‘I’m here because this is my house,’ he said.
She certainly hadn’t been expecting that. He could see shock and then bewilderment on her face. The unconscious, small head shake that made the tumble of waves shiver and gleam.
And then her jaw dropped and her eyes—as impossible as that seemed—managed to get even larger. Darker. Lakes instead of pools now.
‘Oh, my God!’ she whispered. ‘Harrington.’
He waited. Curious to know what connection she was making. Maybe she hadn’t expected this, but she was figuring out why it was happening.
‘Harrington village…that was where Uncle Vanni’s wife grew up.’
Uncle Vanni? Was this woman some kind of blood relative? A cousin? Or, worse, a half-sister, perhaps? The notion was distasteful.
Unacceptable.
‘The owner of this house was your uncle?’
Another tiny head shake. ‘Not really. He’s…he was my mother’s cousin. Or second cousin. A distant relative, really, but they grew up in the same village in Italy.’
She made a soft sound of inexpressible sadness. ‘Everybody called him Uncle. He…You…’
Lakes were becoming pools again and Luke found himself transfixed, watching Amy Phillips focus.
‘There was a story that Caroline came from an enormously wealthy family. They lived in some vast manor house. We never knew her surname but villages used to get named after the manor houses, didn’t they? Harrington village. Harrington Manor.’ Amy’s chest rose as she took a steadying breath. ‘You’re a Harrington,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s your family?’
Still, Luke remained silent, letting her join the dots herself. She ran her tongue over her lips as though they had become suddenly dry. It might be rude to stare, but Luke couldn’t look away for the life of him.
‘Of course it is,’ Amy continued. ‘You’re a Harrington. We were told that the property would probably go to one of Uncle Vanni’s wife’s relatives if a more recent will couldn’t be found.’
‘It did.’ Luke finally spoke. ‘It came to me.’
‘So you’re a nephew or something?’
‘I’m Giovanni Moretti’s son.’
‘No.’ Amy released her breath in what sounded almost like a sigh of relief. ‘There’s been a mistake. Uncle Vanni’s son is dead. He was killed in a terrible car accident. The same accident that killed his mother.’
‘Amy?’ A small voice was calling from inside the house. ‘Can I hang my streamers on the tree?’
‘Soon, hon. Put your dressing-gown and slippers on, though. It’s freezing in there. I haven’t had time to light that fire.’
It was freezing. Why hadn’t Luke noticed the goose-bumps on Amy’s forearms where the sleeves of the jumper had been pushed up? Or the way she was wrapping her arms around herself now? And she was shivering.
It was all very well for him. Luke had his full-length, black cashmere coat over his suit, a warm scarf around his neck and soft, fur-lined leather gloves on his hands.
Not only was this Amy Phillips cold, she was letting icy air into a house that had children living in it.
‘May I come in?’ The request was reluctant but he didn’t have to go any further than the front entranceway, did he? ‘I would like to talk to you.’
But Amy was clearly more reluctant than he was. She actually had the nerve to start shutting the door on him.
‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ she said. ‘There is another will and we’ll find it. Soon. You can’t turn Uncle Vanni’s children out into the streets. I won’t let you.’
Luke caught the door just before it closed. He put his foot in the gap as insurance. He wasn’t going to leave until he’d sorted this out. Imagine what people would think if this was the story that reached the hospital grapevine—that a paediatric surgeon had arrived in person to try and turn children out to live in cardboard boxes under a bridge somewhere.
To freeze to death in the coldest December anyone could remember. Too cold even to snow, which was disappointing everyone who was hoping for a white Christmas this year.
‘What was his name?’ he demanded.
‘Uncle Vanni’s son? His name was Luca.’
The word was said with an Italian pronunciation. It echoed. Touching some long-buried memory.
Luca…
How old had he been? Three? Old enough to remember his mother’s voice?
