The Italian Doctor’s Mistress Read online

  “You must have a souvenir,” Carlo insisted, overriding her protests and cruising the car to a stop not far from Prada, famed for its exquisite Miuccia designs, worn by celebrities from all walks of life.

  Danielle thought she’d soaked up enough antiquity and art in a few hours to last her well into the next year, but the fin de siècle murals inside the shop took her breath away. She was so entranced by them that she didn’t even notice what Carlo was up to until he presented her with an exquisite purse of pale green, butter-soft leather, and a silk scarf in varying shades of emerald and jade.

  “To complement your lovely eyes, cara,” he told her, thereby rendering her speechless all over again. “And as a memento of Milano, and our day together.”

  The sun lay well below the city skyline, leaving the Duomo etched against a sky tinted soft apricot, when Carlo suggested they have dinner before heading back to Galanio. “At Boeucc, Milano’s oldest restaurant,” he decided.

  “Just about everything’s old here, Carlo!”

  “Ah, but Boeucc is really old. It opened in the late 1690s, and the name comes from an old Milanese word meaning ‘hole’ because, in the beginning, meals were served in the basement.”

  “Some hole,” she marveled, after they arrived and were shown to a window table overlooking the garden. The chandeliers, fluted columns and carpet were sumptuous; the tables, set with fine linen and crystal and silver, fit for a queen.

  As was the food, she shortly discovered. The bruschetta appetizer and main course of penne with sea bass and zucchini, accompanied by a crisp white wine, were a treat for the taste buds; the chestnut gelato with hot zabaglione for dessert, simply divine.

  Over espresso served in fine porcelain demitasse, she said, “You’ve given me a perfect day, Carlo, one I’ll never forget. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “I can think of a way,” he said, caressing her in a glance so loaded with sexual implication that she went hot all over.

  “After the other night,” she stammered, “I wasn’t sure you’d ever want—”

  “Be sure, la mia bella. One night with you was not nearly enough to keep me satisfied.” He signed the bill their waiter had left discreetly at his elbow, replaced his credit card, and came around the table to her chair. “Remembering how you looked with nothing to cover you, how you felt beneath me, around me, it makes me hungry for things not served on the menu here,” he murmured in her ear. “Come, tesoro, let us find a place more private.”

  When he spoke to her like that, with his voice dropping a husky half octave and stroking over her skin like velvet, it was easy to ignore caution and let her heart rule her head. Easy to fool herself into believing that there was always the chance that he might fall in love with her, just as she’d fallen in love with him.

  Willingly, she followed him outside to the car. Once inside, he turned to her. The hem of her plain linen dress barely covered her knees. Running his hand possessively up her bare thigh, he said thickly, “Galanio lies nearly an hour from here.”

  “Yes,” she managed.

  He stroked his thumb along the inner curve of her thigh. Briefly touched the soft, already damp swatch of panty between her legs. “Too far.”

  She sighed brokenly as a distant spasm clenched her flesh. “Yes.”

  He found her mouth, kissed her long and deeply, then fired up the engine, and turning the car to the east, sped away into the encroaching night. Soon, they’d left the city behind and were headed for the lake district. When the first body of water came in sight, gleaming darkly under the low-rising moon, he swung off the main highway and followed a secondary road that swooped down through a densely wooded area and ended at a small, deserted stretch of beach.

  The engine died, and silence swept in, broken only by the hammering thud of her heart. For perhaps half a minute, he simply stared through the windshield, remaining so perfectly still that she wondered if he was having second thoughts about bringing her there. Then he swung his gaze slowly to hers in the dim light. “You have not changed your mind, my lovely Danielle?”

  She shook her head, too full of emotion to speak.

  He nodded once, stepped out of the car, and opened her door. She put her hand in his, joined him on the cool sand, and watched as he lifted the trunk lid and took out a thermal blanket, the kind she’d seen used by ambulance attendants at the site of accidents.

