here, shall we?"

We?

Feeling my lips twist into a wry smile, I took off my coat and put down my handbag then crossed the room to the closer of the two windows, pulling back the net curtain to discover a canal below, lined by trees and a row of buildings washed in various hues of cream, yellow and pink. Beautiful, even in the pouring rain. From the other window, just as Marco had promised, I could see right out across the historic city, towers and church spires thrown into sharp silhouette against the darkened sky. Later, I thought, I could venture downstairs, ask for a guide to the city and start making plans to explore. Though maybe...

I turned around, my gaze falling on the brochures artfully arranged across the round mahogany breakfast table behind me. Ah. No need to go downstairs then.

I started investigating the room in earnest then, ignoring the bed—I wanted to save that for last—and moving slowly around the ornate furniture, which was considerably more robust than it appeared. I ran my fingertips across the glossy surfaces, pulled out drawers and opened cupboards. I examined the delicate shades of the wall-lights—Murano glass, if I wasn't mistaken—and though I hesitated in front of the large flat-screen television, I decided against re-experiencing the joys of Italian broadcasting, opting instead to study an enormous gold-framed picture of the Rialto Bridge in Venice. Then I came to a huge, three-door mirrored wardrobe.

"Wow," I murmured after taking a few seconds to examine my pallid reflection. "Maybe Marco was right about you needing a holiday. You look like shit, Sam." And with this cheery self-insult I pulled open the left hand door only to find myself face to face with a full-length burgundy bathrobe. "Oh... Fuck."

It occurred to me I shouldn't have been surprised to find it there. This was a five star hotel after all, in a league far above that of the Park in Stow Newton. Of course the Lombardi Treviso supplied complimentary bathrobes. Though the sight of one probably shouldn't have made me want to weep.

I bit my lip, instinctively fingering the luxuriously thick towelling, blinking until the embroidered gold monogram on the breast pocket came back into focus. Then on impulse, I pulled it from the hanger, momentarily surprised to find there wasn't another one hanging behind it—but then I supposed, with another twinge of self-pity, the staff knew the room would have single occupancy—and headed for the door I'd spotted to the right of the four-poster bed.

The bathroom was every bit as impressive as the bedroom, the marble floor gleaming in the light from the spotlights in the ceiling, the walls mosaic-tiled in shades of cream and gold. There were his and hers sinks with gold-coloured fitments, a toilet and a bidet, a large rectangular bath at one end and an equally large walk-in shower at the other.

Torn between which to choose but now keen to wash away the grime of travelling, I hung the robe on the back of the door, stripped off then used the loo while I made up my mind, finally settling on the shower when I padded across to collect a couple of towels from the selection piled up on a rack. The lure of the shower head, approximately the size of a dinner plate, was impossible to resist.

To my surprise though, when I pulled open the screen door it was to find the interior coated with droplets of water, as though it had recently been used. Unsettled, I surveyed the rest of the bathroom again. Everywhere else looked pristine; the sinks, the bath and the mirrors all shone. So maybe the maid hadn't had time to finish wiping out the shower after she cleaned it, I speculated, looking back at the cubicle. It didn't look dirty, just wet. Nothing I could justify complaining about anyway, especially as I wasn't paying for the room. Decision made, I stepped inside, turned on the shower and, the moment the water began to run warm, ducked beneath the spray.

Bliss. There was no other word to describe it, the water thundering over my head at just the right temperature, massaging my shoulders, easing away the tension in my neck and spine. I closed my eyes and simply wallowed in the deluge, only reaching for the shampoo several minutes later. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be on my own for a few days, I thought, lathering up my hair for a second time. If push came to shove, I could quite happily spend the whole time in the shower. So long as the hot water didn't run out, of course, not that it showed any signs of doing so.

Eventually however, I was forced to conclude it was possible to have too much of a good thing. I grimaced at my wrinkled fingertips once I'd dried myself with the towels then dragged on the enormous bathrobe, sighing with bittersweet pleasure as the soft fabric swamped my bare skin.

But now what? I checked the watch I'd placed safely on top of the clothes I'd piled up on the vanity unit. Half past four. Too late to go out for a walk then. A glance at the window confirmed it was already getting dark and I wasn't sure how safe it would be to potter about the streets on my own. I could unpack my suitcase. That'd take all of five minutes. I could order room service though it seemed a bit early to do that. Still, it couldn't hurt to take a look at the menu, I decided, picking up my clothes and carrying them into the bedroom, especially if it was in Italian and needed translation.

It didn't. After locating the card beside the glossy travel guides on the table, I discovered every item already had its English equivalent listed underneath in italics. Oh well, at least reading the names of the dishes confirmed I wasn't in the least bit hungry, though I probably should have been. I'd had nothing to eat all day except the Danish pastry my father bought me at the airport before my flight. Not that I'd particularly wanted to eat that either but he'd insisted. Maybe he'd thought I was looking a bit thin too.

