Книга - The Italian GP’s Bride

The Italian GP's Bride
Kate Hardy


Orlando de Luca is the archetypal Italian–smooth, handsome and charming! His dedicated professionalism is only matched by his playboy bachelor ways…until he meets his new colleague, Eleanor Forrest.Ellie is only in Italy to find her family, not to embark on an affair. Yet the chemistry between them is undeniable. So when Ellie becomes a patient herself, she finds that the only person she wants to rely on is the dashing Dr. de Luca.Everyone thinks he's a gorgeous bachelor–really, he's a husband in the making!







“Call me,” Orlando said, his voice soft. He raised her hand to his mouth.

The brush of his lips against her skin was momentary. It was a mere courtesy, Eleanor knew—the Italian way of doing things. But there was heat in his eyes. Heat matched by the flicker of desire rising up her spine.

Calling him would be way too dangerous for her peace of mind, but she wasn’t going to argue over it now. Instead she smiled politely.

“Thank you for the lift, Dottore de Luca.”

“Orlando,” he corrected. “Prego.” He smiled, sketched a bow, ran lightly down the steps to his car and drove off….


Dear Reader,

I’ve always thought that the story behind those “lost loves” radio spots—where the presenter tries to put people back in touch with each other—would be a fabulous idea for a book. I’d also been talking about “secret baby” books with some author friends. Supposing my heroine discovered that she was the secret baby, and the first step on the trail to discovering her secret family was hearing something on the radio?

And so the idea for Eleanor’s story began.

Then there’s the book’s setting. It goes without saying that Italian men are gorgeous. (And have gorgeous voices. I adore hearing a good tenor sing in Italian). I’ve always adored Italy, and I’ve always wanted to visit Pompeii. So this book was just begging to be set in Naples. Add a gorgeous Italian doctor, plenty of lattes and gelati, and we’re talking utter bliss.

It takes Eleanor and Orlando a little time to realize that they’re destined to be together—and they have a few weepy moments—but I hope you’ll enjoy their journey as much as I enjoyed writing it.

I’m always delighted to hear from readers, so do come and visit me at www.katehardy.com.

With love,

Kate Hardy


The Italian GP’s Bride

Kate Hardy






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For Fi, with much love

(and thanks for the asparagus!)




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE (#u0359602a-9455-57aa-9f0a-44c3e4a0bb37)

CHAPTER TWO (#ud6ed1cea-4191-5d06-a89f-12b55a9ba9e1)

CHAPTER THREE (#ue59c8848-80ae-5394-bea4-30a86c3ae2b6)

CHAPTER FOUR (#uc7f492d0-dc6e-5aea-9098-82320bb4c661)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE


‘IF THERE’S a doctor on the plane, please could you make yourself known to the flight attendants by switching on the light above your head.’

The announcement that every doctor secretly dreaded. Especially on a plane, where space was so tight that it was difficult to work. Eleanor knew that the crew were trained in basic life support, so the problem was obviously something more complicated than that. They needed her help—her knowledge, her experience in emergency medicine. She switched on her light, and one of the flight attendants came over to her.

‘One of our passengers has collapsed. Would you be able to take a look at her, please?’ she asked in a low voice.

‘Of course,’ Eleanor said, keeping her voice equally low. She knew some people wouldn’t want to get involved, but she’d never stand by and leave someone needing medical help. And in a way this was going to help her, too: instead of spending the whole of the flight from London to Naples wondering just what she was letting herself in for and worrying that maybe she wasn’t doing the right thing, she had something to keep her mind occupied.

‘Oh—do you have any identification?’ The flight attendant swallowed hard. ‘Sorry, I should’ve asked you that first.’

‘No problem,’ Eleanor said. Either the flight attendant was new to the job, or the emergency was something that had thrown her. Eleanor really hoped it was the former. The cramped aisle of an aeroplane, several thousand feet up in the air and half an hour from an ambulance wasn’t the ideal place to deal with something major. ‘You need proof that I’m a qualified doctor.’ Luckily she kept her hospital ID card in her credit-card holder. She fished it out and showed it to the flight attendant, who looked relieved.

‘Would you come this way, please, Dr Forrest? One of my colleagues is fetching the emergency kit.’

Eleanor followed her up the aisle to where a middle-aged, plump woman was slumped in her seat. A quick check told her that the patient wasn’t breathing and didn’t have a pulse. She needed to get the woman flat and start CPR now.

‘Did she bang her head at all?’ she asked the woman seated next to her patient, who was sobbing.

The answer was a flow of Italian that Eleanor really couldn’t follow.

Ah, hell. The chances were that the patient hadn’t hit her head so there wasn’t a risk of a spinal injury, and right now the most important thing was resuscitation. Just as she was about to ask the flight attendant to find someone who could speak Italian and English, to translate for her and get some help in moving the woman so Eleanor could start giving CPR, a man made his way down the aisle, following another flight attendant.

‘Orlando de Luca, family doctor,’ he introduced himself. ‘May I help?’

His English was perfect, not halting in the slightest, though she was aware of his Italian accent. And he had the most beautiful mouth she’d ever seen.

Though now was absolutely not the time to be thinking about that. They had a patient to save. And right now she needed his skills—language as well as medical. ‘Eleanor Forrest, emergency registrar,’ she replied. ‘Thank you. Her pulse and respiration are flat, so we need to start—’

‘CPR,’ he finished, nodding.

Good. They were on the same wavelength.

‘I don’t speak much Italian. The patient’s travelling companion either doesn’t speak English or is too upset to cope in a different language. Can you ask her if our patient hit her head, is taking any medication or has any medical conditions?’

‘Of course. But first…’ He turned to the flight attendant who’d brought him to the patient. ‘We need your help, please, to fetch supplies. Do you have an Ambubag and a defibrillator? It should be kept with the captain.’

‘I’ll check,’ she said, and hurried away.

Then he spoke to their patient’s travelling companion in Italian much too rapid for Eleanor to follow, given the basic Italian she’d started learning two weeks before. The only word she could catch was ‘dolore’—what was that? Sorrow?

And then she heard him say ‘l’infarto’—it sounded close enough to ‘infarct’, she guessed, for it to mean ‘heart attack’. Usually if a patient was unconscious and there was no pulse, it meant a cardiac arrest—though it could also be a grand mal epileptic seizure.

As if Orlando had guessed what she was thinking, he said, ‘Our patient’s name is Giulietta Russo. She’s travelling back to Napoli—Naples—with her daughter Fabiola. Giulietta complained of a pain in her chest and then collapsed. No history of epilepsy, no history of angina, no other medical condition Fabiola can think of, and she didn’t hit her head when she collapsed.’

So far, so good. ‘Can you ask Fabiola if her mother has a pacemaker?’ she asked.

Another burst of rapid Italian. ‘No,’ he confirmed.

At the same time, Orlando and Eleanor moved the unconscious woman to the aisle and laid her flat. Gently, Eleanor tilted the patient’s head and lifted her chin so she could check the airways. ‘No sign of blockage. Airway’s clear.’ But the B and C of ‘ABC’ were a problem: Giulietta still wasn’t breathing and there was still no pulse: no sign of circulation.

‘Then we start CPR,’ Orlando said. ‘You bag and I do the chest compressions, yes? Five compressions to one breath?’

‘Thank you,’ Eleanor said.

At that moment, the flight attendant arrived with an Ambubag. ‘We’re still checking for the defibrillator and the drugs kit,’ she said.