  “In case I come upon an emergency while traveling on the road,” he offered, intercepting her glance as they passed in front of the car on their way to the edge of the lake. “Unfortunately, many such occur on our twisting mountain roads.”

  She stopped and leaned against him. Laid a finger against his lips. “You don’t have to explain, Carlo. I already knew that.”

  Her words, or perhaps the actions accompanying them, seemed to inflame him. Dropping the blanket, he caught her even closer, his hands and mouth seeking avidly. This time, there was no civilized divesting of garments, no leisurely, persuasive foreplay, but a reckless joining of bodies driven by raging impatience past any thought of finesse.

  He hiked up her dress, tore her panties down around her ankles. She kicked them off and, as ravenous for him as he was for her, ripped open his fly, and slipped her hand inside. He was hot and hard, and so ready that she feared she could not release him in time from the confines of his clothing.

  He shoved aside her hand, pulled himself free and with one urgent thrust, filled her. She was dimly aware of the warm smooth hood of the car at her back. Caught a hazy glimpse of the moon swimming somewhere over his shoulder.

  His breath blasted her face. His jaw clenched tight as he fought to hold back the demon of passion threatening to annihilate him. Then he went rigid in her arms and split the night with a hoarse cry.

  That sound, hanging primitive in the quiet air, coupled with the swift, savage bucking of his body against hers, tipped her over the edge. She contracted around him, milking the hot rush of his passion as it ran free within her.

  He buried his face against her neck. Pinned her against the car to support her when she sagged at the knees. Stars which seconds earlier had not been visible to the naked eye rained down over her…too bright, too dazzling, too much.

  She fought to hold on to the moment; to keep him imprisoned inside her for as long as he would allow. Forever, if it were possible.

  Of course, it was not. Sanity regained a foothold all too soon. Chest heaving, Carlo withdrew. Fell back against the car next to her. Ran a despairing, disgusted hand over his face. “Dio,” he panted. “What the hell kind of madness possessed me, that I would take you like that, with the condom still in my pocket?”

  It was far from what she’d have liked to hear. Far from the words of love ringing in her head and pressing to be uttered aloud. Frantic to preserve at least a little of the clamoring intensity that had led to their union, she said, “Don’t worry that I’ll end up pregnant, Carlo. It’s the wrong time of the month.”

  “Hardly a guaranteed form of contraception, cara mia,” he replied dryly.

  What was there to say, after that? What to do, except turn away from each other and put their clothing to rights again? But when she made to get back in the car, he stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Do not be mistaken, Danielle,” he said softly. “However undignified or unconscionable my actions were just now, know that they were prompted not by rampant lust, but overwhelming desire. I give you my most solemn promise that the next time we make love, I’ll display more fitting restraint.”

  …the next time we make love…! They were the only words that mattered. For the rest—oh, it might, as he’d just said, have been undignified, but it had been glorious in its unfettered urgency, too, and she knew not a moment’s regret.

  They completed the rest of the journey to Galanio in relative silence. Not until he left her at her bedroom door did he say, “Let me know when all is well with you, la mia bella.”

  She nodded, knowing full well what he meant. “I will.”


  Still, when two days later, her period came and with it the knowledge that he had not impregnated her, she was shamed by the wave of disappointment that swept over her. It was unrealistic to suppose that, if she’d been carrying his child, he would have married her, and irresponsibly selfish even to entertain the notion that, even if he didn’t and she was left a single mother, a baby would weld a permanent bond between him and her. Would provide a reason to maintain a relationship with him, albeit from half a world away.

  She knew how it was to feel unwanted, unsure of where she fit into the normal order of things. And she knew the gaping hole created when there should be two parents, and instead was only one. Not even for Carlo would she risk inflicting the same insecurities on her own child. No, it was best for everyone that she had not conceived.

  The following week found him spending anywhere from fifteen to eighteen hours a day at the hospital, and although he would have preferred not to be dealing with a sudden rash of life-threatening injuries and illnesses, he was grateful that it severely limited his contact with Danielle.

