Читать книгу The Valtieri Baby - Caroline Anderson - Страница 8

IT took them a while to discharge him, but finally he was wheeled to the entrance.

Anita’s car was there, drawn up to the kerb, engine running. All he had to do was get out of the wheelchair and into it.

Huh. It was a nightmare, but he gritted his teeth and managed somehow. His inflexible right foot in its support bandage was the most awkward thing—that, and the fact that his wounded thigh muscles really didn’t want to lift his leg, and his heavily bandaged right hand was all but useless.

It didn’t help that it was tipping down with rain, either, but at last he was in, more or less dry with the help of a man with an umbrella, and the door was shut.

‘OK?’ she asked briskly as he was finally settled beside her, but he’d known her nearly thirty-five years, and the concern in her voice was obvious to him.

Obvious, and strangely reassuring.

‘I’m fine,’ he lied through gritted teeth. ‘Just get us out of here.’

He turned up the collar of his rain-spattered and bloodstained leather jacket and hunched down in the seat as she pulled away. He was glad to be getting out of the city. He didn’t think Camilla Ponti posed a real threat, but the last thing he wanted was Anita in danger, however slight the risk.

She left the city streets behind, heading out of Firenze, and after a few minutes she turned her head and flashed him a smile. ‘Better now?’

They were on the A1 heading south past Siena towards the Montalcino area where both his family and hers had lived for generations.

Home, he thought with a sigh of relief.

‘Much better,’ he said, and resting his head back on the seat, he closed his eyes and drifted off.

He was asleep.

Good. He’d lost a lot of blood, and he’d be exhausted. She didn’t suppose he’d slept much last night, what with the pain and awkwardness of his injuries, and anyway, it was easier for her if he wasn’t watching her while she drove, because his presence, familiar as it was, always scrambled her brains.

Even when he was fast asleep she was ludicrously conscious of him, deeply, desperately aware of every breath, every sigh, every slight shift of his solid, muscular body.

She knew every inch of it. Loved every inch of it. Always had, always would.

Fruitlessly, of course. The one time she’d felt there was any hope for them it had been snatched away abruptly and without warning, and left her heart in tatters. Anyone with any sense would walk away from him, tell him to go to hell and find his own solution, but Anita couldn’t do that.

She couldn’t walk away from him. Goodness knows she’d tried a hundred times, but her heart kept drawing her back because deep down she believed that he loved her, whatever he might say to the contrary.

And one day…

She gave a soft, sad huff of laughter. One day nothing. She was stupid, deluded, desperate.

‘Hey.’

She turned her head and met his eyes briefly, then dragged hers back to the road.

‘How are you?’ she asked. ‘Good sleep?’

‘I’m just resting.’

‘You were snoring.’

‘I don’t snore.’

‘You do.’ He did. Not loudly, not much, just a soft sound that was curiously comforting beside her. As it had been, for those few blissful weeks five years ago.

‘Why did you laugh?’

‘Laugh?’ She hadn’t—

‘Yes, laugh. If you can call it that. You didn’t look exactly amused.’

Ah. That laugh, the one that wasn’t. The laugh because against all the odds she could still manage to believe he loved her.

‘I was thinking about my meeting yesterday,’ she lied. ‘The bride thought we could wrap it all up in an hour. She was miffed when I left.’

‘Is that where you were when I rang you?’

She nodded, biting her lip at the little rush of guilt, and he tilted his head and frowned.

‘Anita? It wasn’t your fault. I knew you were in a meeting.’

‘I should have been out by then. I could have answered it—should have answered it.’

‘I wouldn’t have answered you if I’d been with a client.’

Of course not. She knew that, but it didn’t make any difference, and if he’d died—

His hand closed over hers, squeezing gently. ‘Hey, I’m all right,’ he said softly. ‘I was fine, and the ambulance came really quickly, because she’d already called it.’

‘Well, good. I don’t suppose there was a lot of time to waste, and what if she hadn’t called it? What if you’d passed out?’

He dropped his hand again. ‘It was fine, the bleeding was all under control,’ he lied. ‘And I’m all right, you can see that. Now I just have to get better. I wonder if they’ve found her yet.’

‘Will she go to prison for it?’

He laughed a little grimly. ‘What, for hitting me with her handbag? No. She didn’t mean to do this, Anita.’

