The Italian GP's Bride

‘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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