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First published by Penguin Books Australia 2014
Copyright © Louise Reynolds 2014
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Cover design by Grace West © Penguin Group (Australia)
Cover photography by: Olivia Bell Photography/Getty Images
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eISBN: 978-1-76014-055-7
CHAPTER ONE
THE old lady in the next bed woke Gemma some time around midnight. She’d glimpsed her earlier in the evening, a tiny woman with a sallow, lined face and stringy grey hair, resting against the bleached pillowslip. Gemma’s tentative ‘Buona sera’ was met with a brisk nod before the nurse jerked the curtain closed to make two tiny private cubicles.
Gemma turned restlessly on the single bed. It was hot and the window had been thrown wide open. The low drone of insects filled the night, borne along on a warm summer breeze. Somewhere a car door slammed and a woman laughed, followed by a staccato blast of Italian. Gemma glanced at her watch in the dim light and sighed. The way things were going she’d spend the three most important days of her life flat on her back with her feet propped on pillows.
‘Luca.’ Surprised pleasure sounded in the old lady’s voice.
‘Zia.’ The man’s voice was like honey over steel. Gemma wasn’t sure whether she heard or just imagined the soft buff of a kiss against the wrinkled old cheek.
She hadn’t heard anyone enter the room. Didn’t these people have visiting hours? At home nurses flushed visitors from the wards on the dot of eight. But Montefigore wasn’t Australia. Life in the ancient walled town set high on the slopes in the Italian Marche obviously moved to a different rhythm. And six hours’ acquaintance with that rhythm had left Gemma totally disoriented.
Paper rustled and a moment later the heady scent of roses filled the air. Nice. The old lady’s nephew had brought her flowers. They wouldn’t last long in the heat of course, not with that warm evening breeze. Lilies would have been a far more sensible choice.
Gemma shivered despite the heat. The growling tone of the man’s voice on the other side of the curtain reminded her of her half-dressed state and she hitched the sheet further up to make sure she was covered. The hospital didn’t provide gowns, much to her surprise, so if you came unprepared, you slept in your clothes or underwear.
And she wasn’t sleeping in the Armani.
Gemma glanced across to the corner where the nurse had reverently folded the cream linen and silk suit and placed it on the chair. Underneath, her laptop and small suitcase kept company with a killer pair of ocelot-patterned Jimmy Choos. Feel-good shoes that not only added inches to her slight frame but also made her feel smarter, more successful.
Shoes to do deals in.
As the conversation continued quietly in the next cubicle, Gemma allowed her thoughts to wander. They obviously had a lot to talk about, these two. The old lady’s husky voice tic-tacked with the deep timbre of the man’s and although she couldn’t understand a word, she found the rhythm soothing.
And she needed soothing. She was already behind schedule and her boss would be furious. She was supposed to have made contact with the Brunelli family by now and initiated buy-out talks for Brunelli Shoes. Her stomach clenched and the bitter taste of failure rose in her throat, taunting her like a traitorous friend. She glanced down at her small fists bunched around handfuls of sheet, her knuckles white with strain.
The first important task Robert had entrusted her with and already it was a disaster.
The curtain at the foot of the bed jerked aside and a nurse entered, dumping a metal kidney dish containing a syringe and needle on the bedside table. She flicked the switch on the examination lamp with brisk efficiency and stark fluorescent light flooded the cubicle.
Not again. Gemma shrank back into the pillow and blinked, trying to accustom her eyes to the glare. She crossed her arms tightly across her body to anchor the sheet in place.
The nurse ignored her, keeping up a steady stream of Italian as she picked up a wipe and tore it open, releasing the pungent scent of alcohol. She turned and placed her hand on the top of the sheet ready to pull it back.
‘I’ve told you, no needles. This is ridiculous,’ Gemma exploded. It wasn’t the first time she’d protested. Since being admitted to the hospital earlier in the evening she hadn’t encountered anyone who could speak English. To be fair, neither could she speak Italian. It had been a stand-off, with no one able to take a medical history. All she knew was she had two swollen sausages where her slim ankles used to be.