  The depth and force of his attraction to her unsettled him. He was frankly appalled at the momentary twinge of regret he’d experienced when they’d happened to pass in the hall outside the ICU wing, and she’d told him she wasn’t pregnant. Dio, but he was no better than a boy of seventeen, obsessed with sex to the exclusion of all sense!

  The sooner she was gone, thereby putting a natural end to their association, the better for both of them. After all, her life, her friends, her interests did not lie in Italy. And as Zarah pointed out every chance she got, he’d been unwontedly preoccupied ever since Danielle arrived on the scene. Not a good thing for a man entrusted with his level of responsibility toward the well-being of others.

  Paradoxically, though, he took little satisfaction in noting the daily improvement in Alan Blake. The opera recordings were helping. Increased brain activity showed in his latest tests. He was more responsive. There was little doubt that a man for whom Carlo had initially held little hope, would now make an amazing recovery. Once her father was discharged from the clinic, Danielle would have no reason to stay in Galanio.

  Finally, on the Sunday, ten days after their trip to Milan, the pressure at the hospital eased enough that Carlo was able to spend the afternoon at home with Anita. Danielle was not there—she was visiting her father, so he learned from Calandria—but she might as well have been. Anita talked about her incessantly.

  “…she meets me every day from school, Papà…no one braids my hair like Danielle…her money came from America and she took me shopping…she bought some pretty clothes for herself, and three books for me, and a clip for my hair…

  He already knew she had money again. She’d left an envelope for him, containing the sum she’d been obliged to borrow.

  “…we went for tea in a café on the Esplanade, Papà, and sat under an umbrella and ate cream cakes…she told me stories about growing up in America…did you know her mother also died when she was a little girl…?”

  “Yes, I knew that,” he said. “Would you like to go sailing on the lake, Anita?”

  “But I’m already dressed for dinner, and so are you, Papà. In any case, I’d rather wait until Danielle can come with us.” Wistfully, she peered through the window overlooking the drive. “She’s been gone a long time today. Will she be home soon, do you think?”

  “I don’t know, sweetheart,” he said, and wondered if he should mention that Danielle’s home was not with them, but many miles away, in a city on the Pacific coast of Washington State.

  “Oh, I think I see her coming up the driveway…yes, here she is! Now we can sit in the garden until Calandria calls us in for dinner. Danielle and I do that often. She says it’s her favorite time of day. Would you like to join us, Papà?”

  Far more than he should, he thought, feeling like an outsider in his own home.

  Danielle crossed the forecourt and climbed the steps to the house, all sign of injury to her ankle gone. She wore a pretty dress, one he’d never seen before. White with sprigs of red and blue flowers dotted over it, and a full skirt that hid too much of her beautiful legs.

  At once, Anita rushed over and flung her arms around Danielle’s waist. “You were gone too long!” she complained. “Papà and I thought you’d never get here!”

  Danielle looked up at the mention of his name. “Oh, hello!” she exclaimed on a shallow breath, when she saw him waiting for her in the doorway to the day salon. “I thought you’d still be working.”

  “I stole a few hours away. How was your father when you left?”

  “Sitting up and taking notice. Now that he’s off the ventilator, he’s able to speak again—with difficulty, certainly, but his speech improves every day. He’s making wonderful progress, and he owes it all to you.”

  “He’s not a man to give in easily to adversity. Not many would have fought as hard as he has to regain their health.”

  “Well, he’s stubborn, certainly.” She eyed him narrowly from beneath her lashes. “You look exhausted, Carlo.”

  And you look good enough to eat, tesoro! he thought. The sun had turned her skin honey-gold, and she’d gained a little weight from Calandria’s excellent cooking. A kilo or two at the most, he’d guess, but it was enough to soften the hollows beneath her shoulders, revealed now by the wide scooped neckline of her dress.

  “I’ll survive.” He cleared his throat and shot a furtive glance over his shoulder. Anita had drifted toward the French doors leading to the rose garden, and was well out of earshot. “I’ve missed you, Danielle. Perhaps, after Anita is in bed…?”

