‘Under the terms of my insurance, anyone over the age of twenty-five can drive, with my permission.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘And I give you my permission, Eleanor.’
‘I’ve never driven a left-hand-drive car before.’
‘So?’ He spread his hands. ‘You’re perfectly capable. You can do anything you want to, if you try.’
‘You’re really going to let me drive your car?’
‘Uh-huh.’ He smiled at her. ‘We’ve already established that we make a good team. Tell you what, you drive, I’ll direct you, and we’ll stop somewhere for a late lunch.’
She’d get to drive this gorgeous car with the top down and music playing and the sunlight sparkling on the sea. Amazing.
And then her elation faded as she took in what he’d said. ‘You’re going to make me drive through Naples?’
‘When you’re used to the car, maybe. The traffic here’s even crazier than it is in London. For now, we’ll take the quieter roads. Relax. Enjoy.’ He gestured to the car. ‘And I’m hungry. So can you, please, get in and drive?’
She climbed into the driver’s side and put the key into the ignition. Orlando put the roof down again, and stretched his arm along the back of her seat. Close enough to touch her.
But that was fine. She’d promised herself she’d stop fussing and planning and let things just happen as they would.
He directed her out of the hospital car park and along the coast road. When they were on the open road, he switched programmes on his MP3 player; she recognised the singer as Andrea Bocelli. By the third song Orlando was singing along—and he had a beautiful voice, a rich tenor. Better still, he sang in tune.
Good music, good company, good weather, and a fast car that responded perfectly to her. She couldn’t remember when she’d last enjoyed herself this much.
‘My singing is that bad?’ Orlando asked.
She frowned. ‘No, it’s fine. Why do you ask?’
‘You had a pained expression on your face. Why?’
She shrugged. ‘Nothing, really.’
‘Tell me,’ he invited.
Well, he’d asked. She may as well tell him. ‘It’s the first time I can remember enjoying myself like this for a long, long time.’
His fingers brushed against the nape of her neck. ‘Then stop thinking about it, tesoro, and enjoy. Because it’s only going to get better.’
CHAPTER FIVE
ORLANDO directed Eleanor down a narrow road on the side of a cliff, full of hairpin bends; he knew that she was having to concentrate on the drive and that the sheer drop on her right-hand side was definitely occupying her, but he thought she’d agree that their destination was worth it.
‘Next turn on the right,’ he said, directing her into a car park. She pulled up and gazed at the view over the sea. ‘Wow. That’s stunning.’
‘One of my favourite places,’ he said. ‘And the food’s even better than the view.’
It was only a few minutes before they were seated in a shady spot overlooking the sea, with hunks of good bread, a bowl of green salad and two steaming plates of monkfish in a garlicky tomato sauce.
‘This has to be the best fish I’ve ever eaten,’ Eleanor said. ‘And the best sauce.’
‘It’s ragù Napoletana. Of course it’s the best,’ he said with a grin. ‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure. And I’m so glad you’re not one of these women who only eats a tiny morsel and says she couldn’t possibly manage any more.’
‘Not when the food’s this good.’
When they’d mopped the last of the sauce from their plates, she opted for a lattè rather than pudding. Then she was aware of his expression.
‘What?’
‘How can you possibly drink lattè after a meal?’
She smiled. ‘Because I prefer lattès to the lukewarm, incredibly strong stuff you drink.’
‘It’s the way we drink coffee here.’
‘And I’m a tourist,’ she reminded him.
He laughed. ‘Ah. I forgot. Because you look so Italian. You are Italian.’
‘Half Italian, half English,’ she corrected him. ‘And I’ll be going halves with you on the bill for lunch.’
Not if he could help it. He’d pay for it without telling her—and then, when the waitress told her that Dottore de Luca had already settled the bill, he had a good excuse to have lunch with her again later in the week. A little underhand, perhaps, but he wanted to spend time with her, and she had this ridiculous idea about imposing on people so she’d probably refuse a second invitation to lunch. Doing it this way neatly circumvented the problem.
