“Do you not understand that, for all my fine, upstanding talk, I brought you to this secluded corner of my home, knowing full well what the probable outcome would be?”

“No,” she said baldly. “Quite frankly, I didn’t think you were the least bit interested in…”

She ground to a halt, unsure how to phrase her response. If doing it tonight sounded impossibly gauche, making love didn’t exactly fit the occasion, either. The way she saw it, you couldn’t make love, if you weren’t in love—and he’d made it abundantly clear that love didn’t enter the picture.

“Yes?” He regarded her quizzically. “Not the least bit interested in what?”

She coughed to hide her embarrassment. “That,” she said.

He took her brandy glass and placed it alongside his own on the edge of the hearth. “Then let me show you how wrong you were, la mia innamorata. Because that is exactly what I have in mind.”

They’re guaranteed to raise your pulse!

Meet the most eligible medical men of the world,
in a series of stories—by popular authors—
that will make your heart race!

Whether they’re saving lives or dealing with
desire, our doctors have bedside manners
that send temperatures soaring….

Available by prescription only from
Harlequin Presents®

Take your medicine…it’s good for you!

Catherine Spencer

THE ITALIAN DOCTOR’S MISTRESS

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

DANIELLE arrived at L’Ospedale di Karina Rossi just after five in the afternoon, and was taken immediately to the room where her father lay. Early May sunlight, bright and crisp as lemons, filtered through the slats of the window blinds and settled on the inert figure in the bed.

The nurse touched her elbow gently. “Si metta a sedere, signorina. Sit, please!”

“Thank you.” Without taking her eyes off her father, Danielle sank into the upholstered chair beside the bed. Leather, she noted absently, and comfortable enough to sleep in, which made sense. Visitors to this floor of the hospital didn’t drop in briefly with a cheerful card, a bouquet of flowers, or a basket of fruit. They came to keep vigil, all day and all night, if necessary.

“When will he wake up?” she asked.

The nurse, a pretty woman in her forties, raised her shoulders in wordless reply. Meaning what, Danielle wondered. That she didn’t know the answer? That she didn’t understand the question?

“I don’t speak much Italian,” Danielle told her. “Non parlo Italiano. Is there someone here who speaks English?”

The nurse nodded, pressed a comforting hand on Danielle’s shoulder, and glided out of the room. Left alone, Danielle became acutely aware of the sounds issuing from the apparatus to which her father was connected. The gentle, even sighs of the ventilator, punctuated by rhythmic blips and beeps from the computer screen above the bed tracking his heart and brain functions. But from the man himself, nothing.

“Father?” she whispered.

She might as well have been talking to the wall. Not by so much as the faintest flicker of an eyelid did he acknowledge her presence. His arms, incongruously tanned against the pristine white sheet, lay at his sides, pierced by intravenous catheters. But his face was the color of parchment, the jut of his nose and thrust of his jaw seeming more pronounced somehow, as though the well-toned flesh of which he was so proud had collapsed on itself and left his skin draped over his bones. If it hadn’t been for the steady rise and fall of his chest, he could have been dead.

“Signorina Blake?” Another nurse, older than the first, entered the room on soundless rubber soles. “Is there something you require?”

“The doctor who operated on my father,” Danielle said. “I need to speak to him.”

“Dr. Rossi is not in the hospital today.”

“Why not? I was told my father’s injuries are serious. Critical, in fact.”

“Si. But it is Dr. Rossi’s day to be at home.”

“I don’t care what day it is!” Danielle said, fatigue and guilt lending a sharp edge to her voice. News of her father’s accident had been waiting for her when she arrived home from vacation. Shocked to realize his accident had occurred almost a week earlier, she’d wasted no time flying to Italy to be with him. Now that she was here, she wanted answers. “Call him. Tell him I wish to speak to him.”

“I will page his resident.”

“I don’t want to speak to his resident. I want to speak to the man who performed the surgery. I’m not interested in a second-hand account from his assistant.”

“Dr. Brunelli is well qualified to address your concerns, signorina,” the nurse insisted. “We do not disturb Dr. Rossi when he is at home, except in cases of extreme emergency.”

The reverence in her tone suggested the almighty Dr. Rossi lay on a par with God. Curbing her irritation, Danielle said, “And my father doesn’t fit into that category?”

“Signor Blake is now stable, signorina, and closely monitored at all times,” the nurse replied, the hint of censure in her voice suggesting that a sincerely concerned daughter wouldn’t have waited this length of time before putting in an appearance at her father’s bedside. “Should there be any change in his condition, Dr. Rossi will be informed and can be here at a moment’s notice.” Her dark eyes softened in sympathy. “You are anxious, which is, of course, to be expected, but rest assured your father could not be in better hands. He is fortunate, if indeed such a word can be applied to his situation, that he was brought here, to such an excellent facility.”

Danielle had to admit there was some merit to the nurse’s claim. When she’d heard that her father had been taken to a small private hospital, in a small town on the northeast shore of Lake Como, her immediate impulse had been to have him transferred to a larger facility, in Milan, or even Rome; one better equipped and better staffed to deal with serious head injuries. But he was in no condition to be moved, she’d been informed, and certainly everything she’d so far seen of the Karina Rossi Hospital spoke state-of-the-art, from the sleek reception area to this room in the Intensive Care Unit.

“Is he related, this Dr. Rossi?” she asked the nurse. “To the woman the hospital’s named after, I mean?”

“Si,” the nurse replied. “She was his wife. They were a very devoted couple. Sfortunamente, Signora Rossi died some years ago.”

“What a lovely way to remember her.”

“She was a very lovely woman. Very warm, very…” She searched for the word. “Comprensiva…very kind.”

“And her husband?”

“Oh!” Her face illuminated with admiration, the nurse flung out her hands. “So skilled! So dedicated and compassionate! He could work anywhere. Would be welcomed with arms spread wide, in any hospital, anywhere in the world. He is the best!”

Somewhat reassured, Danielle glanced again at her father and said, “It helps to know that.”

Tipping her head to one side, the nurse observed her closely. “You are tired and need rest, signorina. Do you have a place to stay?”

“I thought I’d stay here—in case he wakes.”

“He is in a deep coma, my dear. It is unlikely that…” She shrugged and, obviously thinking better of what she’d been about to add, said simply, “You could be here many days, Signorina Blake. A comfortable bed at night, an occasional change of scene, a good meal—they will help you cope with what lies ahead.”

“Is my father going to die?”

The nurse backed away, perturbed at having such a question fired at her out of the blue. “As long as we have life, we continue to hope,” she said, choosing her words with the care of someone crossing a minefield. “But it is not my place to predict…when you meet with Dr. Rossi, you must ask him.”

“I intend to do just that,” Danielle told her. “And until I receive his answer, I will remain here.”

“As you wish. I’m sure, if your father senses your presence, it will comfort him to know that you’re at his side. I’ll have pillows and a blanket sent in, and a tray of something from the cafeteria.”

“I’m not hungry, but I could use a cup of coffee.”

“I’ll see to it at once.”

The hours crawled by, interrupted only by brief, efficient visits from the night nurse. Some time between three and four in the morning, Danielle fell into an uneasy sleep, and awoke at eight, just as the first light of day poked into the room. At her father’s bedside, another nurse, one she hadn’t seen before, adjusted one of the IV drips and smoothed the sheet over his chest.

“He remains unchanged, signorina,” she murmured, “but I’ll be here for a while longer, if you’d like to take a break. There’s a visitors’ lounge at the end of the hall. You’ll find a light breakfast set out there, and facilities where you can freshen up.”

Danielle supposed she needed both. Her eyes felt gritty, her mouth dry as sand. She hadn’t run a comb through her hair in more than twenty-four hours and couldn’t remember the last time she’d brushed her teeth. As for eating, the last meal had been the rubber chicken served on the aircraft, somewhere over the Atlantic, and she’d barely touched it.

“I won’t be gone long,” she said, retrieving her carry-on travel bag from the corner where she’d stashed her luggage the day before. “I want to be here when Dr. Rossi makes his rounds.”

But she hadn’t anticipated that the “facilities” the nurse mentioned would include changing rooms equipped with hair dryers, and showers stocked with towels, shampoo, soap, and body lotion. She hadn’t expected the platter of fresh fruit set out on a linen tablecloth in the lounge, or the basket of warm croissants and thermos of strong, aromatic Italian coffee.

She found them all too hard to resist, so when her planned fifteen-minute break stretched to an hour, and she returned to her father’s room to discover that his doctor had been and gone, she knew she had no one but herself to blame.

Still, she was disappointed, and seeing it, the nurse said, “Dr. Rossi is aware you have arrived and wish to speak to him, Signorina Blake. He asks that you meet him in his office at four o’clock.”

Seven more hours of pacing, and imagining the worst? It was too much! “I had hoped see him much sooner.”

“It cannot be helped,” the nurse said. “A tour bus went off the road in the mountain pass just north of here, with many serious injuries to the passengers. We expect the casualties to be arriving within the hour. Dr. Rossi will be supervising his team in surgery most of the day.”

There it was again, the awestruck tone; the unspoken implication that, without the revered Dr. Rossi in charge, his staff would be helpless to save lives. Frustrated, Danielle bit back the uncharitable retort begging to be aired.

As if reading her thoughts, the nurse went on, “When your father was brought here, late in the day well over a week ago, Dr. Rossi concentrated all his energy and skill on attending to him, without regard for the inconvenience to himself or others. Regardless of the day or hour, it is always his way to be available for those most in need of his help.”

The gentle reproof struck home. She was being unreasonable, unfair, Danielle acknowledged privately. Of course the man had other patients; of course he had to prioritize. And yet, to see her father lying there, stripped of dignity, of that indomitable will which was so much a part of him, devastated her.

Not that he’d thank her for her concern. They had never been close. He wasn’t the kind to lavish warmth and affection on anyone but himself. But her mother had died when she was eleven, and he was the only family Danielle had left. After everything else she’d lost in the last year, the thought of losing him also was more than she could bear.

Turning away from the bed, she went to stand at the window. A woman sat on a bench in the courtyard below, talking to a man in a wheelchair. Something she said made him laugh. He reached for her hand. Raised it to his lips and kissed it. The obvious affection between them had Danielle choking back a sob. To be needed like that…to be loved…!

The nurse must have heard. She joined her at the window, her eyes full of concern. “If you feel up to it, there’s a footpath leading from the hospital grounds to the main part of town,” she suggested kindly. “You’ll find a map in the reception area, and a sign posted outside the front entrance, showing the way. It’s only about a twenty-minute walk, and it might do you some good to get out for a few hours. There’s nothing you can do here, except wait.”

It seemed to Danielle that she’d been waiting a lifetime already. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said. Anything was better than watching the big hand on the wall clock jerk from second to second, from minute to minute. Anything was better than listening to the apprehensive thud of her own heart racing ahead of the unhurried blip and beep of the computer measuring her father’s.

Already the first ambulances were racing up to the emergency doors on the left as she came out of the building. And more would soon follow. The wail of their sirens growing closer echoed clearly in the still morning air.

Turning to the right, she set off in the opposite direction, walking briskly toward the little town of Galanio. The footpath wove from the manicured hospital grounds through a sloping meadow where tiny blue flowers grew in the grass, and ended at a bridge which spanned a bubbling stream of water so clear that it must have tumbled straight down the mountain from the snow fields. Beyond the bridge, a paved lane led directly to the center of town.

Galanio huddled between the Alps and the shore of Lake Como in a fairy-tale maze of steep, cobbled streets that opened into unexpected little piazzas and quiet parks. Splashing fountains, chic boutiques, and elegant restaurants lined the broad promenade bordering the waterfront. Magnificent old villas, their terraced gardens overflowing with flowering camellias and other spring blossoms, perched on the hillside, and spread some distance along the shores of the lake beyond the town itself.

Under any other circumstances, Danielle would have found the place enchanting. It was a town for lovers, for romance; a place she and Tom might have come for their honeymoon, if he hadn’t decided at the last minute that he’d rather marry her best friend. Instead, she was here alone, waiting for her father to open his eyes, and terribly afraid his doctor would tell her it was never going to happen.

What then? She knew what her father would say. Pull the damned plug, Danielle! Don’t let me lie here a vegetable.

But to authorize this Dr. Rossi to disconnect the machines that kept Alan Blake alive? In effect, to sign his death warrant? How could she do that?

Somehow the morning passed. At noon she stopped for lunch at a sidewalk café on the promenade. Then, hoping that a miracle had occurred during her absence, she made her way back to the hospital and her father.

Nothing had changed except for the angle of the sun creeping across the floor and striping the pale blue cover on his bed with bars of golden light. Dropping into the easy chair, she resumed her vigil until, at long last, four o’clock arrived.

She found the doctor’s suite of offices at the end of a wing on the main floor, with his name, Carlo Rossi, engraved on a small brass plaque on the door.

“Signorina Blake?” The middle-aged woman in the small outer office smiled pleasantly. “Dr. Rossi is ready to see you.”

Danielle had thought she was ready, too. From the various awed references to him, and his seniority in the hospital chain of command, she’d expected him to be an older man. Kindly, gray-haired, distinguished, and slightly built—in other words similar in appearance to the impeccably tailored maître d’ of the five-star Italian restaurant she frequented at home in Seattle.

In fact, the man rising to greet her from behind a paper-strewn desk was none of those things. In his late thirties, he possessed the fit athletic build of a cross-country skier, although the shadows beneath his eyes suggested he relied on too much strong coffee and too little sleep to get him through his long hospital shifts. But even in hospital greens, with exhaustion painting his features and his dark hair falling in disarray over his forehead, he was still the most strikingly attractive man Danielle had ever seen.

“Signorina Blake, my apologies for not being here to meet you when you first arrived.”

He had a beautiful voice, deep and hypnotically soothing with its lilting Italian intonation. And beautiful hands. His long fingers closed around hers in a grip at once gentle and sure. Slightly dazed, Danielle allowed him to lead her to one of two club chairs situated at the other end of the room, next to a wall of windows looking out on a reflecting pool surrounded by rhododendrons already in full bloom.

“Thank you for seeing me now,” she said stiffly, horrified that, with her father so dreadfully ill, she could find herself drawn to this magnetic stranger. “I understand you’ve been busy.”

“Always, I’m afraid.” He took a seat in the other chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “No sooner is one emergency taken care of than another arises. But you are not here to listen to me complain.” His eyes, a deep velvety gray trimmed with indecently long lashes, surveyed her soberly. As for his mouth…! In terms of sheer sex appeal, nothing the latest Hollywood idol could offer came even close to it. “You wish to discuss your father’s condition, yes?”

She nodded, the gravity in his voice leaving her almost hyperventilating.

“You are familiar, of course, with what happened to him? How he came to be brought here?”

“No,” she said. “All I was told was that he’d had an accident and was badly hurt.”

“He was in the mountains, snow-boarding in an out-of-bounds area, and fell down a sheer rock face.”

Snow-boarding? She shook her head, stunned. How like her father to take up a sport better suited to someone a third his age, and to break the rules when he did so. But then, Alan Blake had always believed he was a law unto himself. “I had no idea he was in Italy, let alone that he had taken up snow-boarding.”

If Carlo Rossi was surprised that she knew so little of her father’s activities, he didn’t let it show. “I’m afraid he sustained a very serious head injury,” he said.

“How serious?”

“He fractured his skull.”

“Wasn’t he wearing a safety helmet?”

“I suspect not, although given the severity of his fall, I doubt a helmet would have helped very much. All skull fractures are cause for concern, signorina, but an occipital fracture such as your father suffered, is particularly critical.”

“Why is that?”

“Because of its location.” He reached for the pad of paper on the occasional table next to him, took a pen from the breast pocket of his tunic, and drew his chair closer to hers. “The skull is made up of several bones. The largest is the parietal bone here.” He sketched rapidly and with the fluid skill of one very familiar with his subject. “The occipital bone sits immediately below it, at the base of the skull. Fractures in this vulnerable area occur as the result of what we term a ‘high energy blunt trauma,’ and are divided into three types. The first two are classified as stable. A Type 111 fracture, however, is the most severe and potentially very unstable.”

“And that’s the kind my father has?”

“Sadly, yes.”

“Is that why he’s unconscious.”

“Yes. With such an injury, coma is the rule rather than the exception.” He paused and spared her a very direct look. “That’s not to say he won’t eventually come out of it…”

“I hear a ‘but,’ Dr. Rossi,” she said coolly. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He flexed his fingers and expelled a long breath. Regret intensified the fatigue in his eyes, and she knew in that moment that she had yet to hear the worst. “Because of the proximity of cranial nerves,” he said, “there’s a high incidence of associated injuries.”

With every carefully chosen word, he increased her level of fear. But she’d had a lifetime’s practice at keeping her emotions in check, and it stood her in good stead now. Projecting a calm she was far from feeling, she asked, “What kind of injuries?”

“Impaired swallowing, paralysis of the vocal cords with subsequent phonation difficulties. Hemiplegia, or even quadriplegia. In layman’s terms, Signorina Blake, if your father recovers consciousness, he may be paralyzed in much the same way that he would had he suffered a massive stroke. The paralysis could extend down one, or both sides of his body.”

Alan Blake, the man who prided himself on running a marathon at age fifty-five, paralyzed? Unable to dominate the conversation at his frequent, ultrasophisticated dinner parties? Incapable of controlling his bodily functions?

Horrified by the implications, and filled with pity for the father who’d have spared little for her had their situations been reversed, Danielle spoke without thought for how her words might be interpreted. “You should have let him die! He’d be better off!”

“By whose assessment, signorina?” Carlo Rossi asked, his gray eyes suddenly as glacial as his voice. “Yours, or his?”

He thought she was cold and unfeeling, that she spoke out of selfishness. But he didn’t know her father, and trying to explain Alan Blake to a stranger would merely sound as if she was making excuses for herself. “Let me put it this way, Dr. Rossi,” she said. “Would you want to be kept alive under such conditions, trapped in a body that refused to obey you?”

“My personal preferences are irrelevant. I am committed to saving lives, not ending them. In your father’s case, I am painting a very dark picture in order to prepare you for the worst possible outcome. But there remains the slender chance that he will make a full recovery.”

“How long before you’ll know?”

Carlo Rossi raised his beautiful hands, palms up. “That I cannot say.”

“Hazard a guess, Doctor. Another week? A month?”

“I don’t second-guess God. I deal only with what I know. He could open his eyes today, tomorrow, next week or …”

“Or never?”

“Or never.” He watched her in silence a moment, then said with thinly veiled contempt, “I recognize your impatience to be done with this, Signorina Blake. You cannot put your own life on hold indefinitely. You have obligations other than those of a daughter to her father—to a husband and children, perhaps.”

“No. I’m not married.”

He curled his lip in disgust. “A lover, then? A career?”

“A career, certainly. I own a travel agency.”

“Which clearly matters more to you than your father. Why else would you wait so long to come to his bedside?”

She sat up poker-straight in the chair, and returned his glance unflinchingly. “It just so happens, Dr. Rossi, that I was on a cruise to Antarctica when this tragedy struck my father.”

“Cruise ships do not have telephones, these days? No electronic means of keeping in touch with the rest of the world?”

“Of course they do, but in this instance your sarcasm is misplaced, Doctor,” she said sharply. “Had your hospital left a message with my office staff, they would have been in touch immediately, and I’d have been here as soon as it was humanly possible. But the message was left on my home answering machine, and since I live alone…” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug.

“We had no other recourse,” he replied. “That was the only telephone number listed on your father’s passport, in the event the next of kin needed to be contacted.”

He steepled his fingers and observed her silently for a second or two. Eventually, he said, “Signorina, I regret that we have—”

Before he could continue, the door burst open and a young girl, a beautiful child with long dark braids hanging down her back, came flying into the room. “Papà!” she cried. Then, seeing he was not alone, she skidded to a stop and clapped a hand to her mouth. “Mi scusi! La disturbo, Papà?”

“Yes,” he said severely in English. “And you know better than to come in here without knocking first.”

“Ma Beatrice non e—”

“Remember your manners, Anita. My visitor does not speak Italian.” He spared Danielle a brief glance. “I am right, yes? You do not?”

“A very little only, but don’t worry about that.” Danielle collected her purse and stood up. “We’re pretty much finished anyway, aren’t we?”

“No, signora, we are not quite done,” he said evenly. “Please allow me a moment to attend to the reason for this interruption, then you and I will resume our discussion.”

Obediently she sat down again, and he turned to the child. “So, Anita, explain yourself.”

His words might have been forbidding, but the smile that accompanied them took away their sting, and the girl knew it. Big brown eyes dancing with excitement, she said, “I did not knock, Papà, because Beatrice has gone home already, so I thought you also had finished working for today. I wanted to tell you that Bianca has had her babies. She has four, Papà! I found them when I came home from school.”

“That is certainly earth-shaking news.” Laughing, he pulled the child into the curve of his arm and turned to Danielle. “In case you’re wondering, Bianca is our cat, and as I’m sure you’ve gathered, this is my daughter, Anita.”

Despite her annoyance with the father, Danielle smiled warmly at his lovely daughter. “Hello, Anita.”

Tucking her hands against the navy pleated skirt of her school uniform, the girl dipped her head and replied, “How do you do? I am pleased to meet you.”

“Very good,” her father said. “At this rate, your English will soon be better than mine.”

“Si?” She gazed at him adoringly and wound her arms around his neck. “How much better?”

He touched the tip of her nose with his forefinger. “Not so much that I let you forget the rules. I hope you didn’t come here by yourself today?”

“No, Papà.” She shook her head so exuberantly that her braids swung back and forth like long, shining ropes. “Calandria walked with me. She is waiting downstairs. We are going to the market to buy fish for Bianca. Calandria says we must take extra care of her now that she is a mother.”

“Calandria is quite right.” He gave her little bottom a pat. “Don’t keep her waiting. Say goodbye to Signorina Blake, and be off.”

She peeped at Danielle from beneath her lashes and offered a shy, dimpled smile. “Arrivederci, signorina. Goodbye.” Then turning back to her father, she threw her arms around his neck again and gave him a smacking kiss on both cheeks. “Ciao, Papà!”

The entire scene left Danielle frozen with envy. She had never flung herself at her father like that. He’d have been horrified. He wasn’t a demonstrative man. She couldn’t recall his ever pulling her into his arms or onto his lap. Never teasing or complimenting her. He was much better at finding fault.

Carlo Rossi’s voice broke into the unwelcome memories of a childhood she’d been glad to leave behind. “I apologize for the interruption, signorina.”

“No need. I didn’t mind. In fact, I don’t know why you insisted I stay. I can’t see that there’s anything left to say.”

“Not so, signorina. You were explaining the reason for your delay in coming here and—”

“I don’t know why I bothered,” she said stiffly. “You’ve already judged me and found me wanting.”

“If I’ve jumped to hasty conclusions, I apologize. You were in Antarctica, you say? Not exactly a pleasant homecoming, then.”

“No, but I’ll cope. You explained my father’s condition very succinctly. I’m quite prepared for what might happen.”

“I beg to differ. You are in shock, signorina, and not quite as in control as you might like to think.”

“If you’re afraid I’m going to collapse in a soggy heap at your feet, please don’t be.”

“It would be healthier if you did. Fear, anger, sorrow, tears—they would be a more normal response. Anything but this cool, unnatural calm.”

“That might be the way things are done in Italy, Doctor, but I wasn’t brought up to give in to outpourings of emotion.”

“But you are human underneath that composed facade, yes? And I have seen this same reaction many times in people trying to come to terms with devastating news. At first, they turn away from the truth, but sooner or later, the dam bursts and reality hits them. When that happens, they need the comfort and support of family and friends. You, however, are in a foreign land, and very far away from those with whom you are close.”

Oh, yes! Much farther than he could begin to guess! In one cruel stroke of fate, she’d lost her fiancé and her best friend.

“But you’re not alone,” Carlo Rossi said. “When the pain becomes too much, I am here. You can turn to me.”

He was smashing away her protective outer shell with his kindness, and exposing that secret inner self still too bruised and tender to bear the harsh light of day. Determined not to let him see her vulnerability, she said bluntly, “You’re my father’s doctor, not mine.”

“Nevertheless, my offer remains.”

“As you wish.” She shrugged and stood up again, set on leaving this time, with or without his permission. “Thank you for your time, and goodbye.”

He inclined his head, his gaze watchful. “Arrivederci, signorina. Until the next time.”

There’d be no next time, she resolved. She found him too unsettling. Too attractive. And if that wasn’t downright immoral, given the circumstances, then it was surely utter folly. Because any fool knew it took at least a year to recover from being dumped practically at the altar, and that to allow oneself to be drawn to another man in the interim was courting nothing but trouble.

No. The less she saw of Dr. Carlo Rossi, the better.

CHAPTER TWO

HE HELD open the door to the outer office and watched as she walked past him and away down the hall. His first impression had been that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen; his second, that she was also the coldest. Antarctica was a fitting destination for such an ice queen.

She’d listened impassively as he described her father’s condition, and might have rehearsed her questions, so succinctly did she deliver them. She’d accepted without argument answers which other people would have refused to countenance.

He’d conveyed bad news before, more often than he cared to remember. And the responses he received fell into pretty much the same broad categories.

Please, Doctor, there must be something more you can do!

Money’s no object—we can pay any amount.

We’re praying for a miracle. We won’t give up hope!

But Danielle Blake? You should have let him die! He’d be better off!

And spoken with such vehemence that even he was shocked. Who could conjure up sympathy for such a woman?

The only other time her composure had slipped had been when Anita had greeted her. Then, for one brief and brilliant moment, she had smiled. Her chilly beauty had become suffused with radiant warmth, and he’d thought to himself, I was mistaken. There is a heart under that porcelain skin, after all.

Too soon, though, the mask came down again, and no amount of subtle probing on his part had succeeded in moving it. Immersed in her own needs, her own self-involved world, she had resisted his every effort.

Trained to observe the most minute detail, he’d picked up on the revealing way she’d clenched her clasped hands when he’d asked if she had a lover waiting at home. So that was it, he’d deduced. She was too caught up with some other man to spare any emotion for the one who’d given her life.

Usually he vented his rare anger at himself; at his inability to right all wrongs, to cure all ills. At that moment, though, it had been directed entirely at her. He’d wanted to shake her. Violently enough to shatter her brittle detachment and leave it lying in pieces at her feet.

Of course, he’d done no such thing. And noting now the rigid set of her spine, the proud tilt of her chin, the almost glassy determination in her eyes, he wondered if he’d misjudged her, after all. Was it just that she was exhausted? So stressed out that what he’d perceived to be indifference was really a fiercely self-protective barrier, erected to keep herself in check and everyone else at a distance?

Whatever the reason, she was so tense that it would take little for her control to snap. Like a marionette whose strings were being jerked unevenly, she walked away from him so rapidly that, at times, she almost broke into a run. Intrigued, he locked the outer office door and followed her, curious to discover why she was so anxious to escape. He was surprised when, instead of leaving the hospital as he’d expected, she turned into the ICU wing and made for Alan Blake’s room.

She didn’t hear him step in behind her. All her attention was focused on her father. She perched on the edge of the chair, and clutched the raised metal guardrails of the bed as if they were all that prevented her from losing her grip on sanity.

Not wishing to startle her, Carlo cleared his throat softly, but the way her entire body shuddered from the impact, he might as well have fired a cannon down the hall. She was too thin, too frail, and again he thought, I have judged her unfairly. She is close to collapse.

He came and stood next to her. “I understand you spent all last night here at your father’s bedside, signorina.”

“Yes,” she said bleakly, her gaze never wavering from her father’s face. “Did I break some unwritten law by doing so?”

“Not at all. However, I think it would be unwise for you to do the same thing again tonight.”

“Why is that?”

“You need rest—proper rest, in a bed,” he added firmly, anticipating the objection she was about to voice.

She allowed herself the merest shake of her head. “No point. I wouldn’t be able to sleep.”

“I will prescribe something to ensure that you do. Which hotel are you staying at?”

“Hotel?” Blankly she repeated the word as if he’d spoken it in foreign tongues far beyond her understanding. “I came straight here from the airport.”

“I suspected as much.” He closed his hand over her shoulder. She felt fragile as spun glass under the fine wool of her jacket. “We must do something about that.”

