Leonetti's Housekeeper Bride

by Lynne Graham

  ‘Oh..?’ Poppy heard the kettle switching off behind her and turned away, desperate to ease her sore throat with a hot drink.

  Gaetano bit out a sharp, unamused laugh. ‘When were you planning to tell me that you once worked as a nude model?’

  Poppy spun back, wide-eyed with astonishment. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘That filthy rag is going to print photos of you naked tomorrow. My wife naked in a newspaper for the world to see!’ Gaetano launched at her in outrage. ‘Madonna diavolo…how could you cheapen yourself like that?’

  ‘I’ve never worked as a nude model. There couldn’t possibly be photos of me naked anywhere…’ Poppy protested and then she stilled, literally freezing into place, sudden anxiety filling her eyes.

  ‘Oh, you’ve just remembered doing it, have you?’ Gaetano derided harshly. ‘Well, thanks for warning me. If I’d known I would’ve bought the photos to keep them off the market.’

  ‘It’s not like you think,’ Poppy began awkwardly, horrified at the idea that illegal shots might have been taken of her at the photographic studio while she was unaware. But what else could she think?

  As something akin to an anxiety attack claimed her already overheated body Poppy found it very hard to catch her breath. She dropped dizzily down into the chair by the scrubbed pine table. ‘I’m not feeling well,’ she mumbled apologetically.

  ‘If you think that feigning illness is likely to get you out of this particular tight corner, it’s not,’ Gaetano asserted in such a temper that he could hardly keep his voice level and his volume under control.

  The mere idea of nude photos of Poppy being splashed all over the media provoked a visceral reaction from Gaetano. It offended him deeply. Poppy was his wife and the secrets of her body were his and not for sharing. He wanted to punch walls and tear things apart. He was ablaze with a dark, violent fury that had very little to do with the fact that another scandal around his name would once again drag the proud name of the Leonetti Bank into disrepute. In fact his whole reaction felt disturbingly personal.

  ‘Not feigning,’ Poppy framed raggedly, pushing her hands down on the table top to rise again.

  ‘I want the truth. If you had told me about this, I would never have married you,’ Gaetano fired at her without hesitation.

  Poppy flopped back down into the seat because her legs refused to support her. She felt really ill and believed she must have caught the flu. He would never have married her had he known about the photo. Who would ever have thought that Gaetano, the notorious womaniser, would be that narrow-minded? And why should she care? And yet she did care. A lone stinging tear trickled from the corner of her eye and once again she tried to get up and leave but she couldn’t catch her breath. It was as though a giant stone were compressing her lungs. In panic at that air deprivation her hands flailed up to her throat, warding off the darkness that was claiming her.

  Gaetano gazed in disbelief at Poppy as she virtually slithered off the chair down onto the floor and lay there unconscious, as pale and still as a corpse. And all of a sudden the publication of nude photos of his wife was no longer his most overriding concern…

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘NO, I DON’T think that my wife has an eating disorder,’ Gaetano bit out between gritted teeth in the waiting room.

  ‘Signora Leonetti is seriously underweight, dehydrated…in generally poor physical condition,’ the doctor outlined disapprovingly. ‘That is why the bacterial infection has gained such a hold on her and why we are still struggling to get her temperature under control. That she contrived to get through a wedding and travel in such a state has to be a miracle.’

  ‘A miracle…’ Gaetano whispered, sick to his stomach and, for the very first time in his brilliantly successful, high-achieving life, feeling like a failure.

  How else could he feel? Poppy had collapsed. His wife was wearing an oxygen mask in the IC unit, having drugs pumped into her. All right, she hadn’t told him how she was feeling but shouldn’t a normal, decent human being have noticed that something was wrong?

  Unfortunately he clearly couldn’t claim to be a normal, decent human being. And his analytical mind left him in no doubt of exactly where he had gone wrong. He had been too busy admiring his bride’s tiny waist to register that she was dangerously thin. He had been too busy dragging her off to bed to register that she was unwell. And when she had tried to tell him, what had he done? Porca miseria, he had shouted at her and accused her of feigning illness!

