Latin Lovers: Italian Playboys

by MELANIE MILBURNE

  ‘He’s my father!’ She lifted her chin and glared at him. ‘I can’t help worrying.’

  ‘I know. But you know too much. And, as with any medic, you’re focusing on the worst possible scenarios. Rare complications. This isn’t good for your peace of mind.’ He brushed his mouth against hers, intending it to be for comfort. But the first touch of her lips against his sent him up in flames, made him kiss her again. And again.

  It was entirely mutual, because she was matching him kiss for kiss, touch for touch. And all his good intentions of waiting until Bartolomeo had recovered before sorting out what was happening between them went straight out of his head.

  It was only when Eleanor had finished undoing his shirt and slid it from his shoulders and he was lying on the sofa with her on top of him that the tiniest, tiniest bit of common sense leaked back into his brain.

  Just enough to make him stop.

  He broke the kiss and gently manoeuvred them both into a sitting position. ‘Eleanor.’ He stroked her face, desperately wanting to kiss her again but knowing it was a bad idea. ‘We can’t do this.’

  She dragged in a breath. ‘Orlando …’

  ‘We could give each other comfort, I admit. But we’ll both regret it tomorrow.’

  ‘You mean, you’d regret it.’

  ‘I …’ He exhaled sharply. ‘Don’t put words into my mouth. It’s not the action I’d regret. It’s the timing.’

  ‘The time’s never going to be right for you, is it?’ She shook her head in exasperation. ‘You’re as bad as Jeremy.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ The comment stung enough for him to say, ‘I’m not sleeping with anyone else behind your back.’

  She went white and stood up. ‘That’s low.’

  He could see how much he’d hurt her and guilt flooded through him. He stood up, reached a hand towards her. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It wasn’t my intention to open old wounds.’

  She didn’t take his hand. ‘Your problem is, you don’t know what you want.’

  ‘I do. But I need time to get my head straight.’

  ‘Time. It’s always time with you. How much time do you want, Orlando?’ She held up one hand, shaking her head. ‘Don’t answer that. Excuse me. I’m going to have an early night. Alone.’

  And as she walked out of the room, the sun seemed to dim. He wanted her. How he wanted her. But supposing it all went wrong? Supposing he was like his mother, building up something in his head and finding that the real thing just didn’t match up to it, and he ended up hurting Eleanor? It would be better to stop now than let her down.

  Though there was this weird sensation in his chest. As if his heart—despite the fact he knew it was anatomically impossible—was splintering.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SOMEHOW, Eleanor got through the next week. And at last, when Bartolomeo was out of hospital and the preliminary tests showed that the new bone marrow was working—that he was starting to produce healthy blood cells—she knew everything was going to be all right. There was still a way to go, but the chances were loaded in Bartolomeo’s favour.

  Orlando was still being supportive, while keeping an emotional distance between them. And she’d begun to realise that, however much time she gave him, he was always going to need more. He couldn’t learn to trust in love. Couldn’t give them that chance.

  Which left her two choices—stay in Italy and break her heart, or go back to England and break her heart.

  So close to the choice her mother had made thirty years before. To leave the man she loved—for both their sakes.

  And although Eleanor was growing to love Bartolomeo, she didn’t belong here. It was time to go home.

  A few minutes later it was all done. Ian was expecting her back on early shift tomorrow. Her flight was booked back to London. An afternoon flight. Orlando would be on house calls in the early afternoon and then go straight back to the practice for late afternoon surgery, she knew. And because she’d chosen to spend the last couple of days with her father rather than at the practice, he wouldn’t call at the apartment to check that she was all right.

  Then it was the hard part. Saying goodbye to Bartolomeo. ‘I have to go back to London. Back to work,’ she said softly. ‘I’m sorry I can’t stay longer.’

  ‘Eleanor. My new-found daughter. The one who gave me my life back—who gave me my hope back.’ He held her close. ‘I shall miss you so much.’

  ‘I’ll miss you, too. But I’ll call you every day,’ she promised. ‘And I’ll visit often. And when you’re feeling up to it, you can come and stay with me. I can show you where I grew up.’