Luca…
Amy was staring again. Realising the implication. Luke was simply the anglicised version of the name. He was telling the truth, but she wasn’t about to accept it because it wasn’t something she wanted to hear. Would showing her that long-faded scar that ran from his left temple to his hairline make any difference? Ironic that he should find himself in the position of wanting to prove he was Giovanni’s son.
‘Zietta Amy! Vieni! Rapidimente!’
The language made Luke flinch but, as always, it was more intelligible that he was comfortable with. Mind you, that kind of verbal alarm would transcend any language barriers.
‘Che cosa succede?’ Amy turned in alarm. ‘Vengo!’
She was going to see why she was being summoned so urgently. Luke found himself standing alone on the doorstep as Amy ran after a small boy with curly, dark hair. Down the hallway and through a door that seemed to have a wisp of smoke coming through it.
And then he could smell it. Something was burning! A fire had started in a house full of children.
With a strangled oath, Luke stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind him.
Amy stomped on the flaming remains of the paper streamer that had been inadvertently draped over the small heater, slipping through the grille to touch the bars.
‘I was just showing it to Summer,’ Chantelle wailed. ‘I’m sorry, Amy.’
‘It was a stupid streamer, anyway.’ Fourteen-year-old Robert was reacting to his fright by retreating into teenage surliness. ‘Girls are so dumb!’
‘I’m not dumb,’ Chantelle sobbed, ‘Am I, Amy?’
‘No.’ But Amy was more worried about the smoky air and how it could affect Summer’s breathing. It was hard enough for her poor, malformed heart to get oxygen into her blood without having smoke added to the mix. Amy reached for the regulator on the cylinder.
‘I’m going to turn up the flow for a bit, darling,’ she told Summer. ‘It might tickle your nose.’
Summer nodded. The alarm in her face had begun to fade as soon as Amy was in the room and she was now watching with interest as Marco stirred scraps of charred paper with his foot to draw shapes on the flagstones.
‘Don’t do that,’ Amy chided. ‘It’s enough of a mess in here as it is. Could one of you please find the dustpan and brush in the scullery and we’ll clean it up.’ She looked up from adjusting the regulator to see how many of the children were in the kitchen and who would be first to respond to the request.
And then she froze.
Luke Harrington was standing in the doorway. Staring again. Silently. Looking absolutely…appalled.
And no wonder! It was all too easy to follow his line of vision and see things from his perspective. Amy could feel a hot flush of mortification bloom. If he hadn’t already considered her to be incompetent after that disaster in the ward the other day, she was offering ample proof right now.
The kitchen was in utter chaos.
Robert and Andrew had still not begun their allocated task of dishwashing. Pots and plates smeared with tomato sauce and festooned with strings of spaghetti littered the bench. Bowls with spoons and puddles of melted ice cream had been pushed to one end of the table. The other end was crowded with ripped-up magazines, scissors, rolls of sticky tape and a pot of glue that had spilt, making a larger puddle that was now congealing around shreds of discarded paper.
The doors of the hutch dresser were open and it had been Amy who had created the piles of recipe books, ancient domestic paperwork, long out-of-date telephone directories and any number of other random finds including a set o
f ruined paintbrushes and several half-empty tins of varnish.
The room was hot and steamy and it smelt of cooking and smoke. It was dingy because one of the bare light bulbs that hung from the high ceiling was burnt out and Amy hadn’t had a chance to haul in the ladder so she could replace it. The walls were covered with examples of children’s artwork but most of the pictures hung at drunken angles because the tape was rendered useless when it became damp.
And there were children everywhere in various stages of undress. Chantelle had pyjamas on but, instead of a dressing-gown, she had pulled on a vast woollen jersey that had been a favourite of Uncle Vanni’s. It hung down to her knees and her hands were hidden somewhere within the sleeves.
Twelve-year-old Kyra had a woollen beanie on her head, ug boots on her feet and a flannelette nightgown between the accessories. Standing together, the girls were the picture of children who looked like they had no one who cared about them.
