‘Just don’t break into the Doris Day version,’ she said wryly.
He laughed and hummed, ‘Que sera, sera’. ‘Have some food, Eleanor. Everything always seems better when you’re not hungry.’
She felt her eyes widen as he placed the food in front of her. ‘This looks gorgeous—and complicated.’
He spread his hands. ‘It takes ages. Possibly—oh-h-h—ninety seconds’ preparation.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘The hardest part is cutting the prosciutto into strips. Wrap it around the asparagus, add a thin slice of dolcelatte, put it in the oven for ten minutes, and that’s it.’ He shrugged. ‘The simplest things are often the best.’
‘It’s gorgeous,’ she said after the first mouthful.
He’d made an equally simple second course: grilled chicken and salad. Followed by a bowl of fresh strawberries and a pot of melted white chocolate for dipping. And then the ubiquitous espresso.
‘Don’t tell me. It’s half-cold,’ she said before he’d even poured it out.
‘No. I know you prefer your coffee the English way.’
‘Whereas Italians like the buzz of caffeine.’
He laughed. ‘That’s why you never see an Italian sitting in a caffè. Waste of time.’ He spread his hands. ‘Pay for your coffee, get your receipt, have it made for you, and down it on your way out. It’s the way here in Napoli.’
‘I noticed. And if you order a latté or a macchiato after breakfast-time, they look at you as if you have two heads. It’s easier to go to a tourist coffee-shop.’
‘And pay four times as much for the privilege.’
Easy banter. But there was nothing easy between them; Eleanor knew that they were both aware of the undercurrent. Both avoiding the real issues.
And that night she lay awake in the wide double bed, knowing that he was sleeping just the other side of the wall. How easy it would be to walk into his room, climb into his bed and just ask him to hold her.
And how bad an idea that would be, too. He needed time—time to get used to the idea that maybe they had a future. That he wouldn’t be like his mother, searching fruitlessly for The One and leaving a trail of broken hearts behind him. That she wouldn’t be like his mother either and walk out on him when he failed to live up to whatever impossible ideal she had in her head. He’d let her this far into his life. She just needed to be patient.
Eleanor was surprised at how easily she’d settled in to life at Orlando’s apartment. And on Friday afternoon, when Bartolomeo was too tired for company, she did a little shopping in the tiny delicatessens and speciality shops nearby, tried her hand bartering in the market, and finally pottered around the apartment before giving in to the impulse to call Tamsin.
‘Right. Now you’re talking to me, you can spill the beans. All of them,’ Tamsin demanded. ‘You are on your own right now, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. There’s nothing to it. Orlando’s just being a good friend.’
Tamsin groaned. ‘I told you to have a fling with a gorgeous man, not go and live with him!’
‘I’m not living with him. I’m staying in his guest room,’ Eleanor corrected her.
‘You’re eating together and you’re spending time in the evenings together—that counts as living together in my book. And you’ve already admitted he’s drop-dead gorgeous.’
‘We’re just friends.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Tamsin said dryly. ‘Just make sure you wait until I’ve had this baby before you announce you’re staying in Italy with him. And I’m telling you now, if I’m not chief bridesmaid and wedding planner, you’re in major trouble.’
‘Number one, you’re married and pregnant, so you’d be matron of honour,’ Eleanor said.
‘Stop splitting hairs.’
‘And, number two, we’re not getting married.’
‘Living in sin, then. But you don’t move over there permanently until I’ve had a chance to inspect him and made sure he’s good enough for you,’ Tamsin said darkly.
‘Tam, it’s not like that.’
‘Hmm. We’ll see.’
‘So you really don’t have to worry. Everything’s fine,’ Eleanor said, hoping that she sounded rather more convincing than she felt. She distracted Tamsin with talk about babies, but when she finally replaced the receiver her edginess returned.
Tomorrow was results day.
Please, please, let them be the right ones.