  ‘May I see her now?’ he asked thickly.

  He stood at the foot of the bed looking at Poppy through fresh eyes, rigorously blocking the sexual allure that screwed with his brain. Ironically she had always impressed him as being so lively, energetic and opinionated that he had instinctively endowed her with a glowing health that she did not possess. Now that she was silent and lying there so still, he could see how vulnerable she really was. It was etched in the fine bones of her face, the slenderness of her arms, the exhaustion he could clearly see in the bluish shadows below her eyes.

  And what else would she be but exhausted? he asked himself grimly. For months she had worked two jobs, managing the hall and working at the bar. She had been so busy looking after her mother and her brother that she had forgotten to look after herself. He suspected that she had got out of the habit then of taking regular meals and rest. And even when both food and rest had been on offer in London she had still chosen to work every day at that café. In truth she was as much of a workaholic in her proud and stubborn independence as he was, he acknowledged bleakly. He could only hope that he was correct in believing that she did not suffer from an underlying eating disorder.

  ‘Your grandfather is waiting outside…’ a nurse informed him.

  ‘There was no need for you to leave your bed,’ Gaetano scolded the older man. ‘I only texted you so that you would know where I was.’

  ‘How is she?’ Rodolfo asked worriedly.

  And Gaetano told him, withholding nothing. ‘I’ve been a pretty lousy husband so far,’ he breathed in grim conclusion, conceding the point before it could be made for him.

  ‘You have a steep learning curve in front of you.’ His grandfather sighed. ‘But she’s a wonderful girl and well worth the effort. And it’s not where you start out that matters, Gaetano…it’s where you end up.’

  Rodolfo could not have been more wrong in that estimate, Gaetano reflected austerely. Where you started out mattered very much if you had previously blocked the road to journey’s end. His marriage was not a marriage and the relationship was already faltering. He had put up a roadblock with the word divorce on it and used that as an excuse to behave badly. He had screwed up. He had been shockingly selfish and with Poppy of all people, Poppy who had trailed round after him and his dog, Dino, on the estate when they were both kids. And what had she been like then?

  Like an irritating little kid sister. Kind, madly affectionate, his biggest fan. He exhaled heavily. He had had more compassion as a boy than he had retained as an adult and he had not lived up to Poppy’s high expectations. Worse still, he had taken advantage of her despair over her family’s predicament. He had forced through the terms he wanted, terms she should have denied for her own sake, terms only a complete selfish bastard would have demanded. But it was a little too late to turn that particular clock back.

  Was the selfishness a Leonetti trait? His father had been the ultimate egotist and his mother had never in her life, to his knowledge, put anyone’s needs before her own. Had his dysfunctional parents made him the ruthless predator that he was at heart? Or had wealth and success and boundless ambition irrevocably changed him? Gaetano asked himself grimly.

  *

  Poppy surfaced to appreciate that her head had stopped aching. She discovered that she could swallow again and that her breath was no longer trapped in her chest. She opened her eyes on the unfamiliar room, taking in the hospital bed and the drip attached to her arm before focusing on Gaetano, who was h
unched in the chair in the corner.

  Gaetano looked as if he had been dragged through hell and far removed from the sophisticated, exquisitely groomed image that was the norm for him. His black curls were tousled, his jaw line heavily stubbled. His jacket was missing. His shirt was open at his brown throat and his sleeves were rolled up. As she stared he lifted his head and she collided with glorious dark golden eyes.

  Snatches of memory engulfed her in broken bits and pieces. She remembered the passion and the pleasure he had shown her. Then she remembered his fury about the nude photos, his refusal to credit that she was ill. But she remembered nothing after that point.

  Gaetano stood up and pressed the bell on the wall. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Better than I felt when I fainted…er…did I faint?’

  ‘You passed out. Next time you feel ill, tell me,’ he breathed with grim urgency.

  Poppy grimaced. ‘It was our first night together.’

  ‘That’s irrelevant. Your health comes first…always,’ he stressed. ‘I’m not a little boy. I can deal with disappointment.’

  She was relieved to see that his anger had gone. A nurse came in and went through a series of checks with her.

