Читать книгу The Italian GP's Bride - Kate Hardy - Страница 9

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.