The twins seemed oblivious to their visitor and marched about importantly. Marco had the dustpan and Angelo the hearthbrush, but they couldn’t decide how to co-ordinate their efforts and were finding the task highly amusing.
Eleven-year-old Andrew was beside Robert. He elbowed the older boy, who obligingly scowled at Luke.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded, flushing as his voice cracked. ‘And what are you doing here?’
Amy caught her breath. This was actually rather stunning. Robert had been passed from foster-home to foster-home in his short life, becoming progressively more ‘difficult’ and setting up a vicious cycle where the things that children needed most—an accepting, secure, loving environment that had boundaries—were getting further and further from his reach.
He’d come to the Phillips household six months ago, which was already a record for him, taken in as Marcella’s way of coping with her grief at losing her beloved cousin and a signal that she intended to carry on what had become a passion for Vanni. Caring for ‘lost’ children. Being told that ‘a man of the house’ was needed had been startling for the teenaged Robert.
Right now—standing up to this stranger in their kitchen—it was possible he was reaching out to accept that position of responsibility. That he felt safe enough himself to feel the need to protect his ‘family’.
Amy still hadn’t let out her breath. Imagine if he learned why Luke was really here? That he had inherited this house and was planning to kick them all out? That the children might be separated and Robert could find himself back in a home where no one was prepared to accept him, let alone make him the man of the house.
She couldn’t let it happen.
Catching Luke’s gaze, Amy knew she was sending out a desperate plea.
‘This is Mr Harrington,’ she told Robert. ‘He’s Summer’s doctor and he’s just come to make sure she’s all right.’
‘Oh…’ Robert straightened his shoulders and became visibly taller. ‘That’s OK, then.’
Amy could see Luke assessing the situation. Deciding whether or not to go along with her white lie.
Please, she begged silently. Don’t hurt these children. At least give me time to prepare them. To reassure them and find a solution.
Luke’s face was expressionless. He looked at Robert for what seemed like a long time and then turned slowly to meet Amy’s gaze again, and she’d never been so acutely aware of this man’s looks before.
Oh, he was gorgeous. Everybody knew that. Very tall, very dark. His features as carefully sculpted as the way he carried himself. A bit over the top, really—like that designer coat, probably French, that he was wearing so casually unbuttoned to reveal a pinstriped suit. There was a distinct aura of perfection about Luke Harrington. The way he looked. The way he worked. The standards he expected from everyone around him. Perfection. Control.
What on earth was she thinking, even hoping that he might back up something that was rather a lot less than the truth?
No wonder there was no hint of a smile on his face when he opened his mouth to respond. Amy’s heart skipped a beat as it sank, waiting for the blow to fall.
‘That’s right,’ Luke said gravely. He began to walk over the flagstones. Slowly. As though he was sleepwalking. His gaze still touching Amy’s. ‘How is Summer today?’
Tears of gratitude stung Amy’s eyes and she hurriedly blinked them away. As Luke reached the couch and bent down, his face loomed closer and Amy could see what had not been apparent at a distance. He knew exactly what he was doing by not contradicting her.
He understood.
And it was enough for hope to be born.
Enough to make Amy’s heart sing and her lips to curve into a smile that said exactly how important this was. He understood, so surely he would not be able to go ahead and hurt this family.
She was smiling at him.
As though he’d just given her the greatest gift anyone could ever receive.
It made her eyes sparkle and the warmth emanating from that smile seemed to enter every cell of Luke’s body.
He felt…weird.
Powerful and generous and…and like he’d done something wonderful.
How ridiculous was that?
All he’d done had been to keep the real nature of this visit private from a bunch of children who should not be involved in business between adults.
It didn’t mean that he was about to change his mind. No matter how gorgeous that smile was. Luke dragged his gaze away from Amy’s face.
‘Hey, Summer. It’s been a while since I saw you.’
Automatically, he took the tiny wrist between his fingers to feel her pulse and watched the small chest to assess how much effort was going into breathing. Post-surgery, patients like Summer Bell returned to the care of a cardiologist so unless Luke made an effort, it was hard to keep up with how well they were doing.