Eleanor really hoped there was a defibrillator on board. Otherwise their patient had no chance, because even if they landed at the nearest airport it’d take too long to get the help she needed. Without defibrillation, even with CPR, their patient’s chances of survival dropped drastically with every minute.

‘Thanks,’ she said. At least the Ambubag meant that they could give their patient positive pressure ventilation. But when their patient recovered consciousness, she’d need oxygen—more than that available from the aircraft’s emergency oxygen masks. ‘Is there any supplemental oxygen, please?’

‘I’ll check,’ the flight attendant said, and hurried away again, quickly returning with the defibrillator.

‘I’ll attach the defibrillator. Do you mind carrying on with the CPR?’ she asked Orlando.

They both knew that you couldn’t stop the CPR except for the moment when she was ready to administer a shock—if this was a case where she could use a defibrillator. If the monitor showed a different heart rhythm from VF, they were in real trouble.

‘No problem,’ Orlando said.

Lord, he had a gorgeous smile. The sort that would’ve made her weak at the knees if she hadn’t already been kneeling next to their patient. She glanced up at the flight attendant. ‘I need your help to keep doing the breathing while I attach the defibrillator,’ she said. ‘If Dr de Luca tells you what to do, can you keep going for me, please?’

The other flight attendant nodded, and followed Orlando’s instructions while Eleanor attached the defibrillator and checked the monitor reading.

‘She’s in VF,’ she told Orlando, hoping that the abbreviation was the same in his language. Certainly the words would be: ventricular fibrillation, where the heart wasn’t contracting properly and was just quivering instead of beating.

She really needed access to Giulietta’s neck veins to administer the adrenaline, but in the confines of the aisle space she didn’t want to interfere with ventilation. ‘I’m going for IV access in the right subclavian vein,’ she said to Orlando. ‘Administering one milligram of adrenaline. Six-oh-six p.m.’

‘Got you.’ Although he was a family doctor—a GP—obviously he knew the protocol in this sort of case: one milligram of adrenaline every three minutes. He smiled at her, and kept directing the flight attendant while Eleanor put the paddles of the defibrillator in place.

‘Shocking at two hundred joules. Clear,’ she said.

As soon as Orlando and the flight attendant had taken their hands off the patient, she administered the shock and continued looking at the readout. ‘Still in VF. Charging to two hundred. And clear.’

Another shock. Still no change. ‘Still VF. Charging to three-sixty.’

‘Mamma?’ Fabiola asked.

‘Um, bene. Soon,’ Eleanor said, trying to remember the Italian phrases she’d learned and hoping that her voice sounded soothing enough for Fabiola to understand what she meant.

She didn’t have time to react to the amusement in Orlando’s eyes. ‘And clear.’

This time, to her relief, Giulietta responded.

‘Sinus rhythm. Can you tell Fabiola that it will be all right? We just need to get her mother to the hospital.’

Orlando nodded, and turned to the flight attendant. ‘Can you ask the captain if he can divert the plane to the nearest airport? And talk to the pronto soccorso at the hospital—we need the paramedics on standby. Autoambulanza,’ he added.

Then he talked to Fabiola again in Italian.

‘I’ve explained that her mother needs to go to hospital,’ he told Eleanor. ‘And we will stay with her until the paramedics can stabilise her.’

It was part and parcel of being a good Samaritan—if there was an emergency and you were present simply as a passer-by and not officially as a doctor, you didn’t charge for your service and you stayed with the patient until he or she was stabilised or a doctor with equivalent or higher training took over. Eleanor had heard horror stories of doctors being sued for good Samaritan acts, but she knew if you kept to the protocol and delivered as near to hospital-standard care as you could, you’d be indemnified by either the travel company or your medical union.

The flight attendant who’d been acting as runner came back. ‘Captain says he’ll land us at Milan. We have clearance, so we should be on the ground in about twenty minutes. The airport’s contacting the hospital for us. Oh, and the supplemental oxygen…?’

‘Excellent work.’ Orlando said with a smile. ‘Thank you, signorina…?’

The flight attendant blushed. ‘Melanie.’

Orlando de Luca was living up to the stereotype, Eleanor thought. Charming every female in the vicinity.

Just like Jeremy.

Well, she wasn’t falling for that sort of charm again. Anyway, this relationship was strictly emergency. And strictly medicine. It shouldn’t bother her who Orlando de Luca flirted with. It was nothing to do with her.

She busied herself fitting the mask over Giulietta’s face.

‘Eleanor, your party must be wondering what happened to you.’

Party? Oh. He meant travelling companions. ‘It’s not a problem, Dr de Luca.’

‘Orlando, please.’

Even his name sounded sexy. Her best friend’s words echoed in her head: Even if this thing doesn’t work out, a week in Italy will do you good. What you need is some Italian glamour…and a fling with a gorgeous man to get that sleazebag Jeremy out of your head.

Tamsin would definitely describe Orlando de Luca as gorgeous. Her exact words would be along the lines of ‘sex on legs’. Eleanor couldn’t help smiling at the thought.

‘My name makes you laugh?’

‘No.’ Though she certainly wasn’t going to explain why she was smiling. What was ‘sorry’, again? ‘Mi dispiace.’

‘You speak some Italian.’

She needed to turn this back to business. Fast. ‘A little. But not enough to help Fabiola. Thank you for that. Grazie.’

‘Prego.’ He inclined his head.

At that moment, Giulietta recovered full consciousness and pulled at the mask.

Immediately, Orlando went back into doctor mode, taking her hand and calming her and speaking to her gently in Italian. Eleanor guessed he was telling Giulietta what had happened and where she was going as soon as they reached Milan. She caught the words ‘Inglese’ and ‘dottoressa’—clearly he was explaining who she was, too.

The flight attendants managed to persuade people in the aisle seats to change places with Eleanor and Orlando, so they could continue monitoring Giulietta throughout the descent—both of them were aware that she could easily go back into VF and need shocking again.

But at last they were at the airport. The paramedics boarded the plane with a trolley, and Orlando gave them the full handover details in rapid Italian, pausing every so often to check readings with Eleanor. Fabiola accompanied her mother off the plane, and Eleanor returned to her seat—at the opposite end of the plane to Orlando’s.

She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or disappointed when he didn’t suggest changing places and sitting with her. Relieved, because then she wouldn’t have to make polite conversation and her stomach was already in knots with her impending meeting tomorrow. Yet disappointed, because there was something calming about Orlando—the way he’d assessed the situation, acknowledged that she was the one with emergency experience and hadn’t made a fuss about her leading, and had gently turned Fabiola’s reaction from panic to understanding. He was the kind of man who made people feel safe.

But then again, she knew her judgement in men was lousy. Just because he was a good doctor, it didn’t mean he was a good man: Jeremy certainly wasn’t. And Orlando was probably married anyway. A man that good-looking couldn’t possibly be single. Even if Eleanor was going to act on Tamsin’s suggestion of having a holiday fling—which she had no intention of doing—Orlando de Luca wasn’t the one for her.

Their paths would probably never cross again, so there was no point in dwelling on it. Besides, she had something else to think about.

Her meeting tomorrow, with the man who might just turn out to be her real father.

And maybe, just maybe, she’d have a family to belong to again. Wouldn’t be alone any more.




CHAPTER TWO


THEY were two hours late getting to the airport at Naples. And then there was the wait for the luggage to arrive…except Eleanor couldn’t see her suitcase at all.

Maybe she’d just missed it, taken her eye off the conveyor belt during the moment it had passed her, and the suitcase would be there the second time round.

Except it wasn’t. Or the third time.