“We?” She spared him a brief, indignant look. “Since when have you been part of the equation?”

“Since I came to see you’re utterly worn out and running on emotional overload. It’s to my shame that I didn’t realize it sooner but now that I have, I consider it my responsibility to remedy the situation. After all, signorina, it would serve no useful purpose for you to be hospitalized, along with your father.”

Wearily, she leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. “I feel as if I’ve been here for days, yet it’s been barely twenty-four hours.”

“Time drags when one is waiting for a miracle.” He took her hand and drew her out of the chair. “Come. I’ll show you a quiet guest house not too far away from the hospital, and little known to the tourists. You’ll be able to rest comfortably there.”

She swayed on her feet and he reached for her, afraid she might fall. She sagged against him and for a second or two he held her, intoxicated by the fragrance of her hair, and unaccountably moved by her frailty. “I don’t need a guest house,” she muttered. “I prefer to remain here.”

Reminding himself that his interest in her was purely professional, he said, “I’m not giving you a choice. Is that all that you brought with you?”

She glanced at the small suitcase and carry-on bag heaped in the corner with her purse, and nodded dully. “Yes.”

He steadied her with an arm around her waist, and slung the bag over the raised towing handle of the suitcase. “You travel light, for a woman,” he remarked, steering her down the hall to the side entrance that gave onto the staff parking area. “Most women I know require twice as much luggage when they make a journey.”

“I left home in a hurry. There wasn’t time to pack anything more than a few essentials.”

“No, of course not.”

The sun lay warm on his car, leaving the interior cosy as a nest. She sank into the passenger seat, let out a sigh, and was asleep before he’d driven a hundred meters. In repose, her face was tranquil, her mouth softly vulnerable. Her lashes were long and fine, her brows delicately arched.

She looked nothing like her father. Even though he was comatose, Alan Blake’s face betrayed a tough strength not found in his daughter’s, and once again Carlo found himself wondering what really lay beneath that cool facade she presented to the world.

Situated in its own well-kept gardens, L’Albergo di Camellia stood at the end of a quiet road bordered on one side by the lake, and on the other by one of the town’s many parks. The proprietors, Luigi and Stella Colombo, knew him well. Several years before, he’d successfully operated on Stella’s mother for a brain aneurysm, thereby saving her life and earning their lasting gratitude.

“We have just the room,” Stella said, when he explained the situation. “Upstairs, at the back of the house, with a view to the mountains and the water. Very peaceful, Dr. Rossi. Just what your lady needs at such a time. Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of her.”

It was what he wanted to hear. His patients were his primary concern, and for them he needed a clear head, a steady hand. Becoming overly involved with their relatives at any level was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

Returning to the car, he opened the passenger door and shook Danielle Blake gently. “We have arrived, signorina.”

Her head lolled to one side, exposing the creamy skin of her neck. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, murmured something indistinguishable, and lapsed into sleep again. He wondered how she would taste, were he to touch his tongue to her mouth, and recoiled in disgust at the impropriety of such a notion.

“Wake up, Danielle!” he said sharply, shaking her more forcefully this time.

Her lashes fluttered and he found himself gazing into the depths of eyes so green and limpid, he could have drowned in them. Another outlandish and irrelevant observation, he decided—not to mention entirely inappropriate.

Her mouth curved in the beginning of a smile. “Hi,” she whispered, exhaling the greeting on a sigh.

The way she looked at him, the way she spoke, just so might a woman greet her lover, the morning after a long night of passion. With soft, dreamy pleasure. Understandable enough, he supposed, since she was clearly disoriented.

But his response—the tightening in his groin, the sudden heat licking low in his belly? That he found both inexplicable and intolerable. “Get out of the car,” he said brusquely. “You have a bed waiting, if you need more sleep.”

She blinked, and he knew from the way her cool, impenetrable mask slipped faultlessly into place, that she was all at once fully aware of where she was, and why, and with whom. She shot up straight in the seat, stuck her elegant little nose in the air, and fought to unbuckle her safety belt.

Impatient with her fumbling, he pushed her hand aside, unsnapped the belt himself, and all but hauled her out of the seat. He wanted rid of her. Now. He’d wasted enough time on a woman who’d yet to shed a tear for her dying father. “I don’t have all day, signorina. I suggest that, in future, you pay closer attention to the task at hand, instead of staring imperiously into space.”

“If this is any example of your bedside manner, it’s small wonder my father prefers to remain comatose,” she returned smartly. “Let me remind you it was your idea that I should stay in a hotel, your idea to decide which one, and your idea to drive me here. If I’ve inconvenienced you, stick the blame where it belongs. On you.”

It took considerable willpower for him to ignore the silken rustle of hidden underthings, and even greater self-command to drag his fascinated gaze away from the flash of sleek thigh as she swung her legs out of the car. But nothing could prevent the crackling awareness when, her feet having found the ground, she slithered past him, close enough for her body heat to reach out and touch him.

The resulting charge bolted the length of him, sharp and so intense that his scalp tingled. Static electricity, he told himself, but knew it was no such thing. Not once in the five years since Karina died had he experienced so volatile a reaction to a woman. That it should happen now, with one so much the antithesis of all she’d been, was an insult to the memory of the wife he’d adored.

Forcing himself to return in full measure the indifference emanating from Danielle Blake, he lifted her luggage from the trunk and carried it into the small lobby of the hotel, where the Colombos waited to greet their guest.

“Signorina, these are your hosts, Stella and Luigi Colombo,” he told her. “I will leave you in their very capable hands.”

All cool, unflappable reserve, she said, “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll do very well with them.”

She didn’t need to add, Unlike with you! Her body language said it for her, and he forcibly suppressed another urge to grab her by her slender shoulders and shake her. What was it about her, he wondered, that brought about such unreasonableness in him? How, on such short, unfavorable acquaintance, had she managed to get so thoroughly under his skin?

Furious with her and even more so with himself, he climbed into his car and drove away. Initially, he’d planned to go straight home, but a restlessness coursed through him, so instead of turning left at the main shoreline road, he took a right and headed toward the Alps. The Lamborghini responded to his mood, taking the hairpin bends with contemptuous ease. Half an hour later when he pulled over and stepped out of the vehicle at a lookout point, snow curled around his ankles and the crisp mountain air stung his eyes.

Far below, the lake lay shadowed with dusk. In town, street lamps sprang alive along the promenade. Lights shone at the windows of the houses as people gathered for the evening meal.

At his own villa, his daughter waited for him to come home, eager to show him the new kittens, to share other news of her day. Calandria would be putting the finishing touches to dinner.

What was he thinking of, to squander precious family time in such a fashion, and all because Danielle Blake, a complete stranger, happened to come briefly into his life? Why was he allowing her to invade his thoughts, to tempt him beyond all reason? It wasn’t as if he was short of female companionship. He didn’t live like a priest. His sexual needs were very well taken care of.

Despising his weakness, he filled his lungs with a blast of pure, bracing air, and held it a punishing length of time. When, finally, he released it, he let go of the turmoil, too. The aberration, or whatever it was that had possessed him, had passed. He was himself again.

Or so he liked to believe.

Burrowed under a cloud-soft duvet, Danielle slept for fifteen hours straight. But not dreamlessly. His voice flowed through the warm, comforting blackness, imprinting itself so thoroughly that its deep, exotic lilt still echoed in her mind when she awoke the next morning. And nothing—not the brilliant sun streaming in the window, nor the bright colors of the flowers in the garden below, nor the sharp, clear outline of the snowcapped Alps—could erase his dark, beautiful face from the picture screen of her memory. He had remained with her all night long, and was with her still.

He did not like her, and she knew she should not care, yet she yearned for his approval. Yesterday, when she’d opened her eyes in his car and seen him looming over her, she’d thought he was going to kiss her. If he’d tried, she’d have let him. He made her aware that she was a woman, with all the needs and wants that implied, even though she’d sworn off men, lost faith in love, and decided sex was an overrated waste of time.

Now, how delusional was all that?

Amused by such contrariness, she threw back the covers, marched into the adjoining bathroom, and stepped under the hot shower where she proceeded to scrub away the last remnants of sleep, and the nonsense that went with it. She was in Italy for one reason only: to act as advocate for her father until such time as he was able to act for himself. Her falling victim to a pointless infatuation with his doctor simply wasn’t an option.

She’d just finished drying her hair when Stella arrived at her door with a loaded tray. “Buon giorno, signorina! I heard you were awake and thought you might enjoy some coffee and a little fruit. The sun is warm on the balcony outside your French doors, if you’d like to sit there, and I will be pleased to serve you an early lunch a little later, if you wish.”

“Grazie, Stella,” Danielle said, standing back to let her enter the room. “I certainly do appreciate the coffee, but I’ll probably eat lunch in town. I packed in a hurry and have a little shopping to do.”

Stella pushed open the French doors with her free hand. “You must allow us to spoil you a little, signorina. We promised Dr. Rossi that we’d take good care of you, and it is our pleasure to accommodate him.”

Danielle knew she’d be better off not pursuing the all-too-fascinating subject of Carlo Rossi, but following through on the idea was another matter entirely. “Dr. Rossi seems to wield a great deal of influence over people,” she said lightly. “Do they always do as he tells them?”

Stella laughed. “If it appears to be that way, perhaps it’s because he’s the best neurosurgeon for many miles around. The best in all of Italy, according to many. We are honored to have such a man living in our community.”

“Do you consider him a friend?”

“We move in different circles, of course, but Galanio is a small town. Among the permanent residents, everyone knows everyone else, and the clinic sits always at the very center of things. Before he came here, the nearest hospital of any consequence was in Milano.” She set the tray on a small wrought-iron table and shook out a linen napkin. “Shall I pour your coffee now, signorina?”

“Please.” Danielle drew up a chair. “I find it interesting that Dr. Rossi chooses to practice in a town as small as this.”

“Why would he not? It is a beautiful place to live.”

“Well, yes, I agree, it is quite lovely. But for a man with his level of skill…” She let her shrug speak for itself.

“Ah, but his life is here, signorina. His daughter attends school close by. He is dedicated to his work in the clinic which he ordered built with his own money. His beloved wife lies in the church graveyard.” Stella spread her hands and raised her shoulders expressively. “How can the prestige of a bigger city, a more famous hospital, compete with all that?”

How, indeed? Danielle thought dryly. If she was determined to wallow in a bout of romantic hero worship, she’d be better off setting her sights on a more lowly object than the saintly Carlo Rossi. The brilliant shine of his halo might blind her!

Maybe his second-in-command…Dr. Brunelli, wasn’t it?…maybe he was a more suitable candidate.

But she hurriedly abandoned that notion when, a couple of hours later, she bumped into the good doctor outside the ICU station. Zarah Brunelli, a woman who, given her medical background, had to be well into her thirties, looked not a day over twenty.

Petite and gorgeous, with big liquid brown eyes, smooth olive skin and a gamine haircut, she could have been strutting the fashion runways in Milan had she been taller. But instead of a designer outfit, she wore a starched white coat whose only adornments were the name tag pinned to its left breast pocket, and the stethoscope looped around her neck.

“I was just in to see your father, Signorina Blake,” she announced, flipping closed a chart. “There is no change. He remains stable but unresponsive.”

“You assisted at his surgery, I understand?”

“Si.”

“How do you rate his chances of recovery?”

Zarah Brunelli afforded her a cool, professional smile. “Exactly as my colleague reported them to you, signorina. My assessment coincides completely with Dr. Rossi’s.”

Well, what else had she expected? That a mere mortal might dare disagree with him? Not likely!

“You face a difficult time, signorina,” the doctor continued. “For your own sake, I suggest you make frequent short visits with your father, and take time for yourself. You need to conserve your strength.”

“Dr. Rossi said pretty much the same thing, yesterday. He insisted I not spend another night here.”

“He was quite right. Did you book into a hotel?”

“He did it for me, actually. Drove me to L’Albergo di Camellia and introduced me to the owners.”

Somewhat reserved to begin with, Zarah Brunelli’s manner grew noticeably more distant. “That was very good of him.”

“Yes.”

“He is a very busy man, signorina.”

Her implicit reproach was unmistakable. Carlo Rossi had more important things to do than look after women able-bodied enough to take care of themselves. “I’ll remember that, the next time he suggests helping me out.”

“Allow me to offer you a little advice,” his chief assistant responded stiffly. “Avoid the possibility of there being a next time. We have professionals on staff whose job it is to assist out-of-town patient relatives. For a referral, you have only to ask at the information desk in the foyer.”

Adopting an equally clipped tone, Danielle said, “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, too. Just for the record, though, you should know that I didn’t coerce Dr. Rossi into helping me. He volunteered—rather emphatically, I might add. So I’d appreciate it if you’d direct your disapproval at him, the next time you feel driven to express it. And now that we’ve got that straight, I’m sure you’ll excuse me. The person I really came here to see is my father.”

She was glad to escape to his room and let the door thud softly shut behind her. Glad of the near silence, the sterile tranquility. Her heart was thudding, her breathing unnaturally fast, and she was fighting angry tears.

In the past, she’d wept buckets over things she couldn’t change. Her mother’s untimely death. Her father’s rejection—he’d made no secret of his disappointment at being saddled with a daughter instead of a son. Her broken engagement to Tom. Her supposed best friend’s betrayal. But she’d be damned if she’d let Zarah Brunelli make her cry.

Sniffing furiously, she went to the window. If her father were to open his eyes now and see the state she was in, she knew exactly what he’d say. The same thing he’d said, over and over again, when he’d made her cry as a child by poking unkind fun at her, laughing at her fears, forgetting her birthday, breaking promises…the list was endless.

What the hell kind of ninny are you, Danielle?

The answer? The kind who hurt deeply and scarred easily. But she’d learned to hide it. Learned to keep her feelings so well bottled up that even Tom, who’d once found her fascinating and desirable, had in the end decided she was incapable of real passion—or pain.

You’re frigid, Dani. That’s why I turned to Maureen, he’d said, the night he’d told her it was over between them. Sure, you’re a bit upset right now, but I’m not worried you’ll throw yourself under a bus, or anything. You’re not the type.

If she could survive that kind of crippling revelation, why was she becoming unglued over the remarks of a woman she’d only just met and whose personal opinion of her carried no weight at all? Carlo Rossi must be right: she was running on emotional overload. There was no other possible explanation.

For the next week and a half, Danielle went to the hospital two, sometimes three times a day, but the only thing that changed was the simmering awareness between her and Carlo Rossi. While her father remained to all intents and purposes dead to the world, she grew more alive inside with a bubbling vitality that shamed her.

Her father didn’t know that the tree blooming outside his window filled his room with the scent of lemons, or that the sun fell warmly on his face in the afternoon. But she had never been more conscious of the world around her; never more moved by morning birdsong, or the chattering rush of a waterfall spilling from a cleft in the hillside.

And she owed it all to Carlo Rossi. Because of the way his eyes followed her, when she came into the ICU wing. Because of the way he made her blood sing through her veins when he smiled and spoke to her in that melting, sexy voice of his. Because of the way he sometimes ran his finger inside the collar of his shirt and turned away from her, as if the heat created when their glances collided left him drenched in a sudden sweat.

Ironically, what Carlo Rossi couldn’t do for Alan Blake, he accomplished magnificently with her. Throughout it all, her father remained as before. Unmoving, unaware. Sexual magnetism might be thriving indecently between his doctor and his daughter, but medical science appeared to have ground to a halt.

For however long that might continue, Danielle remained as much a prisoner as he was, trapped in circumstances beyond her control, something she found completely unacceptable. The day Tom walked out on her, she’d promised herself she’d never again relinquish control of her life to someone else.

The trouble was, she was no more programmed to abandon her father than he’d been to foster a close and loving relationship with her. He was her parent, and much though he probably resented the fact, she was his only family. Duty obligated her to stand by him now, even if affection didn’t. So if there was the slightest chance he might make a recovery, it was up to her to find it. Because only then could they do what they’d always done best: go their separate ways.

Oddly enough, Zarah Brunelli was the one who triggered an idea, the day she happened to bump into Danielle outside the observation window overlooking Alan Blake’s room.

“It does not go well,” she remarked. “We do not see the progress we hoped for.”

Discouraged, Danielle said, “No. I might as well have stayed at home, for all the good I’m accomplishing here.”

“Not necessarily.” Zarah Brunelli regarded her coolly. “Hearing a familiar voice speaking a language he understands might be the only thing to stimulate a response in your father.”

Danielle knew it would take more than that. Alan Blake had never found his daughter stimulating company; they shared too little in common. His passions were arguing politics and discussing the justice system with his cronies at his club, or attending the opera with his latest mistress on his arm—often a woman younger than Danielle; someone who, in return for an expensive trinket or two and her photograph on the society page of the newspaper, was prepared to bat her eyelashes and prop up his middle-aged ego with flattery.

Unfortunately he didn’t confide his romantic entanglements to Danielle. She had no idea who his current lover might be, and consequently no way of bringing the woman to his bedside. The opera, however, was another matter, one she could do something about.

We have professionals to assist out-of-town relatives. You have only to ask at the desk, Zarah Brunelli had once informed her disapprovingly, and for that and her latest advice, Danielle owed her a smidgeon of gratitude now. Within the hour, she was once more headed into town, armed with a map and very specific directions for finding what she needed.

CHAPTER THREE

CASA Di Musica was situated at the top of a very steep hill leading up from the promenade. The owner spoke English about as well as Danielle spoke Italian, but opera, she discovered, was universally understood, regardless of language. She had no difficulty making her needs known, and left the shop with a CD player and enough disc recordings of the world’s favorite operas to keep the most ardent fan happy.

By then it was well past noon and the delicious aroma of food wafting from a small sidewalk trattoria reminded her how long it had been since she’d enjoyed a good meal. Settling herself at an umbrella-shaded table, she ordered a large bottle of San Pellegrino water and a plate of linguine with clam sauce.

The weather again was perfect, the scene around her delightful. Her side of the street was lively, with people hurrying in and out of the shops. But across the street, couples strolled arm-in-arm along the shaded paths of yet another of Galanio’s many parks, while young mothers pushed baby carriages or watched their children feeding breadcrumbs to the birds.

Of course, her father’s precarious condition was never far from Danielle’s mind, but just for a little while, it was nice to relax and enjoy the ambience surrounding her. Below, a ferry chugged its way across the blue lake. Above, the Alps soared against the cloudless sky.

Small wonder tourists flocked to the area for its year-round attractions. Skiing, mountain climbing, hiking, boating, swimming—Galanio had it all. The town was so picture-postcard pretty, so vital and alive, that it was easy to forget those same attractions were the cause of accident victims being rushed through the doors of L’Ospedale di Karina Rossi on a daily basis, and placed under the skilled care of Carlo Rossi.

Lifting her face to the sun, Danielle closed her eyes. Immediately, he swam to the forefront of her mind: Carlo Rossi of the beautiful hands, the stormy gray eyes, and a mouth that made her own run dry and sent a surge of excitement shooting to the pit of her stomach. What did he look like naked? Were the parts hidden by his hospital greens as sensational as the rest of him?

“Ciao! Farà caldo eggi, si, signorina?”

Startled by the proximity of the sweet, girlish voice, she bolted upright in her seat and found Anita Rossi standing on the sidewalk, regarding her curiously.

“Oh, hello…ciao!” Danielle stammered, embarrassed to be caught in such an outrageous fantasy by the daughter of the man occupying altogether too much of her attention. “It’s nice to see you again, but I’m afraid I didn’t understand you just now.”

“I said that it is hot today, yes?”

“Very.”

“Were you sleeping?”

Danielle laughed. “No. Just daydreaming.”

“I do not know that word.”

“It means I was thinking—with my eyes closed.”

“About your father?”

“Among other things, yes. He’s very ill.” Anxious to change the subject, she hooked her finger around the strap of the leather satchel swinging from the child’s shoulder. “What about you, Miss Anita? Shouldn’t you be in school?”

The girl flashed a dimpled smile. “School is done for today. We begin lessons very early so that we finish early and have time to play. I was walking home through the park when I saw you, and I came to say ciao.”

“I’m very glad you did.” Danielle glanced around. “But do you usually walk home alone?”

“I was with my friends, but they have gone now.”

I hope you didn’t come here by yourself, her father had said, when she’d burst into his office that first day. He surely wouldn’t be pleased to know she was breaking the rules now.

“Perhaps I’d better walk the rest of the way with you, just to be sure you get home safely.”

“There is no need.” Anita shook her head and sent her long dark braids swinging. “I am almost eight. I know the way, and Calandria comes every day to meet me at the gates.” She pointed to the iron gates marking the entrance to the park, half a block down the street. “She is already there. I can see her.”

“Then you’d better not keep her waiting.”

“No, I must hurry. Bianca will have missed me. You must come and see her babies, signorina. They are most beautiful.”

And so are you, Danielle thought. In fact, you’re adorable! “Perhaps before I leave, I’ll do that,” she said. “Now off you go before you get us both into trouble. Ciao, Anita!”

“Ciao!” the little girl chirped merrily, turning to wave before she stepped off the curb into the road.

She wasn’t looking where she was going. And the driver of the car barreling down the hill wasn’t paying attention. Couldn’t have been, or he’d have seen the child blithely running into his path. But Danielle saw and felt sheer horror rising up to choke her.

She tried to leap out of her chair, to streak across the few feet separating her from Carlo Rossi’s beloved daughter. Yet although her heart was racing, her limbs seemed encased in molasses so thick and heavy that she moved in slow motion.

She heard the blare of a car horn, the shriek of brakes applied too late, the stifled cries of witnesses, and her own scream of warning bursting from a throat so filled with terror that she could hardly breathe. With a superhuman effort, she launched herself at the child, grasping roughly at that tender, slender body with desperate hands, and shoving it aside at the same time that she used herself as a shield.

And then…nothing but a searing pain in her side that crushed the breath from her lungs…and blackness rising up to swallow her whole…

“I saw Danielle Blake again this morning,” Zarah said, joining him in the staff lounge for a quick cup of coffee before they started afternoon rounds together. “It’s only the second time since she arrived here. I think she goes out of her way to avoid me.”

Annoyed at the way his flesh tightened at the mention of Danielle’s name, Carlo scowled at his espresso. So much for ridding her from his system!

There’d been women since Karina died. Of course there’d been women. They, though, had been the kind he could love for a night, and leave for a lifetime. But Danielle Blake…? Without even trying, she’d worked her way under his skin. He’d seen her once, and never forgotten her, much though he’d wished he could. Without knowing the first thing about her, he’d wanted her, and never mind if she was bad or good for him.

“You’re being ridiculous, Zarah. Why would she avoid you?”

“Because she knows I disapproved that she put you to the trouble of arranging hotel accommodation for her.” She sifted her fingers through her hair, a frequent habit when she was perplexed. “I confess I’m surprised by your actions, Carlo. It’s not like you to take such a personal interest in a non-patient.”

It wasn’t like him to wake up in the middle of a too-short night and find himself so aroused that he almost embarrassed himself, either, but he wasn’t about to admit that to his chief resident. “There was nothing personal about it,” he replied mildly. “At the time, she was clearly at the end of her rope, and I didn’t want her collapsing on the ICU floor.”

“Are we talking about the same person? I find her oddly unaffected by her father’s condition, despite her claims of concern.”

Her assessment coincided so exactly with his initial impressions that he was at a loss to explain his next comment. “Appearances can be deceiving, Zarah. I suspect what you interpret to be indifference might be more accurately described as rigid self-control. It’s not in her nature to show her emotions, but that’s not to say she’s incapable of feeling.”

“I have to disagree. I don’t think she cares whether the patient lives or dies.”

You should have let him die! He’d be better off!

“You may be right. I don’t pretend to know her well.” Carlo drained his coffee cup and brushed his hands together, dismissing the subject of Danielle Blake from the conversation and from his mind. “Let’s get started. I promised Anita I’d try to make it home early for a change.”

They were entering the ICU wing when he was paged. “Looks as if you’ll be taking rounds by yourself,” he told Zarah. “I’m needed in Emergency.”

He had no premonition of what awaited him. None of the prickling anticipation of disaster he so often experienced when an accident victim was brought in barely clinging to life. Not even when he pushed open the swinging doors to the Emergency Unit and saw the troubled faces of his staff turned his way, did it occur to him that their concern was directed as much at him personally as it was for the patients awaiting his care.

“What do we have?” he asked his E.R. resident, Gino Ferrari, noting curtains drawn around two cubicles. “Another auto pileup in the mountains?”

“No, Carlo,” Gino said somberly. “This time, it happened here in town, and I’m sorry to tell you your daughter is one of those involved.”

“Anita? You’re mistaken!” Disbelieving, he shook off the statement. It was absurd. For at least the last half hour, Anita had been at home, working on her after-school assignments. A glance at the clock on the wall assured him of that.

Then the absolute silence of those around him struck, and insidious tendrils of doubt tried to take hold. “Anita?” he said again, and felt his disbelief dissolve into formless dread.

“Afraid so, Carlo.”

“Where is she?”

“In here.”

The resident pulled aside the curtain in the first cubicle. Anita lay on the high bed, her eyes closed. An ugly contusion marred her forehead, her knees were scraped raw, her shoes scuffed at the toes, and her white socks grimy with dirt.

“My housekeeper’s going to be ticked off about those socks,” he said to no one in particular. “It’s a matter of pride with her that my daughter always looks band-box clean when she’s out in public.”

Gino’s mouth fell open. He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “Er…we haven’t examined her or ordered any tests, Doctor. We thought you’d want to take charge of that yourself.”

“Absolutely right.”

He approached the bed. Aware that all eyes were on him—all except his daughter’s, that was. They remained closed—he conducted a routine examination: heart, lungs, blood pressure, pupils, reflexes. Satisfied with what he found, he turned his attention to the scalp abrasion. Already, a goose egg was forming, but as such injuries went, it appeared superficial. “This needs to be disinfected and treated with antibiotic cream.”

As a rule, his staff jumped to carry out his orders but in this instance, no one moved. Instead, they stood there as if they’d been turned to stone and stared at him in stupefaction. “What’s the holdup?” he barked. “Did I not make myself clear?”

“Absolutely, Doctor. I’ll take care of the matter myself,” one of the nurses said, while the rest scattered.

Gino inched closer and murmured. “Is that all, Carlo?”

“Of course not! You know well enough that a CT Scan’s in order with any type of head injury, no matter how superficial it might appear. But I don’t anticipate it’ll reveal anything more than we can see for ourselves.”

“Even though Anita’s still unconscious?”

“That’s normal. She’ll come to, any minute.”

Right on cue, Anita opened her eyes. They filled with tears when she saw him bending over her. “Papà?” she whimpered. “I don’t feel so good.”

“I know, baby,” he said. “Can you tell me where it hurts?”

“My knees. They’re on fire, Papà.”

“You scraped them badly when you fell. We’ll apply some salve and a dressing. They’ll soon feel better.” He straightened and nodded to the nurse who’d returned with a tray containing swabs, disinfectant, and a tube of ointment. “See to that as well, please.”

Looking slightly punch-drunk, she nodded and sidled away to add sterile dressings to the tray.

“What’s the matter with everybody around here?” he asked Gino. “Is something in the water addling their brains?”

“I guess they’re…upset. For Anita and for you.”

“Accidents happen. Speaking of which, how’s the other victim?”

“Haven’t heard. She’s still being checked over.”

“Keep me posted on the outcome.”

“Sure.” The resident scratched his head. “You feeling okay, Chief?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? I’m not the one who’s been hurt. I suppose the police were called?”

“Oh, yeah! I forgot to mention an officer’s waiting to speak to you in the E.R. lounge when you’re done in here.”

“I’ll see him right away. Let me know the minute you hear from Radiology.”

“From all accounts,” the young policeman reported, consulting his notebook, “your daughter stepped off the sidewalk outside The Parkside Café, directly into the path of a car heading downhill on Fonseca Road.”

“That makes no sense. My daughter had no reason to be on that side of the street.”

The officer shrugged. “There were several witnesses who say she was. The driver swerved and narrowly missed hitting her. She’s very lucky she escaped so lightly. She and her friend could both have been killed.”

“Friend?”

“The American she was with at the café. I’m afraid the woman took the worst of it. There’s no question that her quick thinking saved your daughter’s life.”

