The Italian Doctor’s Mistress Read online

  “Actually, it sounded more like an outright order to me, but I can’t fault your logic.” She tried to shrug and again realized too late the foolhardiness of such a move. Smothering a groan, she pressed both hands to her midriff. “Yes, you may assume I agree. For now.”

  “For as long as I deem it necessary, Danielle,” he said flatly, propelling the wheelchair out of the room.

  “I suppose you’ve already figured out how I’m going to repay you for your generosity, as well?”

  “Of course. You will work with Anita to help her improve her English.”

  Although his own grasp of English was excellent, he was obviously not on speaking terms with the word “compromise.”

  “Do you always insist on having everything your way, Dr. Rossi?”

  “Always,” he said. “And since we’re going to be living together for the foreseeable future, there’s no need to stand on ceremony. You may call me Carlo.”

  Good grief, only a complete daftie would accept such condescension without a murmur! Yet the faint surge of righteous indignation she managed to drum up fell far short of the mounting anticipation flooding her being as he wheeled her swiftly down the hall, and through the wide glass doors to the Lamborghini waiting outside.

  He lived on the lakefront, in a large gracious villa set in park-like grounds which ended at a private beach. A small dock and boathouse hung out over the water, and a swimming raft floated at anchor about fifty yards offshore.

  “I have a room on the main floor which I often use if I expect to be called out in the night,” he said, lifting her out of the car as effortlessly as if she weighed no more than Anita, and carrying her into the house. “I’ve turned it over to you, to spare you having to climb stairs. It has a decent bed and its own bathroom. I think you’ll find it adequate.”

  She found it positively opulent, in a tastefully understated way. Pale yellow walls rose to a lofty coffered ceiling. Beveled glass doors opened to the garden. The floors were of some dark, exotic-looking wood polished to a satin shine. A double pedestal desk filled the space between two long windows opposite the glass doors.

  He indicated a richly upholstered armchair and matching ottoman in a corner, with a small inlaid table and brass floor lamp beside them. “I had these moved in here just this morning, in case you wanted a quiet place to read. You’ll find it helps to keep the ankle elevated as much as possible.”

  “You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble, Doctor,” she said. “Far more, I’m afraid, than you should have.”

  “You’re my guest, Danielle,” he returned. “I want you to be comfortable. And please remember to call me Carlo.”

  “C..ar…” She tried to wrap her tongue around his name, and couldn’t bring herself to do so. It smacked of more familiarity than she could handle with composure. “Con…sider it…um…done.”

  If he noticed her hesitation and lame substitution, he was kind enough not to remark on it. Instead, he checked his watch and said, “I’m going to have to leave you to settle in on your own, but Calandria will help you unpack. I am leaving medication which you should take an hour after your midday meal. By then, you will be uncomfortable enough that you’ll be glad of it. After that, I recommend a long nap, and I’ll see you at dinner, unless I’m detained with an emergency.”

  After a simple lunch of warm crusty bread, cheese, and olives, followed by little sugar cookies, and strawberries dipped in cream, Calandria and Anita came to Danielle’s room with her luggage.

  “You are fortunata, signorina,” the housekeeper explained, in broken, heavily accented English. “Tonight I make the picatta di vitello. Domani, I make the agnello con aglio. Molto delizioso!” She stopped hanging Danielle’s clothes in the small closet, and pinched her cheek. “You are troppo magra, but I cook you fat like a chicken, si?”

  “Si,” Danielle repeated, hoping she hadn’t agreed to be stuffed, shoved in the oven, and served up as a main course at dinner.

  “Calandria says you are too thin, signorina,” Anita giggled. “She wants to make you bigger.”

  “Si! Molto bigger!” Calandria gestured with both hands as if she were hugging an armload of watermelons. “I begin tonight.”

  “Don’t go to extra trouble just for me,” Danielle begged.

  Anita shook her head. “No, no! Always on Saturday and Sunday, we have special dinners because those are the days that Papà stays home, except if there is emergency at the hospital.”