The nurse’s hand tightened on the edge of the sheet as she tried to peel it back. Gemma held on and gritted her teeth.
‘Inglese.’
Gemma heard the mutter from the other side of the curtain as she struggled to keep the sheet in place. The old lady and her nephew had abruptly ceased their conversation as though waiting for the outcome of her struggle with the nurse. At least someone was getting some entertainment from the situation.
‘Please, no medication,’ Gemma said as she wrenched the sheet back over herself. She glared at the nurse who shrugged as she fitted a needle to the vial and tested the depressor. A fine spray of liquid glinted in the light.
‘If you had any idea how many drugs I’m allergic to, you’d think again,’ Gemma continued, narrowing her eyes. ‘I’ll bet there’s a great malpractice court in Ancona.’
A bark of masculine laughter erupted from the other side of the curtain.
How many times did she have to shake her head and mime, to try and convey her message? She was still trying to forget the ridiculous charade she’d enacted, complete with swooping outstretched arms, to convey to the doctor that she’d arrived on an international flight earlier that day. The doctor’s sudden comprehension had landed her on this narrow bed for the night, booked for an ultrasound first thing the next morning.
Twelve hours of precious time gone in a flash and her career, which had only just begun, was starting to look shaky.
‘Perhaps I can help?’ It was the man on the other side of the curtain, laughter still lurking beneath the polite concern.
He spoke English; apparently one of the few who did in this out-of-the-way town. Relief washed over Gemma. ‘Please, yes. Come in.’
The curtain dividing the room was pulled aside and as he took the few steps towards Gemma’s bed she had only a second to do a rapid mental reshuffle. This wasn’t the lumpish, flower-toting nephew of her imagination, the nephew with nothing to do at midnight on a Saturday but visit his aged aunt in hospital.
Tall, with brilliant blue eyes in a tanned face, he filled the small space. Broad shoulders were clad in an expensive crushed linen jacket and black designer jeans sat low on narrow hips. Dark hair, curled at the ends, looking as though he’d just dragged his hands through it, brushed the collar of his jacket and framed a face with a deeply shadowed jaw and hawkish nose. He was the quintessential Italian male, exuding style and raw sex appeal, but ramped to the max with an aura of power that left Gemma, hiding under the sheet in her underwear, at a distinct disadvantage.
He smiled briefly at her before turning to the nurse with several rapid questions. Gemma had no idea what he was saying but the cool, business-like tone said he was used to being in control.
He turned high-wattage blue eyes back on Gemma. ‘She says you must have the injection because they suspect you have Deep Vein Thrombosis
.’ His eyes raked down the bed, lingering as they moved over her body to where her ankles, like the rest of her, were thankfully covered by the sheet.
‘I know, but they’ve no idea what I’m allergic to,’ Gemma explained. ‘No one speaks English, so I can’t find out what’s in that injection, or even tell them about my allergies.’ The last thing she needed was to be laid low by a reaction to a drug.
The smile vanished as fast as sun behind a cloud. ‘English is not common here, not like in the big cities. We have little need of it.’ With that curt statement he turned to the nurse and unleashed another burst of Italian.
Gemma could hardly argue with that. The stylish town was certainly off the tourist trail. As the bus had wound through the town she’d glimpsed the elegant opera house, ancient arena, restaurants and bars, which seemed to exist purely for the enjoyment of the good-looking inhabitants of the town. A prime example of whom was standing before her. Gemma reminded herself to close her mouth.
‘She’s saying it’s okay, that it’s just Heparin.’ A small frown creased his forehead. ‘Look, I’m not a doctor but I agree with you. If you’re allergic to a number of drugs it would be best to check.’ He pulled a slim mobile phone from his pocket and flipped it open. ‘My uncle is professore of medicine in Milano. He also speaks English. I’ll call him.’
As he pressed the number and waited for an answer his eyes travelled over her again, a small frown pinching his forehead. Aware of her body outlined under the sheet, Gemma drew her knees to her chest, tenting the sheet to disguise her outline.