Oh, great. Not only was she late—tired, and in need of a shower and a cup of decent coffee—now her luggage was missing. Thank God she’d put the most important things in her hand luggage. She still had the original photographs back in England, so she could’ve had replacement copies made, but she’d wanted to hand them over in person.

And although, yes, she could go into the centre of Naples and replace most of her luggage first thing tomorrow morning, she already had plans. A meeting to which she didn’t want to go wearing travel-stained clothes. Even if she rinsed her clothes out in her hotel room tonight, they’d be crumpled and scruffy and…

Oh-h-h.

She could have howled with frustration. The shops were probably closed by now and, even if she got up really early tomorrow morning, she wouldn’t have enough time to find the shops, buy new clothes and be on time to meet Bartolomeo.

First impressions were important. Especially in this case. This really, really wasn’t fair.

‘Problems, Dottoressa Eleanor?’

Orlando’s voice was like melted chocolate. Soothing and comforting and sinful, all at the same time.

And she really shouldn’t give in to the urge to lean on him. She was perfectly capable of sorting things out on her own. She had a phrasebook in her bag—given a little time and effort, she’d be able to make herself understood. Luggage must go missing all the time. It was probably just mislaid, on the wrong carousel or something. And when she got to the hotel, she could talk to someone in the reception area and ask where she should go to buy clothes and shoes tomorrow. She could call Bartolomeo and put back their meeting by an hour, if need be.

‘I’m just waiting for my luggage,’ she said.

‘It hasn’t arrived yet?’

He was carrying a small, stylish case. And there were only three cases left on the conveyor belt—none of which was hers.

‘I was just about to go and ask.’

‘Let me,’ he said.

Before she could protest, he added, ‘You said on the plane that you didn’t speak much Italian. So let me help you.’

Italian was his native tongue and he spoke perfect English, too: it made sense to let him interpret for her instead of struggling. ‘Grazie.’ Though she still had reservations. ‘But won’t it make you really late home? Especially as our flight was delayed.’

He shrugged. ‘Non importa. It doesn’t matter.’

‘It’s not fair to your family, to keep them waiting even longer.’

He spread his hands. ‘Nobody’s waiting for me. I live alone.’

Now, that she hadn’t expected. She’d been so sure a man like Orlando de Luca—capable, practical and gorgeous—would be married to a wife who adored him, with several children who adored him even more and a menagerie of dogs and cats he’d rescued over the years.

‘I won’t be long. What does your bag look like?’

‘It’s a trolley suitcase—about so big.’ She described the size with her hands. ‘And it’s, um, bright pink.’

‘Bright pink,’ he echoed. His voice was completely deadpan, but there was a sparkle of amusement in his eyes—as if he thought she’d chosen something completely frivolous and un-doctor-like.

She wished now she’d bought her luggage in a neutral colour. Grey, beige or black. She’d just thought that a bright suitcase would be easier to spot at the airport.

He smiled at her and went over to one of the airport staff. During the conversation, the man nodded, looked over at Eleanor with an expression of respect, said something to Orlando, and then strode away.

‘He’s going to check for you,’ Orlando confirmed when he returned. ‘I explained that our flight was late in because of a medical emergency on the plane. You saved the patient’s life and we should be looking after you, not losing your baggage.’

She felt colour flood into her face. ‘I didn’t save Giulietta’s life on my own. You did the chest compressions and got a patient history from her daughter. I couldn’t have done it without you.’

‘Teamwork, then. We worked well together.’ His eyes narrowed as he glanced at her. ‘You look tired. You’ve had a long journey, plus the stress of dealing with a cardiac arrest in a cramped space without the kind of equipment you’re used to, and now your baggage has disappeared. Come and sit down. I will get you some coffee.’

He was taking over and Eleanor knew she should be standing up for herself, telling him that she appreciated the offer but she really didn’t need looking after. Her feelings must have shown on her face because he said gently, ‘It may be a while until they locate your luggage. Why stand around waiting and getting stressed, when the coffee-shop is just here, to our right, and you can sit down in comfort and relax?’

And he was right. She was tired. Caffeine was just what she needed to get her through the rest of this evening until she got to the hotel.

‘Do you take milk, sugar?’ he asked when he’d settled her at a table.

‘Just milk, please.’

There was something about the English dottoressa. Orlando couldn’t define it or even begin to put his finger on it, but something about her made him want to get to know her better.

Much better.

He’d liked the way she’d been so cool and calm on the plane, got on with her job without barking orders or being rude to the flight attendants, and had even tried speaking the little Italian she knew to help reassure Giulietta’s daughter. There was a warmth to Eleanor Forrest that attracted him.

A warmth that had suddenly shut off when he’d asked her a personal question.

And he wanted to know why.

He ordered coffee and cantuccini, then carried a tray over to their table.

‘Biscuits?’ she asked.

‘Because I missed them in England,’ he said simply. ‘Your English biscuits fall apart when you dip them in coffee. These don’t.’ He smiled at her. ‘They’re nice dipped in vin santo, too, but I think for now coffee is what you need.’

‘Thanks. Odd how just sitting around can make you feel tired.’

‘Don’t forget you saved a life in the middle of all that,’ he reminded her.

She ignored his comment. ‘How much do I owe you for the coffee?’

An independent woman. One who’d insist on paying her way. He liked that, too: she wouldn’t take anyone for granted. She was the kind of woman who’d want an equal. ‘My suggestion, my bill.’

He caught the expression on her face just before she masked it. Someone had obviously hurt her—hurt her so badly that she wouldn’t even accept a cup of coffee from a man she barely knew, and saw strangers as a potential for hurt instead of a potential friend.

Softly, he added, ‘That puts you under no obligation to me at all, Eleanor. Whatever you might have heard about Italian men, I can assure you I’m not expecting anything from you. I haven’t put anything in your coffee and you’re not going to wake up tomorrow morning in a room you can’t remember seeing before with no clothes, no money and one hell of a headache.’

‘I…I’m sorry. And I didn’t mean to insult you or your countrymen,’ she said, looking awkward and embarrassed.

‘No offence taken. You’re quite right to be wary of strangers offering drinks. But I’m a doctor buying a mug of coffee for a fellow professional. And this really is just coffee.’

‘And it’s appreciated.’

He settled opposite her. ‘So, are you on holiday in Naples?’

‘Sort of.’

Not a straight yes or no. And she didn’t offer any details, he noticed. He had a feeling she’d clam up completely if he pushed her, so he tried for levity instead. ‘Your mamma told you never to talk to strangers, is that it?’

‘No.’ Her voice went very quiet. ‘Actually, my mother died just before Christmas.’

Six months ago. And the pain was clearly still raw. ‘Mi dispiace, Eleanor,’ he said softly. ‘I didn’t intend to hurt you.’

‘You weren’t to know. It’s not a problem.’

But he noticed she didn’t explain any further. And those beautiful brown eyes were filled with sadness. He had a feeling it was more than just grief at losing her mother. Something to do with the man who’d made her wary of strangers, perhaps?

Yet she’d put her feelings aside and gone straight to help a stranger when the flight attendants had asked for a doctor. Eleanor Forrest was an intriguing mixture. And Orlando wanted to know what made her tick.

He switched to a safer topic. ‘You’re an emergency doctor?’

‘Yes.’

OK. He’d try the professional route: say nothing, just smile, and give her space to answer more fully. Just like he did with his shyer patients. If he waited long enough, she’d break the silence.

She did. ‘I work in a London hospital.’