  ‘And, if you would not mind, I can put flowers on your mother’s grave. Flowers I wish I’d been able to give her while you were growing up.’ He stroked her hair. ‘Ring me when you get home. So I know you’re safe.’

  ‘I will.’

  He brushed away the tears spilling down her cheek. ‘Don’t cry. This is a presto, not goodbye.’ To him, yes.

  To Orlando … No. She couldn’t think about that. Or she’d crumble completely.

  ‘Arrivederci. And you do what the doctor tells you, OK?’

  She went back to the flat. And then all she had to do was pick up her luggage, leave the letter propped up where Orlando would see it and get a taxi to the airport. She’d already made arrangements with the local chocolatier to deliver a large box of chocolates to the surgery, with a card she’d written to Serafina, Chiara, Alessandro and Giacomo to thank them for their hospitality.

  At least Orlando’s front door was on the type of latch you could lock without having to use the key. She’d left the keys in the envelope with the letter.

  ‘I wish,’ she said softly, ‘that it could’ve been different. That you’d get into your stubborn skull that love really does exist—that we could’ve been happy together. But it’s time I faced facts. It’s not going to happen. I’ve given you time. Nothing’s changed. So there’s no point in waiting and hoping.’

  She closed the door behind her, checked that it was locked firmly and headed for the airport.

  Unease prickled down Orlando’s spine as he unlocked the front door. He’d expected Eleanor to be back from her father’s; he knew that Bartolomeo usually had a nap at this time of day. Yet the flat was silent.

  Something didn’t seem quite right. He couldn’t put his finger on it: just that something was different. Something felt missing.

  He found out what when he walked into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee and saw the envelope propped against the kettle. His name was written on the outside in Eleanor’s handwriting.

  A note?

  Why on earth would she have left him a note?

  He ripped open the envelope and scanned it swiftly. She’d written in English. Formally.

  Dear Orlando,

  Thank you for all your help during my stay in Italy. My father’s well on the way to recovery now, so I am returning home to England.

  I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye personally, but I think it’s easier this way. For both of us.

  I wish you a long and happy life.

  Eleanor

  He stared at the note in disbelief, reading it and trying to make the words sink in.

  She’d left Italy?

  She couldn’t have gone. She just couldn’t. He flung the door to her room open.

  She’d stripped the bedclothes—knowing Eleanor, she’d probably put them in the washing machine—and all the surfaces were clean and bare.

  The drawers were empty.

  The wardrobe was empty.

  All her things had gone from the bathroom.

  Holding onto the end of the bed, Orlando sat down heavily. She’d gone. And without her the apartment felt empty. Hollow. As if the centre had gone, leaving just a husk.

  Without her.

  And then it hit him. He couldn’t be without her. Didn’t want to be without her.

  The One existed all right.

  And he’d been stupid enoug
h to drive her away. He might just as well have booked her flight himself.

  ‘You stupid, stupid … ‘He cursed himself for being all kinds of fool, even as he picked up the phone and dialled the airport.

  Please, God, don’t let him be too late.

  When he put the phone down again, his teeth were gritted so hard that they hurt. Eleanor’s flight had left three hours ago. She’d be back in England by now. It would take her an hour, maybe two, to get home from the airport.

  Except he had no idea where ‘home’ for Eleanor was. London was a huge place. And even if he called every single E. Forrest in the telephone directory, it wouldn’t guarantee that he’d find her. She might be ex-directory. Or Eleanor might even be her middle name—so she wouldn’t be listed under E. Forrest in the first place.

  Stupidly, the one time he’d called her mobile phone, he hadn’t stored the number. Chiara was on an efficiency drive, so a scribbled note from weeks ago would no longer exist. He had no way of contacting her.

  There was only one person who could help him.

  And this was something that definitely couldn’t be done on the phone.

  There was still enough rush-hour traffic left for it to be quicker to take public transport. And, oh, how slowly time could crawl. Orlando was almost beside himself by the time he reached the stop nearest to Bartolomeo’s house.

