Wedding Night with a Stranger by Anna Cleary Read Free Book Online Page A

her. Garlic, herbs and exotic spices mingled with the savoury aromas of char-grilling meats to taunt her empty stomach. All at once she felt nearly faint with hunger.
    She approached the entrance, feeling glaringly conscious of not having an escort. At the host’s desk she paused. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, lowering her voice to avoid attracting too much attention. ‘A table for one, please.’
    The portly head waiter raised close-set brown eyes to regard her, and arched his supercilious brows. ‘Name?’
    ‘Ariadne Giorgias.’
    A subtle and strangely smug expression came over the man’s face. ‘Do you have a reservation, Miss Giorgias?’
    ‘Well, no.’ She smiled, and almost whispered, ‘I’m a guest in the hotel. I didn’t think a reservation would be required.’
    ‘I think you will find, madam,’ he said in crushing tones, making no effort to lower his voice to spare her embarrassment, ‘that in the finer hotels with restaurants of renown, a reservation is required.’
    She flushed. ‘Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realise. The finer hotels I’ve stayed in before haven’t expected a reservation in their dining rooms.’
    The man’s sceptical gaze clashed with hers. ‘And which hotels might they be, madam?’
    ‘Well…’ She thought back. ‘There was the Ritz in Paris. And the one in London. And the Dorchester. I’m sure The Waldorf in New York was very welcoming…’ Although, her uncle and aunt had been with her on those occasions. She supposed there wouldn’t be many head waiters who would refuse Peri Giorgias a table. ‘Oh, and there was the Gritti in Venice. Though I’m not so sure about that one now. Maybe we did have a reservation there.’
    The man drew in a long breath and seemed to swell, while at the same time his lips thinned.
    ‘Madam,’ he stated, with austere emphasis, ‘this is the Park Hyatt in Sydney. Our rules may differ from those of the less moderne northern hemisphere establishments, but they are crucial if our guests wish to experience the continuing superbnessof our cuisine.’ He gave her a moment to digest the information, then lowered his gaze and darted his plump fingers across the screen of his little computer, frowning and pursing his lips. ‘As it happens, madam is fortunate in that we do have one remaining table.’ He picked up a menu, tucked it under his capacious arm, and, pivoting on his heel, made a grand gesture. ‘If madam would follow me.’
    He raised his hand, and another waiter materialised from somewhere, bearing a water carafe and a basket of freshly baked bread. Thankful for her stroke of luck in not being turned away, Ariadne followed the procession across the crowded room. Through the glass walls she received an impression of the harbour lights, vessels on the dark water, the hard glitter of the city rising up behind Circular Quay. The pale shells of the Opera House floated in luminous majesty, seemingly a stone’s throw from the terrace.
    As she threaded her way among the tables, she couldn’t help noticing the small, delicious-looking morsels on the diners’ overlarge plates, and wondered anxiously if she should order double of everything.
    She rounded a pillar after her guides and stopped short. Tucked into a corner between pillars and the step down to the terrace, was a small, round, vacant table, gorgeous with crystal, roses and pink and white linen. Right next to it, in fact, practically jammed against it, was another table, similarly adorned. Only this one wasn’t vacant.
    To her intense shock, lounging back in its single chair, his long legs stretched casually before him, Sebastian Nikosto sat perusing a leather-bound menu.
    The host pulled out her chair and waited. Sebastian glanced casually up at her from beneath his black brows. His eyes lit with a curious gleam, then he resumed brooding over his menu.
    Momentarily thrown, but loath to betray it or start a distressing scene, she hesitated, then submitted herself to be seated.