Stevie’s voice floated out of the past. Stay dressed, Gem, it’s safer that way. You never know when you’ll have to run.
Gemma squeezed her eyes tight shut. Not now.
The man paced beside the bed waiting for his call to be answered then spoke quickly into the phone. He had a wide, sensuous mouth with full lips; a mouth that looked like it would smile easily. Two laughter lines bracketed his lips and deepened when he smiled. How did Italian men manage to sound so damn sexy? And look like gods?
‘So, my uncle wishes to know what you are allergic to?’ He looked at her, one eyebrow quirked, an amused expression playing about his mouth as if he’d read her thoughts.
Cheeks flaming, Gemma reeled off the medications and the man conveyed them to his uncle making even those names sound sexy. After a lot of discussion then several ciaos he flicked the phone closed and slid it into his pocket.
‘It seems everything is in order and you may have the injection with no fear.’ He turned to the nurse and translated.
She gave an I-told-you-so harrumph, and started towards the bed, needle at the ready.
He held up a hand to ward her off and turned back to Gemma. ‘You are English, sì?’
Gemma’s pulse jumped as she tried to control her voice. It couldn’t matter, here in the hospital, to let a stranger know where she was from. She hesitated only a second. ‘No, I’m Australian.’
The sculpted planes of his face hardened and his body tensed. His eyes deepened to slate and Gemma swallowed as she met his gaze.
‘Luca?’ The old lady stretched out of her bed, her eyes burning like dark coals.
‘Momento, Zia.’ He smiled at the old lady then turned back to Gemma. His eyes searched her face, seeking something, then travelled around the small cubicle. His gaze locked on the chair and then dropped to the shoes underneath. He gave a satisfied grunt, turned back to the nurse and nodded at her to proceed.
Despite his help, Gemma wasn’t sorry to see him go. Something about that brooding male presence unsettled her.
‘Thank you so much for your help, Signor …?’
‘Luca. Luca is fine.’ He stared at her a moment longer as though weighing his words. ‘Do you have anyone to look after you in Montefigore? I mean, when you get out of hospital?’
Gemma shook her head and pleated the edge of the sheet. ‘I’m only here for a couple of days and I’ve got a reservation at the Gorizia Hotel. I’m afraid I didn’t quite make it there and came straight here after the bus dropped me off.’
He paused a moment as if about to say more but shook his head slightly. ‘Well, I wish you good health and a pleasant stay in Montefigore.’ He gave Gemma a brief smile and stepped back; then the nurse pulled the curtain around and he was lost from sight.
The following morning, Gemma discharged herself. They’d located a doctor who spoke some English and he’d insisted she stay longer, until they were certain her condition had improved. But if that happened, how many days would be wasted before she could get started on the buyout? Gemma saw herself pinned to a hospital bed being prodded and poked while opportunity drifted away like an insect on the breeze.
But the doctor’s dire warning rang in her ears. She shouldn’t be alone.
She hesitated at the hospital entrance. She’d assured the doctor that she’d be all right but now, faced with the prospect of being alone in a hotel room, anxiety prickled up her spine. What if they were right? What would happen if she took a turn for the worse? It was one thing to take chances but not at the risk of her life. Not even Robert could expect that.
And then she saw the man from last night.
His car was red. A Lamborghini, a sleek retro cigarette of a car, all sexy lines and polished chrome trim. Gemma paused and pulled her sunglasses low on her nose. With his mobile to his ear and eyes trained on the entrance, he lounged against the side of the car as if he had all the time in the world. She saw the moment he noticed her as he pushed away, flipped the phone closed and started across the road.
Gemma hefted the laptop strap more firmly on her shoulder, grabbed the handle of her suitcase and started walking. The Armani had gone on without a wrinkle, although squeezing her still slightly swollen ankles into the Choos hadn’t been easy.
‘Signorina Parkinson, buon giorno.’ Those eyes were even more electric blue in daylight, sending sparks of attraction coursing through her body.