When he’d learned it was Anita who’d been hurt, Carlo had held himself together by dint of sheer willpower. Had blocked out the memory of another afternoon when he’d walked into another Emergency Unit and found his wife lying dead on a Gurney. Had forcibly overcome the relentless fear that he might lose his daughter as he’d lost her mother.

Instead of harking back to a past he was powerless to change, he’d tapped into the deep well of self-discipline which was the mark of the true professional, and brought all his considerable expertise to bear on the present. Distraction clouded judgment and made for human error, and there was no room for either in his line of work.

Because it was the only course open to him, he’d told himself that who had been injured was not the issue. All that mattered was that, as a doctor, he was morally obligated to treat yet another in a long line of patients needing his help.

He’d held to the conviction for as long as it had been necessary. But now that the immediate crisis had passed, as well as the rush of adrenalin that went with it, and he was confronted by facts too horrific to be borne, he became a father again. The full impact of what had just transpired—that it was his daughter, his child, whose life had been thrown in jeopardy—snapped his iron control.

Sweat broke out on his upper lip and trickled down his spine. Only by the grace of God had she been spared. He could as well have walked into the Emergency Unit and found her dead just like her mother.

To have come so close to personal tragedy again was more than he could handle, and in an effort to divert himself from the unthinkable, he seized on a triviality. “What the devil are you talking about, man?” he demanded, filled with sudden, irrational fury. “My daughter has no American woman friend.”

The officer consulted his notes again. “She and the woman were seen talking together, Doctor, and gave every appearance of knowing one another. Two witnesses saw your daughter cross the street and greet her. In any event, there’s no doubt that even if she’s a stranger, you owe the girl’s life to this person.”

“Then I shall make a point of thanking her, provided she has a good reason for luring my child into danger in the first place—something I highly doubt she can justify.” Jamming his hands in his pockets to hide their trembling, he turned to leave.

“One more thing, Dr. Rossi. At the very least, the driver of the car will stand accused of speeding and reckless endangerment, but he could well be facing other penalties.”

“You can depend on it,” Carlo told him curtly. “If you don’t press charges, I most certainly will.”

“I daresay the American agrees with you. For that reason, I’d like to speak with her before I leave.”

“I have no idea if she’s up to answering questions, but I’ll find out.”

Still shaking inside, he took a moment to compose himself before returning to the Emergency Unit. A windowed alcove to one side of the bank of elevators gave him the privacy he sought and hid him from view of anyone passing back and forth in the main hall. Certainly the two young nurses leaving for a coffee break were unaware that the subject of their gossip overheard their every word.

“Couldn’t believe what I was seeing and hearing!” one of them said breathlessly. “I mean, I know the boss is famous for keeping his cool in the face of just about anything anyone throws at him, but to be so unmoved when it’s his own daughter lying there! I feel sorry for her, poor little thing. My God, can you imagine having a father like that?”

“Are you kidding? He intimidates the living daylights out of me at the best of times, but I’ve always respected him. Put him on a pedestal, the way everybody else around here does. What we witnessed just now, though—that business about the socks being dirty—well, it was creepy! I bet if he were cut open, we’d find ice water in his veins! I feel…I don’t know…betrayed, somehow.”

“Most people do when the people they idolize turn out to have feet of clay,” Carlo said, stepping forward just as the elevator doors swished open. “That’s why it’s a mistake to turn ordinary men into gods. Enjoy your coffee break, ladies.”

He didn’t wait for their stammered apologies, or pay attention to their horrified, red-faced embarrassment. He had enough to contend with. His professional demeanor rigidly in place once more, he swept past them and back into the Emergency Unit just as Anita was wheeled in from Radiology.

“Good news,” Gino said, handing him the CT printout. “She’s been given a clean bill of health, exactly as you predicted. Your little girl can go home whenever you give the word. And if you don’t mind my saying so, Doctor, it wouldn’t hurt you to take the remainder of the day off, too.”

“And leave you shorthanded? I don’t think so.”

His resident put a restraining hand on his arm. “You’re shaken up, Carlo, whether or not you’re willing to admit it. Do yourself a favor and go home. We’ll cover for you here, and if something out of the ordinary turns up, you’ll be the first to hear about it.”

The advice was well-meant, the kind he’d have dished out himself had the situation been reversed, and he knew he’d be wise to heed it. “You’re right. I’ll leave, as soon as I’ve looked in on the woman Anita was with.”

“Don’t take too long. I know delayed shock when I see it.”

Carlo did, too, and thought he had a pretty good handle on his. Until he yanked aside the curtain to the cubicle next to Anita’s, and found himself staring down at Danielle Blake.

For some time, she’d been aware of unfamiliar voices fading in and out. Of being tended to by caring, expert hands. She struggled to push them aside, to articulate the question so desperately begging to be heard. But movement of any kind, even breathing, caused excruciating pain.

Then, suddenly, other hands touched her. Pressed and probed with cool fingers over her naked, aching ribs, down her leg to her throbbing ankle. Took her bare foot and flexed it. And despite the unremitting hurt, she recognized with an instinct that defied all reason that they were his hands; that it was his voice that spoke. Somehow, that made the agony easier to bear.

“So, Danielle,” he murmured soothingly. “You decided it was not enough that I worry about your father, and thought you’d add yourself to the list? That was not kind.”

She tried to speak, to ask him about the child, but managed only a slurred moan which he misunderstood. “I’ve looked at your X rays,” he said. “You have badly bruised ribs, a sprained ankle, and an assortment of very colorful bruises and scrapes. Now that we know precisely what we’re dealing with, we’re giving you something to alleviate your discomfort.”

Her mind was clouded enough, without that. Desperate to convey her message, she forced open her eyes and regarded him blearily. Tried to shake her head.

No painkillers or sedatives, please! Not until I know…

A nurse entered the cubicle, a syringe in her hand. Danielle felt a stinging prick in her arm and an almost immediate slow-creeping numbness. Tears filled her eyes, ran down her face.

Carlo Rossi wiped them away with his fingertips. “Be calm, Danielle, and trust me when I tell you, you’re going to be fine.”

And Anita? Was she going to going to be fine, too?

Mutely Danielle implored him with her eyes and to her horror thought that his gleamed with unshed tears, too. Oh, God! Oh, God!

“We’ll talk again tomorrow,” he said, but his words came from a great distance and his face swam out of focus. She tried to grope for his hand, but the clouds thickened and hid him…

“Are you very angry with me, Papà?” Anita inquired timidly. They were the first words she’d spoken since he’d bundled her into the car and driven home.

“Very.” He pulled to a stop in the forecourt and fixed her in a stern glance. “What you did was wrong and very dangerous. Do you want to tell me why you behaved so foolishly? Did Signorina Blake call out to you, or invite you to join her?”

“No, Papà. I saw her first and just wanted to say hello.”

“You don’t even know her, Anita. You were wrong to disturb her, and very wrong to cross that busy road. By breaking the rules, you put yourself and her in great danger.”

“Is that why you look so sad, Papà?” she whispered, her eyes huge. “Is the signorina going to die?”

“No,” he said thoughtfully. Certainly, on first acquaintance, he’d condemned her as being already dead inside, so incapable had she seemed of human feeling. Now, he hardly knew what to believe.

Before he’d known who it was who’d put her own life on the line in order to save his child’s, he’d found himself responding to Danielle Blake at a primitive sexual level that infuriated him. But when he’d flung back the cubicle curtain and found her lying bruised and battered on the bed, the second shock, coming so soon after the first, had nearly undone him.

For one dreadful moment, he’d almost broken down. She’d looked so alone, so devastated, that he’d wanted to send everyone else packing and devote himself entirely to her care. Had known a fierce need to gather her delicate body in his arms and kiss away her tears and hurting—he, the man some members of his staff perceived to have ice water in his veins!

Dio, but he owed her everything. Everything! He’d give her the moon, if he could.

“Is she very badly hurt, then?”

“I think she might be,” he told his daughter. “I suspect that, inside, she hurts very badly indeed, but she’s learned not to let it show.”

“Can you make her better?”

“I can try,” he said, “but I think you’ll have to help me.”

“Oh, I will, Papà! She’s so pretty, and so kind. She wanted to walk home with me, you know, because she was worried about me, but I told her I was old enough to do it by myself.”

“A big mistake, Anita.”

“I know.” She stared at her tightly laced fingers. “I’m very sorry, Papà. I won’t do that again.”

“No, you won’t,” he declared. “From now on, Calandria will take you all the way to and from school.”

“My friends will laugh.”

“Better they laugh than I cry. Don’t ask me to take chances with your life, Anita. I won’t do it.” He leaned over and dropped a kiss on her head. “I’m your father, sweetheart. It’s my job to take care of you.”

“I know.” She gave him the sweet smile so much like her mother’s that his heart ached. “But what about Signorina Blake, Papà? She’s been hurt, as well, and her father’s in the hospital. Who’s going to take care of her?”

He’d wrestled with the same question himself a dozen times since he’d left the hospital. “I have a feeling we are,” he said, even as the voice of sanity in his head told him he was inviting a load of complications he could well manage without. “We don’t really have much choice, do we?”

CHAPTER FOUR

THE next morning, an aide had just finished helping her into a wheelchair when Carlo Rossi marched into her room. He wore pale gray linen trousers and a short-sleeved white medical jacket against which his bronzed skin glowed with vitality, and he looked good enough to eat.

For once, though, her heart didn’t leap with excitement at the sight of him. Instead, it slowed to a painful apprehensive thud as she tried to read the expression on his face—and this despite the pleasant buzz caused by the injection she’d received an hour earlier.

He shooed the aide out the door and approached the wheelchair. “My nurses tell me you’re being a difficult patient, Signorina Blake,” he said severely. “Ignoring orders to remain in bed, insisting on being released, expecting them to reveal privileged information—”

“For heaven’s sake, all I asked for is an update on your daughter’s condition! I lay awake half the night worrying about her. But your staff are so tight-lipped on the subject, anyone would think I was asking them to breach national security.”

“Hospital policy. Patient confidentiality, and all that.” Ever so casually, he lifted her hand and pressed his fingers to her inner wrist. A distinct gleam of amusement shot silver lights through his deep gray eyes. “My, but you really are in a state, aren’t you? Racing pulse, rapid shallow breathing. If I tell you that, except for a few bruises which aren’t nearly as dramatic as yours, Anita is perfectly fine, will you promise to relax?”

With his voice suddenly drizzling over her like sun-warmed maple syrup, and him touching her as if he were her lover, rather than her doctor? Not a chance! “I’ll try,” she wheezed, deciding it must be the medication that was clouding her normally sound mind.

“Try harder,” he said, positively caressing her skin with his long fingers.

Trying to rein in her overactive imagination, she focused on his remarks about Anita. “Exactly how was your daughter hurt?”

“She has a spectacular bruise on her forehead, another on her elbow, and her knees look as if she ran a cheese grater over them. All in all, she got off lightly. You weren’t quite as lucky. How are the ribs this morning?”

Before she could answer, he bent close enough that she could almost name the brand of toothpaste he’d used, and placed the flat of his hand just above, and to the right of, her waist. Let it rest there a second or two, then shifted it slightly upward so that his thumb grazed the underslope of her breast—which would have been unsettling enough, even if she’d been fully dressed. But Don’t bother with a bra for now, the aide had suggested. You’ll find putting it on and taking it off too uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable? Danielle gave an involuntary gasp. How about unprotected and overly susceptible to tactile pleasure?

“That hurts?” Carlo Rossi inquired, pulling a stethoscope out of his pocket.

“It’s…uncomfortable,” she managed, latching on to the aide’s word like a drowning woman clinging to flotsam. “But if it’s my heart you’re looking for, it’s on the other side.”

His mouth twitched. “I believe they taught us that in first year medical school.” He lifted her blouse and camisole as if he had every right to rearrange her clothing, and placed the stethoscope diaphragm against her ribs. Cool air washed over her bared flesh. Oh please! she prayed. Don’t let my nipples act up!

“Take as deep a breath as you can, please.”

If distraction was what she wanted, deep breaths provided it. “Ow!”

“Pretty sore, hmm?”

“Yes.”

“It’s to be expected. Bruised ribs don’t heal overnight. The good news is, they didn’t fracture. If they had, you could have wound up with a collapsed lung.” He let her clothing fall into place again and slung the stethoscope around his neck. “How about the ankle?”

“Perhaps you should take a look at it,” she said. The farther removed his hands were from her breasts, the less chance she’d make an utter fool of herself.

He knelt at her feet and probed her right ankle gently. “Well, we know there are no broken bones, but sprains such as this also take time to heal. You’ll be dependent on a cane for a while.”

“A cane?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She thought of the steep lane leading to her hotel, and the stairs to her bedroom; of other, even steeper inclines around town. “That should be a lot of fun!”

“We’ll make it as easy for you as possible.”

“We?”

“Did I forget to mention that you have a visitor? How remiss of me.” He straightened, went to the door, and beckoned to whoever waited outside.

She expected it would be another nurse or doctor, and was thrilled when, instead, Anita came into the room—not skipping as she had been the first time they met, but not exactly hobbling, either.

Eyes downcast, she said solemnly, “Good morning, signorina.”

“What a lovely surprise!” Relief had Danielle smiling—the one thing she could manage without wincing. “Good morning to you, too! I’m so happy to see you.”

“I have come to tell you I am sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For making you be hurt.”

The little thing looked positively ill with remorse.

“Oh, honey, it wasn’t your fault! Come here and give me a hug!” Wanting to reassure her, Danielle flung open her arms in invitation. At once, red-hot fire up her right side.

“Papà!” Anita wailed, wide-eyed with horror at hearing Danielle’s smothered gasp, and seeing the grimace she couldn’t contain.

“Be gentle with yourself, signorina,” Carlo Rossi reminded her.

“Never mind me,” she said. “Comfort your daughter. Tell her she’s not to blame for what happened to me.”

“But, yes, I am,” the child insisted tearfully. “Papà says so.”

And Papà was never wrong! “Actually,” Danielle informed him stonily, “if anyone’s at fault, I am. If I’d walked Anita across the street myself, the whole nasty incident could have been avoided.”

“She was not your responsibility,” he replied. “But because of her actions, you most assuredly have become ours.”

“What? How so?”

He glanced at his daughter who’d shrunk into his shadow. “Would you like to tell Signorina Blake what we have decided, Anita?”

She inched away from him and faced Danielle. The tears had stopped, and there was even a hint of dimple showing on her cheeks. “You are coming to live with us, signorina!”

Danielle’s jaw dropped. “I most certainly am not!”

“Oh, but yes! Papà and Calandria and I are going to look after you until you feel well again.”

“That’s very kind of you and Papà and Calandria, but I already have a place to stay.”

“I understand now why my nurses were complaining,” Carlo Rossi said, rolling his gorgeous gray eyes. “You are indeed a difficult patient.”

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate your offer, Doctor, but I’m hardly helpless. I can manage quite well on my own.”

He shook his head slowly and emphatically. “No, Danielle, you cannot. You might feel comfortable enough at the moment, but only because the strong pain medication you’ve been given is taking effect. It is not, however, a miracle cure. As you just discovered, any kind of sudden jarring movement—coughing, sneezing, twisting—and your rib cage will remind you quite savagely that it does not care to be treated that way. And I don’t even want to think about the damage you’d do if you should fall again.”

“How long before my ribs heal?”

“Anywhere from a few days to a week or more. If you’re very careful, you’ll have limited mobility with the cane during that time, provided you stay on flat, even surfaces. And that’s why you’ll be staying in my home, which happens to sit on a gentle slope only. In case you haven’t noticed, most other houses in Galanio are built on the side of a cliff.”

“And if I refuse to go along with your plan?”

“Then you remain here, under twenty-four hour surveillance, until such time as I’m convinced all danger is passed and you’re able to manage on your own.” He paused just long enough to let his next words sink in. “I readily admit I am responsible for your injuries, Danielle, but I have no intention of finding myself at the wrong end of a lawsuit because of secondary complications you might cause.”

“We have a very nice house, signorina,” Anita added earnestly, “and a big garden. And Calandria is a very good cook.”

“I’m sure you do, and I’m sure she is.”

“Buono! Then it is arranged.” Carlo Rossi grasped the handles of the wheelchair and spun it around to face the door.

“Not so fast,” Danielle exclaimed. “What about my father?”

“I’ll keep you well informed, and should there be any change in his condition, I will personally bring you to his bedside. But for the next couple of days, Danielle, you do him more good by attending to your own recovery.”

Arguing with such sane reasoning was pointless, especially when, simply by turning her head to look back at him, she felt as if someone had jabbed a knife between her ribs.

“You see?” he said, not missing her contained flinch of discomfort. “I do know what’s best.”

“But my things are all at the hotel,” she protested weakly.

“Not so. I arranged for them to be sent to my home. You’ll find everything waiting in the room we have prepared for you.”

She ought to object. Strenuously. He’d taken unpardonable liberties; was doing so still, treating her as if she’d lost possession of her mental faculties. At the same time, though, his actions struck a profoundly seductive chord. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had cared enough about her welfare to put himself out like this.

“You appear to have thought of everything,” she murmured, doing her level best to quell the stirring excitement fluttering through her at the thought of sitting across from him at the dinner table every evening, sleeping under the same roof every night. He was, after all, acting only out of a sense of obligation.

“Then it’s safe to assume you agree to my suggestion?”

“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.

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 conversation, 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.”

“It is every child’s birthright to be loved unconditionally, surely?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t always turn out like that. Some children grow up never feeling secure in their parents’ affections.”

He put his demitasse on the inlaid coffee table and leaned toward her. “Were you one of those children, cara?”

The endearment undid her; unloosed things she’d never thought to share with another living soul. “Not with my mother,” she said, staring at his long, tanned fingers so close to her knee that they were almost touching it. “She was the most loving person on earth. But my father…” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug that spoke volumes.

“You are not close to him?”

“No.”

“Were you ever?”

“No, never. One of my earliest memories is of him telling me that when I was born, he told the doctor to send me back to where I’d come from, because he’d ordered a son, not a daughter. Even my name is a derivation of a boy’s.”

“He was surely joking, and you were just too young to understand his brand of humor which, I admit, left something to be desired.”

“No. He meant every word, and if I hadn’t known it before, he made it crystal clear when my mother died. I was eleven at the time, and the afternoon of the funeral, he sat me down and said that we’d have to put up with one another for at least a few more years, because my mother had made him promise he’d take care of me until I was old enough to look after myself.”

“I do not understood why one parent should have to exact such a commitment of the other.”

“In my own eleven-year-old way, I said much the same thing, although my actual words ran along the lines of, ‘But I thought fathers always loved their children and wanted to look after them.”’

“And how did he respond?”

“He said that he’d fulfill his responsibilities, just as he always had, but that I’d always been my mother’s child, and if it had been up to him, he’d have been just as happy to leave me behind in the hospital after I was born.”

She knew from the way Carlo recoiled that she’d shocked him. “He spoke this to you, on the day that you buried your mother? Dio, that a man could be so brutal to his only child! How did you deal with such cruelty?”

“I groveled,” she said bleakly. “Tried every way I knew how, to make him love me. Brought home straight A’s on my report cards, made the honor roll, learned to cook his favorite foods, ironed his shirts and folded them just the way he liked.”

“Ironed his shirts? You had no housekeeper?”

“We had several, but none of them stayed very long. My father was too difficult and demanding. By the time I turned fourteen, I pretty much took care of the house by myself.”

“When did you decide you’d had enough?”

“I didn’t. He made the decision for me. The summer I graduated from high school, he sold our home and moved into a penthouse apartment. He claimed he did it for me, that I’d be happier in a place of my own because no eighteen-year-old needed her father hanging around when she brought her boyfriends over.”

“And you had many boyfriends,” Carlo said, a half-smile curving his beautiful mouth. “A girl such as you would have been fending them away with a branch.”

She frowned, puzzled, then held one hand to her ribs and burst out laughing. “Oh, you mean, beating them off with a stick!”

“Do I?” he said, taking her other hand between both of his. “When your face lights up like that and your eyes fill with sudden stars, and the laughter pours out of your mouth like music, I confess I’m left so dazzled that I don’t know what I mean.”

Her laughter died, scorched into oblivion by the rush of sizzling heat his touch induced. Unused to such a bizarre reaction from a body which had remained stubbornly unmoved by Tom’s attempts to arouse it, she tried to pull away.

But Carlo wouldn’t release her. Instead, he slid one hand up to cup her jaw and stroked his thumb over her mouth. Her throat ran dry. Her pulse throbbed erratically against his fingertips. She thought her heart would stop; would free-fall into a tailspin from which it would never recover.

“We’ve known each other a matter of days only, yet do you know how often, during that time, I’ve thought about kissing you?” he murmured.

She swallowed, and said baldly, “Why?”

“Because of this.” He lifted the hand he still held and brought her palm to rest flat against his chest. “You make my heart beat a little faster than it should, and I find that very pleasurable.”

He left her dizzy with delight; bewitched past all reason. By comparison, “pleasurable” struck enough of a lukewarm note to remind her that she’d never had much success when it came to captivating the opposite sex. The day he’d dumped her, Tom had summed up her shortcomings very succinctly. Getting it on with you is an exercise in frustration, and about as stimulating as reading a bus schedule, Dani.

The memory left her so flooded with embarrassment that she looked away from Carlo and mumbled, “Well, it probably isn’t a good idea—to kiss me, I mean.”

“Why not? Would it offend you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He turned her face to his; brought her so close that she could practically taste him. “What are you saying, then?”

Flustered, she dropped her gaze to his mouth. His lips simmered with a promise of passion beyond anything she’d ever known. She wished he’d stop talking about kissing her, and just do it, and put her out of her misery. Because all that churning heat invading her pelvic area and leaving her most private flesh tingling with anticipation, was an illusion.

It took a lot more than a kiss to reduce her to quivering acquiescence. It took a miracle—and where Danielle and sex were concerned, miracles just didn’t happen. The sooner he learned she was incapable of responding, the better for both of them. That way, he’d retreat into the professional she’d first met, and she’d shelve any idiotic notion she harbored that this time, and this man, might be different.

“Until six months ago, I was engaged,” she said, deciding it was best to lay all her cards on the table and have done with, “but my fiancé ended the relationship because I couldn’t live up to his…expectations. I’m afraid I won’t live up to yours, either.”

Carlo closed the small distance remaining between them, and once again cradled her face in his hands. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” he said, against her mouth.

“Because I already know wh…”

She couldn’t finish the sentence, not only because his mouth took complete possession of hers but because, at the touch of his lips, coherent thought fled her mind. As swiftly as if they’d been dipped in warm honey, all the raw, ragged edges of her confidence grew smooth and compliant. Colors swirled behind her closed eyes, bright, brilliant, dazzling. Her blood sang. An exquisite, unfamiliar sensation swam through her womb and left a startling dampness on her underwear.

And all he did was kiss her. Not savagely, as Tom so often had done, as though to force the right response from her. Not hurriedly, as if he couldn’t wait for the whole business to be over. But with a lingering finesse that took her breath away and turned her molten with desire.

Completely perplexed by such new and strange reactions from a body she thought she knew all too well, she stopped trying to understand and simply let instinct take over. The hands she’d folded primly in her lap stole up to clutch the front of his shirt. She leaned into him. Let her breasts brush against him in a way that electrified her flesh.

Emboldened by his low murmur of encouragement, she took his hand and guided it down her throat, to the scarf draped around her shoulders. With a single swift tug, he sent it skimming to the floor. A moment later, the touch of his cool, expert fingers sliding inside the low-cut neck of her blouse and searching out the upper slope of her bare breast inflamed her past all caution.

When he cupped her in his palm, and gently squeezed her nipple between his fingers, she let out a gasp of pure, visceral delight. When the tip of his tongue swept over the seam of her lips, she yielded to him. Opened her mouth to him in submission. Welcomed him.

The firm thrust of his tongue probing the soft inner flesh of her mouth sparked a hunger she couldn’t—wouldn’t—control. Because suddenly, she didn’t just want more, she wanted it all. She welcomed being caught up in a passion too headstrong to be contained. Unconditionally accepted the coil of physical tension winding ever tighter deep in her body, fraught with the promise of sublime release. But most of all, she embraced the freedom to be a woman in love with the wonder of her own sexuality, and enthralled by that of the man who’d awakened it.

Every pore in her body responded to the chill left behind as Carlo traced his tongue in a lazy path from her mouth to the base of her throat. When his mouth slipped even lower, to cover the fabric of her blouse where it lay in disarray over her breast, and drew on the nipple beneath, she choked back a small scream, not of shock or dismay, but because even so slight a barrier between him and her was a penance she couldn’t bear.

Sounds came from a distance, the sleepy chirp of a bird harmonizing with the hushed slur of silk sliding against skin, and breaths snatched from lungs fit to burst. Her heart slammed wildly against her ribs, and if they hurt because of it, she neither knew nor cared. The here and now was all that mattered. No pain could erase the bliss; no injury silence the relentless hum of desire.

Yet she must have winced, or gasped, or given some other sign which he interpreted as distress because, as quickly as it had all begun, it was over. He drew away and imprisoned her hands in his. Dazed, she stared at him, and could have wept for the lost promise so briefly hers to savor.

But then he spoke, and his words filled her with hope again. “It is as well I remembered in time that you have bruised ribs and an injured ankle, cara mia. That alone is all that spared you having to censure me for taking unpardonable liberties. Forgive me. In truth, I could not help myself.”

She debated replying along the lines of, Don’t give the matter another thought. But she’d been allowed a glimpse of something beyond her range of experience; something so wondrous, she wasn’t willing to let it go without a fight. So gathering her courage, she whispered, “What would you say if I told you I’m glad you could not?”

“I’d say that you’re kinder than I deserve.”

“Kindness has nothing to do with it, Carlo. I’m not afraid to say ‘no’ to a man if I don’t find him attractive.” She took a long, quivering breath and dared to look him straight in the eye. “But that wasn’t the case, just now. The fact is, I’ve never been kissed like that before and I…liked it very much.”

“Never?” he echoed, seeming less interested in the compliment than the revelation accompanying it. “What, was your former fiancé such an inept lover?”

“I suppose he must have been.”

“Then why did you stay with him?”

“Because I didn’t know any better—until now.” She lifted one shoulder in a tiny shrug. “You probably guessed I’m not very experienced.”

“No, I did not. And I find such an admission from a woman as beautiful as you hard to believe.”

“Nevertheless, it’s the truth.”

“Then this man who let you go, he was a fool in more ways than one.”

“He did me a favor. We were wrong for each other.” Not wanting to dwell on Tom and his shortcomings—beside Carlo, he faded into a pale gray nothingness so opaque, she could barely recall his face—she searched to change the subject.

Before dinner, she’d noticed the oil painting hanging above the marble fireplace, of a woman with black hair swirling around her shoulders. Her full, sensuous mouth curved in the beginning of a smile, and so skillfully had the artist depicted his subject that it seemed as though her sultry eyes followed a person’s every movement.

Danielle had thought at the time that the portrait dominated the elegant salon but, not surprisingly, hadn’t spared it a second glance since she and Carlo had returned to the room for coffee. Now, though, that dark gaze caught her attention again, striking her so forcibly with silent reproach that there was no turning away from it.

Very much against her better judgment, Danielle voiced the question begging to be aired. “Is that a picture of your late wife?”

“Si.”

“She was very beautiful. You must miss her very much.”

“Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her.”

Danielle winced inside at the shaft of irrational pain his admission invoked. Yet what else had she expected him to say? The late Mrs. Rossi looked exactly the type to inspire eternal devotion in a man. Hot-blooded, passionate, unashamedly sexual.

Had she been born that way, or had Carlo taught her? Had she climaxed effortlessly, and often, when they made love, unlike Danielle who, according to Tom, had been ‘too damned uptight to give in and let it rip?’

She wished she could get up from the couch and go to the window, or to the curio cabinet in the corner, or the little writing desk on the far wall—anywhere but where she was, sitting much too close to Carlo and painfully aware that if he now wore the introspective air of a man lost in precious memories, she had only herself to thank for it.

At length, he turned to her again, a puzzled frown knitting his brow. “Why are you here, Danielle?”

Immediately on the defensive, she replied, “Because you insisted on it. But if you’ve changed your mind—?”