  ‘Orlando? I wasn’t expecting to see you. Not now …’ The old man’s eyes glittered suspiciously. ‘But I am glad. Tonight … I need company.’

  Me, too, Orlando thought. Because I think we’re both missing her like hell. ‘I’ll make us some coffee,’ he said. ‘Permesso?’

  ‘Sure.’

  When Orlando returned with two mugs, Bartolomeo took one mouthful and gagged. ‘What the hell did you put in this?’ he asked.

  Orlando spread his hands. ‘Coffee.’

  ‘About half a ton per cup,’ Bartolomeo spluttered.

  ‘Mi dispiace.’ Orlando sighed. ‘I’m …’ He raked a hand through his hair. ‘Hell. I can’t think straight. Because she’s gone.’

  Bartolomeo frowned, as if suddenly realising something. ‘Didn’t you know she was going?’

  ‘Not until I read the note she left me.’ He took a sip of the coffee—probably the vilest he’d ever tasted. But it suited his mood. ‘Do you have her phone number in England, please?’

  Bartolomeo’s frown deepened. ‘Did you two have a fight? Because if she didn’t choose to give you her number, I don’t feel I can go against her wishes.’

  Oh, brilliant. He’d just made things a hundred times worse. ‘I didn’t have a fight with her.’ He rubbed his hand across his eyes. ‘Look, I know it’s not fair to ask you because you’re still recuperating from the transplant and you should be protected from anything that might worry you. But I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life and you’re the only one I know who can help me fix it.’

  ‘What sort of mistake?’ Bartolomeo probed.

  ‘I let Eleanor go back to London without telling her something important.’ He sucked in a breath. ‘I love your daughter. And, before you ask, yes—I can assure you my intentions towards her are honourable.’

  Too late. Bartolomeo was already in defensive father mode. ‘How honourable?’

  ‘Marriage. If she’ll have me,’ Orlando said bleakly. ‘I want to grow old with her, to have children with her—to wake up every day knowing the world’s a better place because she’s in my life.’

  ‘That’s how I felt about my Costanza,’ Bartolomeo said softly. ‘So I know how you’re feeling right now. Knowing she’s gone for good. So why didn’t you tell Ellie you loved her before she left?’ He tipped his head on one side. ‘Or did you tell her, and that’s why she went so quickly?’

  Orlando shook his head. ‘It’s complicated. And I’m entirely to blame—it’s not her. But I don’t want to waste any more time. I need to find her. Talk to her. Tell her how I feel—tell her how stupid I’ve been to let her go.’ Orlando propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his linked hands. ‘I’m asking for your help. But if you choose not to, that’s fine, too. Because I’m flying to England tonight, and if I have to visit every single hospital within a thirty-mile radius of Greater London to find her, then I’ll do it.’

  ‘If you catch a flight to London now …’ Bartolomeo glanced at his watch.

  Orlando did the same and realised what the older man meant. ‘After I’ve gone back to my flat to pick up my passport, called for a taxi to the airport, taken a three-hour flight to England and then however long it takes to get to her, I’ll be there at stupid o’clock. When she really won’t appreciate a visitor.’

  ‘Especially as she’s back on duty tomorrow,’ Bartolomeo said. ‘She works in the emergency department at the Albert Memorial Hospital in Chelsea—you’ll have to look up the address.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Orlando gave in to an impulse and hugged him.

  ‘So does this mean you’re bringing her back with you to Italy?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Orlando smiled wryly. ‘I hope so. But if she’d rather stay in England, then I’ll move there. I don’t care where I live, as long as it’s with her.’ And, please, God, don’t let him have left it too late.

  It was raining in England. Which suited her mood perfectly, Eleanor thought. She’d called Bartolomeo from the airport to let him know she’d landed safely, and sent him a text when she got home, not wanting to disturb him in case he was resting.

  How lonely the house felt. How empty. And even though she busied herself unpacking and opening windows to let the stuffy air out and cleaning the place until it shone, she was still lonely. Bone-deep lonely.