Something else they had in common. Good. ‘London’s a beautiful city. I’ve just spent a few days there with the doctor I used to share a flat with, Max. It was his son’s christening.’

There was the tiniest crinkle round her eyes. ‘I don’t know if I dare ask. Were you the…?’

‘Padrino? The godfather, you mean?’ So under her reserve there was a sense of fun. He liked that. Enough to want to see more of it. He hummed the opening bars of the theme tune to the film. ‘Yes, I was.’

Though seeing the expression on Max’s face when he looked at his wife and baby had made Orlando ache. Orlando had stopped believing in love, long ago, when his mother’s fifth marriage had crumbled: every time she’d thought she’d found The One, she’d been disillusioned. But Max was so happy with Rachel and little Connor, it had made Orlando think again. Wonder if maybe love really did exist.

Except he didn’t have a clue where to start looking for it. And he wasn’t sure that he wanted to spend his life searching and yearning and getting more and more disappointed, the way his mother did. So he’d decided to stick to the way he’d lived for the last five years—smile, keep his relationships light, just for fun, and put his energy into his work.

‘You work in London, too?’ she asked.

‘Not any more. I did, for a couple of years, on a children’s ward.’ He spread his hands. ‘But then I discovered I wanted to see my patients grow up—not forget about them once they’d left the hospital. I wanted to treat them, just as I’d treated their parents and their grandparents and would treat their children. I wanted to see them with their families.’

Strange, really, when he didn’t have a family of his own. Just his mother, a few ex-stepfathers and ex-stepsiblings he hadn’t kept in touch with. The only way he’d get an extended family now was to get married: and that was a risk he wasn’t prepared to take.

Keep it light, he reminded himself. ‘And I missed the lemon groves. I missed the sea.’

‘And the sunshine,’ she said with a wry smile.

‘I don’t mind London rain. But I admit, although I like visiting London, it’s good to be back under the Italian sun. And I love being a family doctor.’

She smiled, and he caught his breath. Her serious manner masked her beauty—when she smiled, Eleanor Forrest was absolutely stunning. Perfect teeth and a wide smile and those amazing deep brown eyes.

It made him want to touch her. Trace the outline of her face with the tips of his fingers. Rub his thumb against her lower lip. And then dip his head to hers, claiming her mouth.

Then he became aware she was speaking. Oh, lord. He really hoped he hadn’t ignored a question or something. She must think he was a real idiot.

‘My best friend at medical school, Tamsin, did the same thing,’ Eleanor said. ‘She started in paediatrics and became a GP because she wanted to care for the whole family.’

‘There’s a lot to be said for it.’ But they were talking about him. He wanted to know about her. ‘You prefer the buzz of emergency medicine?’

‘I like knowing I’ve made a difference,’ she said simply.

She’d make a difference all right, he thought. Whatever branch of medicine she worked in. But before he could say anything, the man he’d spoken to about Eleanor’s luggage came over, carrying one bright pink case.

‘I am sorry for the wait, Dottoressa Forrest,’ he said politely. ‘No problem. Grazie,’ she said, taking the case and checking the label. ‘Yes, this is mine.’

He left after some pleasantries, and Eleanor stood up. ‘Thank you for the coffee, Dottore de Luca.’

‘You haven’t finished it yet.’

She made a face. ‘It’s getting late. I really ought to check into my hotel.’

He didn’t want her to walk out of his life. Not yet. And there was one way he could keep her talking to him for a little longer. ‘You could be waiting a while for a taxi, and although public transport is good in Naples, you have baggage with you. I’ll give you a lift.’

She shook her head. ‘Thank you, but you’ve already been kind enough. I’d rather not impose.’

He wasn’t sure what was going on here—he’d never experienced this weird, unexplainable feeling before—but what he knew for definite was that if he let her walk out of his life now, he’d regret it. Somehow he needed to persuade her to trust him. And to spend time with him so they could get to know each other.

Max had said he’d known the instant he’d met Rachel that she was the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Orlando had scoffed, saying it was just lust and luckily he’d found friendship as well. But now he wasn’t so sure. Was it possible to fall in love with someone at first sight? Did ‘The One’ exist? Was this odd feeling love? And was Eleanor Forrest the one he’d been waiting for?

He needed to know.

Needed to keep her with him.

‘Eleanor, I know I’m a stranger, but you’re a fellow doctor and you’ve helped save the life of one of my countrymen. Don’t they say in England, one good turn deserves another?’

Eleanor couldn’t help smiling at the old-fashioned phrase. ‘You’ve already bought me coffee and sorted out my luggage for me. I think we’re quits.’

‘Let me put this another way. You could take a taxi, but why spend money you could spend on…’ he waved an impatient hand ‘…oh, good coffee or ice cream or something frivolous to make your time here in Italy fun, when I can give you a lift?’

Lord, it was tempting. But she knew it would be a bad idea. Orlando de Luca might be the most attractive man she’d met in a long while—probably ever, if she thought about it—but that didn’t mean she should act on the attraction. She’d already proved her judgement in men was lousy. Spectacularly lousy. OK, so Jeremy had caught her at an acutely vulnerable moment, but she’d still swallowed every single lie. Not just hook, line and sinker—more like the whole fishing rod. ‘We might not be going the same way.’

‘Then again, we might.’

The man should’ve been a lawyer. He had an answer for everything.

‘So where are you going?’ he asked.

A direct question. One she was reluctant to answer.

He lifted an eyebrow. ‘Is it all strangers, all men, or just me?’

She frowned. ‘How do you mean?’

‘I make you nervous, Eleanor.’

‘No.’ Actually, that wasn’t quite true. He did make her nervous. Because she was aware of the chemistry between them. And she remembered what had happened last time she’d acted on chemistry. Cue one broken heart. And she was still picking up the pieces.

‘There’s another saying in your country, is there not?’ he asked softly. ‘Trust me, I’m a doctor.’

Ha. Jeremy had proved that one to be false in the extreme. He was a doctor—and most definitely not to be trusted.

She faced Orlando, ready to be firm and say thank you but, no—she was getting a taxi. And then she saw the challenge in his eyes. As if he dared her to take the risk. Let him drive her to the hotel.

They’d worked well together on the plane. She’d trusted him then. Could she trust him now?

‘I won’t expect you to invite me in for a nightcap, if that’s what you’re worrying about.’

She felt the colour shoot into her face. ‘Actually, that didn’t occur to me.’ Though Orlando had already told her he was single. And he was the most gorgeous man she’d seen in years, with those unruly dark curls, dark expressive eyes and a mouth that promised all kinds of pleasure. And she couldn’t get Tamsin’s suggestion out of her head: that a holiday fling with a gorgeous man would do her good…

He folded his arms. ‘So are you going to stand in a long, long queue, Dottoressa Eleanor, or are you going to let me drop you off on my way home?’

She gave in to temptation. ‘If you’re sure it’s no trouble, then thank you. A lift would be nice.’

His smile was breathtaking. And it made every single one of her nerve-endings feel as if it were purring.

‘Then let’s go through Customs, tesoro,’ he said softly.

The queues at the customs area and passport control had died down, and they moved through the airport surprisingly quickly. She followed Orlando into the car park—just as she could’ve guessed, he drove a low-slung, shiny black car. A convertible, to be exact. Men and their toys. And didn’t they say that all Italian men wanted to be racing-car drivers?

As if her thoughts were written all over her face, he laughed and stowed her case in the boot next to his. ‘I have only myself to please, Eleanor. And I love driving along the coast road with the hood down and the wind in my hair and the scent of the sea and lemon groves everywhere. If you have time in your schedule here, maybe you’d like to come with me some time.’