  ‘Why did I pass out?’ Poppy asked Gaetano once the nurse had departed.

  ‘You had an infection and it ran out of control. Your immune system was too weak to fight it off,’ he shared flatly. ‘From here on in you have to take better care of yourself. But first, give me an honest answer to one question…do you have an eating disorder?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’m naturally skinny…well, I have lost weight over the last few months,’ she conceded grudgingly.

  ‘You have to eat more,’ Gaetano decreed. ‘No more skipping meals.’

  ‘I didn’t eat on our wedding day because I wasn’t feeling well,’ she protested.

  ‘Am I so intimidating that you couldn’t tell me that?’ Gaetano asked, springing restively upright again to pace round the spacious room.

  ‘Come on, Gaetano. All those guests, all that fuss. What bride would have wanted to be a party pooper?’

  ‘You should have told me that night,’ Gaetano asserted.

  Poppy’s lashes lowered over her strained eyes. ‘You weren’t in the mood to hear that I was ill.’

  ‘Dio mio! It shouldn’t have mattered how I felt!’

  A flush drove away her pallor but she kept her gaze firmly fixed on the bed. ‘We had an agreement.’

  ‘That’s over, forget about it,’ Gaetano bit out in a raw undertone.

  She wondered what he meant and would have questioned him but the doctor arrived and there was no opportunity. Gaetano spoke to the older man at length in Italian. Breakfast arrived on a tray and she ate with appetite, mindful of the doctor’s warning that she needed to regain the weight she had lost. She was smothering a yawn when Gaetano lifted the tray away.

  ‘Get some sleep,’ he urged. ‘I’m going back to the house to shower and change and bring you back some clothes. As long as you promise to eat and rest, I can take you out of here this evening.’

  ‘I’m not an invalid…’ Uneasy with his forbidding attitude, Poppy fiddled with her wedding ring, turning it round and round on her finger. ‘What’s happened about the photos you mentioned?’

  Gaetano froze and then he reached for the jacket on the chair and withdrew a folded piece of paper. ‘It was a hoax…’

  The newspaper cutting depicted a reproduction of a calendar shot headed Miss July. In it Poppy was reclining on a chaise longue with her bare shoulders and long legs on display while a giant floral arrangement was sited to block any more intimate view of her body.

  ‘I kept my knickers on,’ she told him ruefully. ‘But I had to take my bra off because the straps showed. I was a student nurse on the ladies’ football team. We did the charity calendar to raise funds for the children’s hospice. There was nothing the slightest bit raunchy about the shots. It was all good, clean fun…’

  Dark colour now rode along Gaetano’s cheekbones. ‘I know and I accept that. I’m sorry I shouted at you. When Rodolfo showed me that photo in the newspaper I felt like an idiot.’

  ‘No, you’re not an idiot.’ Just very very possessive in a way Poppy had not expected him to be. My wife, he had growled, outraged by the prospect of anyone else seeing her naked.

  ‘You have an old-fashioned streak that I never would have guessed you had,’ Poppy remarked tentatively.

  ‘What is mine is mine and you are mine,’ Gaetano informed her in a gut reaction that took control of him before he could even think about what he was saying.

  That gut reaction utterly unnerved him. What the hell was wrong with him? Mine? Since when? Only weeks earlier he would have leapt on the excuse of inappropriate nude photos to break off their supposed engagement. He had not intended to stay engaged to Poppy for very long at all, had actually been depending on her to do or say something dreadful to give him a good reason to reclaim his freedom. How had he travelled from that frame of mind to his current one? All of a sudden she felt like his wife, his real wife. Why was that? Sex had never meant that much to Gaetano and had certainly never opened any doors to deeper connections. But he had wanted Poppy as he had never wanted any woman before and that hunger had triumphed.

  Poppy went pink. ‘Not really…’

  ‘For as long as you wear that ring you’re mine,’ Gaetano qualified.

  Poppy hadn’t needed that reminder of her true status, hadn’t sought that more detailed interpretation. Her heart sank and she closed her eyes to shut out his lean, darkly handsome features. It was no good because she still saw his beautiful face in her mind’s eye.

