***
Dino Rossellini sat on a rocky outcrop overlooking the Cornish fishing village and stared at the bright specks of light in the darkness that pinpointed ships far out to sea. When he was a boy, the sound of waves beating against rocks had energized him, excited him. Now it did nothing to rouse him from his desolate, dark mood.
His feet were wet and cold. A bitter chill hardened inside him, but the feeling was only partly due to the cool of the night. He had tramped along the deserted coast path for hours in an effort to walk away his hollow feeling of grief. It hadn't worked. His mind had endlessly replayed his conversation with the woman from the adoption agency.
Pain, anger, and frustration raged through him anew, and he hurled a rock down into the dark waters below. How many hours had it been since he walked out of Freddy's office? He didn't remember. He'd rented a car and headed out of London, just driven with no destination in mind, then stopped exhausted at a motorway service area and spent the night in the car. When the vehicle ran low on petrol, he'd stopped in Truro to refuel and seen a photo of the fishing village of Porthale. It reminded him of the place where he grew up. A place where family was still valued, where people lived simple, wholesome lives. A place off the beaten track where he might not be recognized.
At the thought of home, he pulled his phone from his pocket and, for the first time since he discovered he had a son, he switched it on. Immediately the device chimed to notify him of messages. Ignoring them, he dialed his parents' number in Italy.
"Si?" his mother answered.
"It's Dino, Mamma," he said in Italian.
"Dino, Dino, where are you? Freddy Short called us to find out if you were here."
"I'm sorry if he worried you, Mamma. I'm okay. I just need some time on my own."
"It is a relief to hear your voice, chicco. We see so little of you these days. We miss you."
"I miss you, too. I know I haven't been home for ages, but I promise I will be there for your birthday. I must go now. Ciao, Mamma. Ciao."
He gripped the phone to his chest, tears in his eyes. He shouldn't have agreed when Freddy asked him to perform at Christmas. His family was more important to him than anything else. He should go home now, take advantage of the rare break in his schedule, but his mamma would take one look at him and know something was badly wrong.
He wished he could tell her he had a son, but he would never share this secret with his parents. It would break their hearts to know they could never see their grandson. He had to bear this grief alone. With a shiver he got to his feet, hands deep in his jacket pockets, and walked towards the village.
***
It was nearly dark when Maria finally heard the front door. She darted along the corridor to the entrance hall and caught the Italian with his foot on the bottom stair. "Mr. Rossellini," she gasped, breathlessly, and blushed when he frowned at her. He must think she'd been laying in wait to pounce on him, and she had. "You didn't have breakfast. It's included in the room rate."
He shrugged. "No matter."
"Do you want dinner? I won't charge you for it to make up for the breakfast you missed." She cringed. That wasn't what she'd planned to say. It sounded as though she was trying to bribe him to eat her food.
He moved his hand in a careless gesture of acceptance. "I will have dinner, please."
Relief burst through her, which was crazy. He was a strapping six-foot healthy male. He wasn't about to fade away from lack of a meal or two. "I only have two choices, I'm afraid. Are you happy with boeuf bourguignon, or would you like sea bass?"
He sniffed the air. "If that is the beef I smell, then it will be acceptable."
As he continued up the stairs, she quickly added, "Eight o'clock then?"
He turned, lean hand gripping the handrail, and glanced down at her. "Eight it is."
She watched him mount the rest of the stairs, admiring the way his black trousers hugged his backside. Then she noticed he was barefoot. A muddy pair of what must have once been stylish suede shoes sat beside the front door in the plastic tray intended for dirty walking boots. Grabbing them up, she deposited them in the drying room to tend to later.
With renewed purpose, Maria returned to the kitchen and baked some dinner rolls with dough she had prepared earlier. Then she made a crème brûlée and put it in the fridge, hoping it would chill in time to serve that night. Just before eight o'clock, she changed out the breakfast table setting for dinner, lit a candle, and placed a wine list on the table. She slotted an easy-listening music CD into the player and turned it on softly. Then she lowered the lights and stood back to gauge the effect. The soft music, candle, and low lighting felt too romantic, so she turned the lights back up in case her Italian got the wrong idea.