  Furious with himself, he stopped. What the devil had possessed him, to blurt out a question so loaded with sexual innuendo, within mere minutes of seeing her again? A raw intern would know enough to exercise more subtlety, and he’d hardly blame her if she told him so!

  But she did not. Color bloomed in her cheeks, and her eyes glowed like priceless emeralds caught in a ray of sunlight. “I’d like that,” she said with such a smile that his self-recrimination wilted in the heat of the desire that spiked through him.

  Anita danced back to where they stood, much too close to one another. “Calandria has brought out a tray to the terrace,” she chirped. “Wine for Danielle and you, and limonata for me. If you want to sit with us on the love seat, Papà, I think we can make room.”

  “Grazie,” he returned, then added wryly in English, “It’s nice to know I haven’t been displaced completely.”

  It was as well that Anita was there, crammed between them on the wicker love seat, otherwise he didn’t know how he’d have contained himself. To be close enough to Danielle that he could faintly detect her perfume, and not be allowed to touch her, was pure hell.

  It had been days since he’d had the opportunity to enjoy a meal at leisure, yet to be forced to endure Calandria’s succulent five course meal was nothing short of torture. The undercurrent of anticipation humming through his veins robbed him of appetite for anything but Danielle. The miracle was that Anita didn’t notice, and make comment. A less innocent, more discerning child would have.

  By the time his household was settled for the night, and it was at last just the two of them, he was in a fever of impatience so acute that even before they’d reached the double doors to the library wing, he had Danielle in his arms. “This is what I hungered for, all through dinner,” he muttered, and buried his mouth against hers.

  Feeling the tremor that ran through her, and knowing her hunger matched his own, left him blind to almost everything but the fire racing through his veins. Had they been alone in the villa, he’d have taken her there, at the foot of the stairs. But even he wasn’t so depraved that he forgot he had a daughter sleeping not far away. He could not, would not, risk sullying himself in Anita’s eyes by indulging in behavior that belonged behind locked doors.

  Grabbing Danielle’s hand, he hurried her the rest of the way across the foyer and into the sanctuary of the library wing. I
t afforded him the breather he needed to wrestle himself under control. The image of their drive home from Milan, with him pinning her against the hood of his car, and plunging into her with about as much finesse as a stallion mating with a mare in heat, was not something he remembered with pride.

  The library windows stood open, bringing the scent of grass and newly turned flower beds and early jasmine into the room. He took a moment to light the pillar candles on the mantelpiece; another minute to pour a little orange liqueur into miniature glasses. Then, determined to conduct himself with a modicum of restraint, he joined her on the leather sofa, handed a glass to her, and said, “Tell me, cara, now that your father is able to speak, how are things between the two of you?”

  She hesitated before replying cautiously, “He seems quite grateful that I came here.”

  “And well he should be. You’ve been at his bedside every day for more than a month.”

  “I don’t think he has any idea how long he was in a coma, nor does he seem to remember the accident, yet he’s fully aware of the more distant past. He spoke of my mother today, and told me I reminded him of her. Knowing how much he loved her, I took that as a great compliment.”

  “Short-term memory loss isn’t at all unusual with his type of injury. It could be months, years even, before he remembers the events leading up to his fall.” Carlo caressed her inner wrist with the ball of his thumb. “Will putting your life on hold for so long have been worth it, if it results in a closer relationship with your father?”

  She turned her lovely eyes on him, and the candor he saw in their depths touched him clean through to his soul. “Oh, Carlo! My father is only one reason I’m glad I came here.”

  Thrown off balance by the surge of emotion she invoked in him, and realizing he was frighteningly close to saying things he’d later regret, he took refuge in a feeble joke. “You mean, you enjoyed almost being run down by a car?”

  She set her glass on the end table and cradled his face in her hands. “You know what I mean,” she said tenderly. “You have given me so much, not just by opening your home to me and sharing your daughter with me, but by teaching me…”