He made it sound so inviting.

And it made her knees go weak to imagine it: Orlando, wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans, a pair of dark glasses covering his eyes, at the wheel of the open-topped car.

‘So, your hotel?’

She told him the name, and before she could tell him the address he told her exactly where it was. Clearly he knew his home city well. ‘And just to stop you feeling guilty about taking me out of my way, it’s on my side of the city. On my way home, to be precise. It’s within walking distance of my apartment, in the Old Quarter.’ He opened the passenger door for her, an old-fashioned gesture of courtesy she found charming.

Though some nervousness must have shown on her face because he added, ‘I assure you, Eleanor, you will be perfectly safe. I am a good driver.’

He proved it. Though he was also a very fast driver, and her knuckles were white by the time he pulled up outside her hotel.

‘We are both in one piece,’ he said with a grin. ‘Relax.’

She wasn’t sure if it was the way he’d driven—exactly the same as all the other people on the road, taking advantage of every little gap in the traffic—or being so close to him in such a small space, but relaxing was the last thing she felt like doing right now.

‘Enjoy your stay in Italy, Eleanor.’ When he’d taken her case from the back of his car and carried it up the steps to the entrance of the hotel, he took a card from his wallet, and scribbled a number on the back of it. ‘If you have some spare time while you are in Naples, maybe we could have dinner. My surgery number is on the front. The one I’ve written on the back is my mobile. Call me.’

It wasn’t a question.

‘Call me,’ he said again, his voice soft, and raised her hand to his mouth.

The brush of his lips against her skin was momentary. It was a mere courtesy, she knew, the Italian way of doing things. It didn’t mean anything. But there was heat in his eyes. Heat matched by the flicker of desire rising up her spine.

Calling him would be way too dangerous for her peace of mind. But she wasn’t going to argue over it now. Instead, she smiled politely. ‘Thank you for the lift, Dottore de Luca.’

‘Orlando,’ he corrected. ‘Prego.’ He smiled, sketched a bow, ran lightly down the steps to his car and drove off.




CHAPTER THREE


ONCE Eleanor had signed the register and been shown to her room, she unpacked swiftly and took a shower. She was too tired and it was too late to eat a proper meal, so she ordered a milky hot chocolate from room service. She started to text her mum to say she’d arrived safely, then realised what she was doing halfway through, blinked away the tears, reminded herself to stop being over-emotional and texted Tamsin instead.

When she’d finished her hot chocolate, she slid into bed and curled into a ball. The sheets were cool and smooth and the bed was comfortable, but despite the milky drink she couldn’t sleep.

Because she couldn’t get a certain face out of her mind. Orlando de Luca. Every time she closed her eyes she saw his face. His smile. That hot look in his eyes.

Which was crazy.

Right now she wasn’t in the market for a relationship. She knew she needed to get over Jeremy’s betrayal and move on with her life, but was having a holiday fling with a gorgeous man really the right way to do that? And anyway there must be some reason why Orlando was single.

She didn’t think it was a personality flaw—the way he’d worked with her was nothing like the way Jeremy worked, being so charming that you didn’t realise until it was too late that he’d taken the credit for everything. Orlando was genuine. A nice guy, as well as one of the most attractive he’d ever met.

So why? He’d said he’d worked as a paediatrician then turned to family medicine. So was he still building his career and putting his love life on hold until he was where he wanted to be? Was he the sort who was dedicated to his career and didn’t want the commitment to a relationship? In that case he would be the perfect fling—and maybe she should call him…

But not until after her meeting tomorrow. Her stomach tightened with nerves. What would Bartolomeo Conti be like? He’d sounded nice, on the phone. The photograph he’d emailed to her was that of a man in his mid-fifties with a charming smile. But she knew firsthand that charm often covered something far less pleasant. And her mother hadn’t stayed with Bartolomeo. So was the man who might be her father a snake beneath the smile? Or was she judging him unfairly?

Finally, Eleanor fell asleep; the next morning, the alarm woke her, and by the time she’d showered her stomach was in knots. She couldn’t face even the usual light Italian breakfast of a crumbly pastry, just a frothy cappuccino—and she checked her watch what turned out to be every thirty seconds to make sure she wasn’t going to be late.

After one last glance in the mirror in her room to check she looked respectable, she headed for the hotel lounge. The second she walked in, a tall man stood up and waved to her. She recognised him instantly from the photo he’d emailed her—just as he’d clearly recognised her.

A moment of panic. What did she call him? ‘Signor Conti?’

‘Bartolomeo,’ he corrected. ‘And I hope you will let me call you Eleanor.’ He enveloped her in a hug. ‘Thank you so much for coming to see me—and all this way, from London.’

‘Prego.’

He looked delighted that she’d made the effort to speak his language. ‘We are both early.’ His smile turned slightly wry. ‘I slept badly.’

‘Me, too,’ she admitted.

He put his hands on her shoulders and looked closely at her. ‘I thought it from your photo, and now I know for sure. You look so much like my Costanza. Constance Firth,’ he corrected, ‘the woman I fell in love with, thirty years ago.’ He added softly, ‘But your colouring is all mine.’

Constance Forrest had been fair-haired and Tim Forrest had had sandy hair; both had been blue-eyed. What were the chances of them producing a brown-eyed, dark-haired child—one with olive skin that didn’t burn, rather than an English rose? Whereas Bartolomeo Conti, the man whose initial had been at the bottom of the love letter she’d found among her mother’s things, had hair, skin and eyes the same colour as her own. Coincidence? Or was he her biological father?

‘Have you had breakfast, Eleanor?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘I was too nervous to eat.’

‘Me, too. Let’s go and have a late breakfast and watch the world go by.’

He took her to a little caffè-bar and ordered them both coffee and sfogliatelle. ‘You will like these, Eleanor—they are a Neapolitan speciality. Sweet pastry shaped like a shell and filled with sweetened ricotta cheese and candied orange rind.’ His smile was full of memories. ‘I bought these for your mamma, the first time we went to a caffè together.’

She had so many questions. But they had time.

‘I thought you might like to see these,’ Eleanor said when they’d sat down, handing him an envelope.

Bartolomeo leafed through them. ‘Yes, this is how I remember my Costanza,’ he said softly. ‘And she grew into a very, very beautiful woman. This one of her in the garden…’ There was a catch in his voice. ‘And this is you as a bambina?’ He smiled. ‘You look so much like my sisters Luisella and Federica when they were bambini. Those dimples…May I borrow these to make copies?’

‘Keep them. I did this set for you,’ Eleanor explained.

He reached over the table and hugged her. ‘I never thought I would be blessed with children. And now…’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘And now it seems I have a daughter. A daughter I would very much like to get to know. If your papà does not mind?’

She appreciated the fact he’d asked. Even though strictly speaking it didn’t matter any more. ‘Dad had a stroke the year after I graduated as a doctor.’ Though at least Tim Forrest had been there for her graduation. He’d shared that particular triumph with her. ‘There’s only me now.’

‘You are alone in the world?’ Bartolomeo looked shocked. ‘What of Costanza’s famiglia? Her mother, her father?’

‘I never knew them.’

He frowned. ‘Are you telling me they disowned Costanza because she had you when she was not married?’