At five to eight, Mr. Rossellini came into the dining room. He'd changed into a black shirt and a slightly wrinkled, emerald cashmere sweater. "Good evening," he said and a tingle raced down her spine. Strange how English sounded so much sexier when spoken in an Italian accent.
"Good evening, Mr. Rossellini. Please sit down." She indicated the table by the window. The weather had cleared, giving a beautiful view of the village below. Tiny points of light from the cottage windows trailed down the hill and clustered around the harbor like a garland of fairy lights. "Would you like a starter? I have spicy cucumber soup or scallops."
"No, thank you." He broke open one of the warm bread rolls. "You baked this yourself?" he asked, a hint of surprise in his voice.
"Yes. Cooking is one of my passions."
He took a bite and nodded. "Very good... What is your name, please?"
"Maria."
"Very good, Maria." Her name rolled off his tongue with the honeyed inflection of an endearment, and her cheeks heated. Although she was sure he hadn't meant anything by it. In his accent, the word toilet probably sounded sexy.
"I'll fetch your boeuf bourguignon." She hurried towards the kitchen, her pulse racing, and carefully dished out the beef with potatoes dauphinoise, green beans, and baby carrots. Then she carried his steaming plate through to him. He had seemed brighter than yesterday, but as she re-entered the dining room, she found him staring blankly into space, his lips tight, his half-eaten roll forgotten on his side plate. Her heart dropped. Whatever troubled him was still very much on his mind.
He sucked in a breath as she approached and moved his hands aside for her to put down the plate. He gave her a perfunctory smile. "Thank you. This looks delicious."
"Can I get you anything else? A bottle of wine, perhaps?"
He shook his head and indicated his glass of water. "This is good."
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if he was all right, but that would be stupid as he obviously wasn't. She really wanted to know what was troubling him in case she could help. The words nearly burst from her mouth, but she managed to bite them back. She shouldn't pry. His problems were none of her business.
Instead, she reluctantly headed back to the kitchen, ladled out a helping of beef for herself, and then sat at the kitchen table to eat. She opened her book and read a few pages, but she couldn't concentrate. "Rossellini," she whispered to herself, rolling the word over her tongue in a fake Italian accent. "Maria Rossellini." That sounded good. She had the crazy urge to write it down like a besotted teenager. But she wasn't besotted; she just found him fascinating and mysterious.
When she had finished eating, she went back to the dining room, eager to see if he wanted the crème brûlée or lemon meringue pie for dessert. Disappointment kicked in her chest at the sight of his empty chair. He must have crept out or she'd have heard him. But his plate was clean so at least he'd eaten a decent meal. Her goal for Wednesday was to get him to eat breakfast as well, even if she had to stake out the entrance hall in the morning to stop him from escaping.
Chapter Two
Wednesday started well. The sun was shining and Maria's Italian ate a full English breakfast before he disappeared out the front door.
As soon as he left, she hot-fo
oted it upstairs to clean his room before she went out. She entered number twelve and with a guilty little murmur of pleasure, inhaled the delicious spicy smell of his aftershave. She paused during her cleaning to enjoy the glorious view from the window and noticed a lone figure that looked like Mr. Rossellini, striding along the coast path to the south of the village. Squinting against the sunlight, she watched as he halted on the Jacka, the huge rocky outcrop that towered over the harbor. While he stared out to sea, she stared at him. What was he thinking? What kept him out alone all day?
She had tried to make small talk at breakfast, to find out where he'd gone the previous day. But all he'd said was that he'd walked the coast path.
With a glance at her watch, she tore herself away from the window, hurried downstairs and prepared to go out. After she locked up, she walked down the lane to the village. The ancient slate-roofed cottages crowded along the narrow street, a mix of gray stone and whitewashed walls, a few hardy flowers in hanging baskets and the shop signs providing bright splashes of color.
The committee running the annual fundraiser for the local playgroup was meeting in the Plume of Feathers, the pub by the harbor, and she was one of the eight members. She pushed open the door and walked through the rustic splendor of the oak-paneled bar, with its many brass knickknacks, to the airy, modern conservatory that served as a restaurant. Amid a veritable jungle of potted plants and hanging flowers, most of her fellow committee members were already seated around a pine dining table, chatting and drinking coffee.
