Читать книгу Hired: The Italian's Convenient Mistress - Carol Marinelli, Carol Marinelli - Страница 6

CHAPTER TWO

HIS words seared into her. Aghast, she swung around, looked from father to son and back to the father, at the identical blue eyes that stared back at her.

And it was horrible.

That no one knew. That all those strangers had stood on that tube, had tutted at the baby, at the pushchair, had walked past as he’d struggled on the platform—and not a single one knew the misery that was taking place.

There were just a few days until Christmas.

The date didn’t matter—it would have been terrible on any day—but that it was so close to Christmas, that this beautiful little boy would be without his mother, that she would be without him, just made it worse somehow. And it made her own problems pale in comparison.

‘Can you help me?’ His voice was low but there was a thread of urgency.

‘Me?’

‘You said you work with children?’

‘I do, but—’

‘Then you must know how to stop his fever? How to take care of him?’ There was a plea in his rich voice, a tinge of fear, even panic for his son. ‘I don’t know what to do. I do not know children; I do not know what this boy needs…’ He dived out of his own hell just enough to glimpse her confusion, just long enough to interpret it. ‘He is not my son—he is my nephew. There was a car accident. I came from Italy this morning as soon as I hear the news.’

Heard the news. Ainslie opened her mouth to correct him, and then stopped herself—working with people who were usually under three feet tall gave her a tendency to do that! His story certainly explained his visible exhaustion. Dressed in a suit, juggling a laptop and a briefcase along with the stroller, he must have literally left in the middle of whatever it was he was doing and stepped onto a plane.

‘Where’s his father?’ The platform was full—again they were being pushed closer. Only this time they were together, sharing this appalling conversation.

Her eyes closed for a second as he answered, ‘He died instantly.’

When Ainslie opened them again, he was waiting for her, strong but desperate. His eyes held hers.

‘Can you tell me what he needs…help me with him?’

You don’t read out a list of questions when you witness someone drowning.

You don’t ask their name or age, or if they’re worthy of saving. You don’t ring for references or ask for a police check—instead you do what you can.

‘Yes,’ she said simply, because to Ainslie it was just impossible to even think of walking away, of not helping someone who so clearly needed it.

‘His home is close by—there is a pharmacy on the way.’

The platform was packed now. Another tube was pulling in and spewing out its contents. People walked fast as they left the platform, and the station was a blizzard of people, rushing to get home or to go out, stopping to buy their paper, chatting into their phones, arranging dates, parties, meetings—getting on with living.

Getting on with life.

A blast of icy December air hit them as they stepped out onto the busy street. It was the strangest walk; he took her backpack and Ainslie pushed the stroller. Christmas was everywhere—the shops ablaze with decorations, people tipsy from pre-dinner drinks heading for a work party—and it just seemed to magnify his loss. Even the chemist was full of cheery, piped music, chiming Christmas songs, and lazy shoppers were grabbing easy gifts as they stopped to buy Guido’s paracetamol.

‘Should we get nappies, wipes…or do you have plenty?’

‘I haven’t been to the house since I arrived—I have no idea what my sister would have. We’d better get them—get whatever you think he might need.’

So she did—put whatever she thought might be needed into a basket and stood trying to hush the little boy as his uncle paid, watching the checkout assistant chatting happily away to her colleague, briefly asking the man if he had had a good day, not noticing that he didn’t respond, his face a quilt of muscles as he handed over his credit card.

‘I don’t know your name.’ It was the first thing she said as he made his way back to them.

‘Elijah…’ He gave a tight smile. ‘Elijah Vanaldi. And you?’

‘Ainslie Farrell.’

And that was all they said. They walked along in silence till they came to a quieter street and stopped outside a vast four-storey residence.

But somehow, for now, it was enough.

It was surreal—Elijah working out keys as she stared at the wreath on the door, stepping into someone’s house, someone’s life, someone you didn’t even know, and being entrusted to take care of their most treasured possession. And though it was a beautiful towering white stucco home, as she stepped in, walked along polished floorboards and glimpsed the vast lounge, though her eyes took in the high ceilings and vast windows and expensive furnishings, they didn’t merit a mention. The only thing Ainslie could really notice was the collection of shoes and coats in the hall, the scent of pine in the air from the Christmas tree, and the half-cup of cold tea on the granite bench when she walked into the luxury kitchen. Sadness engulfed her when she saw the simple shopping list on the fridge and the breakfast dishes piled by the sink.

