Читать книгу The Italians: Luca, Marco and Alessandro: Between the Italian's Sheets / The Moretti Heir / Alessandro and the Cheery Nanny - Natalie Anderson - Страница 16

CHAPTER NINE

EMILY counted to twenty and then went in search of grissini. She needed something she could snap her teeth on—to crunch away her anger and grind away her guilt, because right now she felt bucket-loads of both.

In the kitchen, Micaela was at the bench, restraint tightening her usually friendly face. As Emily went into the pantry she wondered just how much of that argument she’d heard. Heat scorched her cheeks. So yesterday she and Luca had been at it like rabbits mid-morning, and today they were yelling at each other. It couldn’t make for a pleasant working environment. But Micaela was busy making meal preparations and not looking her in the eye.

‘Where’s Marco?’ Another awful thought occurred to her—was the poor kid hiding in his cupboard under the stairs?

‘He’s at a neighbour’s playing today.’

Emily released another difficult breath, glad that he hadn’t been around to overhear them fighting. ‘I’m sorry if…I…er…’

Micaela put down the knife she was scoring tomatoes with and turned briskly to face her. ‘I want to tell you something. It is personal and I hope you don’t mind but I want to tell you.’ It was as if she’d been putting the words together in her head for the last five minutes and finally decided to launch forth.

Her grissini suspended mid-air, Emily wondered what the hell it was all about.

‘It’s difficult for us to get pregnant. We tried and tried for so long. But nothing. Then we found out that we needed help.’

Emily blinked. She didn’t know what she’d expected but it wasn’t that.

‘My family is all in Italy. We didn’t have much money and we had no one to turn to.’

Turn to for what? Emily couldn’t keep up with the speed of the subject.

Micaela’s eyes were dark and shiny and emotion wobbled her voice. ‘Luca gave us Marco and he gave us this baby.’

And for one moment, one awful, jealousy-ridden, rottenly hideous moment, Emily thought Micaela meant that Luca had fathered her children.

‘He gave us the money.’

Emily put the grissini down and sagged back against the bench. What was it with her and wrong conclusions today?

‘For treatment. For doctors.’

Thank heavens Micaela didn’t seem to have noticed her almost collapse, too busy getting all the details out.

‘We’ve been going to a private clinic for years. Thousands and thousands of pounds for treatment so we could try and try again—for as long as we wanted to. He said there was no limit. That it was up to us.’ She picked up the knife again, head bent as she sliced into the tomato. ‘He told us it was part of our health-insurance package as our employer. But it is directly from him.’

She directed a piercing gaze at Emily then, and all her caring and gratitude was evident in the way her eyes were watering and the fierce way she spoke. ‘He works too hard. He is too hard on himself. He is a good man. And he deserves…’

‘What?’ Emily prompted. No wonder they were so loyal to their employer, so happy to drop everything and come running when summoned. No wonder she ironed his damn sheets.

‘He deserves to be happy.’

Emily closed her eyes. Yes, he did. But didn’t everyone? Didn’t she too?

‘He should have the kind of happiness he’s given Ricardo and me.’

Love. Children. A family.

Now Emily felt worse, because it seemed that Luca had almost had that, only to lose it, and now he didn’t want it at all. And she, not realising, had taunted him.

She wished he’d told her before. She’d told him about her parents. But he’d had no intention of ever getting to know Emily well enough to have to bother. Only she’d made him. She rolled the breadstick back and forth on the bench. Thought about what Micaela had told her and why she had told her—because she wanted her to see the best of Luca? ‘How long have you worked for him?’

‘Almost eight years. He said I should stop when I got pregnant, but I like working. It keeps my mind off worrying.’

Emily understood. Wasn’t that what she’d done back home—kept herself busy as a way of burying her fears? And now her lips burned with questions about Luca’s past. But she couldn’t ask them. It would be prying and Micaela probably wouldn’t tell her anything anyway. She’d share her own personal story, but not that of her employer. Her loyalty was too strong and rightly so. Emily didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. Besides, she’d rather hear about it from Luca himself.

He was such a challenge to her—and now, with the mention of this woman tonight, she felt a streak of competitiveness too. She’d show him, and all of them, just how damn stylish she could be…

But something ‘half decent’? Her pack was filled with lightweight trousers and skirts and old tee shirts. Her wardrobe hadn’t been the priority for some time—like, ever. It was Kate who’d had her hair done, who had the fashionable clothes—as the singer centre stage she’d needed to. Emily, the accompanist, had only needed a black top and trousers so she wouldn’t stick out.