And if she didn’t keep herself busy, she’d go crazy. She took the recipe she’d downloaded from the Internet and headed for Orlando’s kitchen.
Orlando could smell the aroma of tomatoes and fresh herbs all the way down the corridor. He’d planned to take Eleanor out to dinner that night, to distract her from the fact that the results were due tomorrow, but clearly she’d been feeling antsy and taken matters into her own hands.
He closed the front door behind him, then walked quietly to the kitchen. He leaned against the doorjamb for a moment, just watching Eleanor as she chopped and stirred and tasted. Lord, she was beautiful. The way she moved … It was all he could do to stop himself striding over to her, yanking her into his arms and kissing her senseless. He just about managed to keep himself in check, then he said softly, ‘Buona sera, Eleanor. Something smells good.’
She looked over at him and smiled. ‘Hi. I hope you don’t mind me taking over your kitchen.’
‘No.’
‘I thought you might …’ She bit her lip. ‘Well, you don’t like sharing your space.’
‘I admit, it’s strange,’ he said. ‘Coming home after surgery to a flat that isn’t completely silent and empty—knowing the door’s unlocked and you’ll be curled up on the sofa with a book or listening to music. Domesticated.’
She looked faintly worried. ‘And you hate that.’
The words slipped out before he could stop them. ‘It’s different with you.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I … Nothing.’ He made a dismissive gesture. ‘Just ignore me.’ ‘Bit difficult when you’re standing three feet away from me,’ she pointed out. ‘So how’s it different with me?’
She wasn’t going to let him get away with this one, was she? He sucked in a breath. ‘OK. I admit, I like you being around.’ ‘And?’
Could she read his mind, or was it that obvious? ‘And it scares me stupid at the same time,’ he admitted. ‘Because when this is all over, it’s going to be messy. We’re both going to get hurt.’
‘You’re assuming it will be over.’
She was calling him on this? He lifted his chin. ‘My experience of families tells me that, yes, it’ll end.’
‘Not necessarily. My experience of families is different: it tells me that things can work out. My parents were together for well over twenty years. And if they’d both lived they’d still be together now.’
‘That,’ Orlando said, leaning back against the wall, ‘is what scares me. How can I live up to that? How can I give you what they gave each other when I don’t know how it’s done—when I haven’t had an example to show me the way?’
She took the pan off the heat and walked over to him. Took his hand and raised it to her lips. Brushed her mouth, oh, so lightly over his palm. It made his whole body feel as if it had turned to flame. She curled his fingers over the place where she’d kissed him. ‘Why don’t you try trusting yourself? See where this takes us?’
Because he’d already seen what happened when people did that. Seen the tears and the wreck of the relationship. Too many times. ‘I don’t want to see you hurt when I let you down.’ Just as his mother’s husbands had never lived up to her expectations.
She frowned. ‘You’re here now, when I need you. What’s going to change?’
‘I can’t answer that. I just know that one day we’ll both wake up and everything will seem different. And I don’t want to hurt you, Eleanor. The longer this goes on, the more it’s going to hurt—me, as well as you.’
‘This is all your decision.
Don’t I get a say in it?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’ she asked, her voice very soft. ‘Because right now you’ve got a lot on your mind. You’re vulnerable and you’re not thinking straight.’ ‘And you are?’
Probably not. He found it very difficult to think straight when she was around. But he wasn’t going to admit that.
At his silence, she dropped his hand and took one step backwards. ‘So do you want me to leave?’
‘Of course not. I’m not going to throw you out at a time like this. You’re waiting for the test results. If all goes well, you’ll probably be on treatment next week. And.’ He raked a hand through his hair. ‘I said I’d support you through this. I’m not the kind of man who goes back on my word.’ He dragged in a breath. ‘And that’s why I can’t promise you a relationship and say that it will last for ever and ever. I can’t make a promise that I don’t know if I can keep. Eleanor, I can offer you my friendship and my support. And that’s all.’