Elijah undressed an exhausted Guido.

‘Has he had dinner?’

‘He had some biscuits, he doesn’t seem very hungry.’ Elijah held his hand to his forehead. ‘He still feels hot. Should I bathe him?’

‘I wouldn’t worry about it tonight. Let’s just get him changed for bed and give him his medicine.’ As she wandered upstairs to find pyjamas for Guido, Ainslie could tell that this elegant house with its lavish furniture and expensive fittings was first and foremost a home—a home with a book by the unmade bed, and hair staighteners still plugged in. In the bathroom a tap drizzled, and piles of damp towels and knickers littered the floor, reminding Ainslie that this was a family home that had been left with every intention of coming back.

‘She rang me last week to say she was giving in and finally going to get a housekeeper…’ His voice behind her made Ainslie jump, and she felt the sting of tears behind her eyes as he walked over and turned off the tap. ‘She was never very good at tidying up.’

‘Mess doesn’t matter.’

‘She’d die if she knew we’d seen it like this…’ Elijah halted, grimacing at his own words. ‘You always had to ring Maria to warn her you coming over—she hated it when people dropped in. She’d hate that she didn’t do one of her infamous quick tidies—she’d be embarrassed at someone seeing the place like this.’

‘She thought she was coming home.’

‘He has an ear infection.’ Elijah watched as she easily measured out the antibiotics. ‘The doctor said that was why he was miserable and so naughty, but—as I explained to him—from what my sister tells me, and what I have seen of him, he is always trouble!’

‘He’s got croup too,’ Ainslie said, as Guido suitably barked. ‘Poor little thing. The medicine should help his pain, though, and the antibiotics will hopefully kick in soon.’

‘Hopefully.’ Elijah sighed. ‘For now I will make him some food, then he can go to bed.’ He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and looked at it for a moment, then headed to where Guido was sitting on the couch, his eyes half closed, half watching the cartoon that Elijah had put on for him.

There were people who had no idea about children, and people who had no idea about children, and Ainslie watched as he peeled a rather overripe banana and handed it to the little boy, who just blinked back at him, bemused.

‘Maria said he liked bananas.’

‘He’s not a monkey…’ Ainslie’s grin faded. ‘Let me,’ she said instead, and headed to the kitchen. She found some bread in the freezer and gave it a spin in the microwave, then took off the crusts and put some mashed banana in. She arranged it on a plastic plate and offered it to Guido, who this time accepted it.

Later—when he was falling asleep with exhaustion—Elijah carried his nephew upstairs and Ainslie followed, tucking the little boy, unresisting, into bed.

‘He has a night light.’ Elijah was looking at his bit of paper again. ‘He wakes up, but all he wants is his blanket put back on.’

Watching his strong hands tuck the blanket around the little boy’s shoulders, Ainslie could feel her nose running, and had to turn her head quickly away as he straightened up. She headed down the stairs and into the lounge, sniffing away tears as a short time later he came back in, holding two mugs of coffee.

‘Thank you.’ He handed one to her and sat down, took a sip of his drink and held it in his mouth before talking again. ‘I am not a stupid person…’

‘I know.’ Ainslie gulped. ‘I’m sorry about what I said about the banana thing…’ She managed a little smile, and he did the same.

‘I have nothing, nothing to do with children. Nothing!’ he added again, in case she hadn’t heard it the first or second time. ‘And my sister said that she wanted me to have him. That she wanted me to be the one who raises him.’

‘What happened?’

For the first time it seemed right to ask—right that she should know a little bit more.

‘There was a car accident—it ran off the road and caught fire on impact.’ He gave a hopeless shrug. ‘I was at work when the hospital called—in the middle of a meeting. Normally I would not be disturbed, but my PA called me out, said this was a call I needed to take. I knew it would be bad. I had no idea how bad, though—a doctor told me that Rico, Guido’s father, was already dead, and that my sister was asking for me. I came straight away. Guido had been at a crèche and they’d brought him to the hospital.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘She knew she was dying—she had terrible burns—but she was able to talk. She waited for me to get there so she could tell me what she wanted, so she could tell me herself the things Guido likes…’

‘That was the list you were reading?’