But then she went quiet on him. Was she worried about her father—or was there more to it than that? Why was a woman as lovely as Eleanor Forrest—kind, beautiful, funny and clever—alone? And why was she so adamant about paying her way for things, about not being beholden to anyone?
He placed his hand over hers and rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. Lord, her skin was soft. Touching her made his blood fizz through his veins; it made him want to touch her more intimately. Much more intimately.
‘Penny for them?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine.’
‘That’s not what your eyes are saying. If I promise you the protection of the Hippocratic oath …?’ He squeezed her hand gently. ‘Talk to me, bella mia. Tell me why you’re sad. It’s not just concern about your father, is it?’
‘No. I was thinking about the choices we make. If my mother had chosen differently, I might have grown up around here.’
He was pretty sure there was more to it than that. So he waited. And finally she filled the silence. ‘I made a really bad choice last year.’
‘How?’ he prompted softly.
‘I fell in love. With someone at work. I thought he was in love with me.’
From the expression on her face, she’d clearly been wrong.
‘We were going to move in together, but we hadn’t quite sorted it out. He bought me an engagement ring—said it was only a cheap one because he had to support his mum since she’d lost her job. She’d supported him through med school so he thought it was his turn to support her.’
The man was obviously a confidence trickster. One who knew exactly which buttons to press. Eleanor believed in sharing and fairness and family. Those words would’ve gone straight to her heart.
‘I didn’t mind. Jewellery doesn’t bother me and I’d rather be with someone who cared about his family than someone who spent loads of money on fripperies.’
Exactly as he’d guessed. ‘So what happened? His family came between you?’
Her face tightened. ‘Hardly. He wasn’t supporting his mother.’
‘So what was he doing with the money? He’d invested badly? Addicted to online poker games?’ No, Eleanor wouldn’t be hard on someone who’d made a mistake. It had to be more serious than that. ‘He had a drug habit?’
She shook her head. ‘He was supporting someone. Except she was his girlfriend.’
‘The man you loved cheated on you?’
She dragged in a breath. ‘She didn’t work at the hospital so he’d managed to keep her secret. But she’d finally had enough of him messing about and promising her things he wouldn’t deliver. Especially as she was three months into her pregnancy.’
‘Oh, no. The …’ He switched to Italian, not wanting to offend her but needing to vent his disgust. ‘What happened?’
‘She confronted me.’ Eleanor closed her eyes. ‘Luckily it was before I’d signed the paperwork to open a joint bank account with him. So if he’d been planning to transfer my funds, it didn’t happen.’
‘Ellie, I’m so sorry.’ His hand rested over hers again, squeezed it comfortingly. ‘He preyed on you when you were vulnerable.’
‘My mum was my only family after Dad died. So when she was diagnosed with cancer—with secondaries—I was …’ She swallowed hard. ‘Jeremy was just there. He let me lean on him. I’d known him vaguely for a while, danced with him at parties
and what have you. I’d heard rumours that he was a bit ambitious, but he was always perfectly charming when he came to the department to discuss a patient. And he was, um, rather nice-looking.’
Was that white-hot flare at the base of his spine jealousy? Orlando was too shocked to say anything.
Luckily she seemed to misread his silence, as if he’d accused her of being shallow. ‘It wasn’t just me. Most of the female staff really fancied him. And when he asked me out I was … I dunno. Flattered. Glad to have something else to think about other than the fact that my mum was dying.’
And clearly she’d been twice as disillusioned when she’d found out the truth—that the man she’d loved hadn’t loved her. The bastard had tried to take advantage of her instead. Worse, he’d done it when he’d been committed elsewhere.
‘I thought Jeremy loved me. I thought I loved him,’ she said softly. ‘I thought he was the one.’
He laced his fingers through hers. ‘Maybe this “The One” thing is a myth. Love doesn’t really exist like that.’
‘How do you mean?’