  Calandria stuck her head in the closet and snorted something unintelligible.

  “She says Papà works too hard,” Anita said, in response to Danielle’s inquiring glance. “She is the only one who dares to scold him.”

  “I can well believe it,” Danielle said dryly. “Do you usually dress for dinner, Anita?”

  “But yes, signorina! Papà would be most surprised if we did not wear clothes!”

  Danielle choked back a laugh, and wished she hadn’t as a shaft of pain pierced her again. “What I meant is, do you wear extra-nice clothes?”

  “When Papà is here, always. But if he has to stay at the hospital, Calandria lets me have dinner with her in the kitchen, and then it doesn’t matter.”

  “Then I’ll probably end up eating in the kitchen, too, because I didn’t bring any dressy clothes with me.”

  In fact, since she’d packed in such a hurry and hadn’t expected she’d be staying in Italy very long, she’d had to buy a few extra outfits, including the one she was wearing now—and after yesterday, it was scarcely fit to be seen.

  “Oh, no! Papà would not approve,” the girl exclaimed. “You are our guest—and your clothes are very pretty, signorina.”

  “They’re adequate, I suppose, but I think I’ll have to go shopping again, once I’m more mobile.” She smiled at Anita. “Will you come with me and help me choose some new things?”

  Anita blushed prettily. “I would be most honored, signorina.”

  “And I would be most honored,” Danielle said, aware that she could easily fall in love with this enchanting child, “if you would call me Danielle.”

  “If Papà approves, I will.”

  She was about to say it wasn’t Papà’s decision, but Calandria interrupted by turning back the cover on the bed, tugging fondly on Anita’s braids and speaking to her in rapid Italian.

  “Puah!” Anita’s attempt to pout fell woefully short of the mark, largely because she couldn’t quite keep the smile off her face. “Calandria says we must let you rest now. But she says she will come back later if you need help getting dressed for dinner.” She pointed to an intercom panel on the wall. “You can call her on the interfono and let her know.”

  By then, Danielle found she was more than ready to ease herself carefully onto the bed and lie back against the pillows. Before leaving, the housekeeper had lowered slatted blinds to filter out the bright sunshine pouring into the room, but left the French doors slightly ajar. Very soon, Danielle felt herself borne away on the soft breeze wafting into the room, lulled by distant birdsong and the drowsy impact of the pain medication as it started to take effect.

  When he finally made it home, he found Danielle comfortably ensconced on the settee in the day salon, with Anita snuggled up next to her. “Sorry to be so late,” he said, stopping in the doorway. “I thought I’d be on time for a change but…”

  Elegant in black slacks and blouse, with a vivid scarf draped around her shoulders, Danielle looked up with a smile. “Something came up?”

  “Si. Something came up.”

  Zarah Brunelli, to be precise.

  Tell me the latest rumor isn’t true! she’d exclaimed, running to catch up with him as he made his way to his car.

  Which one is that? he’d asked with a grin. Hospital gossip was an occupational hazard they all had to live with, and some of the stories circulating veered so far from truth as to be laughable.

  From the look on her face, though, she was anything but amused. That you’ve taken the Blake woman into your home.r />
  Oh, that! He’d shrugged and tossed his briefcase into the back seat. Yes, it’s true.

  For heaven’s sake, Carlo, have you lost your mind?

  Hardly, he’d replied, becoming irritated by her ugly tone. Danielle Blake saved my daughter’s life. I owe her more than I can ever repay.

  But to go to such lengths that it again appears as if your interest in her is personal?

  The plain fact was, his interest in Danielle was deeply personal, and growing more so by the hour. He’d been so impatient to see her again that, for the first time in longer than he cared to remember, he’d hardly been able to wait for the working day to end. But he felt under no obligation to share the fact with Zarah.

  Faced with his silence, she’d said, Surely you see your action puts your reputation on the line?

  With whom, Zarah? With you?