‘You’re very forgiving.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m thoroughly peed off because I shouldn’t even have been here, I should have been on holiday and the only reason I wasn’t was because of her. I’m just a realist and anyway, it’s not really me she’s angry with, it’s Marco. It’s just profoundly irritating.’

Irritating? She nearly laughed. ‘So, have you warned him? Your client? She might go after him.’

‘Don’t worry, he’s out of the country now. He was leaving yesterday straight after our meeting, but anyway he has very good security.’

‘Maybe you should move to somewhere more secure. Your apartment isn’t exactly impenetrable. OK, she might be just a bit of a nutter, but what if it was someone really serious, with a real grudge?’

He shrugged, contemplating the idea not for the first time, but he loved it where he was, overlooking the rooftops. He had a fabulous view and he was loath to lose it. Sometimes he sat out on his little roof terrace and imagined that the rolling hills there in the distance were home.

They weren’t, he knew that, but sometimes he just had a yearning to be back there, and those distant hills made him feel closer. The idea of moving to some gated community or apartment complex with hefty security and nothing to look at through the windows but carefully manicured grounds brought him out in hives.

‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, knowing full well he wouldn’t, and he closed his eyes and listened to the rhythmic swish of the windscreen wipers as she drove him home.

He was asleep when she turned onto the long gravel drive that led to her villa.

It had once been the main dwelling on her family’s farm, long superseded by a much larger villa, and she loved it. It was small and unpretentious, but it was hers, it had stunning views, and it was perfect for Gio’s recovery because it was single storey and so he wouldn’t have to struggle with stairs.

Her headlights raked the front of the villa, and she drew up outside and opened the door quietly, easing out of the car without disturbing him. She’d put the radio on quietly while he slept, and she left it on while she went in and turned up the heating.

It wasn’t cold, exactly, but it was cheerless even though the rain had stopped now, and she pulled sheets out of the linen cupboard and quickly made up her spare bed for him. It was a good room, the view from the bed stretching miles into the distance, and on the top of the hill on the horizon was the Palazzo Valtieri, home to his family for hundreds of years.

The lights were off now, the palazzo deserted, but normally she could see it in the dark. It was quite distinctive, and at night the lights could be seen for miles. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d lain there in her bedroom next to this one and stared at them, wondering if he was there, if he was awake, if he was looking for the lights of her villa.

Probably not. Why would he? He didn’t feel the same about her, he’d made that perfectly clear five years ago when he’d ended their relationship without warning. And anyway, most of the time he was in Firenze, where he lived and worked.

But still she looked, and wondered, and yearned.

‘Stop it!’ she muttered, and made the bed. Torturing herself with memories was pointless—as pointless as staring at the palazzo on the hill like a love-struck teenager night after night.

But she felt like a love-struck teenager, even after all this time. Nothing had changed—except now she didn’t have to imagine what it felt like to lie in his arms, because she knew.

She tugged the quilt straight, turned it back so he could get in, and went outside, switching on the porch lights.

He was awake. She could tell that, even though his eyes were closed, and as she walked towards him, her boots crunching on the gravel, they opened and looked straight at her through the windscreen.

He didn’t want to come in. She could tell that, just as she’d been able to tell he was awake. Well, that was fine. She didn’t really want him to, either, because it meant keeping up an impossible charade of indifference for the next two weeks, and she really, really didn’t know if she could do it.

But it seemed that neither of them had a choice.

He had to do it.

There was no point delaying it, he had to get out of the car and hobble into the house and try, somehow, not to remember the last time he’d been in there.

The night of his brother Massimo’s wedding, nine months ago.

Long enough to make a baby.

That was a random thought. And if he hadn’t stopped, if he hadn’t walked away and got back in his car and driven back to Firenze, they might have done just that.

They’d had a great day. A quiet family wedding, with a simple ceremony in the town hall followed by a meal in a restaurant owned by a member of their housekeeper Carlotta’s family.

And then Massimo had taken his bride home, and the rest of them had ended up at Luca’s with all the children. Too much for him, and too much for Anita, so he’d given her a lift home, and she’d offered him coffee before he headed back to Firenze, and he’d accepted.

Except they’d never got as far as the coffee—

‘Gio?’

He eased his fragile and protesting foot out of the car with his one good hand, and then swung round and stood up, propping himself on the door for a moment.

‘OK?’

‘Bit light-headed.’