He stared out to sea. ‘My mother is always searching for The One. And she never finds him. She’s been divorced five times. Is it really worth all the pain and disappointment?’
She frowned. ‘So what are you saying? That people shouldn’t even bother looking?’
‘Just that they shouldn’t be blinded by an impossible ideal when they choose their partner.’
‘You mean, have an arranged marriage?’
‘Maybe.’ He formulated the words carefully. ‘If you’re good friends, that’s an excellent basis for a relationship. It means you’ll never be disappointed in each other. You’ll have something to keep you together when the first flush of passion fades.’
Eleanor shook her head. ‘There’s more to love than just friendship or sex.’
He wished she hadn’t used that particular word. Because right now he could imagine Eleanor lying in the grass in a lemon grove, giving him that sensual smile as he slowly, slowly stroked the clothes from her body and explored her skin with his mouth.
‘My parents were happy,’ she continued. ‘They loved each other. And my best friend’s happily married.’
‘So how do you know when you find this “love”, then?’ Orlando asked.
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I assume you meet someone and you know you want to be with them for the rest of your life. You want to wake up with them. You want to go to sleep in their arms.’
‘That’s just sexual attraction,’ Orlando corrected.
‘That,’ she said, shaking her head in apparent disbelief, ‘is outrageously cynical.’
‘Realistic,’ he countered. ‘And sexual attraction wears off. When it’s over, what do you have left? Unless, as I said, you’re friends to start with.’
‘So you’d marry someone who was a friend?’
‘If I liked them enough. If I thought we’d make a good life together.’
She removed her hand from his, propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her linked hands. ‘There’s a flaw in your argument, you know. A huge one.’
‘Which is?’
‘You’re not actually married,’ she pointed out. ‘Because I’m picky.’
‘More like, if you explained your views on marriage to any woman you were thinking of asking to marry you, she’d shove you in the nearest puddle and tell you what to do with your ring.’
‘I’ve never explained it to anyone before.’ He’d never wanted to get married. His affairs had always been for mutual pleasure and he’d made it clear right from the start, so nobody had got hurt. ‘I probably didn’t make a good job of explaining it just now.’
A corner of her mouth quirked. ‘I do hope you’re not going to claim that your English was too poor for you to explain your theory to me.’
‘When I lived in England for a couple of years? Hardly. I might miss a few of the more obscure idioms, but …’ He smiled back at her. ‘No, I just phrased it badly. What I mean is that these people who claim they’ve found The One are just infatuated.
They have this grand idea of what love should be and they’re determined to find it. They’re expecting rainbows and fireworks and a thousand balloons to float through the sky every time they kiss—and that really doesn’t last for ever. If they’re not good friends with their lover to start with, once the infatuation wears off there’s nothing left to keep them together. No shared interests, no jointly held views on life, no real bond.’
‘So how do you explain my parents? They were married for over twenty years. They really believed in “till death us do part”.’
‘Maybe they were lucky.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe the infatuation didn’t wear off.’
‘They loved each other, Orlando.’ She stared at him. ‘I can’t believe you’re such a cynic. You’re Italian. And Italians are meant to be the most romantic race on earth. Look at Romeo and Juliet.’
‘Who didn’t live happily ever after, if you remember,’ he pointed out.
‘But they loved each other.’
‘So did Dante’s Paolo and Francesca. And Manzoni’s Renzo and Lucia. And Petrarca and whatever the woman’s name was that he wrote all those sonnets to.’ He spread his hands. ‘They’re fictional, Eleanor. Just like love. A figment of a poet’s imagination.’
‘So you’re saying you don’t believe in love?’
‘I believe in friendship. And in sexual attraction. But love … that’s a con.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Some people believe men and women can’t be friends. That sex always gets in the way.’
‘Not true. We’re friends, aren’t we? Or on our way to becoming friends.’
‘Maybe.’
She didn’t tackle the other question, he noticed. About sexual attraction.