  Orlando would have found her note by now. Ha. And what was she expecting him to do? Call her and beg her to change her mind? Hardly. Apart from the fact that she hadn’t left him her number, he’d just take it as further proof that love was a myth.

  It took Eleanor a long, long time before she fell asleep that night, and her eyes felt gritty the next morning.

  And she nearly cried her eyes out when she walked into the staffroom at work and there were banners everywhere saying, ‘Welcome back, Ellie.’ Cards. And a huge bunch of flowers from the whole ward.

  ‘We missed you.’ Sheena Redmond, the charge nurse, hugged her hard.

  ‘Welcome back,’ Ian said, ruffling her hair. ‘Are you sure you’re OK to work? I mean, you had a lot of travelling yesterday, and …’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘And you’ve told everyone what I was doing in Italy?’

  ‘No, but I got it out of him yesterday when he told us you were coming back,’ Sheena said. ‘You dope. You should’ve told us. One of us could’ve come out and—well—helped you recuperate.’

  ‘It was a PBSC, so it wasn’t invasive and I could’ve gone back to work within a day of the leukapheresis,’ Eleanor said. ‘I’m fine. And you know me—I’m happiest when I’m busy.’

  ‘I’ll remind you of that next time you haven’t had a break for six hours and the patients are six deep in Reception,’ Sheena said wryly. She hugged Eleanor again. ‘It’s good to have you back, Ellie.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She just about managed not to cry. At least she belonged here.

  This was definitely one of the times when Orlando wished he was a multi-millionaire. Or knew one who had a private jet anyway. Even though this was the red-eye flight, the earliest one in the day from Naples to London, it wasn’t soon enough for him.

  At least he wouldn’t have to wait at the other end. The only luggage he had with him was his passport, his wallet and his mobile phone, so he could go straight through customs.

  Three hours. Three hours in which he hid behind a newspaper because he didn’t feel like making polite conversation with the passenger in the seat next to him. Three hours to wait and fret and wonder if Eleanor would even agree to see him, let alone speak to him.

  Customs didn’t take long. Then he went for the fastest train he could get to London—and beca
use he’d missed the last one by three minutes, he had twelve more minutes to wait before the next train, and then half an hour until he was in Victoria. And then the tube.

  Finally he walked into the Albert Memorial hospital in Chelsea. Found the reception area for the emergency department. So near. Oh, please let her listen to him. Listen to what he had to say.

  ‘May I see Dr Forrest, please?’ he asked politely.

  ‘Sorry, we can’t guarantee a specific doctor. All our staff are highly trained and professional,’ the receptionist told him.

  ‘Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I need to see Dr Eleanor Forrest, please.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t guarantee a specific doctor,’ the receptionist repeated. ‘If you’d like to tell me your name so I can log you in to the system, a doctor will be with you as soon as possible.’

  He didn’t want a doctor. He wanted Eleanor. He was about to open his mouth to explain it was personal when one of the nursing staff came over.

  Sheena Redmond, charge nurse, according to her badge.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ she asked, folding her arms and looking stern.

  A woman who would brook no nonsense. He only hoped that she also had compassion. ‘I’m not here to make trouble,’ he said quietly. ‘I just need to see Eleanor.’ ‘I’m afraid we can’t guarantee you’ll see—’ ‘A specific doctor,’ he finished. ‘Your receptionist told me. I’m not injured. It’s personal.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Actually, it’s good to know her friends here are looking out for her.’

  Sheena’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean, personal?’

  ‘May I speak to you in private, please?’ he asked, aware of the curious glance of the receptionist.

  Sheena frowned, but led him into her office. ‘Right. And this had better be good. Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Orlando de Luca. I am a family doctor—what you would call a GP—in Italy.’

  ‘Her father’s doctor?’

  He shook his head. ‘I met Eleanor on the plane from London. We worked together when a fellow passenger had a heart attack. And I fell in love with her.’ He took a deep breath. ‘She’s the love of my life. I was stupid enough not to tell her before she left Italy. And I need to tell her now.’