Eleanor shook her head. ‘I don’t really know anything about them. The only grandparents I remember were dad’s parents, but he was twenty years older than Mum and they died when I was in my early teens.’ She’d often wondered about her grandparents but hadn’t wanted to hurt her mother by asking. And, thirty years ago, being pregnant and unmarried had still had a bit of a stigma. So maybe Bartolomeo’s theory was right. ‘You really had no idea I existed?’

‘None,’ he said firmly. ‘Had I known my Costanza was carrying my baby, I would have flown straight to England and married her.’

‘So what happened?’ She needed to know. Why had her mother gone back to England alone?

Bartolomeo sighed. ‘I don’t come out of it very well, but I want to be honest with you from the start. I fell in love with your mother, but I wasn’t really free to do so.’ He looked awkward. ‘I wasn’t formally betrothed to Mariella, the daughter of my father’s business partner, but we’d grown up together and our families both expected us to get married. Except then I met Costanza. She was on holiday. It was springtime. I drove past her and caught her in a shower from a puddle. I stopped and took her for a coffee to apologise and that was it. Love at first sight.’

Something she didn’t believe in—in her view, you had to get to know someone properly first—so why couldn’t she get Orlando de Luca out of her head?

Memories softened Bartolomeo’s face. ‘Your mother was so warm, so vibrant—nothing like the cool English rose I thought she would be when I first heard her accent. She made me laugh, and I fell in love with her smile. We were inseparable in the days after that. Everything happened very fast, and I knew I wanted to marry her. I told my parents that I could not marry Mariella, that I wanted my bright English girl. And it was made very clear to me that I would have to choose between my family and Costanza.’

‘So you chose your family.’ Eleanor could understand that. She would’ve hated being cut off from her parents.

‘Not at all. I told them if they were going to insist I had to choose, then I would choose my Costanza.’ Bartolomeo’s face tightened. ‘But she had already made the decision for me. I went to her hotel and she was gone. She’d left me a letter, saying she would not come between me and my family. She was going back to England and she wasn’t going to see me again. And I was to marry Mariella, as everyone expected, and be happy.’

Which had given him a neat get-out. And even though Bartolomeo had warned her he didn’t come out of it well, disappointment seeped through her. ‘Didn’t you even try to get in touch with her?’

‘Of course I did. But I didn’t have a telephone number for her, only an address.’ He frowned. ‘I wrote to her but my letters were returned unopened.’

‘And that was it? You just gave up?’

He smiled wryly. ‘You have to remember, I wasn’t that old. I was twenty-two. So I did the impulsive thing and flew over to England. I thought that I could make her change her mind if I saw her—but when I arrived your grandparents told me she had moved out and they wouldn’t give me a forwarding address. I didn’t know who her friends were, where she worked, where even to start finding her. And then I thought, clearly, she meant it. She really didn’t want to see me again or she would have left me clues.’ He looked sad. ‘And now I know I was right. She decided to keep it a clean break. Otherwise she would have told me about you. My Costanza was never a liar.’

‘But she never told me about you. I grew up thinking Dad was…’ She shrugged. ‘Well, my dad. I only started wondering when I bought my house and the bank queried the fact my birth certificate had my surname as Firth. Mum said it was just an admin thing. Then, when I was clearing out her things afterwards, I found the papers: they changed my name from Firth to Forrest by deed poll after they married.’

‘So her husband brought you up as his own.’ Bartolomeo looked anxious. ‘She was happy with him? He treated her well? Treated you both well?’

There was a lump in Eleanor’s throat as she remembered. ‘They loved each other very, very much. And, yes, they were happy. We were happy. We were a family.’ The perfect family. And how she missed them.

‘I am glad.’ Her surprise must have shown on her face because he said, ‘I would not want my Costanza to be sad. And I would want your childhood to be full of smiles.’

‘It was. Tim obviously wasn’t my biological father, but he was my dad. He read me bedtime stories, taught me to ride a bike and drive a car, grilled my boyfriends and grounded me when I was late home, helped me with my homework and opened the champagne when I got my exam results. He was always there any time I needed to talk—always there with a hug and a smile and sheer common sense when I was full of teenage angst. Mum was, too.’ She swallowed back the tears, the aching loss. The knowledge that Tim would’ve seen through Jeremy and gently made her see the truth. ‘And you? You were happy with Mariella?’

‘We married, but it was a mistake.’ He sighed. ‘I loved her, but not in the way I loved Costanza—there wasn’t the same spark, the same passion I found with Costanza. We were more…friends. I tried to be a good husband, worked hard to provide for her and build up my family’s business. Too hard, maybe, because she thought I neglected her.’ He shrugged. ‘She found love in someone else’s arms.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He sipped his coffee. ‘No matter. But I’ve had my work, and my sisters are close to me. And I have two nieces to spoil.’ He smiled. ‘And you? You have a husband, a fidanzato?’

She’d had a fiancé. Five months ago. ‘No. I’m single.’

‘A beautiful ragazza like you? Why?’

‘There was someone,’ she admitted.

‘What happened?’

‘He was wrong for me.’ She wasn’t prepared to tell Bartolomeo just how close she’d been to making the biggest mistake of her life. If she hadn’t met Penelope and found out the truth…She pushed the thought away. ‘So what made you send that message to the radio station?’

‘To find my lost love? I’ve reached that age when you look back at your life and you wonder what you would have done differently.’ He spread his hands. ‘I am just lucky you heard the Lost Loves programme.’

‘And put the pieces together.’ She nodded. ‘That song always made Mum cry. And the dates fitted—the summer before I was born. I never even knew she’d been to Italy.’

‘I regret that I never knew you as a baby.’ His voice softened. ‘I can’t change the past. But we can change the future. And I would very much like you to be part of my future, Eleanor. Part of my family.’

Longing tugged at her. To be part of a family again…how could she say no?

Before Eleanor knew it, it was lunchtime. She and Bartolomeo ate a leisurely panini and fruit and ordered more coffee, and spent their time talking and catching up.

Finally she glanced at her watch. ‘I’m sorry—have I made you late for an appointment?’

Bartolomeo smiled. ‘I kept my diary free today.’

But he looked pale, tired. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

‘Just getting old—at the stage in my life where I need a sonnelino, a nap.’

But Bartolomeo could only be in his early fifties. If he’d been twenty-two when her mother had fallen pregnant, that would make him fifty-three now. He was too young to feel this tired, this early in the day.

‘Come to dinner tonight,’ he said. He took a business card from a small leather case, and wrote swiftly on the back. ‘This is my address. My sisters and their husbands usually come over for supper on a Tuesday evening. Come and meet them.’

Eleanor wasn’t sure. ‘It’s the evening you spend with your family.’

‘You are my daughter. So they are your family, too.’ He smiled and squeezed her hand. ‘It’s nothing formal—a simple supper. Please come.’

‘I…’

‘Please?’

How could she resist that beseeching look? ‘All right.’

He beamed at her. ‘Then I will see you at seven, yes?’

Once his taxi had driven off, Eleanor headed into the centre of Naples. For a mad moment she thought about calling Orlando—but he was probably in surgery right now. And anyway, she wasn’t there to have a holiday fling: she was there to find out the truth about her father. She really didn’t need the extra complication.

She wasn’t sure whether the etiquette of dinner parties was the same in Italy as it was in England, but she bought wine and chocolates to take with her anyway. She’d just finished changing when the phone in her room rang.

‘Dottoressa Forrest? I have a call for you,’ the receptionist said.

Odd. If it was Tamsin, the call would’ve come through on her mobile phone. Who would call her at the hotel? Bartolomeo, to cancel this evening? ‘Thank you. I’ll take it,’ she said quietly.