He shook his head. “No, you misunderstand me. Or perhaps I do not express myself clearly. I’m asking what it is that Alan Blake ever has done to deserve having you travel halfway around the world to sit by his bedside?”

“He is my father,” she said simply. “I like to think I’ve outgrown the need to win his approval, but the bottom line is, I continue to hope it’s not too late for things to change between us.”

“And if he should never regain consciousness, if he should die, what then?”

“I’ll go on as before.” She lifted her shoulders in a fatalistic shrug. “You can’t miss what you’ve never had, Carlo.”

His glance flicked to the oil painting above the fireplace. “I envy such a practical outlook.”

“As a man of science, I’d have thought you’d understand it.”

He looked again at the portrait. “Being a doctor does not render me incapable of wishful thinking. It does not make it easier for me to accept failure.”

His wife might as well have stepped down from the painting and once again become a living, breathing entity, so strongly did Danielle feel her presence. “You’re referring to Karina?”

“Yes.” His dark, level brows rose in surprise. “How did you know her name?”

“One of the nurses told me you’d named the hospital after her. How did she die?”

“By accident, in a situation somewhat similar to your father’s. She was climbing in the mountains, and fell.”

“I gather her death is what motivated you to build the hospital.”

“Yes.” Suddenly restless, he got up and went to one of the long windows overlooking the front courtyard. Twilight left the corners of the room draped in soft mauve shadows and cloaked his silhouette in smoky black. “Before she died, we lived in Rome because my work was there. But Karina hated the city. She was born here, and missed her beloved Alps.”

“I’m rather surprised. From the look of her, I’d have expected her to be more at home in the glittering world of high society.”

“Do not assume, because she was from a small town and loved the outdoor life, that she lacked sophistication,” he said. “Karina was a complex woman. Like Galanio itself, she personified cultured elegance.”

From his distant tone, Danielle knew she’d overstepped the mark. He might have kissed her, and intimated he found her attractive, but that clearly didn’t entitle her to comment on his wife. “I never said the two are mutually exclusive, Carlo,” she replied coolly. “Nor was I criticizing. I was merely making an observation. I’m sorry if it offended you.”

He didn’t acknowledge her apology, but continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “She was a chameleon. No matter the circumstances, she adapted. People flocked to her. Friends and strangers alike vied to be part of her circle. They thought she led a charmed life. I knew better, but I turned a blind eye. I put my work first, and in doing so, I lost her.”

“Your marriage failed?”

“Dio, no!” He uttered the denial in vehement Italian. “We loved one another more than life! But in the end, I failed her. She died needlessly.”

“You’re surely not saying you could have prevented her accident?”

“The answer to that question is a matter of conjecture. Karina was strong-willed, and not easily dissuaded, once she’d made up her mind. What I know, however, is that if I had been here when the accident occurred, I might have been able to save her. But I was not here. When she needed me the most, I was in Rome, immersed in my work, and the nearest hospital equipped to treat her injuries was in Milan. She died before they were able to get her there.”

The desolation in his words spurred Danielle to such a flood of sympathy that she forgot about her ankle, and swinging her foot to the floor, lurched to her feet. Pain blazed through her so viciously that black spots danced before her eyes. Reaching out blindly, she stumbled, and half-fell against the back of a chair. Sweat broke out along her hairline and upper lip.

“What the devil—!” Hearing the commotion, Carlo wheeled around. When he saw her, he let fly with a string of words which even she, unfamiliar as she was with Italian, recognized were enough to turn the air blue. “Are you mad, or just stupid?” he snapped, striding forward and hauling her off her feet. “Did I not make it clear that you must keep off that ankle? What does it take, woman, for you to listen?”

“Put me down,” she retorted, every bit as ticked off by his tone as he appeared to be by her actions. “And don’t speak to me as if I’m a backward child.”

“Then stop acting like one! I’ve got enough on my mind, without having to worry about what you decide to get up to, the very second my back’s turned.”

“I never asked you to worry about me. Or to assume responsibility for me.”

“Someone has to, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone else willing to take on the job.”

Such a cruelly accurate observation should have cut her to the quick, or at the very least stoked her anger to fresh heights. But he had one arm curved firmly around her waist, the other under her knees. Her ribs ached from being pressed against the solid strength of his torso. Her ankle throbbed. Yet if some parts of her body hurt like hell, other parts soared in heaven.

His heart beat next to hers. A muscle twitched in his jaw, as if he held on to his control by a thread. His chest rose and fell in rhythm with his agitated breathing. His eyes captured hers in a stormy, unmistakably passionate gaze.

Was this not the stuff romantic dreams were made of—for a woman to be swept off her feet by a tall, dark, sinfully handsome stranger? The only drama missing was a thunderclap to rend the air in two, and lightning to zigzag through the elegant, shadowed room. Instead an ormolu clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour.

If its intent had been to remind them both of who and where they were, it failed—at least as far as Danielle was concerned. Trapped in the echo of its delicate chimes, she lowered her eyes and saw that Carlo had nicked his chin when he’d shaved after work.

Without thinking of the consequences, she touched her fingertip to the tiny scar. Softly she said, “I’d have thought a man of your surgical expertise would wield a razor more skillfully.”

She felt the shudder run through him. Heard the breath whistle through his compressed lips. Another surge of electricity charged the air.

“Stare zitta,” he hissed, jerking his face aside. “Do not say another word, and do not touch me. Do not provoke me into actions we’ll both very much regret in the morning!”

“Are you threatening to spank me and send me to bed?” she taunted softly, possessed by a daring completely foreign to her usual nature.

“Spank…?” He frowned, then allowed his mouth to curve in a grudging smile. “Ah, sculaccierò! Well, not that you don’t deserve just such a punishment, but no, la mia cara, Danielle! Farò l’amore, probabile…and that would be a mistake.”

Again, her grasp of Italian, though skimpy, served her well. L’amore was pretty much universally understood, and it didn’t take a mental giant to figure out probabile—or the reason for the thrill that raced through her body. And again, that imp of mischief prompted her to murmur, “By whose reckoning, Carlo—yours, or mine?”

Very firmly, he marched back to the couch and deposited her on the cushions. “Be warned before you enter into this kind of game with me, Danielle,” he advised, dropping down next to her. “Let there be no doubt in your mind that if you decide you want to play, you’ll abide by my rules.”

A shiver of apprehension snaked up her spine. “Perhaps you should clarify exactly what you mean by that.”

“Being a widower has not rendered me impotent. I have a normal man’s appetites, and his weaknesses, when confronted by a beautiful temptress. And you, cara mia, are all of that, and then some. But no matter how delectable the fare, I do not care to be served the same menu indefinitely.”

“You mean, you’re a one-night-stand kind of guy, and if I let you take me to bed tonight, I’d better not expect to find you still lying next to me in the morning?”

“I would have phrased it more diplomatically, and certainly hope I’m a more considerate lover, but you have the gist of the matter correct. My daughter and my work are the only constants in my life. Everything else…” He spread his beautiful hands in a gesture that said it all: here today, gone tomorrow.

Stung, she retreated behind her habitual cool mask of indifference. “Then let me ease your mind. I most certainly am not planning on becoming a permanent fixture around here.”

“Again, you misunderstand me. You’re welcome to remain in my home for as long as—”

“No, this time, you’re the one who doesn’t understand! I’m talking about Italy in general, not just these four walls. It might come as a shock to your elevated sense of self-importance, but you’re not the only one with a life and an agenda. Just because mine differ from yours and happen to be on hold right now, doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned them.”

He regarded her thoughtfully. “Are you then implying you have indeed met someone else since your engagement ended, and that this new man will be waiting for you when you go home?”

She could have told him he had it right the first time, when he’d said no one seemed to care about her, but her pride had taken enough of a beating for one night. “That’s hardly any of your business, Carlo.”

“You’re quite right, it’s not,” he said. “Nor would I have asked, had you not allowed me to kiss you. But I like to think myself a decent man who would not knowingly infringe on another’s rights.”

She’d have done better to stick with the truth. In wanting to give the impression she wasn’t quite the pathetic waif he imagined, she’d instead left him with the idea that she was easy game for any man who spared her a second glance. And that she found unacceptable.

“Relax, Carlo. Your honor remains untarnished. There’s been no one since Tom. If there were, I wouldn’t have thrown myself at you the way I did. You’re not the only one with standards.”

“I’m glad to learn we’re both of the same mind.”

“I can’t see that it matters much, one way or the other,” she said, faking a yawn behind her hand. “It was only a kiss, after all.”

“Dio mio! Am I intruding on a private moment?”

At the question, both Danielle and Carlo spun around. Zarah Brunelli stood framed in the arched entrance to the salon, her disdainful amusement suggesting she’d overheard enough of the conversation to draw all the right conclusions.

Unperturbed, Carlo rose to his feet. “I didn’t hear the bell, Zarah,” he said.

“I didn’t ring,” she replied, her keen brown gaze taking in Danielle’s scarf, lying in a pool of color on the floor, and the disarray of her blouse hanging half off one shoulder. “Should I have?”

“Of course not. I’m surprised, that’s all. Calandria usually announces visitors.”

“Calandria is in the garden, enjoying the evening air. I didn’t wish to disturb her and told her I’d announce myself. Perhaps I’d have done better to do so more…tactfully.”

Ignoring the snide reproof, Carlo asked, “Is there a problem at the hospital?”

“Not there,” she said pointedly, her glance raking over Danielle who was horribly conscious of her blouse clinging wetly to her camisole from its encounter with Carlo’s mouth. “I was merely passing by and thought Signorina Blake might appreciate hearing that I stopped by her father’s room before I left the clinic, and he remains stable. I hadn’t expected that to be the least of her concerns.”

Once again, Carlo intervened, saying smoothly, “I’d already given Danielle an update, but since you’ve taken the trouble to follow up anyway, may I offer you something? A glass of wine, perhaps, or a little grappa?”

“I won’t say no to cioccolato, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“None at all,” he assured her. “Have you eaten?”

“A sandwich only. It’s been a busy evening.”

“Let me see what I can drum up from the kitchen. Danielle, do you care for hot chocolate also?”

She shook her head, anxious for nothing but to escape to her room. Zarah Brunelli, however, had other ideas. No sooner had Carlo disappeared toward the back of the house than she turned to Danielle, her mouth shaped in a small, inimical smile.

“How nice to have a few moments alone with you, signorina,” she said, gliding forward and taking a seat at the other end of the couch. “I was hoping for just such an opportunity, ever since your unfortunate accident. I do hope you’ll take what I’m about to say, in the same spirit with which it’s intended.”

CHAPTER SIX

DANIELLE spent most of Sunday stretched out on a sun chaise, in the partial shade of a flowering tree. She dozed a little, read a little, and tried very hard not to think about the night before. Her embarrassment over her behavior with Carlo had been made that much worse after Zarah Brunelli had had her say.

If you think to replace his wife in Dr. Rossi’s affections, Signorina Blake, you are wasting your time, and exposing yourself to public ridicule, she declared. He pays attention to you only because he feels sorry for you.

When Anita appeared after lunch, four fluffy white kittens crammed in her arms, Danielle could have cheered. She badly needed diversion, and they provided entertainment in spades.

While the kittens exhausted themselves tumbling over each other on the grass, chasing butterflies and causing minor chaos in general, Anita lay on her stomach with her chin cupped in her hands, and chattered to Danielle about everything under the sun.

Carlo had been gone all day at the hospital, but came home in good time for dinner. After greeting his daughter, examining the bruise on her forehead and pronouncing she was healing well, he shooed her upstairs to change, and joined Danielle under the tree.

“You’re also looking much better today,” he remarked, handing her a white wine spritzer, and sprawling on the lawn beside her with a glass of red wine for himself. “I was concerned Anita might wear you out.”

“Not a chance,” Danielle assured him. “She’s a delight, and I enjoy her company very much.”

He scrutinized her thoughtfully. “Yes, I see that you do. She brings out that warm, approachable side of yourself you try so hard to keep hidden.”

She sipped her spritzer and returned his glance over the rim of her glass. “It’s easy to connect with Anita. I know what it’s like to lose a mother.”

“And nothing ever quite makes up for the woman’s touch, does it?”

“I wasn’t criticizing you, Carlo,” she said hastily. “You’re doing a marvelous job with your little girl. She has beautiful manners, and I think your insistence on dressing for dinner sets a wonderful example. You should be proud.”

“I know it’s easy for a man to overlook the finer points of a child’s upbringing, especially with a daughter,” he admitted, “but I made a commitment to take on the role of both parents. It’s what my wife would want, and I won’t let her down.”

Karina again!

Because you have managed to sweet-talk yourself into his home does not mean that you will ever take his wife’s place, Dr. Brunelli had warned her. I tell you this for your own good, signorina. He is as married to her today as he was the day she walked down the aisle as his bride.

The good doctor could have saved her breath. Dead or not, Karina was always there, an invisible but inescapable presence.

Carlo drained the last of his wine and got to his feet. “I should head in to shower and change, too. My clothes are sticking to me. Are you ready to come inside yet?”

Danielle shook her head. “I’m going to enjoy the sun a little while longer.”

“May I freshen your drink before I go?”

“No.” She held up her glass and swirled its contents. “I still have plenty left, see? But thank you for asking.”

“Then I’ll see you at dinner.”

Indeed she would, she determined, but this time, there’d be no hanky-panky afterward.

As it turned out, she needn’t have worried. Friends of Carlo’s stopped by the house on their way back from dinner in town. Although they were very pleasant and included her in the conversation, she felt she was intruding and excused herself early, pleading the need for an early night.

He left early for the hospital the next morning, but was back at the house by eleven-thirty. He found Danielle reading on the patio outside her room.

“What’s this?” he said, taking her book and tossing it face down on the table by her chaise. “Have you forgotten we have a date today?”

She looked up, surprised. “No, but I thought you had. About taking me to the police station, I mean.”

“Why do you do that?” he asked, regarding her quizzically.

“Do what?”

“Constantly set yourself up for disappointment. I said we’d take care of that today, and I honor my word.”

She gave that charming little shrug which he’d come to recognize as a self-denigrating gesture, one that said, Well, why would any man put himself out for me if he didn’t have to? At first, he’d thought it false modesty on her part, and it had annoyed him. Such a cool beauty must know the kind of lasting impression she made on others.

Since coming to know her better, though, he realized it was the result of her having been let down too many times by those she should have been able to count on. His annoyance persisted, but now it was directed at her father and the man she’d been engaged to. Between them, and for reasons he couldn’t begin to fathom, they’d stripped her self-confidence to the bone.

“Always anticipating the worst is a bad habit to fall into, Danielle,” he said, supporting her as she limped from the villa to the courtyard. “Studies show that disaster and trouble usually manage to find those who go through life expecting them.”

“Dear me!” She eyed him obliquely from beneath her long lashes as he helped her into the car. “I had no idea you specialized in psychiatry as well as neurosurgery.”

He caught a discreet whiff of jasmine, a glimpse of peach lingerie when she turned cautiously to reach for the seat belt. Both prompted vivid recall of Saturday evening’s events. Had Zarah not shown up when she did, the outcome might have been vastly different.

To overcome the tug of desire such a possibility inspired, he adopted the tone he’d have used to lecture a class of novice interns. “The disciplines frequently overlap, signorina.”

“In that case,” she replied saucily, “you ought to be able to tell the difference between negative wish-fulfillment and self-sufficiency, and recognize the latter when it’s staring you in the face. I’ve been looking out for myself since I was eleven, don’t forget. I’m not used to relying on other people.”

“Is that why you refused to let Zarah help you to your room on Saturday night?”

Her expression underwent a change, from pert amusement to stony displeasure. “I didn’t take her offer seriously.”

“She was concerned for you. She told me so, when I came back to the salon with the hot chocolate.”

Danielle’s laugh reminded him of his schooldays, and chalk scraping harshly down a blackboard. “Oh, very concerned, I’m sure!”

“You do not like her?”

“I do not know her,” she said guardedly.

“She is a very skilled surgeon and loyal colleague.”

“She made the latter very clear during the few words we exchanged.”

Suspecting a lot more had been said during his absence than either woman was willing to admit, he remarked, “I was sorry you didn’t wait to speak to me before you went to bed.”

“I was all talked out.”

“All talked out from exchanging just a ‘few words’?”

“It’s wearing, trying to make conversation with someone who isn’t fluent in English, and since I don’t speak Italian…” Again that graceful little shrug, accompanied by the whisper of underthings sliding over her skin.

This morning, she wore a sleeveless pink blouse and a full skirt of some thin, fluttery material printed with fat roses and pressed into narrow grooves. It swirled around her ankles, light as a breeze. Fingering a scrap of fabric, he said, “What do you call this stuff?”

“Accordion-pleated Indian cotton. It hides a multitude of flaws, and takes up next to no room in a suitcase.”

In his opinion, she had no flaws to hide. “It covers too much of you,” he complained, unable to take his eyes off the graceful curve of her legs, outlined by the filmy fabric. “But to get back to what you were saying about Zarah—”

“I have nothing more to add,” she said flatly.

We have nothing to say to each other, Carlo. Nothing at all in common, Zarah had informed him, when he’d questioned her, just that morning.

“A pity,” he said now. “I hoped the two of you might get to know one another better.”

“I wasn’t in the mood for company,” Danielle said.

Before driving away, he slewed another quick glance at her. In profile, she looked remote, untouchable. But he was no longer deceived by that facade, and continued quizzing her. “You were tired, hmm?”

“That’s right,” she agreed, a shade too readily.

“Yet when I came to your room much later, you were not asleep.”

He’d caught her off guard. Her face swivelled toward him, her eyes wide with surprise. “How do you know that?”

“I saw the light shining under your door.”

“Why didn’t you knock and say something, then?”

“Because, Danielle,” he said, leveling a direct gaze at her, “I was afraid, if you opened the door, I’d march in and not be able to leave again. And if my friends hadn’t shown up unexpectedly last night and interrupted us, I’d probably have found myself facing the same dilemma then, as well.”

She blushed and stared at her fingers, locked tightly together in her lap.

“Do I embarrass you?” he asked.

“I embarrass myself,” she said in a low voice. “What happened on Saturday…it’s not like me to be so…aggressive. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Whatever it was, I found it most appealing.”

“I can’t imagine why. I practically threw myself at you.”

“Where is it written that a woman must wait always for the man to lead the way? You expressed your desire, and I was most happy to accommodate it.”

She almost laughed. “Very tactfully said, Carlo! Perhaps your bedside manner isn’t quite as lacking as I once believed.”

“I speak the truth. As for my bedside manner…” He ogled her teasingly. “You’ve yet to experience that.”

She blushed again, bit softly against her lower lip, and pretended to look out at the passing scene. “Is it very far from your house to the police station?”

“Not far, at all. We passed it several minutes ago.”

“But I thought—?”

“I’m taking you to lunch first.”

“No!”

“Why not? We both have to eat, si?”

“You can’t spare the time.”

“In fact, I can. Things are remarkably quiet at the clinic today. In the event that an emergency arises and I’m needed, I can be reached easily enough, and be back there in a matter of minutes.”

They’d arrived at the far side of town by then, where the land flattened out a little. Turning the car along a quiet back street, he parked it in the shade of a stucco wall covered in a flowering vine whose blossoms had begun to fall already. They lay in soft, creamy drifts on the ground, as pale and lovely as Danielle’s skin.

“Come,” he said, assisting her out of the car. “For the next hour or so, I am not your father’s doctor, and you are not his daughter. We are merely a man and a woman enjoying each other’s company and sharing a pleasant meal together.”

“I don’t see a restaurant,” she said, glancing around. “Is this the latest trend of the smart set, to picnic in a back alley?”

“No, cara mia. I’m too fond of my creature comforts for that.” He pushed aside a low hanging tangle of vine to reveal a door set in the wall, and tugged on the old-fashioned iron bell hanging next to it. “But through here lies one of the best-kept secrets in town, one the tourists never find and only the most discriminating locals frequent.”

The door swung open. Lorenzo, the maître d’, stood on the other side. Recognizing Carlo, he immediately ushered them into the enclosed courtyard, his face wreathed in smiles. “Buon giorno, signor e signorina. Come state?” Then, noticing that Danielle limped badly, he hurried to take her other arm and escort her to a table in a sunny corner. “Ah, signorina! Dove le fa male?”

“La sua caviglia,” Carlo supplied. “It is her ankle. Danielle, allow me to introduce Lorenzo. He owns this ristorante with his brother, Lamberto, who does the cooking and whom you’ll probably meet before we leave.”

It had cost her to walk even such a short distance. She had turned pale from the effort, and sank with visible relief into the cushioned chair Lorenzo drew out for her. But despite her discomfort, she managed a smile that lit up her face. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Lorenzo. What a delightful place you have here.”

“Grazie, grazie! It is my great pleasure to welcome you as my guest. You are here on holiday?”

“No,” Danielle explained. “I came to be with my father, who is in the hospital.”

“But Signorina Blake ended up as my patient, also,” Carlo said. “Not a happy coincidence, would you say, mio amico?”

“Indeed not.” Gallantly, Lorenzo raised her hand to his lips, a gesture as natural to him as breathing, but one which sent another flush riding up Danielle’s throat to stain her cheeks a delicate pink.

“You blush like a schoolgirl,” Carlo told her, once they were alone. “I find that unusual in a woman your age, and rather beguiling.”

“A woman my age?” A smile touched her mouth. “I don’t know whether to feel flattered or insulted by that. What does it mean, exactly?”

“That you’re in the early years of your prime, cara,” he said soberly. “At the stage where a man forgets what he is saying, and turns his head to watch as you walk into a room, or pass him by on the street.”

“You don’t really know how old I am, though.”

“But yes, I do,” he said. “You forget, you are my patient, and I have examined your medical chart. You will be thirty in August.”

“Next, you’ll be telling me how much I weigh.”

He cast an appraising glance over her fine-boned frame. “Between fifty-three and fifty-four kilos, I’d guess—about a hundred and nineteen pounds.”

She laughed ruefully. “That’s not fair! A woman’s age and weight are supposed to be her secrets.”

“Yours are safe with me.” He continued watching the different expressions playing over her face, the graceful way she used her hands to illustrate her mood, the lovely line of her neck when she turned her head, the shining fall of her pale gold hair. “Shall I tell you something else?” he said, wondering if she heard the undercurrent of desire threading through his words.

“If I said ‘no,’ would you listen?”

“Probably not. Some things are better out in the open.”

“Fire away, then. I daresay I’ll survive.”

“At forty, you will be irresistible…at fifty, still in your prime but carrying it with more ease. At sixty, men half your age will wish they’d known you when you were twenty. At seventy, your golden hair will have turned silver, but your eyes will continue to mesmerize all who gaze into their green depths. At eighty, you will be beautiful beyond compare, a fragile lady of maturity, with a wealth of wisdom written on her lovely features.”

“What a nice way of saying I’ll be all wrinkled up, like an old prune!”

Abruptly leaning across the table, he grabbed her hands and gave them a shake. “Stop it, Danielle! Learn to accept compliments honestly given and well deserved. It is the mark of true grace in a woman.”

Abashed, she pulled her hands free and hid them in her lap. “You’ll have to forgive me. I’m not very good at doing that.”

“Perhaps because you haven’t had much practice, which says little for the man you once expected to marry.”

“He wasn’t much given to poetry.”

“Nor am I,” Carlo said. “But I do believe in the truth.”

Lorenzo reappeared then, and set before them a dish of olives, a basket of bread warm from the oven, and a shallow bowl of olive oil into which he swirled a stream of balsamic vinegar.

“What would you like to drink, signor e signorina? A carafe of white wine, perhaps, to accompany the very excellent zuppa di cozze Lamberto prepares today?”

“No wine for me, thank you,” Danielle said.

Carlo tapped the phone hooked to his belt. “None for me, either, Lorenzo, grazie. I’m playing hooky, as they say in America, but I could be called back to the hospital at any time. We’ll have a bottle of San Pellegrino, instead.”

“What’s zuppa di cozze?” Danielle asked, when they’d been served their water.

“Mussel soup,” he told her. “Will that be a problem for you?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. I love seafood. It just struck me as a little odd that we weren’t given menus.”

“There are no menus at this restaurant. Every day at dawn, Lorenzo drives to the markets of Milano and buys whatever looks most fresh and appetizing. Sometimes, it is fish, sometimes meat, and always fine cheeses, items for salads, and fruits for the desserts.”

“I thought his brother was the chef.”

“That is correct. While Lorenzo is gone, Lamberto makes pasta and puts the bread dough to rise. When his brother returns, they decide together what surprises they will offer their guests that day. At lunchtime, the food is simple but good. It is in the evening that the brothers shine. Their dinners are perfection. When you’re feeling better and I am not on call at the hospital, we’ll come here again so that you may enjoy the experience for yourself.”

“You don’t have to do that, Carlo.”

“Of course I don’t. But if I choose to extend the invitation, I hope you will accept.”

“When you put it like that, how can I refuse?”

He smiled into her eyes. “You see, you are learning already. Yesterday, you would have turned me down with some absurd excuse. Today, you allow yourself to be open to the idea.”

“Well, I take to heart what you tell me.” She hesitated, as though unsure she should say everything that was on her mind, then took a deep breath and plunged on, “I might not always like what you have to say, but I’m beginning to think I can trust you to be honest with me.”

“You say that as if trust is as foreign to you as being complimented. Do we have your ex-fiancé to thank for that, also?”

“I can’t lay all the blame on him. I was betrayed by my best friend Maureen, too. She was the one Tom married, a month after he ended our engagement.”

“Then she was never your friend in the first place, cara.”

“Obviously not, but by the time I realized that, the damage was done. We’d been together since high school. We knew everything about each other.” She rested her chin in her hand and stared across the courtyard, seeing not the miniature potted palms or tubs of flowers clustered about, but back through time to places and people he hoped never to meet.

“I confided my fears to her, when I began to suspect Tom was falling out of love with me,” she said, her lovely green eyes dark with hurt. “She told me I was imagining things, that it was just pre-wedding jitters. And all the time, she was sleeping with him.”

Carlo wanted to scoop her onto his lap and kiss her so thoroughly that she forgot everyone but him. Instead he said, “Then I wish them the joy of each other, because that sort of deceit exacts a heavy price. People who cheat once are people who’ll cheat again. Sooner or later, this Tom and Maureen will each recognize that, and every time one of them doesn’t show up when he says he will, or doesn’t phone, the other will wonder, and the insecurity will start to spread like poison.”

“Did you ever feel insecure with Karina?”

“Never,” he said. “Even though we often spent time apart, I never once worried that she might deceive me, or become involved with another man, and I never once looked at another woman.”

Danielle made a face, one that said she had a hard time believing him. “Never?”

“Well, okay, I looked,” he admitted with a laugh. “I wouldn’t be Italian if I didn’t appreciate a beautiful woman when I see one. But I never came close to betraying my covenant with Karina. She was my wife, my love, the mother of my child, and our marriage was forever.”

“Yet despite all that, it didn’t last very long.”

“But not because either of us opted to end it. Destiny took us down a different path, one whose stakes were higher than anything we anticipated or wanted.”

“And one you couldn’t change.”

“No. In the end, the choice wasn’t ours to make. If I learned anything as a result of that, it is to make the most of the time we have, and wring every last drop of joy from life, so that if, in the end, we must depend on our memories to sustain us, they’ll be up to the task.”

“Is that your prescription for living, Doctor?”

“I’d also add integrity to the mix. I hope, when I die, that I can look back on my time here without shame. From the little I’ve learned about you, I’m quite certain you’ll have no trouble doing that, although I doubt the same can be said of your one-time friend Maureen, or her husband.”

Lost in thought, she helped herself to the last piece of bread. With a delicate flick of her tongue, she licked a drop of oil from her finger. He watched her, enchanted by everything about her: the shape of her mouth; the way her hair swung softly when she moved her head, its gold shot through with sparkling sunlight; how the gravity with which she appeared to weigh his words reflected in her lovely eyes; the sudden smile that lit up her face when she saw him watching her.

“What?” she said, holding the bread just out of his reach. “Did you want this?”

“No,” he said gravely. “I want you.” And without regard for the fact that they were in a public place, he half-rose from his seat, leaned across the table, and kissed her full on the lips.

