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 heâd been assigned as his PA during his visit to the Silvers hotel chainâs 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 chainâs 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 âno callsâ. Trust his father to pull rank on him. And he wasnât in the mood for another lecture. Not if it concerned those photos againâthe 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 everybodyâs.
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.
âYou can do better than supermodels and starlets,â heâd asserted. âFind someone with some intelligence, some spunkâsomeone to give you a run for your money.â
Emma and Kristin might justifiably have been offended had they heard his fatherâs assessment of them. After all, even rising Hollywood starlets and supermodels couldnât 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 didnât mean heâd be better off settling down, as his father kept suggesting. He wasnât looking for a wife. He wasnât 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 frustrationânow he was starting to think like his fatherâand lifted the handset.
âTell my father Iâll call him back later. After Iâve got through this report.â
âIâm sorry, Mr Silvagni, itâsâ¦actually not your fatherâ¦â
He cocked an ear. Something was wrong. Sheâd lost her usual âtake-no-prisonersâ tone. And for the first time since heâd arrived, heâd even say the snapping Ms Hancock sounded flustered.
âThereâs this womanâ¦â 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, Domenicâs 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?
âI told you, absolutely no calls.â
âSheâs not on the phone,â she squeezed out on a breath, before he had a chance to terminate the conversation. âSheâs here. She said itâs urgent, that youâd want to see her.â
Domenic leaned back in his leather executive chair, drumming his fingers on the edge of the broad desk. âWho is it?â 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 heâd made this last-minute trip to Australia.
âHer name is Opal Clemenger. From Clemengers. Itâs a family-owned chain of three prestige boutique hotels. Thereâs one just down at the Rocksââ
âI know all about Clemengers,â he snapped. âWhat does she want?â
âShe said she has a deal for you. An opportunity too good to refuse. Should I send her in?â
Opal held her breath as she stood next to the PAâs desk, white-knuckled fingers clutching the file of material sheâd 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 wouldnât think it was a social call?