‘You know my name?’ A trickle of alarm crawled down Gemma’s spine. She was supposed to be flying under the radar here.
‘In a town like Montefigore it’s not difficult to find such information,’ he said, then his face broke into an easy grin. ‘Besides, it was written on your medical chart. I peeked.’
He leaned across to take her suitcase. ‘Please, come with me. I’ve been in contact with my uncle, the professore, you’ll recall, and he has spoken with the hospital. You are to have complete rest with your feet up until the swelling has gone.’
Gemma hesitated. The road was virtually empty. No taxi cruised past hopeful of a fare and the walk to the hotel, wherever that was, would be hot and tiring. But should she accept a lift? She glanced up at his face, grateful for the dark camouflage of her sunglasses. He was no less devastating in daylight. The dark stubble he’d worn at midnight was gone, his jaw now smoothly shaven. He looked younger, less intense and not nearly so intimidating.
‘I do need to get to my hotel,’ she said.
‘I think this hotel is not a good place for you to rest. All sealed windows and air-conditioning. You will like it better at my home,’ he said with certainty.
Gemma lifted a brow and hesitated. ‘Er, no. I don’t think so.’ She took a step back, her hand tight on the strap of her bag. ‘I mean, I don’t even know who you are.’
‘Of course, mi scusi.’ He shot out a tanned hand and gripped hers before she could resist, the large blunt fingers wrapping her palm. The touch sent a lightning shaft of awareness through her and she snatched her hand back as though stung. She was here to do a job, not flirt with playboys, no matter how attractive.
‘Luca Andretti,’ he continued. ‘I’m twenty-eight years old, single and employed. I like children, although how can I not? I’m Italian. I drive too fast, but there again, what can I say? I’m Italian.’ The wide smile split his face, a slash of even white teeth against bronzed skin. ‘Oh, and Zia Peppina, whom you have met in this very dull hospital, thinks I am un angelo,’ he added as an af
terthought and smiled so appealingly that Gemma had to grin in return. He was good at this; she’d give him that.
‘So, who else is at this house of yours?’ she ventured.
‘Bruno, the husband of Zia Peppina, and soon she herself will be home. You will be very safe with these old ones around, trust me. Il Papa himself could not be more guarded.’
She was supposed to be at the hotel. Robert would be trying to call her, and she really needed to access her emails. Already a day had passed and she’d made no progress. Robert had all but finalised the deal with the two junior partners of Brunelli Shoes and all she had to do was present it to the elderly and potentially difficult senior partner and somehow get his agreement. Robert had believed she could do it and it was a long time since anyone had placed such trust in her.
But if she was at the hotel she would be alone. Who would help her if she took a turn for the worse during the night?
Gemma looked up into Luca’s face, all sculpted angles and quick smiles, and tilted her head. She’d learned the hard way how to read people, to listen to the nagging inner voice that spelled trouble. She wasn’t hearing it now. But still, she was in a strange country. He might be charming but how did she know if he could be trusted? She chewed her lip, considering. She’d seen how the nurse had deferred to him in the hospital, seen his old aunt. After all, this was Italy. Everyone knew how hospitable Italians were. And who knew? Maybe he’d be able to help her with some of the information she needed.
The doctor who’d discharged her pushed through the hospital doors. ‘You are still here, Signorina Parkinson?’ He turned to Luca and reached out his hand. ‘Ah, buongiorno, Luca.’
Luca shook his hand and smiled. ‘I have offered Signorina Parkinson the use of my home to recover.’
The doctor’s face cleared. ‘Benissimo, an admirable suggestion.’ He turned to Gemma. ‘I was not happy with you leaving, Signorina, but if you are in the care of the Andretti family I have no need to worry.’
Relieved, Gemma turned to Luca.
‘Well, thank you Signor Andretti. That’s very kind of you.’ Okay, so she’d done it. Just one day couldn’t hurt; a chance to see how real Italians lived before she had to go home to Australia.
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