He’d meant to make it brief, a taste only, enough to satisfy him until they could be alone again. But her mouth was too delicious, and the way it bloomed under his, too seductive. So he drew out the moment. Made it last until he and she both were left breathless.

It was unlike him to be so impulsive; to give in to such a public display of affection. Shaken by her effect on him, he sat down again and said, “Did I surprise you as much as I just surprised myself?”

“Not only me,” she muttered, rosy with embarrassment, “but everyone else here, as well. There’s a young man over there with an older couple who look like his parents…” She nodded at a table somewhere behind him. “Carlo, his eyes are almost falling out of his head!”

He didn’t bother to turn around. He didn’t care who had seen, or what they thought. “That’s because he’s jealous,” he said. “He wishes he was in my place.”

Lorenzo arrived with their lunch just then, an interruption that brought about a swift change in the conversation. As though to keep him at a respectable distance, Danielle latched on to the mundane topic of the weather, when Carlo would have preferred to talk about her.

“How can it be so warm here, when there is snow not more than half an hour’s drive away?” she wanted to know, tackling the side salad served with the soup.

“We’re part of the Italian Lake District, and there are many such lakes in this part of the country,” he explained. “Some are small and relatively undiscovered, others like Como are large and famous, worldwide. But regardless of their international reputation, they all enjoy a unique microclimate. In the winter, it is milder here than elsewhere in Italy, and in the summer, pleasantly cooler.”

“A kind of Mediterranean climate, then.”

“Exactly. You’re seeing us at our best. May is perfection—predictably warm and clear, and brilliant with sun. In another few days, when you’re in better shape to enjoy it, I’ll take you on a sightseeing tour. The scenery here is among the most spectacular in Europe.”

She shifted uneasily in her seat. “Perhaps,” she said evasively. “We’ll see how things go.”

If he had his way, there was little doubt about how “things” would go. The attraction between them was as flammable as gasoline, they were both consenting adults and he didn’t understand her ambivalence.

One minute she was…not exactly throwing herself at him, as she’d suggested on Saturday, but certainly eager and receptive to his advances. The next, she was pulling away, shutting him out. And he wanted to know the reason. What made her so mercurial, so afraid?

His train of thought jerked to a sudden stop as a possibility he hadn’t even considered occurred to him. “Are you still a virgin, Danielle?” he inquired abruptly.

She was so indignant, she almost choked on her salad. “What makes you ask a question like that?”

“Curiosity,” he said. “On the one hand, your actions tell me you recognize the spark between us. On the other, I sense a fear in you that prevents you from enjoying what could be a mutually pleasurable association.”

“An affair, you mean.” She curled her lip in distaste.

It was his turn to shrug. “I would call it una relazione, un’ amorosa. Either way, you have not answered my question.”

“Mostly because you had no right to ask it in the first place.”

“Then I apologize. It was not my intent to offend you.”

She pushed aside her salad and poked moodily at the mussels floating in her soup. At last, defiantly, she said, “Well, I’m not—a virgin, that is. Does that make me shop-soiled goods in your eyes?”

“Of course not. Dio, Danielle, don’t be absurd! But when a man receives mixed messages from the woman in whom he expresses interest, he is left to wonder if there is a reason for them.”

This time, she reduced her bread to crumbs before answering, “If you must know, I’m not very good at…sex.”

She looked as if she feared that merely uttering the word would condemn her to everlasting hell. Unaccountably moved by the vulnerability he saw behind the torment, he said gently, “Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s true. Tom told me so.”

“And who was Tom, to make so harsh a judgment?”

“Someone who brought a lot more experience to our relationship than I did. He is the only man I gave myself to, and then only because I thought we were going to be married.”

“Then all I can say, cara mia, is that he did you a great favor when he let you go. To spend a lifetime with a man so inept that he could not pleasure his wife, is a punishment no woman deserves, least of all one as sensitive as you.”

Of course, she blushed. “Are all Italian men born with a silver tongue, or are you unique?”

“I speak not to flatter you, Danielle, but to reassure you. Perhaps we will one day make love, perhaps not. But if we do not, it will have nothing to do with your perceived inadequacies as a partner.”

“My, my!” she said, covering her discomposure with a sarcasm he would have resented had he not known what prompted it. “Shall I add ‘sex therapist’ to your list of credits?”

“No,” he replied. “You should finish your soup and stop trying to make me dislike you. It’s a waste of time, cara. I’ve already made up my mind that I like you very much, and find you very desirable.”

“Stop that!” she whispered, with a furtive glance around the courtyard. “What if someone should hear you?”

“Then they are eavesdropping on a private conversation, and should be ashamed of themselves.”

The muted ringing of his phone spared her having to respond to that, and by the time the call was over, she was preparing to leave.

“You’re needed at the hospital, after all,” she declared, struggling to her feet. “And I can see from the look on your face that it’s something serious.”

He wondered if he should tell her the call had to do with her father; that Alan Blake had briefly opened his eyes. But such occurrences were not uncommon in comatose patients, and didn’t necessarily denote improvement. Carlo would not raise her hopes, only to dash them again. She’d already weathered enough disappointments in her life.

“It could be,” he hedged. “I won’t know until I examine the patient.”

“Then let’s get going. Time is of the essence, surely?”

He thought not, but again refrained from saying so. Instead, he tried to deflect her. “There’s no need for you to cut short your lunch. Why not stay here and let me order you an espresso, and a taste of Lamberto’s famous gelato di limone alla amaretti? Then when you’re ready to leave, Lorenzo will arrange a taxi for you.”

“No,” she said. “I’d rather come with you. While you’re looking after your patient, I’ll spend time with my father.”

This is why I abhor deceit, he thought wryly, realizing she’d painted him into a corner. Even with the best intentions, it inevitably traps the deceiver into more deception.

“Carlo?” She was eyeing him curiously. “Why the indecision?”

“I feel guilty for putting such an abrupt end to our lunch.”

“Oh, rubbish!” she scoffed. “The matter’s settled, so let’s not stand here debating the issue. You’re needed at the hospital. Let’s go.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

IF THEY hadn’t happened to arrive at the hospital to find various medical personnel in her father’s room, Carlo wouldn’t have left Danielle to wait in the visitors’ lounge. And if, having done that, he’d not left the lounge door ajar, she’d never have overheard the conversation taking place in the corridor outside. But both incidents did occur, and as a result, a day that had begun quietly, then brimmed with unexpected sweetness, turned sour.

At first, Danielle didn’t pay much mind, partly because the men in question were speaking Italian, and also because they kept their voices reasonably low. But the repeated mention of Carlo’s name eventually caught her attention, especially when it was mentioned in conjunction with la donna americana, and Il Ristorante Lorenzo.

Perturbed, she hobbled across the room and popped her head around the door. Not ten feet away, three interns stood at a water cooler, and one of them she instantly recognized as the young man she’d noticed sitting behind her and Carlo at lunch.

Now wearing hospital greens like his colleagues, he was regaling them with an account that left them sniggering, and once again, Danielle didn’t need an interpreter to tell her why. What she and Carlo had fondly believed to be a discreet rendezvous, had been witnessed down to the last detail, and was already being planted on the hospital grapevine.

How many people would hear the story by evening, and how much it would be embellished in the telling, made her shudder. She’d had enough of being made to look a fool, but more than that, she cared a great deal that Carlo should be made a laughingstock also.

That that would happen, Danielle had little doubt. Zarah Brunelli had made specific reference to just such a development, during her Saturday night tirade.

You have no right, she’d declared, to prey upon Dr. Rossi’s sensibilities. He cannot afford the complications you bring to his life. By staying here, you compromise his integrity. It is a well-established rule in our hospital that, under no circumstances, do staff members engage in personal relationships with patients.

Offended by the woman’s presumption, Danielle had replied, Carlo’s a grown man. I hardly think he needs you or anyone else to intercede on his behalf.

But, You know nothing about him, Zarah had snapped. If you did, you’d be well aware that he serves his own interests last. You take advantage of his generosity and care nothing for what it might cost him.

The truth of her words now came home to roost with a disturbing vengeance. Utterly mortified, Danielle’s first reaction was to slink back into the lounge and ignore the unpleasant scene being played out in the hall. Hers, though, was not the name others would remember a month from now. Carlo was the one who’d pay the price.

She might not be able to reverse the damage already done, she realized, but at the very least, she had an obligation to try to contain it. Bolstered by a surge of righteous indignation, she stepped into full view of the men, shook her cane at them, and fixed them in a glare that effectively wiped the smirks off their faces.

“Do you speak English?” she inquired icily.

“Si, signorina,” one of them stammered. “A little.”

Limping closer, she pointedly took note of the name on his ID badge. “I’m so glad, Dr. Puddu,” she said, then turned her attention to the other two. “What about you?”

“The same,” the one she identified as Dr. Esposito admitted, while the third, who’d been doing all the talking before she made her presence known, nodded and looked anywhere but at her.

“Why so silent suddenly, Dr. Gallo?” she snapped. “You weren’t at a loss for words a moment ago. It surely can’t be the sight of me wielding a cane that’s scared you spitless?”

“No, signorina,” he babbled. “Indeed we all wish you speed in recovery. To have suffered such an unfortunate accident…” He threw up his hands and lapsed into Italian.

He was young, as were they all. Probably still in their early twenties, and just starting out in their field. But of the three, his discomfiture was so acute that Danielle felt almost sorry for him. Not enough, though, to let him off the hook.

“I take it you know who I am, Dr. Gallo?”

“Si, signorina,” he mumbled, his face scarlet. “You are the Signorina Blake.”

“And you’re equally aware that I’m well acquainted with Dr. Rossi. What do you suppose his reaction would be, if I were to tell him what I just overheard, or worse, insisted you repeat to him, word for word, what you were so eager to impart to your colleagues?”

The poor kid turned quite gray, and the other two didn’t look much better. Either there was no Italian equivalent of the old expression, Never let them see you sweat, or, if there was, they’d never heard it.

“You understood every word?” Gallo asked, forcing the question past his bobbing Adam’s apple.

“Enough, certainly, to create a great deal of trouble for you and your friends.”

The collective reaction to her threat—the nervous clearing of throats, the appalled exchange of glances—gave her pause. Young Dr. Gallo was not the only one at fault. He might have fired the gossip cannon, but she and Carlo were the ones who’d supplied the ammunition.

Wanting to be fair, she considered a moment, then said, “I suggest you go about your business, as I intend to go about mine.” She fixed Gallo in a blistering stare. “But if I hear that so much as a whisper of your gossip spreads any farther, I’ll know who to blame, won’t I?”

“It will not occur,” he promised.

“Then we’ll consider the matter closed, shall we?”

The relief of all three was so palpable, she thought for a minute that they might fall down and kiss her feet. Instead, with many a fervent Certamente, signorina! Grazie, signorina! they hurried away to their duties. And not a moment too soon. Barely had they disappeared down the corridor than Carlo arrived, and one look at his face told her that more urgent matters were afoot than the tongue-wagging of three young interns.

“I have news, Danielle,” Carlo said. “There are signs that your father’s condition is changing.”

Her heart plummeted so abruptly that she’d have toppled over if he hadn’t been there to steady her. “Ch…changing how?” she faltered.

“He has opened his eyes briefly, a number of times,” he said, guiding her back into the lounge.

“But…isn’t that good news?”

He sat down next to her on the couch and clasped her hands between his. “It’s remarkable, given that he’s been comatose for less than four weeks, and I’m cautiously optimistic that we’ll see further indications of improvement. But I don’t want to raise your hopes, only to have to dash them again. There are degrees of improvement, cara. For some patients, it’s eventually total. For others, it never progresses beyond a certain point.”

“You mean, the most my father might ever achieve is opening his eyes?”

“That’s one end of the spectrum. The other is that he’ll make a full recovery. But the gray area in between is where the uncertainty lies.”

“What are you really saying, Carlo?”

He tightened his grip, as though to sustain her for the worst. “The day we met, I explained the possibility that your father’s primary injury might result in secondary permanent paralysis. You need to be prepared for that, Danielle, because should it prove to be the eventual outcome, he won’t accept it easily.”

“Well, no! What man would?”

“Very few,” Carlo admitted. “And that’s the point I’m trying to make. He might well take out his frustration on you. I’ve seen it happen many times where the patient punishes those closest to him by rejecting them.”

“I’ve survived my father’s rejection before. I can do it again, if I have to. When can I see him?”

“I’ll take you to him now.” He offered his arm for support and led her into the corridor. “By the way, what were you doing out here, just now?”

“Stretching my legs,” she said airily.

“What if you’d fallen, and done more damage to yourself?”

“But I didn’t. The cane helps tremendously. In fact, I believe my ankle’s on the mend. It’s not quite as painful as it was yesterday.”

“I’ll have the final say on that, Danielle. When you’re done visiting your father, I’ll give the ankle a thorough examination, and check your ribs again while I’m at it.”

Check, as in subject her to his touch and, after Saturday night, expect her to sit there as if she were made of stone? She should let him trace his fingers deftly up her rib cage, and not quiver with pleasure when they happened to brush the underside of her breast? Should remain coolly immune as he cradled her foot and ran his hands up her calf, when every inch of her hummed with a tactile need so intense she wanted to scream?

He was out of his mind!

“Here we are,” he said calmly, swinging open the doors to the ICU wing. “Don’t expect too much, cara. Although you may not immediately notice a difference in your father, there has been a change.”

It was as well he’d warned her what to expect. At first glance, her father seemed exactly as he was the last time she’d visited. But on closer inspection, she saw that his eyelids flickered as if he was dreaming.

“Talk to him,” Carlo suggested quietly. “Call him by name, let him know you’re at his side. It’s entirely possible that he hears, even though he seems not to respond.”

She searched for something meaningful to say. Had it been her mother lying there, she’d have had no difficulty pouring out her love and concern. No problem leaning over and pressing a kiss to her cheek. The words, the touches, would have flowed without effort. But her father…?

Inching close to the bed, she said awkwardly, “It’s Danielle, Father. How are you feeling?”

Shockingly his eyes opened, and it seemed to her they blazed with a scorn that suggested only a congenital idiot would ask such an inane question of a man hooked up to so many machines that he was stripped of all dignity. If he’d been able to speak, she had no doubt he’d have barked, How the devil do you think I feel, you fool?

Painfully aware that she was making a complete mess of things, she looked to Carlo for help. And he, exactly sensing her unease, pressed her shoulder comfortingly and murmured, “Don’t be discouraged, Danielle. Just keep talking about everyday things—the weather, what you’ve been doing, where you went for lunch. Anything at all, no matter how trivial it might seem. I’ll be right outside, if you need me.”

She watched as the door swished shut behind him, then turned again to her father. For all that they’d never been close the way most parents and children were, his slow blink this time expressed such despair that her heart bled for him.

“I’m glad I’m here,” she said, taking his hand. “I’ll stay as long as you need me. Mom would want that.”

Mention of her mother provoked another blink, then another, and she thought that, fleetingly, his fingers tightened a little around hers. But then, as though the effort of listening to her halting words had exhausted him, he closed his eyes and his hand lay limp in hers.

“I’m sorry you’re laid up, Father,” she whispered. “I know how much you must be hating it. But you’ve never been one to give in without a fight, and you’ll win this battle, too.” She leaned over and kissed his sunken cheek. “I’ll leave you to rest now, but I’ll come back again tomorrow and bring you some recordings of your favorite operas.”

Carlo had witnessed many a tragedy in his time, but none quite as pitiful as that being played out in Alan Blake’s room. Danielle was an intelligent, articulate woman. That she found it so difficult to communicate with her father bore out what she’d said about their relationship. There was no connection between them. They were not in tune.

How lonely her growing years must have been, and what joy Alan Blake had missed by refusing to involve himself with his only child. Carlo could not conceive of such a state of affairs. Since he’d lost Karina, everything he was, everything he did, was for Anita. She was the sunshine of his days, the stars in his night, and without rival in his heart—until Danielle came into his life.

The woman he’d initially dismissed as having nothing behind her beautiful face but a heart of stone, had let him see the scars inside. Had shown the soft, tender part of her soul that she tried so hard, and so unsuccessfully, to hide. And in doing so, she’d captivated him in a way none of the women he’d known since Karina had ever managed to do.

Those others had been but a diversion, a brief and pleasant interlude whose names and willing bodies merged into a faceless blur of unremarkable memories easily pushed aside in the pressing urgency of his work. But Danielle, whom he’d known less than a month, crept into his dreams and occupied altogether too many of his waking moments.

She brought to the fore the primitive male in him. He wanted to slay all her dragons. Stand between her and anything that threatened her peace of mind. Why else was he peering furtively between the slats of the blind covering the observation window into her father’s room, poised to rush to her rescue if visiting him became more of an ordeal than she could handle?

She was a grown woman, for pity’s sake, and well used to looking out for herself. Intellectually, he knew that however cruelly Alan Blake had treated her in the past, he was powerless to hurt her now. Yet a wave of relief washed over Carlo when he saw her turn away from the bed and head toward the door.

Instead of coming to where Carlo waited for her, though, she stopped just outside her father’s room, grasped the handrail, and pressed her forehead to the wall in an attitude of such profound sadness that it was all Carlo could do to maintain a professional front. But he had a position to uphold; an example to set, and was very much aware of the covert glances directed at him by the staff on duty. His interest in Danielle had not gone unnoticed. At the very least, he was obliged to abide by the standards he imposed on others.

Balling his fists in impotent frustration, he fought the urge to go to her, to take her face between his hands and kiss her sweet mouth. To sweep her in his arms, and carry her away from this too-public arena, to a place where he didn’t have to worry about prying eyes, and could concentrate solely on her.

He didn’t realize Zarah had been among those observing him until she sidled up to and, under pretext of examining a chart, said in a low voice, “Don’t be taken in by that little performance, Carlo. Your Miss Blake isn’t nearly as fragile as she looks. She’s fully aware of the tragic picture she paints, and isn’t above using it to her advantage.”

“What are you suggesting?” he asked, disguising his resentment at her remark with hard-won calm. “That she’s unaffected by her father’s condition, or that her injuries aren’t real?”

“Oh, she plays the role of devoted daughter well enough now that she’s here, but we both know how long she waited before bothering to fly to his bedside. As for her injuries, she might have twisted her ankle and sustained a few bruises, but she no more needs to be hopping pitifully around on a cane than do you or I. It does add just the right touch of drama, though, doesn’t it?”

Cold with hidden fury, he said, “Such a lack of compassion hardly becomes you, Doctor.”

“I am as capable of compassion as you, Carlo,” she shot back. “The difference between us is, I reserve mine for those who need it. I’m telling you frankly, that woman is milking her situation for everything it’s worth and you…!” She drew in an irate breath. “You have to know you’re walking a very fine ethical line in catering to her. Everyone in this hospital sees it. The talk is spreading like wildfire.”

“We’ve already had this discussion once, Zarah, and I’m no more inclined to justify my actions now than I was the first time you brought it up,” he said brusquely. “In saving my child’s life, Danielle Blake put her own in jeopardy. I owe her an enormous debt of gratitude.”

“I don’t disagree, but there are other ways of showing it than those you choose to employ.”

Noticing that Danielle had recovered her composure sufficiently to make her way back to the visitors’ lounge, but was encountering difficulty with the wide swing doors separating ICU from the rest of the hospital, he said, “Take another look at her, Doctor. Notice how, even ‘hopping pitifully around on a cane,’ as you so charitably put it, she presses her free hand to her bruised ribs. I should leave her to fend for herself, knowing as I do that she has neither friends nor family close by to help her recover from injuries which, contrary to what you imply, have been verified through X-ray and impartial examination by well-qualified doctors on my staff? I think not!”

With open disgust, Zarah slapped closed the chart she carried. “Clearly I am wasting my breath.”

“Not to mention your time, Doctor,” he snapped. “That being so, I suggest you devote it to the patients most in need of it, instead of frittering it away on matters that are none of your concern.”

She regarded him from wounded brown eyes. “In all the years we have worked together, you have never spoken to me so harshly or with such disrespect. In a matter of mere days, you have allowed a woman you scarcely know to turn you against me. She has bewitched you, Dr. Rossi!”

Perhaps she had. If so, he was finding it an exhilarating experience, one he was not yet ready to end, not by a long shot. “I’m done here for today,” he told the ICU head nurse, and set off down the hall in search of Danielle.

He found her staring pensively through one of the long windows in the lounge, but on hearing him enter the room, she swivelled to face him and he saw at once that something untoward had occurred, because she’d taken refuge behind that icy mask of reserve she’d worn when first they met.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she announced. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Can it not wait until I’ve examined you?”

“No. It’s something that needs to be dealt with now.”

“Very well.” Closing the door for privacy, he joined her at the window. “I’m listening.”

His steady gaze seemed to unsettle her. She glanced away and fiddled with her watch strap. At last, she said miserably, “I think I should find another place to stay. Things are becoming too…complicated with my being under your roof.”

“You do not hear me objecting, Danielle.”

“Others might. Some already are, in fact.”

Deciding there was nothing to be gained by trying to dodge the issue, he said bluntly, “Are you referring to Zarah?”

She hesitated again, before admitting, “Among others, yes. I saw the two of you going at it just now, and I’d have had to be blind not to notice you weren’t having a particularly amicable exchange. You were talking about me, weren’t you?”

“I—”

“Don’t bother denying it, Carlo. I already know how Dr. Brunelli feels about my living with you.”

“You say that as if we’re sleeping together every night.”

“As far as some people are concerned, we might as well be.”

“Zarah said that?” Dio, but if so, the woman would hear from him in no uncertain terms!

“Not in so many words, but she made it clear enough, when she stopped by on Saturday, that she thinks you’re allowing needless guilt to cloud your judgment. She also pointed out that you have a reputation to maintain; that by inviting a patient to live in your home, you could be accused of violating your professional ethics. And you know what? She’s right. You’re taking the kind of foolish and unnecessary risk no doctor can afford.”

She stopped to take a breath at that point, and he jumped in before she started up again. “May I speak now, my lovely?”

“Yes. But cut out the flattery. It’s not going to change my mind.”

“Then allow me to say that I fully agree with you, and with Dr. Brunelli. I must indeed put an end to things.”

He’d managed to shock her. Her delectable mouth fell open, and she stared at him, temporarily at a loss for words. At length, she said, “So we finally agree on something.”

“Absolutely. I will take immediate steps to rectify what is unquestionably a most unsatisfactory situation.”

She considered that for a moment, rather gloomily, he thought, then said, “I’m happy to hear it.”

Hiding a smile, he walked her to the Emergency Unit where Gino Ferrari was again on duty. “I’m returning Signorina Blake to your care, Doctor,” he declared. “She claims she’s feeling much better and is ready to start moving around under her own steam. It’s up to you to decide if she’s right.”

If Gino was surprised to find himself suddenly in charge again, he was professional enough not to let it show. “Certainly, Dr. Rossi.”

Carlo nodded. “Then I’ll be off.”

“You’re leaving?” Danielle exclaimed in disbelief.

“Why not?” he replied cheerfully. “I have patients of my own to look in on, and since I’m no longer on your case, I’m not needed here. But don’t worry. You’re in very good hands. Dr. Ferrari is one of the best.”

“But…but—!”

“But nothing, Danielle. I don’t expect to be gone long, and once Dr. Ferrari is finished with you, I’ll take you to collect your belongings from il commissariato di polizia, as promised. Where is the problem in that?”

She swallowed. “I guess there isn’t one.”

“Then cheer up, my dear. You’re getting your own way at last. Isn’t that just what you wanted?”

“Yes,” she muttered morosely.

“I don’t know what you’re looking so smug about,” she told Carlo, as he drove away from the clinic. “Just because you’ve palmed me off to Dr. Ferrari doesn’t change the other things we spoke about.”

“But most certainly it does,” he said. “Now we are simply friends, which makes it perfectly acceptable for you to stay as a guest in my home.”

“It does nothing of the sort! People will continue to talk.”

“I really don’t care,” he said.

“Well, I do! I’m moving to a hotel, and that’s final. There’s got to be one down on the promenade, where I won’t be in danger of rolling down the nearest hill and landing in the lake.”

He raised his eyes as though praying for patience. “Be sensible, Danielle. You’re in no shape to be look after yourself properly.”

“On whose say-so, Carlo? Yours?”

“No, on Gino Ferrari’s. You heard his parting recommendation. You’re definitely on the mend, but not quite as far along as you think. Try to rush things and you risk damaging your injury further. I won’t let you take that chance.”

“You don’t have any say in the matter. It’s none of your business.”

He pulled the car over to the side of the road and killed the engine. “What’s this really all about, Danielle? Why are you being so obstinate, when you know I have only your best interests at heart?”

Initially, she hadn’t meant to tell him what she’d overheard, but she realized now that keeping silent did him no favors. “If you must know, we were spotted having lunch today.”

He shrugged, unconcerned. “So? Where is the crime in that?”

“You kissed me.”

He let his gaze linger on her mouth. “So I did. I found it a spectacularly pleasant experience.”

“One of your interns was also at the restaurant.”

He raised his eyebrows, surprised. “I didn’t think my interns could afford to patronize Lorenzo’s. I must be paying them too much.”

“This is no joke,” she said sharply, slapping him on the arm. “It so happens he was the one I mentioned at the time, with the older couple who might have been his parents. The point is, he saw you kiss me and found it highly entertaining. He couldn’t wait to spread the word when he came back to the hospital.”

“Point him out to me, and I will deal with him.”

“No need, I already did. But don’t you see, this thing between us—”

“What ‘thing’ is that, cara?” Carlo murmured wickedly, his gaze drifting over her.

“Stop making fun of me, Carlo! Before long, the entire hospital is going to pick up on what’s going on between us, and even you won’t be able to stop it.”

“And if that should happen, it will be but a nine-day wonder which both of us will survive. Other things, other people, will eventually claim the spotlight, and we will become old news.” He threaded his fingers through hers. “You know, Danielle, even the great and mighty Carlo Rossi is allowed a life outside his hospital.”

“You just don’t get it, do you?” she cried. “It’s not just about you! What about me? How do you think I feel, knowing that your colleagues see me as some sort of…of besotted leech besmirching their precious boss’s spotless reputation?”

She heard her voice soaring out of control and wobbling perilously close to tears, and he heard it, too. “Tesoro,” he murmured, cupping her face tenderly, “anyone less like a besotted leech than you, I cannot imagine.”

A second later, his hands were weaving through her hair to draw her head closer, and his mouth was hovering above hers.

“Stop…!” she begged weakly, even as her own hands curled around his neck.

“No,” he said. “This isn’t just about you, either, and it’s most definitely not about anyone else. It’s about us, and I think it’s time we both stopped fighting, and dealt with the fact.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“DEALT with it how?” she managed to ask tremulously.

“Like this, for a start,” he said, and kissed her again.

Then he kissed her some more. Enough to send her senses swirling, and that damnable heat flooding through her until not even her sore ribs could prevent her from squirming in her seat.

“I don’t see how that’s going to help any,” she said, when she could breathe again. “It’s precisely what got us into trouble at lunch.”

“The difference is, my lovely Danielle, that at lunch we were trying to be circumspect. Once discovered, our behavior became too tempting for that impudent young intern to ignore. But the minute we make no secret of the fact that we are engaged, we cease to be of interest.”

“Engaged?” She gaped at him, sure she couldn’t have heard right.

“In un intervallo piacevole,” he explained. “An enjoyable exchange for both of us.”

And still just another way of saying “an affair,” something she’d rejected out of hand a week ago. But that was before she learned that she wasn’t entirely dead from the neck down. That perhaps there was some truth to all those books on female sexuality she’d pored over during her engagement to Tom. That perhaps, with Carlo, she could become the woman she was born to be.

If she were to agree to his proposition, would she not benefit in the long run? If she thought of him only as her tutor, and not her lover, would she not be better equipped to commit fully to another man, some day in the future, and not make a mess of it this time?

Shaken by how willing she was to abandon the moral principles by which she’d lived until then, she made a last stab at upholding them. “It wouldn’t work. You’re still my father’s doctor.”

“So?” He played with her hair, letting it curl around his fingers and spill against her neck. “That doesn’t preclude an association with his daughter.”