She clicked her tongue and took his good arm, draping it round her shoulders and sliding her arm around his waist so she could help him to the door. He didn’t lean much weight on her. He couldn’t, she was tiny, so he wasn’t sure how much of a help it was, but it gave him a legitimate excuse to be close to her for a moment.

He actually didn’t need her help. So long as he took tiny, short steps, it was OK. Not good, but OK. And if he took it slowly, he’d be fine.

Did he tell her that?

No, because he was weak and self-indulgent, and he was enjoying the feel of her arm around his waist too much, so he told himself he didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

As if it would. Anita was made of sterner stuff than that. He’d ripped her head off a million times when she’d been helping him limp home after he’d fallen out of a tree or off a wall or come hurtling off his bike at some crazy break-neck speed, and she’d never once turned a hair or paid any attention to his objections.

So he kept quiet and let her help him, and enjoyed the side-effect of being close to her firm, athletic body, savouring the nudge of her hip against his, the feel of her arm around his back, her warm fingers curled around his wrist.

And the scent of her, the perfume she always wore, the perfume he’d bought her countless times for Christmas or birthdays, always apologising for being unimaginative but doing it anyway because that scent, for him, was Anita.

‘All right now?’

He nodded, words failing him for a second, and she shot him a keen look.

‘You really are feeling rough, aren’t you? I was expecting you to tell me to let go and stop interfering and that you didn’t need my help and go and do something useful like cooking—’

She broke off, meeting his eyes and then laughing as she saw the wry humour reflected there.

‘Surely not? Surely you haven’t finally learned to be gracious, Giovanni Valtieri, after all these years?’

‘Hardly.’

He chuckled and lifted his good hand, patting her cheek patronisingly. It always annoyed her and her eyes flared in warning.

‘Don’t push your luck,’ she said, and dropping him there in the entrance hall like a hot brick, she stalked into the kitchen, hips swishing. ‘Coffee?’

He followed her slowly, enjoying the view in a masochistic way because there was no way he would act on this crazy attraction between them. ‘Only if you’ve got a decent coffeemaker now. I don’t suppose there’s any food in the house?’

‘Not yet. It’s in the car. I’ll put the coffee on. Do you want to lie down for a while, or sit in here?’

And there it was—the sofa, an old battered leather one where he’d nearly lost his self-control last June. But it looked really inviting, and it was set opposite a pair of French doors out onto the terrace and he could see the familiar lights of the valley twinkling in the distance. His home was out there somewhere in the darkness, and if he couldn’t be there, then this was the next best thing.

‘Here looks good,’ he said, and made his way over to it and lowered himself down cautiously. So far, so good, he thought, and stretched his leg out in front of him with a quiet groan of relief.

‘Better?’

‘Much better. Have you got that coffee on yet?’

‘I thought you didn’t like my coffee?’

‘I don’t, but I need caffeine, and it has to be better than the stuff in the hospital.’

She gave him a look, but got two mugs out and found some biscuits in a tin.

‘Here. Eat these while you wait. We’ll be having dinner in a while. I bought something ready-made so we can have it whenever you’re ready.’

‘Good. I’m starving.’

She laughed. ‘I’ve never known you when you weren’t starving. It’s a miracle you’re not fat.’

‘It’s my enormous brain. It takes a lot of energy.’

She snorted, but he could see a smile teasing the corners of her mouth, and he turned away so she wouldn’t see him laughing in response. Then his smile faded, and he closed his eyes and sighed quietly.

If it wasn’t for this intense physical tug between them which had appeared suddenly when they were fourteen and never faded, life would have been so, so much easier. They could have just been friends, just as they had all their lives until that point. They’d been inseparable, getting into all manner of scrapes together, but then their hormones had made things awkward between them and she’d started spending more time with the girls, and he with the boys.

But despite the occasional awkwardness, they’d stayed friends, and they still were, twenty years later. She was the first person he called if he had something interesting or sad or exciting to share, but since that time five years ago when they’d somehow lost their restraint and ended up in bed for a few giddy and delirious weeks, things hadn’t been the same.

He hadn’t called her as much, hadn’t leant on her in the same way, and if she’d leant on him, he’d given only what he’d had to and no more.

He’d been easing away from her, trying to distance himself because it was just too darned hard to be so close when he could never give her what she wanted—until last June, when he’d nearly lost the plot. He’d hardly seen anything of her since then, and he’d missed her more than he would ever admit.

She heard a quiet sigh, and looked over to where he was sitting.