He nodded, but it was a hopeless one. ‘I love my sister, I love my nephew, but I have no idea how they really lived. I saw them often, but I have no clue with day-today things, I’ve never even thought of having children…’

‘Is there anyone else?’ Ainslie blinked, glimpsing how impossible it must be for him—for his whole life to be turned around, to be so suddenly plunged into grief and told you were to be a father.

‘There was just my sister—our parents are dead.’

‘But her husband’s family…’ It was never going to be the easiest conversation to have—sitting with a stranger who was engulfed by grief and exhaustion—it was always going to be difficult. But, watching his face harden, hearing his sharp intake of breath, even if she didn’t know him at all, Ainslie knew she had said the wrong thing.

‘Never!’ The venom behind the single world had Ainslie reeling.

‘Soon they will be here. Already they are making noises about taking care of Guido, and noises are all I will let them be. They are not interested in him.’

‘But they say they want him?’ Ainslie frowned, her mouth opening to speak again, and then she got it. As he flicked his hand at their impressive surroundings, she answered in her head the question she hadn’t even asked yet.

Elijah answered it with words. ‘They want this. And the insurance pay-out—and the property Maria and Rico had in Italy…’ He glanced over to her. ‘And in case you are wondering—I do not need it…’ He drained his mug. ‘Neither do I need a toddler. Especially one who spits!’ In the pit of his grief he managed to smile at the memory, and then it faded; his voice was pensive when next it came. ‘I hope Rico knew that I did actually like him.’

She didn’t understand, but it wasn’t right to ask—wasn’t right to demand more information from a man who had lost so much, a man who had just been plunged into hell.

‘You should try and sleep,’ Ainslie offered instead.

‘Why?’ He stared back at her. ‘Somehow I do not believe that things will be better in the morning.’

‘They might…’ Ainslie attempted, but it was pretty futile.

‘Thank you…’ He said it again, only it was more determined now. He was back in control and, ready to face the challenge of what lay ahead, he stood up. ‘Thank you for explaining about the medicine and for helping me to get him to sleep. I will be fine now. Can I get you a taxi…?’

‘Actually…’ Ainslie ran a worried hand through her hair. She had been so consumed with his problems that for a little while she’d actually forgotten her own.

‘Do you know a number?’

‘Sorry?’

He was picking up the phone. ‘For the taxi—do you know a number?’

‘I can walk.’ Ainslie’s voice was a croak, but she cleared her throat. Surely a youth hostel would still be open? Surely?

‘You’re not walking!’ Elijah shook his head. ‘I will take…’ He must have remembered at that point the sleeping toddler upstairs, because his voice trailed off. ‘I insist you take a taxi.’ Which was easier said than done. First he had to find a telephone directory, and then, as Ainslie stood there, he punched in the numbers and looked over. ‘To where?’

‘The youth hostel.’

‘Youth hostel?’ He frowned at her skirt and boots, at her twenty-eight-year-old face and glanced at his watch. In those two small gestures he compounded every one of her fears—she wasn’t a backpacker, and nine p.m. on a dark December night was too late to start acting like one. ‘How long have you been staying there?’

‘I haven’t.’ Ainslie gave a tight shrug. ‘I was on my way there when we met. I’m actually from Australia…’

‘I have just come from Italy—first class,’ he added, ‘and I looked more dishevelled than you when I got off the plane.’

Somehow she doubted it, but she understood the point he was making.

‘Well, I’ve been here for three months. I have a job—had a job…’

‘Working with children?’

‘That’s right.’

‘But not now?’ She shook her head, loath to elaborate, but thankfully he sensed her unwillingness and didn’t push.

‘Stay.’ It was an offer, not a plea. The phone rested on his shoulder as he affirmed his offer. ‘Stay for tonight—as you say, tomorrow things may seem better.’

Ainslie opened her mouth to tell him why she couldn’t possibly—only nothing came out.

Even if a hostel was open, even if she could get in one, the thought of registering, the thought of starting again, of greeting strangers, lying in a bed in a room for six, held utterly no appeal.

‘Stay!’ Elijah said more firmly. ‘Guido is sick—it makes sense.’

It made no sense.

Not a single scrap of sense.

But somehow it did.