“Some people might be taken in by that line of reasoning, Carlo, but we both know it’s full of holes. You’d still be leaving yourself open to criticism.”

“Not so, cara. Granted, your father is still my patient, and in that context, my interaction with you will remain strictly professional. But away from the hospital, we are free to enjoy each other as we please, without fear of reprisal.”

Tiring of her hair, he blew gently in her ear and, heaven help her, the warm draft shot straight through her body, gathering steam as it went, and landed between her legs. There’d been nothing in any of those books to prepare her for that!

“There’s something else you haven’t considered,” she said, sounding as winded as if she’d climbed the nearest snowcapped peak. “We can’t very well be having sex in one room, with Anita sleeping next door. It wouldn’t be right.”

Good grief, she hadn’t meant to phrase it quite so crudely, but in all truth, she was so beside herself that she hardly knew what she was saying.

“Of course it would not,” he said calmly. “What kind of father do you take me for?”

“What are you proposing, then?”

“That you trust me to protect both my daughter and you.”

Had he been anyone else, she’d have laughed in his face. A woman didn’t trust a man she hardly knew, just because he asked her to. Some, she’d learned to her cost, you couldn’t trust even when you’d known them for years. But he was Carlo Rossi, and instinct told her he was a risk worth taking.

“Well, Danielle? What’s it to be?”

“O…kay.”

Okay?

Oh, please! Where were the words when she needed them most? Where was the eloquence, the sophistication, the poise?

“Okay,” he said, and coming from him, in that deep, sun-kissed honey of a voice, the word sang with romantic promise. “So you will not slap my face if I kiss you again?”

“I think I might die if you don’t!”

His laughter spilled into her mouth like champagne. Intoxicated, she closed her eyes and her mind to everything but the moment, and as his lips claimed hers, let him take her on the first leg of their journey together, determined that, for however far it might go and however long it might last, she would savor every second.

Just then, a car swept by, the blasting of its horn a raucous violation of the moment. Lifting his head, Carlo smiled into her eyes and murmured, “That was a reminder that I’m illegally parked. I’m afraid we must postpone this most pleasant diversion until later.”

“We should probably get down to the police station, anyway,” she said, faintly disconcerted by the fact that, while she still floated on a cloud of improbable romantic illusion, he had no trouble at all keeping a firm grip on reality.

“Indeed. And if that doesn’t take too long, we’ll drive by Anita’s school afterward, and give her a ride home.” He tossed Danielle a quick glance as he fired up the engine. “You don’t mind if we take a little detour?”

“Of course I don’t mind!” she exclaimed. “I love spending time with Anita. She’s a joy!”

“She’s fond of you, too, cara, and small wonder. It’s been a long time since she had a woman take such an interest in her.”

“How can you say that? Calandria adores her.”

“But you are closer in age to a mother.”

Out of nowhere, the thought struck, And I could love her like a mother, given the chance. Fortunately Danielle had the presence of mind not to speak it aloud, nor even to allow it to take firm root. To do so would be asking for nothing but heartache. “Does she have no friends in a similar situation?” she asked instead.

“Mothers who died?” Carlo looked at her askance. “Fortunately not.”

“I was thinking more of parents who’re divorced.”

“Divorce is not common among the families of children attending a Catholic school.”

Well, talk about managing to put both feet in her mouth at the same time! “Of course not,” she said hastily. “I didn’t realize—”

“Why would you? The subject has never arisen.” He drove in silence for a while, then said, “Another reason I decided to open a clinic here in this town is that it’s what Karina would have wanted. We spoke many times of where we’d live when Anita was of school age, and I know that my wife didn’t want our daughter growing up in a large city, with the dangers such places present these days. She herself was a former pupil of La Scuola Privata di Santa Elisabetta, and had very fond memories of the kindness of the nuns who run it. She is happy, I’m sure, to know that her child enjoys the same excellent care.”

Again, he spoke as if Karina were still alive, and Danielle knew that, in a way, to him she always would be. Any time he was faced with a decision concerning their daughter, his late wife’s wishes would come into play. Every time he looked at their daughter, he would be reminded of the wife he’d lost. No one could miss the resemblance Anita bore to her mother, and as the girl matured, the more striking that resemblance would likely become.

“You grow silent, Danielle,” he said, his tone teasing. “Why is that?”

She couldn’t very well tell him that she was awash with unreasonable jealousy; that the way his voice softened when he spoke of Karina made Danielle ever more aware that she’d never known such unqualified devotion from any man.

Nor could she tell him that she found herself wishing she could have his baby. Yet for all that the idea was both unprovoked and outrageously preposterous, the almost primeval ache in her womb was disturbingly real.

“I’m reminded what a good father you are, and how lucky Anita is to have you,” she improvised.

“Oh, but I make mistakes all the time, Danielle,” he replied, pulling the car into an empty parking slot in front of the police station. “I’m very far from perfect.”

“No one ever achieves perfection, Carlo, but I’d say you come as close to trying, as anyone I’ve ever known.”

“I’ll remember you said that, if I ever need a character reference.” Laughing, he climbed out of the car and came around to open her door. “Let’s collect your stuff. I’d offer to do it for you, but you’ll have to identify the items and sign for their release. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

As it turned out, the process wasn’t quite as straightforward as he predicted, because she also had to file a theft report. Her handbag had indeed been recovered, but it was empty of all it once contained. “I’m not sure I remember everything,” she muttered to herself, running a finger down the list she compiled of its previous contents. “Money, credit cards, cosmetic bag, tissues, comb…”

“What about jewelry, signorina?” the officer taking her statement inquired.

“No, nothing like that.”

“Travel documents, mementoes?”

“Oh, my goodness, yes! My airline ticket and passport—” She stopped and turned to Carlo. “Oh, and a photograph of my mother—my favorite, Carlo! It usually stands on my bedside table, but I took it out of its frame and brought it with me, because I thought…I thought seeing her face might help my father.”

Recognizing her dismay, Carlo consoled her with a hug, and said, “Look at it this way, cara. At least you still have the CD player and recordings to give to him.”

“But that’s what I don’t understand.” She poked miserably at the stack of discs. “It’s not as if I was carrying much cash. I’d have thought they’d have been more interested in these, which are at least worth something.”

“You must be a very inexperienced traveler, signorina,” the officer told her. “There is a huge black-market for stolen passports and credit cards. It is never wise to carry such an important document as your passport with you, unless you are in transit.”

Thoroughly chastened, she said, “I know that, but it was with my ticket, in a concealed, zippered side pocket of my bag used only for that purpose, and I just didn’t think I needed to worry about it in a town this size.”

“Galanio is no different from anywhere else when it comes to petty crime.” He slapped closed her file and bent a stern look her way. “You will have to contact the American Consulate General in Milano. Someone there will assist you in obtaining temporary travel documents.”

“So much for your theories about small-town living,” she said glumly to Carlo, when they were back in the car.

“You have no copy of your mother’s photograph?”

“I’ve got the negative, thank goodness.”

“Then do not be so downcast, my lovely one,” he murmured, cupping her jaw tenderly. “The rest are just things, and can be replaced.”

“And what am I supposed to do in the meantime, stand on the corner and beg? All I’ve got left are my clothes and a few other personal possessions at your house. Nothing else.”

“You have me,” he said. “I will not let you starve.”

“It’s not your job to provide for me. For heaven’s sake, Carlo, I’m supposed to be an adult! I don’t know what I was thinking, to be so stupid.”

“You are most assuredly not stupid.”

“Careless, then.” Frustration had her choking back tears. Despite occasional bright spots, the day just kept getting worse. What else did it have in store? she wondered.

“Not careless, either,” Carlo said kindly. “You were preoccupied with your father, wondering how you could help him. And then, without warning, you were thrown into a crisis not of your own making. Do not blame yourself because, in putting Anita’s safety before your own, misfortune befell you.”

“It’s my fault the passport was stolen. The police officer was quite right. I should have left it in my room.”

“Ah, the passport…!” He snapped his fingers dismissively. “So much fuss about a matter so easily resolved. On Wednesday, I work just half a day. In the afternoon, we will go to Milano, to the Consulate, and take care of the passport. As for the money, I will give you what you need for now, and—”

“No, you won’t! I’ve accepted enough favors from you, as it is, and I’ll be damned if I’ll take money, as well. I’m not your mistress, Carlo.”

He covered her mouth with his hand. “Hush, Danielle! I was about to say, I will give you what you need for now, and you will repay me when your affairs are again in order. Would you not do the same for me, if our situations were reversed?”

“Well…yes.”

“But of course you would. It is how friends do for friends, si? And we are very good friends, are we not?”

“Yes,” she said again, shutting the door on the regret that they could never be more than that. He’d made no secret of the fact that he wasn’t looking for long-term involvement, and in agreeing to what he’d termed a mutually pleasant interlude, she’d accepted his terms. Now she’d have to find a way to live with them.

“Then let us waste no more time arguing.” He shot back his cuff to check his watch. “If we leave here immediately, we’ll still be in time to pick up Anita after school.”

They made it with only seconds to spare. Barely had Carlo parked the Lamborghini on the far side of the circular drive, than girls ranging in age from six to about ten came pouring down the front steps of the handsome building housing their school.

“There she is!” His face lighting up in a blinding smile, Carlo climbed out of the car and held open his arms as Anita raced toward him.

Again, envy clamped an unforgiving fist around Danielle’s heart. A person had only to look at the child to see the utter joy, the absolute faith, Carlo inspired in her. She was so completely cherished by her father that she’d survived the terrible loss of her mother with her spirit undimmed. She would never have reason to question his love; never wonder if he resented her for living, when his wife had died.

“Danielle!” Squealing with delight, Anita detached herself from Carlo, and ran around the other side of the car to stick her head in the open passenger window. “Come to see my classroom, and my teacher, please! I tell her so much about you.”

“Another time, tesoro,” Carlo said, tweaking one of her long, lustrous braids. “Remember Danielle’s not as far recovered as you are. Climbing in and out of the car is still painful for her.”

“But when you are well again, you will come then?”

How could she refuse this enchanting child? “I’d love to, sweetheart.”

Anita gave a satisfied nod. “Then I will be a patient.”

“I hope not,” her father said, his laughing gaze swinging to Danielle. “What you mean is, you will be patient.”

“I do not understand the difference, Papà.”

He hoisted her into the back seat of the car. “To be a patient means you are ill or hurt, and a doctor must look after you. To be patient is to wait without complaining, even though you would like to make time pass more quickly.”

She reflected on that for a second or two, then asked, “But what if Danielle goes home before that time comes?”

He climbed behind the wheel and again settled his gaze on Danielle, the difference being that, this time, it was not laughter she saw in his gray, beautiful eyes, but a hunger barely kept in check. “She will be here for quite some time yet,” he promised. “Her father still has a long way to go before he is well again.”

Fire licked along Danielle’s veins. Left her stomach churning; her thighs quivering. And, sweet heaven, another embarrassing hot flood leaking between them to dampen her panties.

“But what if she grows tired of waiting, Papà? What if she becomes bored?” Anita persisted.

“We’ll have to find a way to keep that from happening. Come up with a diversion of some kind.” He speared Danielle with another heated glance. “Is that not correct, signorina?”

“If you say so,” she replied demurely. But inside, exuberant happiness sang through her blood and filled every last corner of her soul.

The sky had never seemed bluer, the grass never more lushly green. The most handsome man in the world was looking at her as if she were a treasure beyond price. Before long, they would come together, perhaps in the shadow of moonlight, perhaps in some secret, sun-filled place. They would lie naked beside each other. He would possess her, and she would soar like a caged bird at last set free. She would fly with him, all the way to the stars and back…

Good God, what was wrong with her? Her father lay in a coma from which he might never fully recover. She was thousands of miles from home and friends. She had sore ribs and a sore ankle, and someone had stolen her purse. She had no money, no credit cards, and no passport. And all she could think about was Carlo Rossi’s beautiful hands touching her, and his mouth doing unmentionable, heavenly things to her. Things she’d only read about but never dreamt she might one day experience firsthand.

She was nuts. Definitely.

Or else, she was in love.

Her thoughts screeched to a halt. Left her heart palpitating, and her palms damp with shock.

“Is there something wrong?” Carlo inquired.

“Of course not. Why do you ask?”

“You are flushed, suddenly, and you regard me with deep anxiety. You’re surely not afraid of me, Danielle?”

“No,” she replied breathlessly. “I’m afraid of myself.”

“Because she might fall and hurt herself again,” Anita piped up from the back seat.

Carlo pressed his lips together to contain a smile and rolled his eyes. “I’d forgotten we had a chaperone. We’ll finish this conversation later.” Then, clearing his throat, he glanced through the rearview mirror at his daughter. “Tell us about your day, Anita. Which part was the best?”

“To come out of school and see you and Danielle waiting for me,” she promptly said. “I felt like my friends. Sometimes, their parents meet them when it’s time to go home, but I only ever have Calandria to look for me.”

“I know, tesoro,” he said. “But you understand that I have to be at the hospital, looking after people who need my help.”

“Oh, yes,” she replied sunnily. “But today it was nice for it to be different.”

Totally sympathetic to what the child was really trying to express, Danielle said, “Soon I’ll be able to walk farther. When that happens, I could come through the park to meet you after school. Would you like that, sweetheart?”

“Si!” Anita bounced up and down in glee. “Oh, yes, Danielle! I would like that very much.”

“But only for as long as Danielle remains in Galanio, of course,” Carlo remarked casually. “You must not forget she’ll eventually have to leave us.”

Though ostensibly directing his reminder at his daughter, Danielle had the feeling he was sending a similar message to her, one that ran along the lines of, Don’t make yourself too indispensable, my dear. Because you and I have agreed to a little romantic fling doesn’t change the fact that you’re just passing through our lives.

After that, even though the sky remained cloudless, the afternoon somehow didn’t seem quite as sunny.

She was unusually quiet during the drive home, which he put down to her having endured a stressful afternoon. When she spoke barely a dozen words to him throughout dinner, he assumed it was because she and Anita were engaged in lively conversation.

He didn’t object. Seeing his daughter’s animated face, hearing her infectious giggle, gave him untold satisfaction. As for Danielle, watching her always brought him pleasure, even when she acted as if he weren’t at the table.

But when he had to leave for the clinic just as the meal ended, and came home no more than an hour later to find she’d retired for the night, he went to investigate, afraid she might not be feeling well.

“Oh,” she said, opening the door to his knock. “You’re back already.”

“You sound surprised,” he teased. “Who else were you expecting?”

“Definitely not you, Carlo,” she answered, rather stiffly he thought. “I thought we agreed there’d be no hanky-panky here at the house.”

“Hanky-panky?” Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he leaned against the door frame and studied her. She’d changed into a loose, silky robe that fell to her ankles, and had scrubbed her face clean of all make-up. But although she appeared well enough in terms of her health, something was definitely amiss with her mood. “I’m not familiar with this word ‘hanky-panky.”’

“Funny stuff,” she elaborated, studiously avoiding his gaze. “Messing around.”

“Being intimate, you mean?”

“You could call it that, I suppose.”

Becoming annoyed, he said sharply, “I suppose I could. Certainly I find it vastly preferable to the terms you’re using. But to answer your question, no, I’m not here to press you into ‘funny stuff’ or ‘messing around,’ and definitely not any ‘hanky-panky.’ I was surprised that you’d retired so early, that’s all, and I wanted to make sure everything was as it should be.”

She did look at him then, and he realized her eyes were bright with unshed tears and that when she tried to stammer an apology, her chin quivered uncontrollably.

At once remorseful, he pushed away from the door frame, and cupping her elbows, drew her closer. “There is something wrong! Confide in me, cara. Let me help.”

She shook her head. “It’s nothing, really. I just…let my imagination run away with me.”

“In what way did you do such a thing?”

She shifted restlessly in his hold, and cast about for an answer. “I was worried. About my father. I thought, when you were called to the hospital, that it was for him…and the news was bad…and you didn’t want to tell me.”

She was lying. Although a plausible enough excuse, it didn’t account for her distant behavior before that. But she was so visibly overwrought that he decided not to press the point. Perhaps she was merely hormonal, in the way that women were.

“Danielle, if that call had been about your father, not only would I have said so immediately, I’d have taken you with me to the clinic,” he said firmly. “I have neither the right nor the will to do otherwise.”

She lifted one slender shoulder in a faint shrug. “But now that we’re sort of involved, you might—”

“Want to spare your feelings? Cara mia, did we not establish, just this afternoon, that one has nothing to do with the other?”

“A lot happened this afternoon. It’s taking some getting used to.”

“For me, also.” He tipped her face up to his. “You know, if you continue to look so desolate, I’m going to break the house rules and kiss you. And with your bed not more than a few meters away, that could lead us into all kinds of trouble.”

The ghost of a smile flickered over her mouth. “That kind of threat begs to be put to the test.”

“All in good time, cara. For now, join me in the library for a respectable after-dinner brandy.”

She chewed her lip, considering. “All right. Give me five minutes to change.”

“Not necessary,” he said. “Calandria has laid a fire to ward off the evening chill. You’ll find the room very cosy.”

“But I’m wearing only my bedroom slippers, and this caftan isn’t much better than a nightgown.”

He twirled an imaginary mustache. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed, la mia bella!”

Until then, she’d seen only a limited part of the main floor of his home. She knew that the sweeping staircase led upstairs to five bedrooms, had visited Calandria for mid-morning coffee once, and seen the conservatory beyond the kitchen. But now, as Carlo ushered Danielle through double doors at the back of the foyer, she saw there was another wing attached to the villa, and recognized at once that it was much older than the rest of the house.

Tiles painted in varying shades of rich burgundy, dark blue and muted gold covered the floor of the long corridor. Oil paintings which, even to her untutored eye, were obviously originals, lined whitewashed, rough plaster walls. The glass in the windows was thick and wavy with age. Black iron light fixtures, which once had held candles but now were fitted with electric chandelier bulbs, hung from the raftered ceiling.

“Watch your step,” Carlo cautioned, taking her arm more firmly. “The floor is uneven in places.”

“But very beautiful,” she said. “Is it hand-painted?”

“Si. The monks who once lived here built everything themselves. They fired the tiles, carved the ceiling beams, plastered the walls. Sadly, most of the monastery burned down in the late eighteenth century, but this section was saved. For years after that, it was put to a variety of uses—a church school, the local priest’s house, a museum, and even, for a short time, a prison.”

Danielle shivered. “A good thing the walls can’t talk. They’d have some gory tales to tell.”

“More than you can begin to guess, cara. During the Second World War, local partisans hid out here. When the fighting was over, the place stood empty for almost twenty years, and fell into such disrepair that the city fathers decided restoring it would be too costly.”

They’d reached the end of the corridor by then, and he pushed open another door. The architectural details of the room he now used as a library matched those in the corridor, but a carpet the color of whipped cream, sitting squarely in the middle of the floor, softened the hard tiles, and glass-fronted bookcases of a much later vintage lined the walls.

“This used to be the monks’ communal dining hall, if the historical records are accurate,” Carlo said. “Now, it’s my retreat from the world, and the place where I catch up on my paperwork.” He indicated the manila folders stacked on a large library desk. “There’s never time to keep abreast of it during the day.”

“You need an administrative assistant.”

“I already have one. You met Beatrice, the day you came to my office to inquire about your father. She transcribes to disk the final copy of my case histories, but this is where I organize the data.”

“So when do you find time to enjoy these?” Danielle sank into the corner of one of the two leather sofas flanking the massive fireplace. The cushions were so deep and soft, she didn’t know how she’d pull herself out again.

“Whenever I can steal an hour to catch up on the latest medical research.” He poured grappa into tall, bell-shaped crystal glasses, and came to sit next to her. “Or whenever I lure a beautiful woman into my private lair.”

“You do that often?” He was teasing her, she knew, and despite her earlier doubts about the wisdom of embarking on an affair with him, she found her spirits lifting.

“Not often at all.” He clinked his glass lightly against hers. “You’re the first.”

But probably not the last. “Tell me more about this retreat of yours,” she said quickly, before her lurking insecurity could gain a foothold and spoil the mood. “If the city didn’t restore it, who did?”

“Karina’s grandparents bought it, not because they had any particular interest in what was left of the monastery, but for the two acres of lakefront land it sat on. When she was a girl, she and her friends used to play here. The ruined section made for wonderful games of hide-and-seek.” He took a sip of his brandy and rolled it slowly over his palate before adding, “She loved this place.”

Karina…Karina…! Her ghost was everywhere, even in a building well over three hundred years old. Was there no place free of her memory?

Ashamed that she could think so unkindly of a woman cut down in her prime, Danielle said, “Is that how you came to live here?”

“Indirectly, only. Eventually her grandfather sold the land. By then the masonry on the building was crumbling, the exposed beams in danger of falling without notice. So the new owner had the worst of it demolished, and left the rest standing, but sealed off. It made for a picturesque curiosity, with its bell tower rising from ancient walls overgrown with vines. Tourists were so intrigued by it that, until quite recently, it was featured on postcards of the region.”

He lapsed into silence and Danielle steeled herself to patience, knowing from the faraway look on his face that although he sat beside her in body, in heart and mind he was years removed from the moment.

At length, he said, “When I decided Galanio was where I wanted Anita to grow up, the land was again for sale, and it seemed like a sign—as if Karina were giving her seal of approval to the move. I bought the property, and while the hospital was being built not fifteen minutes away, the villa was taking shape here. When both were completed, I hired experts to restore this wing and incorporate it into the main house.”

In all sincerity, Danielle was able to say, “You did a marvelous job on all three.” Then, staunchly rising above another fit of jealousy as misplaced as it was useless, added softly, “Karina would be proud.”

“She’d be disappointed that I couldn’t save the bell tower, though. Unfortunately, it was structurally unsound.” He reflected on that a second or two, then shook his head and smiled ruefully. “But why are we wasting this time together speaking of history, when the here and now holds so much promise?”

The way he was looking at her, the intimate purr of his voice, left her shaking inside. “Does it, Carlo?”

“You need to ask?” He reared back and stared at her incredulously. “Can you not see that it is only by talking incessantly that I’ve been able thus far to steer my mind away from the temptation you present?”

“But I thought…” She shrank farther into the corner of the sofa, her nerves in a sudden uproar at the predatory gleam in his eye. “You said we shouldn’t…that it wouldn’t be right—”

“Do you not understand that, for all my fine, upstanding talk, I brought you to this secluded corner of my home, knowing full well what the probable outcome would be?”

“No,” she said baldly. “Quite frankly, I didn’t think you were the least bit interested in…”

She ground to a halt, unsure how to phrase her response. If doing it tonight sounded impossibly gauche, making love didn’t exactly fit the occasion, either. The way she saw it, you couldn’t make love, if you weren’t in love—and he’d made it abundantly clear love didn’t enter the picture.

“Yes?” He regarded her quizzically. “Not the least bit interest in what?”

She coughed to hide her embarrassment. “That,” she said.

He took her brandy glass and placed it alongside his own on the edge of the hearth. “Then let me show you how wrong you were, la mia innamorata. Because that is exactly what I have in mind.”

CHAPTER NINE

HEAVEN help her, but now that the moment was upon her, she froze with terror. There was none of that lovely warmth she’d experienced when he kissed her earlier; none of that swirling agitation that left her fighting to breathe.

Oh, her heart was racing, but with fear, not anticipation. His gray eyes might have turned all smoky with desire. He might think she looked irresistible, with her painted toenails peeping out from beneath the hem of her caftan. But he’d change his mind when he had her stripped naked and found there was really nothing there but a hundred and eighteen pounds or so of skin and bone incapable of responding to his seduction.

“I’m not…prepared,” she muttered, too many memories clouding her mind.

Did I hurt you? Tom had once asked, rolling onto his side after they’d been in bed, supposedly enjoying each other when, if truth be told, he’d been interested only in pleasing himself.

Watching a moth flutter madly inside the lampshade on the dresser, and oddly able to identify with the poor creature’s plight at being fatally drawn to a flame that would ultimately destroy it, she said, No. Why do you ask?

I thought you moved, he said, then seeing her stricken expression, had laughed and said, Lighten up, for crying out loud! It’s a joke that’s been around for years.

“I am prepared, Danielle.” Carlo’s voice drifted gently against her ear, soft and beguiling as midnight. “I would not jeopardize your future or mine by making you pregnant. There are already too many unwanted children in the world.”

If I were to have your baby, I’d want it!

It wasn’t the first time she’d allowed such a thought to take shape in her mind, and she floundered, horrified by a reaction so instinctive and uncompromising that, this time, she almost uttered it aloud.

“Do you not agree, Danielle?”

“Well, of course I do,” she managed. “But you might at least have given me prior warning of your intentions.”

“And have you find a reason to close your bedroom door in my face?” He curved his hand around her jaw. “My patience is sorely tested, Danielle. I have wanted you almost from the moment I first set eyes on you, and I believe you want me—but if you truly are not ready, you have but to say so. I will not take you against your will. Making love is for two people, not one.”

“Oh, Carlo!” Her voice broke and she leaned into him. “You know very well that I want you, too, but I’m so afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

“Why do you say that?”

She looked at him, pure torment churning her insides. But better he be forewarned than feel she’d deceived him after the fact. “If you must know, I’m…frigid.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Whatever put such an idea in your head?” Then, disgust filling his voice, he said, “Ah, as if I need to ask!”

Miserably, she said, “I just thought you had the right to know.”

He tilted her chin and forced her to meet his steady gaze. “Look at me, Danielle. I am Carlo, not Tom.”

“How did you know I—?”

“Hush,” he murmured against her lips, as he shaped his hands over her hair and down her throat. “Let me show you the difference between him and me.”

She thought she knew what to expect. After all, he’d kissed her more than once. But never at such unhurried length, as if he had all the time in the world.

He’d touched her, too. Had examined her bruised ribs, her sore ankle. Then his touch had been probing, professional. Had even caressed her in a way that was anything but professional—but never like this, as if he were drizzling warm honey into every pore of her skin. Never with his tongue following his hands, and leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

He’d spoken to her before, more times than she could count. Sometimes with detached courtesy, as a doctor; sometimes with the gracious ease of a host; on occasion guardedly, as a reminder that, even though they were attracted to one another, at the end of it all, they would go their separate ways. And always, always, in near-flawless English and with absolute clarity, so that she was never in doubt as to the message he was conveying.

Now, though, muffled syllables rolled off his tongue like dark music that came distantly to her ears in that sequestered room. Yet although he murmured in Italian and she didn’t understand a single word, still she knew what he was telling her. The heated passion in his voice transcended international barriers and spoke to her in the universal language of love.

Bemused, she let it sweep her past the boundaries which before had always contained her. Borne on its hypnotic current, she didn’t protest as he pulled her caftan over her head and left it to puddle on the rug at her feet. She didn’t cringe when his gaze lingered on her breasts, her belly, her thighs. What she did was rise up to meet his kiss and push aside his shirt.

His chest was hard, smoothly sculpted, smudged with a dusting of dark hair. She splayed her hands wide, let them roam over him at will, loving the texture of him, the latent strength beneath his skin.

Not until she heard his sharply indrawn breath did she realize she’d trapped his nipples gently between her fingers. Shocked by her audacity, she went to remove her hands. But he captured them and pinned them against him. Lowered his dense black lashes in pleasure, and whispered, “Ah, si, cara mia! Si!”

Subsiding against the soft leather, she dared to trespass farther. To his midriff, flat as a board, bisected by a narrow band of dark silky hair which disappeared inside the waist of his trousers. Up his ribs, to his shoulders gleaming bronze in the firelight. Down his arms until she found his hands again and guided them to her own breasts.

And all the time, a core of fire struggled to ignite within her. Its heat encroached on her skin, impaired her breathing. But it didn’t consume her. Didn’t make her forget she could never go the full distance. Weaving like an insidious disease through her awakening response, the question lurked: when would she grind to a halt? When would he stop murmuring Si, and start asking impatiently, Che cosa c’è? What’s the matter?

Or, as Tom once put it: Are we having fun yet?

Riddled with uncertainty, she turned her face away. Fixed her gaze anywhere but on him. Firelight glimmered on the cut crystal stemware. Roses shone ghost-pale in the moonlight outside the windows—a beautiful, ethereal sight.