He was definitely attracted to Eleanor. Had been, right from the first time he’d seen her. That mouth was just made for kissing. He wanted to slide his fingers through her short dark hair, feel just how silky and soft it was. Wanted to stroke her skin until she was boneless with pleasure.
And he liked her, too. He liked her no-nonsense practicality. He liked the warmth of her smile. And when they’d held hands this morning in Pompeii, he’d been close to kissing her. Probably would have kissed her under a lemon tree overlooking the sea—had they not ended up rescuing a fellow tourist.
He was pretty sure the attraction was mutual. There was heat in her dark eyes when she looked at him. He’d felt the pulse throbbing when he’d linked his fingers through hers—a little too hard, a little too fast.
But love?
Who the hell knew what love was, anyway?
‘So how long are you planning to stay in Italy?’ he asked.
‘A few days. Maybe a couple of weeks. Enough to get to know Bartolomeo a little better.’
‘And then you’re going back to England—back to the hospital to work in the emergency department?’
She took a sip of her lattè. ‘Probably. Though right now I’m not sure if I want to go back to emergency medicine.’
‘Because you’ll have to face this Jeremy?’
‘It’s been a bit hideous at work,’ she admitted. ‘He’s a surgeon, so we don’t exactly work together—but obviously everyone knows what happened, and I’ve really hated being pitied by my colleagues. Poor Ellie, who got taken for a ride. Jeremy’s baby’s due in a couple of weeks so the sympathy’s been a bit choking lately. But something else will knock me off the hospital grapevine soon enough. By the time I get back, hopefully everyone will have forgotten about it.’
‘So if it’s not embarrassment, why don’t you want to go back?’
She sighed. ‘What you said about wanting to see your patients grow up—sometimes I think that’s what I want, too. Or maybe it’s because I’ve lost my family and I miss them and I want to get that feeling back—and working in family medicine would give me that feeling again. I don’t know. Right now I don’t trust my judgement in anything ex
cept a clinical situation.’
He knew he was storing up trouble, but he couldn’t help himself. ‘I have a suggestion for you.’
‘What?’
‘I assume you’d like to see a lot of Bartolomeo, as he’s your only blood family now.’
She nodded. ‘But I can’t keep flying between UK and Italy.’
‘Why don’t you stay out here for a while? Talk to your boss, take a sabbatical. And if money’s a problem, you’re a qualified doctor—we could do with a hand in our practice.’
‘But I’m qualified in England.’
‘A qualification that is valid here, too.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m hospital-trained. I haven’t done a GP rotation. And I haven’t got the right paperwork.’
He shrugged. ‘We can work around it. And the paperwork will be easy enough to sort out.’
‘My Italian isn’t good enough to deal with patients.’
‘That,’ he said, ‘is temporary. And you can always start by helping expats and tourists—look at today. Your language skills and your medical skills were perfect. You really helped Jed.’
‘You had to do the handover. I couldn’t have told the paramedics what was going on.’
‘It’s a matter of vocabulary. You’re bright: you’ll pick up the language quickly.’ He paused. Now this would definitely mean they’d have to spend time together. ‘I can teach you. Test you on your vocabulary, if you like.’
She frowned. ‘Why? Why me?’
‘Why not you? I like you, Eleanor. I’ve seen the way you work in an emergency—twice now. You’re good with people and I think you’d be an excellent family doctor. Think about it. You could spend the summer in Italy. Have the chance to see if this is the kind of medicine you want to do, without taking any risks. And take the opportunity to get to know Bartolomeo.’ And get to know me, he added silently. See if this thing between us is real. See if you’re right and I’m wrong.
She rubbed a hand across her face. ‘I could talk to my boss. See if I can take some time off. Though I don’t want to live in a hotel.’
‘You don’t have to.’ He just about stopped himself from offering her a room at his place. He didn’t want to rush her, he wanted them to get to know each other. Properly. Living together would only get in the way. ‘I can help you find an apartment.’
Latin Lovers: Italian Playboys Page 23