And this little girl was not doing very well. Little Summer was the kind of case that could break your heart if you let it. Some months ago, Luke had done his best to make final corrections to the major congenital anomalies of her heart and the vessels that connected it to her lungs, but there was only so much that could be done. And in this case, it hadn’t been enough.
If she stayed alive long enough, she would be a candidate for a heart transplant, but her condition was clearly deteriorating.
‘Have you got a pulse oximeter?’ Luke queried.
‘No.’
‘A stethoscope?’
Again, Amy shook her head and Luke tried to push aside his frustration. This was a house, not a hospital ward, after all. Summer was probably fortunate to have a qualified nurse caring for her.
Or she would be, if that qualified nurse wasn’t running some kind of orphanage. Luke looked over his shoulder. The two small boys behind him were scuffling over their sweeping duties. Giggling. They were indistinguishable and, Luke had to admit, very cute. Curly and dark and energetic. Rather like the woman they had called, what had it been—Zietta? Aunty? He shifted his gaze to Amy who was watching him assess Summer, her eyes wide and anxious.
‘How many children do you have living here?’
Amy blinked. She looked nervous, Luke decided. Was she thinking he was about to criticise her ability to care for a sick child because there were too many other demands on her attention?
He could see no reason to do so, so far. Summer was warm and comfortable and looked happy. She was receiving oxygen. Presumably being given all her medications or she would be a lot worse than she was. What more could anyone be doing?
‘Right now?’ Amy was responding. ‘Seven.’
‘And you’re trying to care for them all? By yourself?’
Her chin lifted a fraction. She had taken his incredulous question as criticism rather than concern.
‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘My mother is the official foster-parent. My sister also lives here. Marco and Angelo are her children. My nephews.’
‘So where is your mother? And your sister?’ He would have to speak to them all. Three Italian women who
were not going to like what he had to say, God help him!
‘Um…’ Amy’s gaze slid sideways. ‘They’re in Italy just at the moment.’
‘Bisnonna’s sick,’ Angelo piped up helpfully. ‘She is a sick…’ He looked at Amy questioningly. ‘Cuore?’
‘Heart,’ Amy supplied. ‘She has a sick heart. It’s my grandmother,’ she explained to Luke. ‘She’s had an MI. My mother had to go to her and she needed my sister to travel with her. I couldn’t leave because I have to work.’
Luke’s eyebrows rose involuntarily.
‘It’s only for a day or so. They’re going to bring Nonna back.’
Luke sucked in a breath. ‘Here?’
‘Yes,’ Amy said firmly. ‘Here. We’re going to give her Uncle Vanni’s room.’
Luke let his breath out slowly. So he was not only going to have to find suitable accommodation for a collection of children, including one who was terminally ill, he now had to throw an elderly, recuperating cardiac patient into the mix.
With a bemused shake of his head, he turned back to something much easier to deal with. Summer.
‘Can I listen to you heart, chicken?’ he asked. ‘With my ear?’
Amy looked startled but Summer didn’t seem to mind the unusual request and the twins were fascinated to see Luke bend his head to place his ear directly on Summer’s bare, frail chest.
‘What you doing?’ Marco asked.
‘I’m listening to Summer’s heart. And her lungs.’
‘Can I listen, too?’
‘No.’ It was Amy who spoke. ‘I want you boys to go and get into the bath before it gets cold. Go now. Shoo!’ she added as the twins shuffled reluctantly. ‘I’ll be up in a minute to make sure you’ve washed behind your ears.’
‘Can we make it hot again?’
‘Just a little bit. The big boys still haven’t had their bath.’
The information that the hot-water supply in the house was less than ideal barely filtered into the back of Luke’s mind thanks to his concentration. Even without the magnification a stethoscope would have provided, he could hear all he needed to reassure himself there was nothing major happening on top of the expected murmurs of abnormal blood flow through Summer’s heart.
The Italian Surgeon's Christmas Miracle Page 3