"Morning, Maria! Ready for action?" Philip, the owner of the establishment, rubbed his hands together. He was new to the pub trade and the village. An ex–Royal Marine, he seemed to have boundless energy and infected everyone with his enthusiasm. At his side sat his wife, Millie, joggling their two-year-old daughter on her knee, making the little girl giggle.
Maria wasn't surprised to find her sister, Chris, hadn't arrived yet. Punctuality had never been her forte. After Maria had said her hellos, she took a seat. "Want a coffee?" Philip held up a cafetière. She nodded and as he poured, Chris burst through the door with a bulky bag over her shoulder, towing a small, golden-haired daughter by each hand.
Maria jumped up and took Charlotte from her. "Hello, munchkin, how are you this morning?" She sat the toddler on her lap and kissed her golden curls.
"She's grumpy," Chris said, dumping her bag beside a chair and sitting with her other daughter, Poppy, on her lap. "Charlotte's teething and it's disturbing her sleep."
"Oh, poor baby." Maria hugged her niece tighter, breathing her lovely baby smell. One day, she wanted her own little girl, and she couldn't wait. Nowadays, it wasn't fashionable for young women to want homes and babies; they all wanted careers. But Maria longed for nothing more than a husband and children to care for. Her mother said she belonged in a bygone era.
"Shall we get started? It doesn't look as though the other two are going to show," Philip said, a hint of censure in his voice.
"Blast," Chris interrupted as Philip talked about catering. "I've left the girls' toy bag in the car."
"Don't worry." Maria dug in her handbag and pulled out two crayons. She tore in half the paper she had brought to take notes and gave each of her nieces a piece of paper and a crayon.
"You're a gem," Chris said.
"That's what aunties are for, isn't it, precious?" Maria said, smiling at Poppy.
As Philip updated them on the budget, Maria watched Charlotte scribble red lines on the paper, wishing she had her own daughter on her lap. But first she needed a husband, and she wasn't having much luck on that front.
Tom had been her last serious boyfriend, but that ended three years ago. They'd met a few weeks after she started college and been together the whole time. She'd thought he was the one. But everything changed when they finished college. He wanted to travel, to see the world before he settled down. Against her better judgment, she'd let him persuade her to go with him to Austria to work as a chalet girl, while he was a ski instructor for six months. Her degree was in hospitality management. He'd said the experience would look good on her resumé.
She had hated every moment. The ski instructors who lived in the chalet partied, drank, and stayed up all night. Tom fit right in with them and made lots of friends. A cold fist clenched in Maria's stomach as she remembered what some of his so-called friends had done. She quickly shoved the bad memories down and shut them away. She'd put up with their lecherous behavior for three months, but eventually they'd pushed her too far. It had hurt to leave Tom behind, but it hurt even more that he had let her down. Her parents had then encouraged her to get a job in a prestigious hotel, but she had learned her lesson. She belonged at the Crow's Nest where she felt safe.
"Maria?" Philip said, and she jolted back to the meeting.
"Sorry, what did you say?"
"Richard's let us down with the music. All he had to do was select a playlist and burn the tracks to a CD or load them on an MP3 player, but he hasn't done it. You'll have time to sort out the music, won't you?"
"Oh," she hesitated. She didn't own an MP3 player and had no idea how to 'burn' a CD. But it should be easy enough to come up with a list of fifties and sixties songs for the 'hop' they were organizing. Somebody else could help her with the CD part. "Okay. I'm sure I can do that."
Philip grinned around the table and rubbed his hands together. "Things are looking good, ladies and gents. Chris says we've already sold half the tickets. We're on target for a full house!" He glanced down at his notes one last time. "We're all done for this week, folks. See you next week, same time, same place."
Maria glanced at her sister, feeling guilty she had zoned out and missed Chris's report on ticket sales. Charlotte turned her cute little smile on Maria and she grinned back. "Are you feeling better now, poppet?"
Pointing at her mouth, Charlotte screwed up her nose. "Tooth’s sore."