He looked thoughtful, sombre, and she wondered what he was thinking about. The silly woman who’d got him in this mess with her unprovoked attack?

Or the last time he’d sat on that sofa, when they’d so nearly—

‘Here, your coffee,’ she said, dumping it down on the table beside him. She went back for her own coffee and the biscuits, and handed them to him.

‘No chocolate ones?’

‘Do you know, you’re like a demanding child,’ she grumbled, going back to the cupboard and rummaging around until she found a packet of chocolate coated wafers. ‘Here. I was saving them for a special occasion, but since you can’t cope without them…’

He arched a brow, but she ignored it and tore the Cellophane and put the packet down on the cushions between them, reaching for one at the same time as him. Their fingers clashed, and she withdrew her hand.

‘After you,’ she said, ‘since you’re clearly going to die if you don’t eat soon,’ and his mouth curved into a slight, fleeting smile and he picked one up deliberately and bit it in half.

She looked away. He was teasing her, tormenting her, but her fingers were still tingling from the brush of his hand.

How could she feel like this still? Always, all the time, year after year without anything but hope to feed it?

Except he’d given her hope. They’d had an affair, and last year, they’d so nearly started it up again. So very, very nearly—

‘Good biscuits.’

‘They are. That’s why I was saving them. Don’t eat them all, you won’t want your dinner.’

‘Unlikely.’

She snorted, and put the rest away in the tin and put the lid on, and he just leant back and stretched out his long, rangy body and sighed.

He looked so good there, as if the sofa was made for him, as if it was his body that had moulded it to the saggy, comfortable shape it now was—except he’d only ever been on it once before, and she really, really didn’t want to think about that time.

‘How’s the coffee?’ she asked to distract herself, and he glanced down into the mug and shrugged.

‘It’s coffee. It’s not great. Why don’t we go and buy a coffee maker?’

‘Now?’

He chuckled wearily. ‘No, not now. Tomorrow? I don’t know if I can cope for two weeks without proper coffee.’

‘This is proper coffee. You’re just a coffee snob.’

‘No, I just know what I like.’

‘And you couldn’t possibly compromise to spare my feelings?’

He turned his head and gave her a mocking smile. ‘Now, you know that’s ridiculous.’

Oh, goodness, she couldn’t do this! That smile cut right through her defences and left her so vulnerable to him, but there was no way he was going to know that. So she laughed and hit him lightly with a cushion, then hugged it to her chest and pulled her knees up, propping her feet on the edge of the sofa and changing the subject back to the safer one of his attacker.

‘I wonder when they’ll find her. She makes me nervous.’

His lips kinked in that lopsided smile that was so familiar to her and made her heart lurch once again. ‘It’s not a Bond movie, Anita. She’s just an angry woman who’s probably now very scared.’

She nodded. ‘Probably. What on earth did she want from you?’

He shrugged. ‘Money? They were in business, she cheated him for years, he found out and told her to go quietly and broke up the partnership, and then she decided to go after what she thought was her half. So he produced all the evidence to show she’d cheated him and she gave in, but instead of gaining money, she’s ended up with a legal bill, and she blames me.’

Anita laughed in astonishment. ‘Why? She didn’t seriously expect to win?’

‘Apparently.’

‘She’s deluded, then. Either that or she hasn’t heard of your reputation. She should have just gone quietly.’

‘Of course, but she was distraught. Much more so than I would have expected, and she was so insistent on talking to me. It wasn’t normal behaviour. Maybe if I’d listened I wouldn’t be in this mess now.’

He looked slightly bemused, as if he was still trying to work it out, and she reached out a hand and rested it on his shoulder. Silly of her to touch him, so risky and not really necessary, but she needed to feel his warmth, just to reassure herself that he was still alive, that this woman’s actions hadn’t actually caused his death after all.

But then he turned his head and their eyes locked. His pupils flared, darkening his already dark eyes to midnight, and it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. Heat scorched through her, a heat born of want and need and a deep and unbearable longing to just lean over and rest her head on his shoulder and hold him close.

For an age they said nothing, and then she pulled her hand away and got up.

‘I’ll get the food in from the car and cook the dinner,’ she said, her voice jerky and tight, and pulling her boots back on, she went out to the car and stood for a moment sucking in the cool air and getting herself back under control.