Carlo’s hand swept the length of her with proprietary command. “Look at me, Danielle,” he ordered. “Say Carlo.” He dipped a finger between her clenched thighs, and stroked once. “Say it now.”

She jolted upright, and thought she might have screamed his name, except, with that one deft touch, he rendered her too mindless to know anything for sure. Strangling on a moan, she hovered somewhere just this side of paradise. A wash in the maelstrom of sensation he’d invoked, she ached for more, and was terrified she might get it and go mad as a result.

“Yes,” he purred, easing her back against the cushions and stroking the hair from her face. “Just so, tesoro.”

She relaxed. Closed her eyes. Almost smiled as she felt his mouth at her breast. At least now, she was on familiar, if unremarkable ground. But he wasn’t content simply to latch on and worry her nipple with careless lips and teeth. Rather, he courted it. Danced his tongue over and around her flesh until it fairly sang with pleasure. Finally he drew her deeply into his mouth, and at the same time took a little piece of her soul, too.

As much as her ribs would allow, she stretched like a lazy cat. Tumbled her fingers through his hair. Only when he abandoned her breast for her waist, and from there traveled to the triangle of skin stretched over her hip bone, then lowered his head between her thighs, did she begin to squirm, all aflutter with nervous dread.

He wouldn’t…! He couldn’t! Not there!

She tried to clamp her knees together. Calmly, remorselessly, he pushed them apart, and put his tongue where his finger had been. Right there!

“Aah!” This time, she yelped, quite literally shocked to the core.

As if he were soothing a frightened mare, he stroked his tongue deeper, back and forth, up and down, in and out. Not a millimeter of her most private flesh went undiscovered. And try though she might to hang on to her sanity, she could not.

Her mind turned to mist, but even as it disintegrated, a faraway fluttering of wings gathered momentum deep inside, until her entire body trembled from the force of it. Something tightened low in her belly—an invisible spiral of sensation so exquisitely painful that she whimpered. Clutched at Carlo. Begged without knowing what it was she begged for.

The wings swooped closer, closer, invading her until she could hear nothing over their ruthless cadence. And then, when she thought she could not endure it a second longer, the tension snapped. Agony peaked into pure, involuntary rapture. Her thighs fell slackly open, and everything she was or had ever been, poured free in a relentless tide of emotion that left her drowning in tears.

Carlo held her close. Told her she was beautiful, magnificent. Dried her face with the front of his shirt. It smelled of sunlight and him, and she wished he’d never let her go.

He did—but only for as long as it took him to shed his own clothes. When at last he stood before her, naked and proud, she gazed her fill, unembarrassed. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, as close to a god as it was possible for a mortal to be.

Tentatively she stretched out her hand and dared to touch him. He covered her hand. Pressed it firmly against him. She closed her fingers possessively over him, pretending, just for a minute or two, that he was hers to caress every night, for the rest of her life.

I love him… I love him… The words beat insistently in rhythm with her heart.

He smiled at her, drew her gently down on the thick rug. “I keep my promise, you see,” he said, ripping open the foil wrapping on a condom. “I won’t leave you pregnant.”

I wish you would…! But he’d already performed one miracle, and to ask for another was unconscionable. It was her turn to give without looking for reward.

“Let me,” she said, reaching for the contraceptive.

He relinquished it without a murmur and waited for her to make the next move. He was impressively aroused. If she were dextrous enough, she could probably have rolled the rubber in place without actually touching him. An hour ago, it was what she’d have preferred. That way, she’d have been less likely to make a fool of herself.

Now, she wasn’t important. Now, finding a way to let him know how deeply he’d moved her ranked above all else. She could not take him in her mouth. Could not pleasure him as he’d pleasured her. She didn’t know how. But on impulse, she knelt before him, and dropped a row of kisses along the silken length of him. Demurely enough, with her lips firmly closed, she’d have said, but the way he grasped fistfuls of her hair and groaned deep in his throat told her differently.

“Be swift,” he muttered hoarsely, encouraging her with impatient hands to slip the condom in place.

Fumbling just a little, she accomplished the task. By the time she was done, sweat gleamed on his forehead and his chest heaved. “Tell me if I hurt you,” he said, easing her onto her back. “Your ribs—”

“To hell with my ribs,” she told him, and pulled him on top of her.

He braced himself on his elbows, taking the weight from her upper body, but allowing his penis to nudge at her belly. Willingly she opened her legs and guided him home. He slid inside her in one urgent thrust. Filled her completely. She tilted her hips upward, greedy for more.

“I would like to love you slowly, cara mia,” he panted, his breathing ragged and uneven, “but you test my stamina sorely. Be still, I beg you. I am not yet done pleasing you.”

Not yet done, when he’d exceeded her wildest expectations? She had dissolved beneath the seduction of his tongue. Had felt her soul fly to the most distant heavens, her heart almost burst out of her chest. How could there possibly be more?

Yet even as the questions took shape in her mind, he began another subtle assault on her body, retreating and advancing inside her until, in a frenzy of need, she locked her legs around his waist and imprisoned him. She wanted all of him; everything he had to give her. Just for a little while, she wanted to believe he was hers for the rest of her life.

The only way she knew how to achieve that was to imprint as much of him on her senses as possible—how he tasted when she bit into his shoulder; what he felt like when she dug her fingernails into the smooth skin of his back; how he sounded when he whispered her name in anguished tones—so that, no matter how many years might pass, the memory of him would never fade.

It wasn’t enough. As he’d promised, there was more. More of the fluttering prelude to ecstasy. More coiling tension exploding free in a blinding array of colors so dazzling, she scrunched her eyes shut.

This time, though, she didn’t soar alone. He was with her every step of the way, his arms keeping her safe, his kisses anchoring her to earth, his body protecting hers from splintering into a million brilliant shards.

She felt the shudder ripple over him, the surge of his seed, trapped though it was from reaching its true destination. She knew, when his head dropped heavily to her shoulder and his breath rasped against her neck, that he was utterly spent.

She knew, because for those few precious moments, her heartbeat echoed his. The same exhaustion sapped her strength, leaving her limp and gloriously sated. They were, briefly, entirely in tune with one another. Two halves of a perfect whole.

Long moments later, he rolled onto his back, and pillowed her head on his chest to keep her close. Too full of emotion to speak, she aligned herself against him. Pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder.

“Tell me, cara, do you still believe you’re frigid?” he inquired, with lazy amusement.

“Why do you ask? Were you disappointed with my performance?”

Laughter rumbled deep in his chest. “Do I look disappointed?”

“I don’t know.” She allowed herself a tiny victorious smile. “Did I seem frigid?”

“You were meravigliosa! Perfetta!”

“Because of you, Carlo,” she said dreamily. “I hardly recognize myself, and it’s all because of you.”

He flung out his free arm and picked up the nearest grappa flute. Leaning on his elbow, he brought the glass to her lips, tipped it so that a little brandy trickled into her mouth, then took a sip himself. “It was a pleasure to awaken such an apt and willing pupil, tesoro.”

Ah, yes! A timely reminder indeed, and coming not a moment too soon. In the languid aftermath of intimacy, it was easy to forget the real reason she’d had sex with him, and instead drift into the treacherous fantasy realm of “what if?”

They were not lovers. For them, there was no “forever,” no “happy ever after.” She was the pupil only, and Carlo merely the master teacher. Those were the indisputable facts. Yet accepting the reality all over again ripped holes in her newfound bliss.

He offered her another shot of grappa. Welcoming its numbing effect, she raised her head to accept, but this time his aim was off. The liquor sloshed over the rim of the glass, missed her mouth completely, and dribbled into the valley between her breasts.

“Dio mio!” he crooned. “What a shame to let such excellent brandy go to waste.”

Before she had time to guess his intention, he lowered his head and lapped at the drops, his tongue flirting with the inner curve of her breasts as he journeyed south. The thrill of his touch, light and mischievous, set new flames of awareness dancing playfully over her skin.

She stretched indolently, loving the uninhibited freedom to enjoy the sensory pleasure he bestowed. “How decadent!”

“Che deliziosa!” He chased the grappa down her ribs and caught it as it pooled in her navel.

Until he swirled his tongue in that diminutive, unremarkable hollow, she’d never suspected it was yet another hotbed of erotic possibilities. But he knew. He knew, and he tormented her with the knowledge, blowing a stream of cool air on her heated flesh, then tantalizing her some more with his tongue.

The lassitude fled her limbs. A butterfly cartwheeled in the pit of her stomach. Her entire torso twitched convulsively. She clutched a handful of his hair, breathed his name on a quivering exclamation of surprise. Begged him to stop, pleaded with him not to, and when she was so mindless with pleasure that she didn’t know what she was saying, he abandoned her navel and again sank his mouth between her legs. Legs that, this time, opened willingly, eagerly, shamelessly, for him.

Unerringly his tongue found just the right spot. Flicked once, twice. No more than that, but it was more than enough. Without warning, the explosion tore through her, so ferocious in its strength that her cry echoed shrill and desperate, like that of a wild creature dying in the night.

Boneless as a rag doll flung carelessly aside, she sprawled before him in the grip of a lethargy so complete that, even if the house had caught fire and threatened to burn her alive, she could not have drummed up the energy to save herself.

Yet despite the debilitation seeping through every other part of her, one area remained unsatisfied. There between her thighs, where his tongue had probed with such telling results mere seconds before, her one-time impervious core of femininity throbbed without mercy.

She reached for him. “Come into me, Carlo,” she begged. “Fill me again…please…!”

“Give me a moment,” he replied hoarsely.

She waited in a fever of impatience, knowing he was right to take precautions, but hating that it was necessary. To feel him spill hotly inside her, to curl up and hoard his sperm safe in her womb, that was how it should be between them.

But then he was with her again, crowding her senses. Pushing aside everything but the touch of his hands, his mouth, his body. All she had to do was follow where he led. Let him give her another miracle to cherish. When she convulsed around him, all she had to do was ride the rapture—and stem the words echoing the pulsing of her body. I love you, Carlo! I love you, I love you…!

He awoke, chilled and disoriented, to a room filled with early sunlight, and the gray ashes of a long-dead fire in the hearth.

Dismayed, he raised his left wrist, squinted at the hands of his watch. It was half-past six. In less than an hour, he was scheduled to perform surgery. Calandria would be serving his breakfast momentarily. And he was lying on the rug in his library, with his right arm numb, a crick in his neck, and Danielle curled up next to him with her silky robe draped half over her legs.

Porca miseria! How could he have allowed this to happen? “Danielle,” he said urgently. “Wake up! It is morning!”

Mumbling sleepily, she burrowed deeper against his side. She smelled of soap and shampoo—and sex. Enough that, despite the hour, and the incident that eventually had cast a pall on an otherwise perfect evening, he grew hard and hungry for her, all over again.

Annoyed, he eased his arm from beneath her head so that it lolled onto the rug with just enough of a thump to bring her awake. For a moment she stared at him, her eyes a soft, sleepy green, then she scrambled to a sitting position and clutched the caftan to her, to cover her nakedness.

Too late, Danielle. Much too late. I’ve already seen, tasted, taken, and risked, more than is good for my peace of mind. “I must get you back to your room,” he said, stepping into his clothes. “Quickly, before anyone realizes you’re missing.”

She climbed awkwardly to her feet, tried to put on her caftan, then lowered her arms, her face pinched into a grimace of pain.

Noticing, he said, “Your ribs?”

“Among other things,” she muttered, coloring. “If you must know, I hurt all over.”

Small wonder. She’d been tight as a virgin, and they’d made love three times in all. Would have done so a fourth time, if she’d had her way. In the heat of passion, neither of them had shown much consideration for her injuries from the accident. Now every ache, every sore spot, was letting her know about it.

Taking the garment from her, he said, “Allow me.”

He slipped it over her head and tugged it into place on her shoulders. Guiding her feet into soft-soled slippers took but another few seconds. Within ten minutes of his awaking, they were making their stealthy way to the main part of the house.

Easing open the double doors a crack, he peered through. No sign of Calandria, but he could smell coffee brewing, hear pots clattering in the kitchen. “Come quickly,” he said, taking Danielle’s hand, and pulling her across the foyer and down the hall to her suite. “We’re almost home free, as you say in your country.”

A moment later, he had her door open and had hustled her into the room with rather more haste than chivalry. “Carlo,” she began. “About last night, and the way I acted—”

“Not now, Danielle.” He backed away, hands raised. “I have more important things on my mind.”

Her face fell, although she tried not to let it show. “Of course. Don’t let me keep you.”

Her hair was mussed, her mouth bee-stung from his kisses. Battling the urge to kiss her again, he said, “I’m already running late.”

Retiring behind her familiar mask of reserve, she said stonily, “I quite understand.”

“I don’t think you do, cara. Forty minutes from now, I perform surgery on the twenty-five-year-old father of two young sons. He has a brain tumor the size of a small orange which is pressing on his optical nerve and causing him blindness. I would dearly like to save his vision and his life.”

Her mouth formed a silent, distressed Oh!

He finger-combed his hair. “To do that, I must be focused, ready, in control, yet here I am, distracted and ill-prepared. I need to shower, shave. Swallow a cup of espresso and collect myself before I head out.”

“Go,” she said, her voice now soft with sympathy. “I really do understand.”

He cupped her cheek briefly. “I have a heavy schedule today, and expect I’ll be late getting home tonight.”

“I’ll wait up for you.”

“Not today. But tomorrow afternoon will be just for us. With any luck we’ll be in Milano in time for lunch.”

“Milano—?”

“To replace your passport. Have you forgotten?”

“It’d slipped my mind completely.” She shook her head. “But we don’t have to do it tomorrow. It can wait until another time.”

“I told you I would take you then, and I will keep my word.” He dropped a swift kiss on her swollen mouth. “Later today, I will send a car to take you to see your father. Bring the opera recordings with you and play some for him. But for this morning, take it easy, cara. You had a busy night.”

Busy? How about Stupendous? How about Beyond my wildest dreams?

Closing her door, she leaned against it and surveyed the room: the turned-back covers on the bed that hadn’t been slept in; the fresh towels in the bathroom, visible through the mirror hanging on the wall. A sensible woman would take advantage of both, with a hot shower to dispel the aching soreness that came from a long night of loving, followed by a nap to compensate for the hours of missed sleep.

But then, a sensible woman probably wouldn’t have let herself be seduced in the first place, and any doubt that Danielle had abandoned common sense along with modesty was evident enough from her reflection in the mirror.

She looked dreamy and smug and thoroughly…seduced. There was no other word for it. Her mouth bloomed like an overripe strawberry, her skin glowed. And her eyes? Oh, they stared back at her, so heavy-lidded with carnal knowledge that she blushed.

The glass doors leading to the garden and her small private terrace stood open, just as she’d left them last night. Although this side of the house still lay in shadow, the air was warm with the promise of another sun-filled day.

Shucking off her slippers, she stepped outside and breathed in the fragrance of roses and lilies. She ought to bathe, but the sun chaise beckoned too invitingly, and if truth be told, she wasn’t ready to wash away all trace of the night before. Instead she sat on the plump cushions with her knees drawn up under her chin, and her caftan tucked over her feet, and drank in the scent of love, of Carlo, still clinging to her skin.

She didn’t care that she ached in places that didn’t bear mention in polite society. She relished the discomfort for what it was: the trophies of passion; the mementoes that bore out the beautiful reality of what she and Carlo had shared in his library. What a pity she’d had to spoil it all with greed.

Just before midnight, he’d halfheartedly suggested they return to their separate rooms. But she, desperate to hold on to the magic for however long she could, had pushed him down on the rug again and with a boldness that, today, made her blush, had tried to initiate more lovemaking.

She’d sown featherlight kisses over his face and shoulders. Over the planes of his chest and the washboard-hard plateau of his stomach. She’d swept her hand possessively down his legs. On the return journey, she’d stopped to fondle him, encouraged by the size and strength of his erection.

But he was stubborn. Indestructible. However hard she tried to overwhelm him as he’d so easily overwhelmed her, he refused to succumb. Only his tortured breathing and the sheen of sweat on his bronzed skin betrayed how dearly he paid to lie there unmoving, but by no means unmoved.

By that point, tiny electric spasms laying claim to her own body were making demands that wouldn’t go ignored. So having exhausted everything else in her limited repertoire as a seductress, she knelt astride him. Positioned herself so that the tip of his penis skimmed against her heated flesh—close, but not close enough.

His breath whistling between his parted lips, he watched her through slitted eyes. Mistaking it for an invitation, she lowered herself just enough to give him entry.

He let out a smothered groan, grabbed her bottom in ungentle hands, and held her immobile. “Keep that up,” he ground out, “and I won’t care that I’m not wearing a condom.”

“I already don’t care,” she sighed, rocking forward so that her words spilled into his mouth.

Oh, to be able to take back the words! But regret came too late. With a wrenching jolt that left her ribs screaming for mercy, he hauled her clear and deposited her unceremoniously on the rug. “We play by my rules, Danielle, remember?”

He’d been furious—and she so humiliated and ashamed that she cringed. “I wanted to please you,” she’d whimpered. “I wanted to love you as unselfishly as you loved me.”

Harshly he said, “There are other ways to do it.”

“I couldn’t…” She stopped, swallowed nervously, and decided that since she’d already ruined everything, she had nothing to lose by being blunt. “Oral sex is new to me. I’m not quite ready to…experiment with it.”

“As I said, there are other ways to please a man, without risking an unplanned pregnancy.”

“I don’t know how.” She blinked, trying to stem a sudden rush of tears. “I’m not as experienced as you, Carlo.”

At first, he’d watched her from eyes as gray and cold as a rainy Washington winter. But after a while, he’d sighed and pulled her into the curve of his arm. “Forget it. I’m the one to blame. I should have stopped you sooner, instead of thinking you’d have the good sense to stop yourself.”

“But—”

“Enough, Danielle.” He’d smothered a yawn. “It’s over, with no harm done. Just rest quietly beside me and enjoy the fire a few minutes longer, then I’ll take you back to your room.”

It hadn’t worked out quite like that because almost immediately, he’d fallen asleep. Not surprising, really. He’d put in a very long day. And, as he had once told her, A doctor learns early on in the game to nap whenever the opportunity presents itself.

He’d snap awake soon enough, or so she’d believed. Then she’d apologize for her behavior without stammering over every word. Explain, lucidly and calmly, that it was gratitude for how generously he’d given to her, that had prompted her to act so rashly. Before the evening ended, she’d make things right with him again.

Covering him with her caftan, she glanced around the darkened room. The fire spat and crackled in the hearth. Reflections of its flames danced on the glass fronts of the bookcases. But they’d held her attention only briefly. For however long those few stolen minutes might last, she wanted to look at him.

His lashes lay thick and inky on his cheeks, with the dark parenthesis of his brows curving above them. Sleep erased the angry line of his mouth and lent his face a more youthful cast. His hair, normally neatly brushed, lay in disarray over his forehead.

Barely breathing for fear she’d disturb him, she feasted her eyes on him, thinking to hoard every tiny detail of his face in her memory against the time when she left Italy and went back to her normal life. Instead, she’d squandered her chance by falling asleep herself.

CHAPTER TEN

THEIR afternoon in Milan marked a new phase in Danielle and Carlo’s relationship. Once the business at the Consulate was taken care of, they were free to spend the rest of the day any way they wished.

After a quick lunch, Carlo said, “What would you most like to see, cara?”

“Everything!” she promptly replied. “And if we can’t do that, then as much as possible.”

“To spend a week here and walk the streets at leisure is the best way, of course,” he said, ushering her to where he’d left his car in the shade of an ancient church, “but in order to hit the highlights, and given that your ankle is still healing, you’ll have to settle for being driven between stops.”

Danielle would have agreed to ride on a camel, if it meant spending unlimited hours with Carlo in his present frame of mind. Away from the hospital, he was a different man, relaxed, carefree, utterly charming and attentive. Any remaining tension from Monday night melted in the warmth of his smile, in the way he tucked her hand under his arm and laced his fingers in hers.

He took her to the church of Santa Maria delle Grazie, where they stood in reverent silence before Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece, The Last Supper, painted in oil and tempera on the plaster walls of the refectory. They spent another hour across the street, in La Scala museum, which contained such diverse exhibits as costumes worn by the famous soprano Maria Callas, and Verdi’s desk, as well as his piano. From there, they made flying visits to the Basilica di Sant’ Ambrogio, the imposing Castello Sforzesco, and ended up spending another hour in the magnificent Duomo, the world’s oldest church.

“You’re beginning to tire,” he observed afterward, as they crossed the cathedral square.

“A little,” she admitted. “I wouldn’t mind finding a place to sit for a while and do nothing but watch the world go by.”

“Then the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele will be our next stop, and it just happens to be close by.”

The galleria, she shortly discovered, consisted of two intersecting streets lined with shops and cafés, all covered by a spectacular glass and iron roof.

“It was designed by Giuseppe Mengoni at the end of the nineteenth century,” Carlo explained, as they sipped refreshing, bittersweet campari and soda under the awning of a sidewalk café. “He copied the idea from similar galleries in London and Paris. The dome in the middle of the north and south wings symbolizes the link between church and state. We came from the Piazza della Duomo. At the other end is the Piazza della Scala.”

“The opera house? Oh, I’d love to see that!”

“Unfortunately it’s not open to the public at this time, but we can see the exterior.”

They finished their drinks and strolled the remaining distance to the square, their hands loosely joined. No one spared them a second glance. To passersby, they were just another anonymous couple among thousands.

“Do you enjoy the opera, Danielle?” he asked, when at last they stood before La Scala’s classic facade.

“I’m not an opera buff like my father, if that’s what you mean.”

“You would be, after an evening spent at Teatro degli Arcimboldi, where performances are currently held. If there is time before you return to America, we might take in a performance.”

She didn’t want to talk about going home, about the future. If she had her way, she’d make the present last forever. “Let’s keep going, Carlo. What else are you going to show me?”

“Milano’s parks don’t compare to those you see in London or Paris, but at this time of year, before the weather turns them dusty and dry, and so many trees and flowers are still in bloom, the Giardini Pubblici are worth a quick visit. Also, you’ll find walking on grass a little easier on your ankle.”

The shaded paths made a nice change from the heat and glare of sunlight on pavement, and when Carlo suggested they sit awhile, she was happy to comply.

“I don’t do this often enough,” he said lazily, leaning on one elbow and watching a group of children playing not far away.

“Have you ever brought Anita here?” Danielle asked him.

Simultaneously, he said, “I must bring Anita here someday.”

Laughing, he turned to look at her. “We wave on the same length, si, cara? But I said that not quite right. What I should say is, we share the same wavelength.”

“I like it better the other way,” she replied, smiling. “We most definitely wave on the same length—at least, we do where Anita’s concerned.”

His laughter died. “You are even more beautiful when you smile,” he said. “That is what I shall miss the most, when you leave, Danielle.”

Turning aside yet another reminder that theirs was but a passing affair, she said lightly, “You’re making me blush again.”

“It’s the sun that brings such roses to your cheeks.” Lithely, he sprang to his feet. “Come,” he said, offering his hand. “The day grows old and there is still much I want to show you.”

Within minutes, they were off again, this time to tour the fashion district, an area of streets lined with the ateliers of the most illustrious names in the industry: Armani, Fendi, Dolce & Gabbana, Versace, Gucci.

“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. It 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…”

“What have I taught you, cara?” he murmured, his pulse beating in an odd, unsteady rhythm.

She bit her lip and for a moment reminded him of a deer caught in a hunter’s crosshairs. “You’ve set me free,” she finally said. “When I first arrived in Galanio, I was wounded and hurting, inside here.” Briefly, she touched her left breast. “Because of you, I shall go home…cured.”

Whatever he’d expected her to say, it hadn’t been that, and he was dismayed by how unreasonably let down he felt. Medicine was his vocation, and he could not imagine his life without it, but sometimes—and this was one of them—he tired of being always perceived as the doctor who cured all ills.

Unwilling to probe any deeper into the reason for his sudden dissatisfaction, he said, “Are you very anxious to return home, Danielle?”

“No,” she answered, and edging closer, curved her hand around his neck. “But I am very anxious to make love with you.”

“Show me,” he commanded huskily.

With slow, sultry grace, she rose to her feet and proceeded to strip off her clothes, dropping them carelessly, one item at a time, on the rug. When at last she stood before him naked, she took his finger and drew it between her legs. She was so slick and swollen already that, at his touch, a mottled flush rode over her chest.

He rose to meet her, reveling in his power to make her come almost at will, but she planted her hand flat against his chest and held him at arm’s length. “Not yet,” she purred, as she unfastened the buttons on his shirt.

One by one, she removed each piece of his clothing and dumped it with hers on the floor. Her satin chemise peeped out from beneath his Armani jacket. His tie fell drunkenly atop the dainty cups of her bra. His shirt sprawled indecently over her panties. And with each addition to the heap, he grew harder and heavier.

“Now?” he said, forcing the question past the constriction in his throat, as he stepped out of his briefs.

She shook her head and smiled a smile so utterly female that he broke out in a sweat. Then, without missing a beat, she sank to her knees and took him in her mouth.

The blood thundered through his veins, misting his vision. “Danielle, cara,” he groaned, clutching at her hair, “you don’t have to—!”

But she did, and if she was a little tentative, a little inexpert, he took it as an honor. Regardless of who’d gone before or followed after him, in this one respect he would always be the first she loved like that.

Indescribably moved, he closed his eyes and gave himself up to the pleasure she inflicted. Only when he teetered on the brink of orgasm did he pull her down beside him on the couch, and return in full measure the gift she’d so unstintingly bestowed on him.

Never had she tasted so sweet, never felt so silky to touch, so hot and wet and willing. To bury himself inside her so completely that their two separate bodies became fused into one; to be sheathed so tightly in her sleek flesh that he felt the encroaching tremors long before they overcame her; and then, with the tension running fast through his blood, to race toward the pleasure of possession and finally lose himself in her even as she contracted around him time and time again—these were memories that would remain with him to his dying day. This night would never grow dim with time.

“Are you happy?” he murmured, afterward.

“Yes,” she replied, rubbing her face against his chest. “Are you?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Nothing can tarnish what we shared tonight.”

He was wrong. The next afternoon, when he arrived in his office after a morning spent in surgery, he found a letter had been delivered from the headmistress of Anita’s school. Because of its disturbing contents, the Mother Superior requested that he present himself in her office after classes were over for the day.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“I’LL BE home in time to take you and Anita sailing before dinner,” Carlo had promised at breakfast the next morning.

But it was after five before he showed up, and one look at his expression when he stormed into the house told Danielle that this was one promise he wouldn’t be keeping. “You seem very upset, Carlo,” she remarked, an absurd understatement, all things considered. “Did something go wrong with a patient?”

“Something certainly went wrong, but not at the hospital.”

Exhaling an exasperated breath, he strode past her to the windows and scanned the rear garden. “Where’s Anita?”

“In the music room, practicing her piano. Why?”

He wheeled around to face her. “As the result of a letter I received at the hospital today, I’ve just come from a most disconcerting interview with the headmistress at her school. It seems that this morning, during Le Notizie Quotidiane—”

“What’s that?”

Scowling at the interruption, he said curtly, “The time when pupils share with each other any interesting news pertaining to their lives.”

“I see. And?”

He pulled an envelope from his pocket and withdrew a single sheet of paper. “I’d let you read this for yourself, but since your understanding of Italian is limited, allow me to translate the gist of it.”

“All right,” she said cautiously, taking a seat on the couch.

He remained standing, cleared his throat, and began. 166

“‘Dear Dr. Rossi, this morning, your daughter announced to her entire class that she has a new mother who meets her every day after school.”’ He looked up. “She’s referring to you, of course.”

Oh, if only! Danielle would have given the world to be in such a fortunate situation, but she’d have had to be blind not to see Carlo didn’t share the sentiment. He looked scandalized.

Burying her disappointment, she said mildly, “Well, setting the record straight shouldn’t have been too difficult.”

“There’s more,” he said, cutting her off, and returned to the letter. “‘Her teacher chastised Anita and reminded her that lying is a sin, but the child insisted she told the truth. She claims to have seen you embracing this mother who, although not your wife, sleeps in your bed.”’

He flung down the sheet of paper. “Not exactly the kind of story the nuns at Santa Elisabetta want impressionable eight-year-old girls taking home to their fee-paying parents, wouldn’t you say?”