‘I’d better get on with dinner, then.’ She walked over to the hob again and continued with the sauce she’d been making when he’d come home.
He was about to protest that he didn’t want to hurt her—but he knew he already had. Her British stiff upper lip was firmly in place. Brisk, no-nonsense. ‘Eleanor. I’m sorry. I wish I could be different. I like you—I like you a lot—and I admit there’s a physical attraction between us. But until I can promise you undying love, it’s not fair to either of us to act on that. Let’s get through the transplant. And then we’ll have time to concentrate on us.’
‘Sure.’
She didn’t sound sure at all. She sounded utterly miserable—rejected, unwanted, unloved. Lonely.
Ah, hell.
He couldn’t leave it like this. He joined her at the stove, took the pan off the heat again and pulled her into his arms. Held her close, rested his cheek against her hair, breathed in her sweet scent. ‘I’m trying to get my head around this. I swear, I’m trying.’ And, lord, he was trying to be the man she needed him to be. He so wanted to be that man.
But could he?
Would he be enough for her?
‘I just need more time, tesoro.’ He let himself hold her for a few seconds longer. ‘I just,’ he whispered, ‘need time.’
With a huge effort he let her go again. She was rigid, as if trying to hold her own emotions in check.
Domestic. Routine. That was what he needed right now. Something everyday that he could focus on, help him put his emotions back behind the fence where he normally kept them. ‘How long is dinner going to be?’
‘Soon.’ She was clearly in the same state as he was, the way she was stirring that sauce when both of them could see it didn’t need stirring.
‘Shall I open some wine?’
‘I’ll do it. I meant to surprise you. Make dinner the same way you did for me.’ She went to the fridge, took out a bottle of wine and poured him a glass. ‘Go and sit on the terrace.’
His fingers touched hers as she handed him the glass and it felt like an electric shock. He knew he was being a coward, but he was glad to escape to the terrace and stare out at Vesuvius. Hell, the way she made him feel, his emotions were like the volcano in mid-eruption. Turbulent. Hot. Overwhelming.
Why couldn’t he let himself believe? In her—in himself—in love?
The breathing space did them both good, because when she reappeared on the terrace, carrying a platter, he was able to smile calmly at her, and she no longer looked near to tears.
‘I cheated with the antipasti,’ she said. ‘There was this gorgeous little deli round the corner.’
She’d brought out a plate with an arrangement of his favourites. Black olives, chargrilled artichokes, sun-dried tomatoes and grilled sweet peppers. She’d included tiny cornets of cured ham, anchovies and slices of scamorza.
‘It’s perfect,’ he said.
The main course was even better. ‘An authentic Napoletana sauce, too,’ he noted. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘It’s not hard to follow a recipe.’
‘Even so.’ He raised his glass to her. ‘It’s lovely. Grazie.’
Although his head was telling him he really needed to get some distance between them—that he should make some excuse to skulk in his office for the rest of the evening—his heart reminded him that she needed the company. Needed the distraction. Tomorrow could make or break her.
There was one thing that would distract both of them.
But no. The timing was wrong. He wasn’t that much of a louse, to put his needs first. So he sat with her. Talked to her. Taught her a few Italian phrases, introduced her to some of his favourite music. Just about managed to stop himself kissing her goodnight.
Though he slept badly. And from the shadows under her eyes at breakfast the next morning, so had she.
As the minutes dragged by, the tension in her body racked up until he could almost see waves of it flowing out from her.
‘Come on. We’ll go to the hospital. The long way round,’ he said, ‘because waiting there for the results will be even worse. We’ll play tourist on the way, have an early lunch out.’ ‘Mmm-hmm.’
She was too tense even to be polite, he noticed. Well, he wouldn’t take it personally. What she really needed, he thought, was a hug. But he didn’t trust himself to stop at a friendly hug. A walk and negotiating the public transport system would help him get his impulses back under control again.