‘Hello, Eleanor?’

She recognised the voice immediately, and a shiver of pure pleasure ran down her spine. ‘Orlando?’

‘I was just passing your hotel on my way home. Do you have time to have a drink with me in the bar?’

She glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes until she needed to catch the metro. Fifteen minutes when she could sit on her own and worry about whether Bartolomeo’s family would accept her, or… ‘I have to leave in about fifteen minutes,’ she said.

‘Then you do have time. Bene. What would you like to drink?’

She knew that alcohol wasn’t the right way to soothe her nerves: she didn’t want to turn up at dinner reeking of wine the first time she met the Conti family. ‘Mineral water would be lovely. Sparkling, please. I’ll be right down.’

She replaced the receiver, picked up the things she wanted to take with her to Bartolomeo’s, and went to join Orlando in the bar. He was sitting at a table on his own, skimming through a newspaper and seemingly oblivious to the admiring glances of the women sitting in the bar. Including her own. In a well-cut dark suit with a sober tie and a white shirt, he looked absolutely edible. As she reached the table, he put down the newspaper and stood up. ‘Thank you for joining me, Eleanor.’

Old-fashioned etiquette. Funny how it made her knees weak.

‘I assumed you’d like ice and lemon,’ he said, indicating the glass at the place opposite him.

‘Grazie,’ she said, sitting down.

‘Prego.’ He smiled at her, sat down and poured water from the bottle into her glass. ‘I rang the hospital in Milan today. I thought you’d like to know that Giulietta Russo is doing just fine and they expect her to make a full recovery from her heart attack.’

She smiled back. ‘That’s great news. Thanks for telling me.’

‘Though I admit, it wasn’t the only reason I called by.’ He took a sip of his own drink—also mineral water, she noticed. ‘I wondered if you might be free the day after tomorrow—if you’d like to come to Pompeii with me.’

He was asking her on a date?

Her first thought was, Yes, please. Her second was more sensible: despite Tamsin’s suggestion, she really wasn’t here in Naples to have a fling. And the fact that she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Orlando meant she really ought to steer clear: things could get way too complicated, and right now there were enough complications in her life.

She took a sip of iced water to give her a breathing space. The answer was no—but nicely. Because in other circumstances it would definitely have been yes.

‘It’s very kind of you to ask,’ she said, ‘but I’m not in the market for a date.’

He looked pointedly at her left hand. ‘Not married. So you’re involved with someone at home—someone who couldn’t join you here in Italy?’

‘No. I’m single,’ she admitted.

‘As am I. So what’s the harm? You’re here on holiday, yes?’

‘Not exactly,’ she hedged.

‘Business, then?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s personal. But I can’t really talk about it right now. I need to get some things straight in my head.’

‘It sounds,’ Orlando said thoughtfully, ‘as if you could use a friend. A sounding-board, you could say. Someone who’s not involved.’

Lord, he was acute. That was exactly what she needed. Someone who was objective, who could see things more clearly than she could right now.

‘You barely know me, I admit—but I think we could be friends. And, as a medico di famiglia, I’m a good listener.’ He spread his hands. ‘Come to Pompeii with me. We can potter around among the ruins and eat gelati…and you can talk to me, knowing that whatever you tell me won’t go any further.’

Tempting. So tempting

But Eleanor wasn’t sure she could handle the beginning of a relationship as well as everything else—even if it was just temporary, a holiday fling.

‘As friends,’ he added, almost as if he’d guessed why she was stalling. ‘No pressure.’

She nodded. ‘Then thank you. I’d like that.’

‘Good.’ His eyes glittered. ‘I’ll pick you up here the day after tomorrow, at half past ten. Do you have good walking shoes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wear them.’ Then, to take the edge off the command, he gave her one of those slow, sensual, knee-buckling smiles—a smile that made her very glad she was sitting down. ‘Of course, you could wear high heels if you prefer. But you’d end up with blisters.’

Which he, as a doctor, would insist on treating. The idea of his fingers stroking her skin—even if it was only to put a protective plaster around a blister—made desire flicker through her.

He glanced at his watch. ‘My fifteen minutes is up. Unless you can be late?’

She shook her head. ‘Not this time. It’s…complicated.’

‘You don’t have to explain, bella mia.’ He reached across the table, took her hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it—just the way he had the previous day, when he’d dropped her off at the hotel.

Every nerve-ending seemed to heat, and, shockingly, she found herself wondering what it would be like to feel his mouth against her own instead of her hand.

Oh, lord.

‘Thank you for the drink,’ she said politely. ‘And I’m sorry I didn’t, um, have a chance to finish it.’

‘Non importa. You warned me we only had fifteen minutes.’ He smiled at her. ‘Have a pleasant evening. And I will see you on Thursday morning, yes?’

‘Thursday.’ And she really hoped her voice didn’t sound as croaky to him as it did to her.




CHAPTER FOUR


THE evening went better than Eleanor had expected: Bartolomeo’s sisters were a little wary of her to start with, but gradually started to thaw. She spent Wednesday morning exploring the city and the afternoon with Bartolomeo.

And then it was Thursday morning.

Her date-that-wasn’t-a-date with Orlando.

She knew the second that he walked into the hotel foyer—even though she was reading a guidebook to Pompeii rather than watching the door—because the air in the room changed. Became electric.

And she noticed that just about every woman in the room was watching him as he walked towards her. His movements were fluid, graceful—almost like a dancer’s. Beautiful. Yet he didn’t seem aware of the turned heads. He just came to a stop in front of her and smiled.

‘Buon giorno, Eleanor. You are ready?’

‘Sure.’ She closed the guidebook and stuffed it into her handbag.

‘Then let’s go.’ He held his hand out to pull her to her feet. ‘So, today—on your holiday that isn’t exactly a holiday—you are officially on holiday, yes?’

The convoluted phrasing made her laugh—and made her realise how ridiculous she was being. There was no need to be cagey about why she was there. And, given what Orlando did for a living…she could do with a second medical opinion to confirm her suspicions. ‘Yes.’

‘Bene.’ He ushered her down the steps to where he’d parked the car, and opened the door for her. She hid a smile. All the women were staring at them and envying her for being with someone so gorgeous. And all the men were staring at them and envying her for climbing into a car that gorgeous. Well, they were probably envying Orlando, actually, for being behind the wheel.

‘What?’ Orlando asked as he closed the driver’s door.

‘Nothing.’

He tipped his head on one side. ‘Nothing?’

‘Your car’s attracting attention, that’s all.’

He shrugged. ‘There are plenty of cars like this in Italy.’

A low-slung, sleek black convertible. ‘Flashy.’

He slanted her a grin. ‘I prefer to use the word “fun”.’

He would. ‘Why are we driving there? The tourist guide said the best way to get to Pompeii is by train.’ Driving in Naples would be a nightmare. Full of traffic jams—worse even than London, she thought.

‘Ah, so you were reading while you were waiting for me?’ He laughed. ‘It’s true—but I wanted to take you along the coast afterwards. So this saves time coming back to Naples. This is your first time in Naples, I take it?’

‘My first time in Italy, full stop,’ she said.

He smiled. ‘You chose the best place. Rome is flashy. Venice is…’ he made a noise of contempt ‘…flooded.’

She laughed. ‘Isn’t that the point?’

‘Maybe, but they also have alta acqua. Which is very far from pleasant, believe me.’ He shuddered. ‘Naples—now, we have Vesuvius. And the bay. We have the most beautiful churches in Italy. Oh, and the best pizza. Best gelati, too.’