How could she still love him, still want him, like this? Five years she’d had to get over him, and she’d thought she was doing OK, but tonight she felt as if she hadn’t made any progress at all. And now they were supposed to be stuck together alone here for two weeks, and keep their hands to themselves?

They’d never do it.

He was on the phone when she went back inside with the shopping, talking to his mother.

She could tell it was her, just by the tone of his voice and the patient, slightly indulgent expression on his face.

‘I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me, Anita’s looking after me. Of course I’ll be nice to her. I know she’s a nice girl.’ He glanced across at her and winked, and then his mother said something else and he looked hastily away. ‘Don’t be silly. Of course not.’

Of course not what? Of course not, any chance of them getting back together? It would make his mother a very happy woman. Hers also. Her, too, come to that, happiest of all of them, but it was a fruitless waste of energy thinking about it any more, so she dumped the shopping down on the worktop and started to put it away.

If only she could tune out the sound of his voice, instead of catching every word as if she was eavesdropping! Not that she could help it.

She left the shopping and went into the bathroom, giving it a quick clean. Hopefully by the time she’d finished, he would have got off the phone and she wouldn’t be forced to endure the warm murmur of his voice and that soft chuckle which melted her bones.

By the time the taps and mirror were gleaming and they could have eaten off the fittings, she decided the bathroom was probably clean enough. She went back into the kitchen, but he was still on the phone. To Luca, this time, she thought.

There was medical stuff—details of his treatment, a report on what hurt, what tingled, what ached—definitely Luca. And he was lying, as well. She took the phone from him.

‘Luca? Hi. This is mostly lies. He hurts, he looks awful, he’s dizzy—Gio, no, you can’t have the phone back.’ She stepped further away, listening to Luca’s advice for feeding him things to replace the iron while Gio protested from the confines of the sofa.

‘Will do.’

‘And don’t let him walk on that foot yet.’

‘OK. I’ll do my best.’ She swatted his hand away. ‘He wants you back.’

‘Anita, before you go, I know this is difficult for you,’ Luca said softly. ‘We’re really grateful to you for being there for him. You just take care, OK? Don’t let yourself get hurt, and if it all gets too much, call, and one of us will come.’

She swallowed hard. ‘I’m fine. Here he is.’

She handed the phone back and retreated to the kitchen, wishing she’d bought raw ingredients instead of a ready-made meal. It might have given her something to do for the next hour or so, instead of turning on the oven, putting the pan of lasagne into it and then twiddling her thumbs for half an hour.

She closed the oven door and thought about what Luca had said. Dark green vegetables and red meat, with whole grain bread and pulses.

Well, the red meat was taken care of, and she had some pâté and a mixed salad she could give him for a starter, and the ciabatta was made with stoneground flour. That would have to do for now, and tomorrow she’d go shopping.

She pulled plates out and started arranging the salad. He was watching the television now, flicking through the channels, and then he stopped. ‘Oh, no, for heaven’s sake, why can’t they leave me alone?’

‘What?’

‘It’s made the news. Look. The police said it might and they were going to do some damage limitation, but it doesn’t sound like it.’

She put the knife down and went over, perching on the end of the sofa and watching.

‘Police say Giovanni Valtieri was released from hospital at midday today following an incident yesterday in which he was assaulted. He was seen being driven away from the hospital by a woman believed to be Anita Della Rosso, a friend of the family and one-time girlfriend of the lawyer, who’s been at his side since the incident.’

‘What!’ She plonked down onto the sofa next to him and stared at the television in astonishment. ‘How did they find that out?’

He shrugged. ‘They’re everywhere. Listen.’

There was a reporter standing outside the hospital now, talking about how she’d been seen arriving yesterday and again this morning, and then further talk about their relationship.

‘A hugely successful lawyer in his own right, Giovanni is the colourful and flamboyant youngest son of Vittorio and Elisa Valtieri, members of one of Tuscany’s oldest and most respected families, and his renewed relationship with society wedding planner Anita Della Rossa is bound to be a cause for speculation. Will Anita be planning her own wedding soon?’

The screen went suddenly blank, and she looked at Gio.

His face was rigid, his lips pressed tightly together into a straight line, a muscle in his jaw jumping. He threw down the remote control and sat back, arms folded, fulminating in silence.

He was furious, she could tell, but more than that, he was worried.

He dragged in a breath and turned to her.

‘I never should have dragged you into this. All this talk about our relationship—it’s so public, and now they’re going to point Camilla Ponti straight at you.’