"I need to get these two little rascals home and give them some lunch." Chris hooked her bag over her shoulder and lifted Poppy onto a hip. Maria gathered her things together and followed Chris out, holding Charlotte in her arms for a cuddle before they said goodbye.
As they emerged into the parking lot, Chris halted at her car, staring towards the beach. "Wow, hottie alert."
Maria followed her gaze to see Mr. Rossellini chatting with Mark Trevarthan, one of the local fishermen who kept his boat in the harbor. Her Italian wore sunglasses and the sun gleamed off his luxuriant black hair. Her heart gave a little jump at the sight of him. He had seemed reluctant to talk at breakfast, but he looked happier now, conversing easily with Mark. As she watched them, the two men clambered up on the deck of the green, wooden fishing boat and examined a crab pot. Mr. Rossellini gestured freely as they chatted. Lithe and animated, he exuded energy and charisma.
She hadn't noticed it so much in the guesthouse, but out here, surrounded by the ordinary people from the village, her Italian seemed exotic, almost glamorous.
"I wonder what Mr. Eye Candy is doing in Porthale." Chris frowned. "He looks vaguely familiar. Do you think he's an actor shooting a movie in the area?" She glanced around. "I don't see a sports car complete with the prerequisite glamorous blonde. Perhaps he's on his own."
Maria tried to keep her expression neutral. Having a man stay at the guesthouse while she was there alone would freak out her parents if they knew. Perhaps she should have thought it through more carefully before she offered him a room.
Chris nudged Maria's arm. "You should go and chat him up. If he's still around in three weeks, he'd be one hell of a hot date for the hop." Chris grinned, but her eyes narrowed as she studied Maria. "You know who he is, don't you? Come on, spill."
"He's staying at the Crow's Nest," Maria admitted sheepishly.
"Him?" Chris's eyes opened like saucers, and she gazed at him some more. "What's a man like that doing staying at the Nest? Hey!" She swung back to Maria. "The place is meant to be closed." Then a slow smile spread across her face. "You bad, bad girl. Don
't tell me he's your—"
"Gosh, no," Maria replied before Chris's imagination soared completely out of control. "Where would I have met an Italian man like him? He appeared on the doorstep on Monday night. I couldn't turn him away in that deluge."
"Course not." Chris gave her a knowing smile. "I bet he looked good dripping wet, his clothes all tight and clingy. I might just stop by later and introduce myself." She strapped Poppy in her car seat, then sauntered around the car, watching the Italian, and repeated the process with Charlotte.
Eager to change the subject, Maria turned the conversation to more mundane matters. "I've started on the decorating. If Eric's back's bad, I suppose he won't be fit enough to help me move the furniture back into the newly carpeted rooms."
Chris shook her head as she climbed into the driver's seat of her SUV. She lowered her window so they could continue to talk. "Not for a few weeks, at least. The chiropractor wants him to keep moving, but to take things easy. Maybe your Italian stallion can flex those gorgeous muscles and give you a hand."
Maria bit her lip as she glanced at Mr. Rossellini. If he could help, it would be really useful. Normally she wouldn't dream of asking a guest to move furniture, but the situation was not quite normal. Doing something constructive might help distract him from his problems.
As she watched him, he noticed her and raised a hand. "Maria, I have bought a crab." He swung down from the boat with the crab in a plastic bag and started across the pebbles towards her.
His blue shirt was open at the throat and his leather jacket slung over his shoulder. Little tingles raced through her, setting her heart fluttering. Gosh, he really was gorgeous. She might have taken on more than she'd bargained for when she agreed to let him stay.
***
The young woman who ran the guesthouse blushed as Dino walked up to her. Her long brown hair was tied back in a simple ponytail, and she was fresh-faced, only a touch of makeup on her skin. She wore jeans and a yellow blouse fastened with tiny pearly buttons shaped like flowers. He'd barely noticed her when he arrived, but she was pretty in an understated way. And she cooked like an angel. The boeuf bourguignon she'd prepared had been delicious. His mother would approve of her.
Oceans Between Us (A Cinderella Romance) Page 2