Although he pointed out particularly interesting architecture and told her little snippets about the bits of Naples they passed through, she didn’t seem to take anything in. She barely touched lunch. And by the time they reached the hospital, the strain was really showing on her face: she’d lost all colour on her face and her expression was pinched. Haunted.
Right now she needed him. He slid his arm round her shoulders as they made their way to the consultant’s office. Maybe she’d find comfort in the warmth of his body; maybe she’d find strength in his strength.
‘Dottoressa Forrest? Gilberto Marino. A pleasure to meet you.’ The consultant extended his hand to her.
‘Dottore Marino. A pleasure to meet you, too.’ She shook his hand and smiled politely, but Orlando could feel a tiny tremor of fear running through her.
This was it.
And if the answer was no …
Please, don’t let it be no. Don’t let her hopes be smashed.
‘Now, our friend Orlando here has given you a thorough medical. Everything’s clear, and I expect you already know you’ve not been exposed to HIV, hepatitis or syphilis,’ Gilberto told her.
‘Of course I do.’ She dragged in a breath. ‘Dottore Marino, I’m going crazy here. I really need to know.’ There was a note of desperation in her voice. ‘Can we go ahead with the transplant? Please?’
Time slowed down to the point where every second seemed to take an hour.
And then Gilberto smiled. ‘It’s a good match. Yes.’
Eleanor clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, thank God,’ she said brokenly. ‘Thank God.’
She wasn’t sure if she was crying or shaking or laughing hysterically or if Vesuvius had just decided to erupt again: the world had gone mad. For a moment she felt herself teetering on the edge of an abyss. And then Orlando’s arms were wrapped tightly round her again and her face was buried in his shoulder.
‘It’s going to be all right, Eleanor,’ he soothed, stroking her hair. ‘Everything’s going to be fine.’
She could feel his heart beating, strong and sure and steady, and gradually the trembling stopped. When Orlando guided her to a chair and sat next to her, she could see a wet patch on his shirt.
Just as well she hadn’t been wearing make-up today.
Oh, lord. Last time she’d cried all over him, they’d …
She dragged in a breath. That wasn’t going to happen again. Though Orlando kept one of her hands sandwiched between his, his thumb rubbing reassuringly against the back of her hand. Telling her without words t
hat he was there for her.
Gilberto explained what was going to happen next. Eleanor couldn’t follow much of what the consultant was saying, so Orlando translated for her. Though nothing seemed to stay in her head—the only thing she could think about was that the transplant would go ahead.
Bartolomeo had a much, much better chance of staying around.
And she would still have a family to belong to.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘DON’T you have surgery this morning?’ Eleanor asked Orlando on Monday.
‘Alessandro and Giacomo are splitting my list between them until I get there. I’m buying them gelati every day this week as a payback,’ Orlando explained.
‘Why aren’t you doing your list yourself?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Why do you think, tesoro? I’m going with you to the hospital.’
‘There’s no need. I’ll be fine.’ She waved a dismissive hand. ‘It’s only an injection.’
‘It’s the first injection of granuloctye-colony stimulating factor,’ Orlando said, folding his arms. ‘You don’t know how you’re going to react to the G-CSF, so I’m taking you myself to make sure you’re all right. Plus this is a huge thing you’re doing. Even though you know what’s going on, it’s a lot to take in and you’d be struggling with it in your own language, let alone Italian. You need someone with you who can speak medical jargon and Italian. Which is what we agreed last week, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that person is me.’
‘Yes.’ Though she was still feeling a little edgy with him. He’d held her close, comforted her, on several occasions over the weekend, and it was driving her crazy, being so close to him and yet not close to him at the same time, because he’d behaved with impeccable propriety rather than carrying her to his bed and making her forget the rest of the world. ‘But you have your patients.’
‘As I said, it’s not a problem. Though if we could rearrange the rest of the injections this week for the gap between surgery and house calls, that would make my life a little easier,’ he admitted.
‘I can go to the hospital by myself.’
Latin Lovers: Italian Playboys Page 31