  Her color high, she’d returned his angry gaze. If you want the truth, then yes! First, you claim her as your patient when she’d have been perfectly well taken care of by any other doctor here, then you make no secret of moving her into your home. You’re on a collision course with trouble, Carlo, and I’m frankly appalled.

  Anita is delighted. She’s taken a great liking to Danielle.

  Zarah had sniffed disapprovingly, reminding him yet again that she wasn’t fond of children. And you find it appropriate to reward your daughter for disobeying your rules?

  I find it inappropriate that I should have to justify myself to you, he’d said, making no attempt to mask his annoyance. You are my colleague and something of a friend, but you are not my keeper, Zarah.

  He’d regretted his harsh tone immediately. Her face fell and if he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought tears glimmered in her eyes. But if so, she’d quickly blinked them away and adopting a neutral tone, said, I’m well aware of the boundaries in our relationship, Carlo. Forgive me if, in my concern for you, I crossed the line.

  Most of the time, she hid it well that she wouldn’t be averse to becoming something more than a friendly colleague. Indeed, the last time she’d slipped up had been at the annual Christmas cocktail party he hosted for his staff. Then, her parting kiss, which he’d thought was aimed at his cheek, had managed to land on his mouth and linger an embarrassing length of time. Nor had it gone unnoticed by others. The sudden silence, followed by a flurry of too-jovial goodbyes had told him that. Recalling the incident now made him wince all over again.

  Anita slithered off the couch, and ran to hug him. “Did someone die, Papà?”

  “No,” he said, swinging her off her feet. “What makes you think that?”

  “You made a sad face.”

  He hoisted her high in the air and swung her around so that the skirt of her dress flared out like a parachute. “Is this better?” he growled, baring his teeth in a grin that would have done a tiger proud.

  She squealed in mock terror and grabbed a fistful of his hair. “Put me down, Papà!”

  He nuzzled her neck, and lowered her gently to the floor. “You may tell Calandria we’ll be ready to sit down to dinner in half an hour.”

  He watched as she scurried off, then turned to his guest. “And you, Danielle, how was your afternoon?”

  “Very pleasant,” she said, then to his surprise, caught her lower lip between her teeth and turned her face away.

  Approaching her, he said in a low voice, “You are in pain?”

  She shook her head, but still refused to look at him.

  “Then what?”

  “Nothing important,” she muttered.

  He didn’t believe her, but sensed whatever troubled her wasn’t something she wished to discuss, at least not at that moment. Letting the matter drop, he said, “I’d offer you an aperitif, but as long as you’re on medication, you should avoid alcohol. Do you care for fruit juice, instead?”

  “I’d prefer mineral water, if you have it. Without ice, please.”

  “Certo.” As usual, Calandria had left supplies on a tray on the library table that served as a bar. He poured San Pellegrino into a crystal tumbler, added a twist of lime, and brought it to his guest.

  “Aren’t you having anything?” she asked.

  “Give me a few minutes to change, and I’ll be happy to join you. Maybe by then, you’ll be ready to tell me what dark thoughts passed through your mind, a moment ago.”

  She dipped her head to sip at her water, but not so soon that he didn’t see the shuttered expression that swept over her face. More intrigued by the second, he showered quickly and was back in the salon in record time.

  Mixing campari and soda for himself, he joined her on the couch. “I looked in on your father before I left the hospital tonight,” he said conversationally. “His condition remains unchanged.”

  Mention of Alan Blake roused her out of her somewhat reflective mood. “That reminds me! Before I stopped for lunch yesterday, I bought a compact disc player and recordings of his favorite operas. I thought hearing them might help him.”

  He nodded. “Yes. The waiter at the restaurant found them on the table, also your handbag which he discovered on the side of the road. He turned them all over to the police. If you feel up to it, we can collect them from the station on Monday morning, then I’ll drop you off to visit your father for an hour or so.”

  “Thank you, but I can’t possibly keep imposing on you like this.”

  “Why not, Danielle? Do you find spending time with me to be so very unpleasant?”