Entertained by the thought, I wandered back across to the wardrobe and turned sideways. But soon realising it was impossible to discern whether I'd lost weight or not while wearing a bathrobe, I shrugged it off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

Hmm, maybe. I pulled a face at myself in the mirror as I twisted this way and that, posing like I'd used to in my bedroom when I was a teenager, the way I'd posed before I acquired the scars criss-crossing my lower torso.

For the first time in ages, I experienced a strong urge to look at them—really look at them. And to my surprise, I had to concede they weren't that bad. Somehow, I realised, splaying my hand across my abdomen and letting my little finger fall into the groove of the biggest scar, they weren't as ugly as I remembered. Not nearly so angry. Perhaps they'd faded over time. Or more likely, I thought with a wry smile, it was a trick of the light, the wall lights providing something better described as a warm glow than illumination.

And it was then that I heard it, a sound that made me freeze in place. A sound I instantly recognised, would've recognised anywhere even though I hadn't heard it for more than seven years. A sound that immediately conjured up an image of my brother sitting cross-legged on his bed, cradling his most prized possession and singing at the top of his voice.

The unmistakeable half-twanging, half-squeaking sound of fingers leaving the fretboard of a guitar.

With a gasp, I swung around but there was no one to be seen. Yet there had to be someone there. The noise had been too real. It couldn't possibly have been a figment of my imagination. Unless...

Just how old was the hotel? It couldn't be haunted, could it? But even if it was, the rational part of my brain reasoned as I scanned the room, heart thudding, why on earth would my brother be haunting me there?

Deciding the sound had come from the direction of the bed, I stared at it in terrified silence, at first seeing nothing but the billowing drapes and the canopy. And then all at once I saw the guitar propped up against the pillows. The very same guitar I'd seen in the photograph at my parents' house yesterday, complete with distinctive slash down one side.

"Don't jump."

I screamed, even though that rational part of my mind was again working on the only possible explanation, even though I knew that voice—oh God, knew that voice so well. Screamed until I was swept backwards against a firm warm body and a hand came across my mouth to muffle the sound.

"Sam, stop it," he urged, laughing as I yowled into his palm. "Shut up! Someone'll come to find out who's being murdered in a minute!"

I shut up, pushing against his arms hard enough to find the space to turn around, only for him to crush me to him again. "You?" I wailed, glaring up at him, my pulse still pounding in my ears. "What the hell are you doing here?"

He glared back down at me, the amusement rapidly fading from his expression. "Oh, I could ask you the same thing, Sam Bloom. What the hell are you doing here in Italy? You said you'd told Marco you'd changed your mind about the job. Remember that? So what made you change it back, eh?"

"Drew..."

"You ran away from me. Broke my favourite mug, too."

"I know." I couldn't breathe, could hardly speak for the lump in my throat. "I'm sorry. But I—"

"You owe me two pound fifty for that mug. I bought it from Crowsthorpe market years ago. I really liked that one."

"I'm sorry..."

He shook his head. "Not good enough." But then as he continued to glower down at me, I saw his lips twitch. And as I followed the direction of his gaze it was to discover he was staring at the place where my chest met his—the only difference being that his chest was covered and mine was bare.

"Drew!"

With a snort of laughter, he let me go, making a show of averting his gaze as he bent to pick up my robe. "Oh Sam, come on." He kept his head turned away while he wrapped it around my shoulders. "I'm a guy, okay? And you're gorgeous. You can't blame me for—"

"What are you doing here?" I cut him off, backing away from him, my face burning as I yanked the robe around me and fumbled for the belt. Then remembering I'd already asked him that—and that he'd turned the question back on me—I hastily amended, "I mean, why are you here? H-how are you here?"

There was a pause. "You need to give Roxy a pay rise," he said at last.

Something in his tone made me look up, a mixture of wistfulness, amusement and something else I couldn't quite figure out. Until I realised what he'd said.

"Oh God," I breathed, going from hot to cold in a second, my stomach lurching. "Oh—oh no."

"Yeah." He sounded grim now. "She told me to give you this, by the way." Unable to turn away, I watched transfixed as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a length of purple tinsel. "I haven't got a clue why. But she said you'd understand."

I stared as he draped it around one of the bedposts, watching the fibres sparkle and dance in the light. "Oh God," I whispered again. "That's where she was." No wonder Alice had struggled to come up with a plausible excuse for Roxy's absence in the shop yesterday morning. "She came to see you."

"She did." Drew's voice retained that same grim note. "Told me some very interesting things as well."

"Oh God." It seemed to be all I could say. And suddenly feeling ridiculously weak at the knees, I hobbled over to the table by the window and collapsed into a chair. "Oh God, I'm sorry."

He didn't move. "But you know the thing I don't get? Why you didn't just ask. Ask me if I was seeing someone else. You know I'd never lie to you, so you've got to know I would've told you. So why didn't you ask me? I don't get it."