Danielle stared at him in growing horror. “But it’s not true, Carlo—at least, the part about my sleeping in your bed isn’t!”

“Yes, it is,” he said flatly. “Technically you are sleeping in my bed, even if I use it only occasionally and have never shared it with you. Furthermore, it would seem that we weren’t as alone as we thought we were, when I kissed you in the foyer last night. Short of lying in my own defense, I could say nothing to refute Anita’s story. And let me tell you, one does not lie easily with the Mother Superior looking one straight in the eye, particularly not when, either by accident or an astuteness I never suspected in a child her age, my daughter has interpreted, albeit inexactly, the nature of the relationship I have entered into with you.”

He wore such an expression of bitter distaste that Danielle cringed. He blamed her for this unfortunate situation, and in one way, he was right to do so. She’d overstepped her limits, played more of a role in Anita’s life than she should have, when she knew all too well how a child—any child, but particularly a little girl—craved having a mother to love her.

Well, there was only one course of action open to her now. She had to put an end to the charade. “I’ll move to a hotel, tomorrow,” she said. “It’s the least I can do.”

“It’s a bit late for that, no?” he practically snarled, turning the full force of his anger on her. “The damage is done—the horse has already bolted from the stable, as you’d say in America.”

“Well, don’t take your frustration out on me! It was your idea for me to stay here in the first place,” she reminded him.

“Si. When you were temporarily impaired by your injuries, and you required care.”

“Care?” she repeated, outrage at the unfair implications in his reply dissolving her initial sympathy for his predicament. “Is that why you had sex with me—because I needed care?”

“Lower your voice, Danielle!” he snapped. “There’s no need to broadcast it to the entire neighborhood.”

“Why not?” she shot back. “You’re the one who insisted the only way to stop gossip was to be open about our affair. If you really thought it too cheap and tawdry for Anita to know about, you never should have started it to begin with, because if she hadn’t figured out for herself what was really going on between us, sooner or later she’d have heard about it from someone else.”

His eyes turned glacial, and so did his voice. “Shall I assume from that outburst that all your professed affection for my daughter has been nothing but an act, put on for my benefit?”

“There’s nothing feigned about my feelings for Anita, Carlo. I’d sooner die than hurt her in any way, that I can assure you.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes, indeed!” She swallowed, already regretting having allowed anger to push her into speaking so rashly. “For me even to suggest we should have been indiscreet in front of her was inexcusable, and I apologize.”

Mouth tight, he rocked moodily on his heels a moment, but when he spoke again, his tone had softened. “This has come as much of a shock to you as it has to me. We can both be forgiven for not being entirely rational.”

For Danielle, “rational” didn’t begin to describe it. She was devastated for Anita, for the disappointment awaiting her, and the inevitable humiliation that would follow. And she was heartsick for herself.

The true state of affairs between her and Carlo—and oh, how she was coming to hate that word “affair!”—could not have been laid out more clearly. Despite the intimacy they’d shared, when all was said and done, it counted for nothing. She counted for nothing. And the only person she could blame was herself, because Carlo had never made any secret of how the game was to be played.

“What are you going to do?” she asked miserably.

“Speak to my daughter. Try…” He flung out his hand, blew out another frustrated breath. “Try to make her understand…put her world back to rights again.”

Even engulfed as she was in her own private hell, Danielle could feel sorry for him. He faced a difficult, if not impossible task. “I shouldn’t have agreed to move in here. It was a mistake.”

“I never said that, Danielle.”

“You didn’t have to. My body might have suffered temporary impairment, as you put it, but there’s never been anything wrong with my brain. I can read between the lines, just as well as the next person. In retrospect, your act of charity has misfired badly, and hurt the one person you love most in the world. I’ll be out of your hair first thing in the morning.”

He rolled his eyes impatiently. “Don’t be so melodramatic. It accomplishes nothing.”

Stung, she said coldly, “Don’t give me orders, Dr. Rossi. I’m not one of your underlings.”

“And I don’t have time to debate the issue right now. We’ll discuss the matter later, after I’ve spoken to my daughter.”

Like hell we will, she thought, watching him take the stairs two at a time. We have nothing left to say to one another. I’m not sure we ever did.

When she’d flown to Italy, she’d traveled light, with room to spare in her suitcase. It took no time at all for her to pack up her belongings again, including the new clothes she’d bought. Within twenty minutes, she was ready to leave the villa, with no sign that she’d ever spent a minute under its roof.

She phoned for a taxi, then slipped quietly across the foyer and down the back hall to the kitchen. Her first inclination had been to sneak away without a word to anyone, but Calandria had looked after her with great kindness and become much more than a servant. She had become a friend, and she deserved some sort of explanation for Danielle’s sudden departure.

“But where you go?” the woman exclaimed, when she heard. “You not have family here, Signorina Danielle. Just us.”

At that, a lump formed in Danielle’s throat that almost choked her. “I have my father, Calandria, and he’ll soon be leaving the hospital. Until then, I’ll stay in a hotel. It’s better that I do.”

Calandria raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Il Medico, he is up there, si? I hear him go galoppo on the scale.”

“Yes. He’s upstairs with Anita.”

“You leave because of him?”

Danielle shrugged. “There are a number of reasons. He’s only one of them.”

“He know what you do?”

“No, but he’ll find out soon enough.”

The housekeeper scowled and muttered direly in Italian.

“You’ve been wonderful to me,” Danielle said, giving her a hug. “Thank you so much, Calandria. Grazie!”

Calandria’s arms came around and held on tight. “You still nothing but un passero piccolo,” she grumbled.

“But sparrows are survivors, and so am I,” she said, and picked up her suitcase. “I’d better go. My taxi will be here any minute. Arrivederci, Calandria. Kiss Anita for me, please.”

As soon as she was settled in her hotel, she took a long bath, then phoned Carlo.

“Where the devil are you?” he demanded, the minute he heard her voice.

“I’ve taken a room at L’Albergo di Palma.”

“Stay put. I’m coming over.”

“Please don’t, Carlo,” she said. “It’s better this way. I just wanted to let you know not to be concerned about me. I’ve found a place to stay.”

“You had a place here, with us.”

“Which turned out to be a very bad idea.”

“Danielle,” he said, and the weariness in his voice almost undid her, “I deeply regret the way we left things. At least let us talk.”

“That’s what we’re doing. There’s no reason we can’t be civil to one another.” She took a moment to marshal her composure which was dangerously close to falling apart, then continued, “How is Anita?”

“We are not going to discuss my daughter, or us, over the phone. I’ll be with you shortly.”

She pressed two fingers to the spot between her eyes where a headache threatened. “No. I’m not dressed for company.”

“I’m not company, I’m your lover,” he said, and hung up the phone.

She had just enough time to run a brush through her hair and cover her flimsy nightgown with the terry-cloth bathrobe supplied by the hotel. Not that she needed to bother, because she had no intention at all of allowing him inside the room. But he looked so wretched when she opened the door to him that she simply couldn’t turn him away.

“Oh!” she murmured, taking both his hands and drawing him to her. “Was it very bad with Anita?”

He held on to her as if he were drowning. “Yes,” he said, a world of despair in his voice. “She is completely crushed. It seems the little fantasy she spun for her classmates was very real to her. It cost me greatly to have to destroy it.”

“You should have stayed with her, Carlo. She needs you more than I do.”

He pulled away from her and dropped into a nearby armchair. “No, she wants you, and when I told her you’d left, the person she ran to was Calandria. She shut me out, Danielle. I could not help her. I could not take away her pain.”

Danielle had seen him in a number of roles: the skilled surgeon, the considerate employer, the loving, loyal father, the passionate lover. But his most enduring quality, one that remained constant throughout, was his unshakeable self-confidence in his abilities; his extraordinary will to be the best at what he did.

She’d never thought to see him as he was now. At a loss, unable to understand how he’d gone wrong, his sense of self in ruins. “When they’re hurting, people—especially children—often lash out at those they love the most,” she said gently, perching on the arm of the chair and stroking his hair. “That’s why she turned to Calandria.”

“I am her father. She should have turned to me. I am the one who is always there for her. I have never let her down.”

“And you never will. In her heart, Anita knows that.”

“I’m not so sure. Her teachers have seen a change in her lately, and they’re concerned. The Mother Superior believes she is acting out, in an effort to fulfill some deep-seated need within herself that I am unable to satisfy.”

“That’s nonsense, Carlo! Eight years of unconditional love and security carry more weight than that. Now that I’ve moved out of the house, she’ll soon be herself again, and this business at the school will blow over, you’ll see.”

“Do you really believe that, Danielle?”

There it was again in his voice, in the bruised hurt of his gray eyes when he looked up at her. The uncertainty. The fear.

They broke her heart. “Oh, Carlo, darling, of course I do!” she said, hugging his head to her breast. “That child worships the ground you walk on.”

“Will you talk to her, cara? Make her understand?”

“Yes,” she promised. If he’d asked her to teach pigs to sing, at that moment she could not have denied him.

“Grazie! Grazie tante!”

His muffled thanks vibrated through her robe and nightgown, and left their warm imprint on her skin. Aware of the danger closing in, she moved away. There could be no more intimacy between her and Carlo. The highs might be unsurpassed by anything she’d known before she met him, but the inevitable low when it all came to an end would be correspondingly more agonizing.

“I’ll see Anita tomorrow,” she said, and signaled the end of the meeting by walking briskly to the door and holding it open. “Obviously it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to meet her after school, but perhaps Calandria can bring her to the hotel when classes are over. We’ll have tea in my room, then she can see for herself that I’m living here now.”

“Good idea.” He straightened his jacket, shot his cuffs into place, and ambled across the room to where she waited. “Are you very tired, cara mia?”

“Exhausted,” she said firmly, and added a yawn for good measure.

“Then I’ll say buona notte.” He dipped his head and brushed her mouth with his.

When did the kind of chaste kiss one friend might give to another metamorphose into something only lovers would exchange? Who closed the door with him still in the room, and how did she come to be in his arms?

The questions flowed weakly through her mind like waves receding on a distant shore, leaving her with nothing but the same old raging hunger she’d fought so hard to suppress and vowed never to indulge again.

“You really must go,” she said, pushing feebly at his chest.

“Si. I know.”

Then why was he unfastening the belt to her bathrobe, then inching her nightie up her thighs? And how come she was letting him? “I don’t think we should do this, Carlo.”

“Indeed not,” he said, his voice dark and husky with desire. “It has been a long, difficult day, and we are both tired.”

But they did it, anyway. And it was, as always, magnificent.

“You do understand, sweetheart?”

Anita nodded reluctantly. “I made a mistake. You are not going to be my new mamma.”

“No, honey.”

The child poked at the remains of her cream cake and looked at Danielle from big, sad eyes. “But if Papà asked you, would you then?”

The breath snagged in Danielle’s throat. “That isn’t going to happen, Anita.”

“Why not?”

“Because your papa understands that I’m only here for a little while. My real home is in Seattle, a city very far away, in America. I have an apartment there, and an office where I work, and friends who miss me.”

“But he kissed you. I saw him.”

“He probably kisses a lot of people. I know he kisses you.”

“Because he loves me.”

“Yes.”

“Then why can’t he love you, as well?”

Why not, indeed? He would, if she had her way. “You’re his little girl, Anita, his precious daughter. I’m just…” The woman he happens to be sleeping with these days. “I’m just a friend.”

“You’re my friend, too. You said so. And I love you.” She covered her chest with her hands. “You make me feel full in here.”

“Oh, darling…!” Tears clogged Danielle’s throat. She wanted to say, I love you, too, but it would only add more hurt and confusion to a situation already rife with too much pain. And yet, not to tell the child…to send her away believing she didn’t matter…?

A knock sounded at the door. Calandria stood outside, come to take Anita home. Dejectedly, the little girl prepared to leave. Got as far as the door, then at the last minute ran back and flung herself into Danielle’s arms. “I don’t want you to go away,” she sobbed.

Danielle couldn’t stop the words. They boiled out of her mouth, ragged with grief. “I don’t want to leave you, baby, but I don’t have any choice!”

CHAPTER TWELVE

AFTER her disastrous meeting with Anita, moving out of the Rossi villa wasn’t enough, Danielle decided. Too many people were hurting. Leaving the country entirely was really her only option.

The problem lay with her father. She could hardly abandon him. She was, after all, the only family he had left. But he made it easy for her by sending for his latest girlfriend.

His close call with death had mellowed him. Given him a new appreciation for life—not just his, but other people’s.

“Go…home, Danielle,” he said, with more affection than he’d ever shown her before, when she visited him the next morning. “You’ve served your…time here, and I thank you for it, but now that Nora’s on the scene, you’re off the hard…hook. She’ll be staying until I’m fit to travel home, and…after that, if she has her way.” A lopsided grin had touched his gaunt face. “If she has her way, she might even end up making an honest…man of me.”

“You’re thinking of marrying her?”

“The idea’s crossing on…growing on me. We’ll see how the rehab goes. I’m not…putting a ring on her finger so that she can be my…nurse…maid. She deserves better than that.”

His speech was halting and sometimes he couldn’t immediately find the word he wanted, but his eyes were sharp with his old intelligence. He’d come a long way, but knew the road ahead would not be easy or quick. To him, that was just one more obstacle to overcome. Nora would have her hands full, keeping him in line.

“Well, if you’re absolutely sure, Father—”

“I’m sure you look worn out. G…get going, girl, or they’ll be putting you in the bed next door to mine.”

She bent to kiss his sunken cheek. “I’ll see you again before I leave.”

“You’d better,” he said gruffly.

The only thing left to do after that was bring Carlo up to date on her plans. And that, she knew, most definitely would not be easy.

She tried to make an appointment to see him in his office late that same afternoon, right after she’d booked her flight home. But he’d been called to deal with yet another horrific road accident, Beatrice told her, and would likely be in surgery for several hours yet. So Danielle had to settle for leaving a message asking him to call her at the hotel.

When half-past ten rolled around that night, and she still hadn’t heard from him, she went to bed, almost relieved to postpone her news for another day. At eleven, he knocked at her door. Dopey with sleep, she let him in.

“How did you know I needed you?” he muttered, practically falling into her arms.

“Um…” she began, stunned by the fatigue etched on his face. “Actually, I—”

But he was locked in another world, so hellish he didn’t hear her. His eyes dark with grief, he went on, “We lost three people today. A mother and her two children. They were babies, Danielle, just one and four years old. Their car was sideswiped by a truck, and rolled down a steep ravine.”

Goose bumps prickled over her skin. “Carlo, I’m so sorry! Were there no survivors?”

“The father only.” He shook his head despairingly. “How do I tell him, when he asks about his family?”

She had no answer. Couldn’t begin to imagine what he could say. There were no words; nothing God or man had devised, to soften the impact of such a tragedy. Carlo knew that. He’d lost his own wife, and bore the scars to this day.

Because she could think of nothing else to comfort him, she took him by the hand and led him to the armchair. There was brandy in the minibar. She emptied the tiny bottle into a glass and gave it to him. Alcohol, at a time like this? Perhaps not. But he needed something to bolster his strength. “When did you last eat, Carlo?”

He cradled the glass and stared ahead, haunted by the images of his day. “Eat?”

“Never mind.” Thanking providence that the hotel offered twenty-four hour room service, she went to the phone and ordered a toasted ham and grilled cheese sandwich, and a pot of coffee.

“I don’t need food,” he objected, when the meal arrived.

“You certainly do,” she said firmly, plunking the tray across his knees. “You’re not driving home in your present condition.”

He swept a weary hand over his eyes. “I’m used to putting in long days, Danielle. They go with the job.”

“You’re wiped out,” she replied. “You’ve been running on an empty gas tank for hours.”

The way he devoured the sandwich bore out the truth of her remark. Although not completely restored, by his second cup of coffee he had improved enough to ask, “Was there a special reason you wanted to see me today, cara?”

Avoiding his glance, she placed the empty tray on the desk and said, “It can wait until tomorrow. You need to get home to your family now.”

“Not necessary.” He caught her hand and pulled her down on his lap. “I phoned Calandria earlier to let her know I’d be very late and might not make it home at all tonight.”

“You need to get some sleep, Carlo.”

“There is a bed right here,” he said. “I need to sleep with you, le mio amore. Your warm body lying next to mine will help chase away the nightmares.”

If she had a grain of sense, she’d have shoved him out the door. But when had sense ever entered the equation where Carlo Rossi was concerned?

Really, he was worn-out. He could fall asleep at the wheel of his car. Drive off the road, or wrap the vehicle around a tree. Become the latest in the region’s too-long list of traffic casualties. And one thing was certain: he was in no shape to make love. So where was the harm in letting him stay?

“There are spare towels and a toothbrush in the bathroom,” she said. “Help yourself.”

He was gone just a few minutes. She heard the water running in the shower, and then he was back, wearing nothing but the dark shadow of new beard growth along his jaw, and a towel slung around his narrow hips. Still, she deemed it wise that she linger as long as possible in the bathroom herself, to allow him time to fall asleep. Just in case he had any other ideas.

She needn’t have worried. When she returned, he lay on his back, out cold. An earthquake wouldn’t have disturbed him. To be on the safe side, though, when she crawled under the covers, she kept well over on her own half of the bed.

Some time during the night, however, she moved without knowing it, and so did he. She awoke at dawn to find herself spooned up against him, with his hand cupping her breast, his very aroused front pressed against her back, and his very hungry lips nuzzling her neck.

“Buon giorno, innamorata,” he whispered.

Still fuzzy with sleep, her head tried to warn her that if she didn’t put a stop to things right then and there, she’d live to regret it. Her heart, beating with slow, heavy intent, told her it was a last chance to taste heaven, and if she turned away from it, she’d live to regret that even more.

Her traitorous body, which had awoken long before she knew it, had the final say. “Buon giorno,” she sighed, and turned to face him.

It was as if he knew it would be their last time together. Never before had their lovemaking been so heartbreakingly slow and sweet. Never more tender, or punctuated with so many muttered endearments. But even his prodigious stamina eventually ran its course, and he withdrew from her to collapse on his back, panting and slick with sweat.

Lying next to him, Danielle watched the reflection of the rising sun cast dancing reflections of the lake over the ceiling, and knew she could put things off no longer. “Carlo,” she said, “I’m going home tomorrow.”

He turned his head on the pillow, the sleepy passion in his eyes eclipsed by sharp awareness. She supposed it came from his being a doctor, that strange ability to snap to attention in a nanosecond. “What?”

“I’m going home. It’s time. My father’s well on the road to recovery. He doesn’t need me anymore.”

And certainly you don’t!

He propped himself on his elbow and stared at her broodingly for the longest time. At last, he stroked his thumb over her mouth and said quietly, “I don’t want to let you go. I’ll miss…all this.”

You’ll miss the sex, and the convenience of my being utterly willing whenever you come to me, Carlo. But you won’t miss me enough to ask me to stay.

Somehow managing to keep her voice steady, she said, “Well, we always knew it had to end sooner or later.”

“But so suddenly, cara, with no warning?”

“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. My father’s future wife is coming to be with him. There’s no longer any reason for me to stay.”

He opened his mouth to reply, and was interrupted by his cell phone chirping on the dresser. “Don’t move,” he told her, throwing back the covers and going to answer. “This won’t take but a minute.”

It took even less. After a few terse words, he switched off the phone and turned to her. “The patient I spoke of last night, the one who lost his wife and children, is awake and asking for them. I have to be there to tell him, Danielle. He needs to hear this from me. I’m the one who couldn’t save them.”

“I understand,” she said.

By the time she’d dragged herself out of bed and into her bathrobe, he’d showered and was ready to go. “I’m sorry to leave you like this, but I’ll see you again, before you go.”

“No, Carlo,” she said steadily, reaching up to kiss him one last time. “Let’s not drag this out. I’ve always hated long goodbyes.”

The other passengers in the departure lounge at Malpensa Airport in Milan must have noticed her eyes were red and swollen from crying, but they were polite enough not to stare or comment. Huddled in a corner overlooking the runways, she watched the continual arrival and departure of jets, but saw only the final scene with Carlo, just that morning.

He’d caught her just as she was leaving the hospital after stopping to see her father one last time, and strong-armed her down the administrative wing to his office. “I have a proposition for you, Danielle,” he declared. “I think it would be a very good thing if I were to marry you.”

“Why me?” The question had popped out, unrehearsed, unexpected.

“Because you are the best person for the job. We are compatibile. And my daughter needs you.” He paused, and closed his eyes as though to ward off inexpressible pain. “Last night, I told Anita that you were going back to America. I tried very hard to make her understand, and reminded her that she still had me, and I would never leave her.”

“And…?”

He turned away and she saw tears in his eyes. “I have devoted myself to my daughter, Danielle. I thought I was the most important person in her life. To discover that she felt the absence of a mother so keenly that she’d fabricate one from her exposure to you, dealt a killing blow to my ego. I did not want to accept the fact that I could not take Karina’s place, that only another woman could do that. You are that woman, Danielle.”

“You’re selling yourself short, Carlo,” she said, refusing to allow herself even to consider his proposal. She’d always hoped to marry. Had looked forward to knowing that she’d found her other half; that she and her husband each made the other complete. And heaven alone knew how much she’d wanted Carlo to be that man.

But like this, selected because she was the most suitable candidate for the job? Where was the grand passion, the undying commitment to love and cherish? Oh, he needed her, she’d grant him that, but not for himself.

“You think so? You think I exaggerate?” He swung back to face her, and the tears were still there. “When Anita came down to breakfast this morning, she had cut off her long braids. She wants nothing to remind her of you. Her life, she said, is now ugly, and so is she.”

Numb with shock, Danielle covered her mouth with both hands. “Good grief, Carlo, that poor child!”

“Grief, indeed, and so much of it that I confess I don’t know where to begin to end it. First, that mother and her children, then that poor man who loved them all, and now this.”

“But marrying me isn’t the answer,” she told him. “It’s a desperate move you’ll come to regret bitterly. You’re an intelligent man, Carlo. You know I’m telling you the truth.”

He watched her in silence for many a long minute. “I hoped you would see it differently. I hoped…” His shoulders sagged under his starched white medical tunic. “Well, it doesn’t matter what I hoped.”

“My flight leaves Milan in four hours,” she cried. “Throwing something like this at me, at this late date, is unfair. You know—you know marriage needs more than convenience to make it work. Think of Karina, of how you felt to be her husband. Then think of what you’re asking both yourself and me to settle for now.”

Had she been wrong to turn him down? she wondered, the muted scream of another jet’s landing puncturing her thoughts. She’d geared her entire adult life around finding the right man, but what if there was no “right” man?

Or what if there was, and she was too proud to take him on his terms? Or too fearful?

Walking away from Carlo had ripped her to shreds. This incredible man, with his gray, thoughtful eyes and passionate mouth, and beautiful, sensitive hands…how would she live without him? How could she ever look at another man, let alone lie with one? How did any woman settle for anything less, when she’d known the very best?

And therein lay the crux of the whole matter. She had become engaged to Tom because she thought he was safe, and because he said all the things she thought were important—the I love you’s which were supposed to mean so much but which, in reality, were just empty words. In the end, he’d left her, and she hadn’t cared enough to try to hold on to him, because she’d realized he wasn’t worth having.

But why was she running away from Carlo, when he was everything she’d ever wanted? Because he wouldn’t compromise his integrity by telling her he loved her when he didn’t? How much did that matter, if she loved enough for both of them?

A profound emptiness filled her heart; a life-threatening hole that only he could fill. In listening to her pride, she’d thrown away the one thing she wanted above all others. Well, damn it, she wouldn’t let it happen.

For once, she—Danielle Blake, doormat extraordinaire—was going to fight for what she wanted. And if the only way she could have Carlo was on his terms—well, look at what she’d be getting in return: a lover, a daughter, and a husband.

Snatching up her travel bag, her purse, her jacket, she started back the way she’d come. “Mi scusi,” she stammered, climbing over outstretched legs, and past mothers with crying babies on their hips, and old people in wheelchairs. “Permesso, per favore.”

“Signorina,” the attendant at the boarding desk called out. “Tutto bene? Is everything all right?”

“No.” She gestured in the direction of the security gate at the far end of the long walkway, to the customs officials checking luggage and passports. “I have to go back.”

To the main concourse, and outside the building to where the taxis waited. To Galanio and L’Ospedale di Karina Rossi. To Carlo, before he changed his mind.

“You are too late, signorina,” the attendant warned. “If you leave now, you will miss your flight. Your baggage has already been loaded on the aircraft.”

“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.” She flapped an impatient hand and started to run. “Non importa.”

Her carry-on bag slapped against her leg. Her purse swung wildly from her shoulder. The corridor was endless. Jammed with too many people coming the other way and impeding her progress. The customs officials detained her, agreed to let her cross back into the main area of the terminal only after inspecting her passport, and when she agreed to relinquish her boarding pass.

Heart beating a frantic tattoo, she reached the escalator leading to the main-floor exit. Was halfway down when she heard the one voice she would recognize in a crowd of thousands.

“Danielle!”

She looked to the side and saw Carlo passing her, on his way to the upper level. He still wore his white tunic. His stethoscope still hung around his neck.

“I’m not letting you go,” he shouted, reaching the top of his escalator and starting down hers.

“You don’t have to,” she cried, over the heads of the people separating them. “I’m not leaving.”

He finally caught up with her near the foot of the escalator and began to speak, but she pressed her fingers to his mouth and stopped him. “Me first,” she said.

“Okay.”

She caught his hand. Held on tight. “I’ll make it brief. If the offer still stands, I’ll marry you.”

She’d taken the wind right out of his sails. He stared at her, speechless.

“I understand why you proposed,” she said, “and I know you don’t love me. And I know I’ll never be able to take Karina’s place—”

“Danielle,” he cut in. “Before you say another—”

“It’s quite all right, Carlo. I can live with that. I understand—”

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “But you don’t understand!”

She peered up at him, suddenly uncertain. “Are you saying you don’t want to marry me, after all?”

“No, never that!”

“Then where’s the problem? We live together in perfect respectability. We share the same bed. We make love—we do that rather well, don’t we?”

“Better than well!” he almost sputtered. “But there’s more—”

“Of course there’s more, for most people. But our situation’s different. You were right the first time: we both love Anita and want what’s best for her. She needs a mother and a father. If I marry you, we can give her that. I know what your rules are and I’m willing to abide by them.”

“Danielle, stop all this foolish nonsense and listen to me,” he said sternly. “The rules have changed. I don’t want to marry you for Anita’s sake, but for mine. Not until you’d gone did I know you’d taken my heart with you. I am empty without you, my Danielle. I want you as my wife because without you, my life is nothing. Dio, woman, I love you.”

“No, you don’t, Carlo, and that’s okay.”

He shook her again, more urgently this time. “Sta zitto! Do not presume to tell me what I feel. If my words are not enough to convince you I speak the truth, perhaps this is.”

Unmindful of the crowd he attracted, not caring that he caused a bottleneck at the bottom of the escalator, he dropped down on one knee and took her hand. “Danielle Blake, from the fullness of my heart I ask you to become my wife. I ask you to let me love you for the rest of my life, and give you babies—brothers and sisters for Anita. I ask you to forgive me for being fool enough to wait until now to come to my senses.”

“Well,” she quavered, not even trying to hold back her tears, “when you put it like that, how can I refuse?”

He rose to his feet and in Italian addressed the rapt crowd of onlookers. They broke into applause.

“What did you just tell them?” she whispered, blushing.

He wrapped his arms around her. “That you accepted my proposal, and they are my witnesses in the event that you try to get away from me.”

“Oh, Carlo,” she said, lifting her face for his kiss. “I don’t have the slightest intention of ever letting you go.”

His slow smile was like the sun breaking through a bank of cloud. Like morning, after a long dark night. “Buono,” he crooned, and to more applause, lifted her off her feet. “So let us drive home and give the good news to our daughter.”

His love, warm and strong, rushed in like the tide, filling every nook and cranny of her being. “Let’s,” she said.

ISBN: 978-1-4268-5780-5

THE ITALIAN DOCTOR’S MISTRESS

First North American Publication 2005.

Copyright © 2005 by Spencer Books Limited.

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

www.eHarlequin.com