She grinned. ‘I’ll take it as read that you love your home city, then.’

‘That’s why I came back,’ he said simply. ‘Don’t get me wrong—I was happy in London. But this is home.’

‘It’s sort of my home too, in a way.’

‘How so?’

He sounded interested, yet not pushy, and she found herself telling him. ‘I never knew but my mother came here the year before I was born. She fell in love with someone. It didn’t work out. But then I heard my mother’s name on this radio programme—one of these ones where people search for their lost loves—and it was the man she’d fallen in love with. So I got in touch.’

‘And you’re here to meet him?’

‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘That’s why I said I wasn’t really here on holiday. Because it turns out that he’s my biological father.’

‘And you had no idea?’

‘Not until after my mother died, no. I mean, you hear of these “secret babies”—but you don’t expect to find out that you’re one of them.’

‘It must have been a shock for you,’ he said, sounding sympathetic. ‘You were meeting him for the first time the other night?’

‘Second,’ she said. ‘This time, I met his family.’

‘Ouch. Difficult for you,’ he said.

‘More difficult for them—this English girl appearing out of nowhere after thirty years and claiming to be related.’

‘We have warm hearts and big families over here. Give it time. They’ll get used to the idea.’ He reached over with his right hand and squeezed her hand. ‘You’re very brave to come all this way on your own. You told me about your mother, but you have no brothers, no sisters?’

‘Just me. And my dad—the man who brought me up, the man I’ve always thought of as my dad—died the year after I graduated.’

Orlando left his hand curled round hers. ‘So this man—your biological father—is now your only family.’

‘Something like that.’

‘So what about your friend, the one who’s a GP? Wouldn’t she come with you?’

‘She would have done—but she’s six months pregnant.’

The penny clearly dropped. ‘So no travelling.’

She shrugged. ‘There’s just me.’

‘Just you,’ he said softly.

She swallowed hard. ‘Except…Can I ask your advice?’

‘Of course.’

‘Bartolomeo said he’d just reached that age when he’s curious about what might have been—that’s why he tried to find Mum. But I think there’s more to it than that. He isn’t that old—he’s in his early fifties, the prime of his life. And yet he’s tiring easily, he’s pale and I’ve noticed that he gets a little out of breath when he walks. That’s not normal. So I’m thinking either a heart condition or maybe AML.’ Without examining him herself, she couldn’t give a proper diagnosis. But the symptoms she’d noticed were definitely worrying. ‘And I was wondering…maybe he wanted to find Mum to make his peace with her. Before…’

Her throat closed up and she couldn’t say the words.

Orlando clearly knew what she meant, because the pressure of his hand tightened briefly around hers. ‘It might be a post-viral illness—he might be recovering, not becoming sicker,’ he said. ‘But I think you need to talk to him about it. Be open about it. Get him to put your mind at rest.’

‘Or let me prepare for the worst.’

‘You,’ Orlando told her, ‘are looking on the dark side. It might not be what you think. You know as well as I do that the symptoms you listed apply to other illnesses that can be cured, or at least controlled. The breathlessness could be asthma—which can start at any age, so it could be recent and he’s not used to taking his inhalers yet.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Talk to him,’ Orlando advised. ‘And although my medical textbooks are in Italian so they won’t be much use to you, if you need them for research I can translate for you.’

‘That’s a very generous offer.’ She was glad that her sunglasses hid her need to blink back tears.

‘We’re friends. Well, maybe we’re more acquaintances, at the moment,’ he told her, ‘but we’re going to be friends. And friends look out for each other, yes?’

‘Thank you. Grazie.’

He smiled. ‘My pleasure, tesoro. And now I want you to stop worrying. Until you’ve talked to him and found more information, there’s nothing you can do. So relax. Enjoy the sunshine. Things have a way of working out.’

He squeezed her hand once more, then placed his hand back on the steering-wheel. This time he drove a little more sedately than he had from the airport. And then she noticed the music playing softly in the background. A string quartet: something she didn’t recognise, but it was soothing—and very pretty. ‘What’s the music?’ she asked

‘Vivaldi.’

‘It’s lovely.’

‘Well, of course. It’s Italian.’ He gave her a wicked look. ‘We do have more than just “O Sole Mio”, you know.’

‘You listen to mainly classical music?’

‘Depends on my mood. I’ll sing along with Lucio Battisti or Andrea Bocelli—or sometimes I just like the regularity of Vivaldi or Corelli in the background. Had I been a surgeon, I think I would choose this for the operating theatre.’ He paused. ‘And you?’

She shrugged. ‘Whatever’s on the radio. Something I can hum along to.’

‘If you want to change the music, help yourself.’

Jeremy had teased her about singing out of key: no way was she going to sing along in the car beside a man she barely knew. A man she was finding more and more attractive, the more time she spent with him. Today Orlando was wearing casual clothes—pale linen trousers and a white T-shirt—and yet he looked utterly gorgeous. Even more so than he had in a formal suit—because casual meant touchable.

And he’d just been holding her hand.

She gripped the edges of her sunhat to keep herself from temptation.

‘I’m glad you don’t have long hair,’ Orlando said.

Not what the rest of the world had said when she’d gone from hair that was almost waist-length to an urchin cut. ‘Oh?’

‘Because it’s beautiful outside,’ he said. ‘Beautiful enough to have the top down—but if your hair were long and loose, that wouldn’t be much fun for you.’

‘Is that a hint?’

‘Would you mind? I know it’s hot, but we’re not that far from Pompeii so you shouldn’t get a headache from the sun. Though I would advise you to remove your hat.’

She did as he suggested. ‘Prego.’

He pressed a button: moments later, the hood was down and folded away. Automatic. Impressive.

‘Now you’re showing off,’ she said.

He laughed. ‘It’s called “having fun”.’

When they reached Pompeii, Orlando put the hood back up, and took two bottles of water from the glove compartment.

‘You need to keep properly hydrated in this climate,’ he said.

‘Thanks. I didn’t think about that.’

He shrugged. ‘At least you remembered a hat and sunglasses. That’s more than many people would.’

‘And as you drove us here,’ she told him when they joined the queue for tickets, ‘I’m paying the entrance fee.’

‘No. This was my idea. And in my world women don’t pay on a date.’

‘This isn’t a date,’ she reminded him. ‘We’re here as friends. I pay for the tickets, or no deal.’

He laughed. ‘You’re independent and impossible. And I want the pleasure of showing you Pompeii, so what choice do I have?’ He held his hand out for her to shake. ‘OK, it’s a deal. Provided you let me buy you a gelati.’

She shook his hand, and her palm tingled at the contact. ‘Deal,’ she said, hearing the huskiness in her own voice and hoping that Orlando hadn’t noticed.

When she’d paid for their tickets, they wandered through into the old town. There were beautiful frescoes and mosaic floors everywhere. ‘It’s gorgeous. You wouldn’t think this place was over two thousand years old,’ she said, full of wonder.

‘Nearer three,’ Orlando said, ‘as it was first occupied in the eighth century BC. Some of the ruined buildings were actually ruins before the eruption.’

‘Incredible.’ Though there was something that made her uncomfortable. ‘Those bodies on the floor…where did they come from?’

‘They’re plaster casts,’ he told her. ‘The ash from the volcano fell and buried the people and animals, then hardened round them. The bodies decomposed and left a space behind in the ash. In the nineteenth century, the archaeologist Giuseppi Fiorelli had the idea of pumping plaster in to the cavities so we could see what was under the ash.’





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