  Faint color ran up under her fine, translucent skin. “Of course not! But I’ve put you out enough.”

  “You have? How so?”

  “I’d have thought that was pretty obvious.” She indicated the room, the footstool on which her ankle rested, the glass of water at her side. “I could be in a hotel room, trying to manage on my own. Instead you’ve taken me in, and you don’t even know me.”

  “Does it not occur to you that perhaps my motives weren’t entirely unselfish? That perhaps I’d like very much to get to know you better?”

  “Why?”

  She looked so astonished that he almost laughed. But the more time he spent with her, the more he became convinced that a very fragile creature lived behind that cool mask she presented to the world—one who had, perhaps, been laughed at unkindly too often in the past.

  “You interest me, Danielle. I find myself wanting to probe inside your mind, discover your thoughts, your insights.” He inched a little closer on the couch. “For instance, I wonder why it annoyed you to see me teasing Anita when I came home.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t annoyed!” she exclaimed, turning her big, beautiful eyes on him in dismay. “I was…envious.”

  The sudden urge to kiss her was so strong that, to spare them both embarrassment, he had to turn her remark into a joke. “You wanted me to toss you in the air, also?”

  “Hardly.” A reluctant smile curved her mouth.

  “Then what?” He took her hand. Squeezed it encouragingly. “Can you not bring yourself to confide in me, Danielle?”

  He thought she was on the verge of answering when Anita reappeared, and the moment was lost. “We are to go to dinner now,” his daughter announced, full of importance at being assigned the messenger. “Calandria sent me to tell you. She says not to let the soup get cold.”

  Burying his frustration, he helped Danielle off the couch. “Lean on me,” he instructed, supporting her with one hand at her elbow and slipping his other arm around her waist. At such close quarters, he could smell her hair, her skin…wild mountain flowers and glacier-fed streams.

  She spared him a quick glance from beneath the generous sweep of her lashes. “Thank you. It’s at times like this that I realize how incapacitated I’d be on my own.”

  “So I was right in insisting you stay here?”

  “You were right.”

  “I am right about many things, Danielle,” he murmured, half-drunk on the scent of her. “And not easily distracted. So if, by chance, you think Anita’s arrival put an end to our conve
rsation, you are greatly mistaken. We shall pick up where we left off, once dinner is done.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “YOU have the eatings of un passero!” Calandria grumbled, scooping away Danielle’s half-finished veal entrée. “How do you think to be healthy if you do like this?”

  “Passero?” Danielle looked to Carlo for translation.

  “A small brown bird,” he said, snapping his fingers as he searched for a more exact description. “How do you say it in English?”

  “A sparrow?”

  “Esattemente! A sparrow.” His eyes dancing with amusement, he regarded her over the rim of his wineglass. “Calandria is not pleased. She will take it as a personal insult if you don’t grow round as a pigeon on her cooking.”

  “But everything was delicious!” She appealed to the housekeeper. “Calandria, the picatta di vitello was wonderful! Delizioso! It was just a little too much for me, that’s all.”

  “Too much not!” Calandria scoffed. “You peck the little pieces and hide the rest under the fork.”

  She’d done exactly that. But how could she be expected to work up any sort of appetite, with Carlo’s promise hanging over her head, that their conversation would resume after dinner? She could only hope either that his softly uttered threat had been in jest, or that he’d forget about it.

  Neither was the case. No sooner had Anita been packed off to bed, and he and Danielle had repaired to the salon for espresso served in translucent demitasse, than he started in on her. “So, Danielle, you barely touch your food, you say little, you stare at your plate as if afraid to lift your eyes lest they happen to meet mine, and before dinner, you say you are filled with unaccountable envy. What will it take for you to bare your soul further and tell me the reason for all this?”

  The words rolled off his tongue, not in accusation or censure, but so persuasively that she found herself answering from the heart. “It was seeing the way you are with Anita…the unconditional love in your eyes when you look at her…the trust and adoration in hers when she looks at you.”