She looked at Micaela, at the way the Italian was still chic and gorgeous despite having a belly the size of an award-winning watermelon. Emily needed her kind of help. ‘Can you recommend a shop that sells nice clothes that aren’t too expensive? One that might have something suitable to wear to a dinner party?’

Micaela, her self-possession fully restored, sent her a broad smile. She didn’t just give her the name of the place, she drew her a map.

Luca pushed back from his desk and took a turn around the room. Guilt licked his feet like the burning flames of a small fire that he’d accidentally stumbled on barefoot. Impatiently he moved, trying to stamp out the unpleasant sensation. Adding to that discomfort, irritation whipped at his back. He didn’t want to do dinner parties. He didn’t want to go out and be social. He just wanted to stay home and be with Emily. The only thing salving the annoyance was the fact that she’d admitted she couldn’t leave him yet. Good, because he couldn’t let her go.

He wasn’t angry because she’d made him think about Nikki, but because she’d so obviously thought the worst of him. But then, why shouldn’t she? He’d underlined the temporary, nothing-more-to-it-than-the-physical nature of their affair—of course she probably thought he did it all the time like some cheating stud out for cheap thrills… But her judgment hurt. What she thought of him mattered—and that was the real problem.

He paused at the corner of his office where the sheets of glass met, giving a spectacular view over the city. Pascal was the problem too. If it had been anyone else who had called, that argument wouldn’t have happened. But for Pascal and Emily to meet? Luca felt so uncomfortable about that.

But he had to host him—Pascal rarely came to London now. Part of him wanted to—but that part was small compared to the part that wanted another night with Emily all to himself. Guilt took another bite. The old man had done so much for him. He owed him. And even though Pascal had insisted that he wanted to see him settled, it wasn’t that black and white. He had been there when Nikki died. He was the one person who knew it all. They almost never spoke of it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

He walked home—cutting it fine time wise—stopped in the kitchen first off to check if Micaela was holding up OK. He’d had no idea she ironed his sheets—teased her about it and told her to stop. She smiled and waved him away. He breathed deep and savoured the aromas. Of course she’d have it in hand. Emily had that one so far wrong. He paid the couple more than three times the going rate, but only because they were worth it. They were loyal and hardworking and, yes, went the extra mile when he needed them to. Which wasn’t anywhere near as often as Emily might think—certainly not since Micaela had got pregnant.

He didn’t go in search of Emily, not concerned that she might have moved out after the row that morning. He’d instructed Micaela days ago to let him know if she made any sign of leaving for good. And some more breathing time after this morning wouldn’t go astray. He showered and dressed, tucking in his shirt as he walked back down to her room.

He knocked and went straight in. He took one look at her and was glad he’d taken those extra moments to breathe because there was no air getting to his lungs now. They’d shut down. So had everything else in his body, save one organ south of his belt. And then his heart started pounding.

It was just a black dress. Not even that revealing. But those arms and legs were on show, a slight hint of the deep cleavage, and a lot of back. That meant…he fought to focus…

‘You’re not wearing a bra.’

‘Hello to you too.’ She turned and gave him a cool look. ‘No, I’m not. Is that not decent enough for you?’

When he’d told her to wear something half decent, he hadn’t meant dressy. He’d meant something to cover her up. She was all bare arms and legs all the time and he didn’t want to be a total picture of distraction when Pascal was here. Like a dog salivating over a particularly juicy piece of meat.

It hadn’t come out right, but he’d been too rattled to rephrase. He’d seen the spark in her eye, known he’d scored a hit—not one he’d meant, but at the time he’d felt a gleam of misplaced satisfaction because it had felt as if she was knocking at him left, right and centre. And then he’d just felt wildly angry with her, with himself and with the whole damn uncontrolled mess. But clearly she’d taken it to heart because the woman before him now was the epitome of sultry sophistication.

She turned back to the mirror, lifted her strawberry-blonde hair and twisted it up. He was sorry; he loved the length of it, the depth of colour, wanted to run his fingers into it. Only now, as she secured it with a few clips, her cheekbones were displayed. And the odd strand feathered down, wisping around her ear, her neck, and he wanted to kiss the parts of her they pointed to.

He cleared his throat, looked away. Not tonight—at least, not now. He braced every muscle, determined to calm his raging hormones. He only had to get through a few hours. That was all. He could manage that, couldn’t he?