She smiled a little ruefully and touched his cheek. ‘Gio, it’s OK. This is my private bolt-hole, a secret hideout that hardly anybody knows about. She won’t look for us here, everyone thinks I live either in my apartment in Firenze or with my parents. There’s nothing to link it to me, not even the address. I give my parents’ villa as my postal address here. This is just like a guest villa.’

‘Talking of your parents, you’d better warn them,’ he said. ‘If they’re watching this news bulletin—’

Her phone rang, right on cue, and she spent the next five minutes telling her mother he was all right, they were at her villa and it was all just idle speculation. She was simply looking after an old friend.

‘You expect me to believe that? There’s no smoke without fire, Anita.’

She coloured. Her mother didn’t know about their brief affair five years ago. Nobody did, not really. They certainly hadn’t told anyone. Luca and Massimo had guessed, but nobody else had, as far as she knew. Well, apart from the press and now half of Tuscany—

‘It’s just rumour,’ she said lightly. ‘Ignore it. I have to go, I’m cooking supper for us.’

But her mother wasn’t stupid. ‘Take care, carissima,’ she said softly, and Anita swallowed.

‘I will. Ciao, Mamma. Love to Papà.’

She lowered her phone and met his eyes.

‘Is she OK?’

‘She’s fussing.’

‘Of course she’s fussing, she’s your mother. I’m surprised she’s not over here right now checking the sleeping arrangements.’

‘Well, she’ll be disappointed, then, because I’ve made up the spare room for you. Do you want to eat where you are, or at the table?’

‘Here? Do you mind? I can’t be bothered to move.’

Subtext: it’ll hurt too much, even though he’d had his painkillers with coffee earlier. She took his food over to him, with a glass of wine to wash it down.

Not that she approved, but it might help relax him and she wasn’t in the mood to play his mother.

‘Thanks, that looks really good. I can’t tell you how hungry I am.’

She’d spread the pâté on the toasted ciabatta, so he could eat it one-handed, and he forked in the salad and mopped up the dressing with the last of the toast. ‘That was good. Tasty. What can I smell?’

‘Lasagne. I thought you could eat it with a fork.’

‘Great idea.’

She took his plate and brought it back with the lasagne on it, and after they’d eaten it he leant back and sighed in contentment.

‘Better?’

‘Amazing. That was really good. I was ready for it. I haven’t eaten anything proper since the day before yesterday.’

He rolled his head towards her, his eyes serious, the food forgotten. ‘Anita, I hate involving you in this. You should be on holiday, not sitting here babysitting me while they gossip about us on the news.’

‘Don’t worry. I don’t care if people talk about us.’

‘Well, I do, and I’m not thrilled about them giving Camilla Ponti directions.’

‘She won’t come after you,’ she said with more confidence than she felt. ‘She’s in Firenze somewhere, trying to hide from the police. Even she’s going to realise she’s in deep enough trouble without making it worse. And anyway, I thought you said she was mortified.’

‘She was. She really didn’t mean to hurt me.’

‘Well, then, we’ll be fine,’ she said firmly. ‘The outside lights come on if anyone approaches, so we can’t be sneaked up on. I’ll set the alarm and put the car in the garage, and nobody would know we were here, if that makes you happier.’

What would make him happier was knowing that Camilla Ponti had been found and seen by a doctor. Until then, this would have to do.

‘Fine.’

‘Good. Now I think it’s time you went to bed.’ Their eyes clashed again, and then he levered himself to his feet.

‘You’d better show me to my room, then,’ he said, and she led him down the hall and pushed open the bedroom door. She’d unpacked his bag and laid his things out on the top of the chest, including his painkillers.

He was pleased to see them. He’d just had some, but he had no doubt he’d need more before the night was out. He hobbled awkwardly past her, looked around and then met her eyes again. ‘It’s a nice room. Thank you.’

‘Prego. I’ll bring you a glass of water. The bathroom’s across the hall, and I’ve put out clean towels and your pills are on the chest. Will you be all right getting ready for bed, or do you want me to help you undress?’

He gave a soft huff of laughter.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

Their eyes locked, his dark and unfathomable. As well as she knew him, she couldn’t read them.

She could feel the heat scorching her cheeks, but she held her ground. ‘I thought you weren’t feeling great.’

‘I’m not, but I’d have to be dead before I let you undress me. Buonanotte, Anita.’

And he closed the door softly in her face.