  ‘Lie down, relax,’ Gaetano urged. ‘You’re exhausted. I’ll be back later.’

  You’re mine. But she wasn’t. She was a fake bride and a temporary wife. Casual sex didn’t grant her any status. Suppressing a groan, she shut down her brain on her teeming thoughts and fell asleep.

  Late that afternoon, she left the hospital in a wheelchair in spite of her protests. In truth she still felt weak and woozy. Gaetano lifted her out of the chair and stowed her carefully in the passenger seat before joining her.

  She was wearing the faded denim sundress Dolores had packed for her.

  ‘I need to organise new clothes for you,’ Gaetano told her.

  ‘No, you don’t. When this finishes we go our separate ways and I won’t have any use for fancy threads.’

  ‘But this isn’t going to finish any time soon,’ Gaetano pointed out softly.

  Poppy studied his bold bronzed profile. So far they had enjoyed the honeymoon from hell but he was bearing up well to the challenge. His caring, compassionate husband act was off-the-charts good but she guessed that was purely for Rodolfo’s benefit. They were supposed to be in love, after all, and a loving husband would be upset when his bride fell ill on their wedding day. Lush black lashes curled up as he turned his head to look at her, blue-black hair gleaming in the bright light, spectacular golden eyes wary.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he prompted.

  ‘I should compliment you. You can fake nice to the manner born,’ she quipped.

  His wide sensual mouth compressed. For once there was no witty comeback. ‘Dolores is planning to fatten you up on pasta. I also mentioned that you’re passionate about chocolate.’

  Chocolate and Gaetano, she corrected inwardly.

  She collided with his eyes and hurriedly looked away, struggling not to revel in the sound of his dark, deep, accented drawl and the high she got from the sheer charisma of his smile. Awareness shimmied through her like an electrical storm. Something low in her tummy had turned molten and liquid while her breasts were swelling inside her bra. He had taught her to want him, she thought bitterly, and now the wanting wouldn’t conveniently go away. That hunger was like a slow burn building inside her.

  When they returned to La Fattoria, Gaetano insisted that she went straight to bed and dined there. He ignored her declaration that she
was feeling well enough to come downstairs and urged her to follow medical advice and rest. A large collection of books and DVDs were delivered mid-evening for her entertainment and although Poppy was tired she deliberately stayed awake waiting for Gaetano to come to bed. She drifted off around one in the morning and wakened to see Gaetano switching out the light and walking back to the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she mumbled.

  ‘I’m sleeping next door,’ he said wryly.

  ‘That’s not necessary.’ Poppy had to fight to keep the hurt note out of her voice. She had been looking forward to Gaetano putting his arms around her again and she was disappointed that it wasn’t going to happen.

  ‘I’m a restless sleeper. I don’t want to disturb you,’ Gaetano countered smoothly.

  Poppy’s heart sank as if he had kicked it. Maybe if sex wasn’t on the menu, Gaetano preferred to sleep alone. And why would she argue about that? It was possible that Gaetano had already had all he really wanted from her. She had heard about men who lost sexual interest once the novelty was gone. One night might have been enough for him. Was he that kind of lover? And if he was, what did it matter to her? It wasn’t as if she were about to embarrass herself and chase after him, was it? Why would she do that when their eventual separation and divorce were already set in stone?

  So, it didn’t make sense that after he had gone she curled up in the big bed feeling lonely and needy and rejected. Why on earth was she bothered?

  *

  ‘You shouldn’t be down here keeping an old man company,’ Rodolfo reproved as Poppy poured his coffee and her own. ‘No cake?’

  ‘Cinzia’s putting it on a fancy plate to bring it out. You’re getting spoiled,’ Poppy told him fondly, perching on the low wall of the terrace.

  His bright dark eyes twinkled. ‘Nothing wrong with being spoiled. You spoil me with your cakes but Gaetano’s supposed to be spoiling you.’

  Poppy’s luminous green eyes shadowed. ‘He does but I’ve let him off the honeymoon trail for a few hours to work. It keeps him happy…’