The Valtieri Baby

She’d spread the pâté on the toasted ciabatta, so he could eat it one-handed, and he forked in the salad and mopped up the dressing with the last of the toast. ‘That was good. Tasty. What can I smell?’

‘Lasagne. I thought you could eat it with a fork.’

‘Great idea.’

She took his plate and brought it back with the lasagne on it, and after they’d eaten it he leant back and sighed in contentment.

‘Better?’

‘Amazing. That was really good. I was ready for it. I haven’t eaten anything proper since the day before yesterday.’

He rolled his head towards her, his eyes serious, the food forgotten. ‘Anita, I hate involving you in this. You should be on holiday, not sitting here babysitting me while they gossip about us on the news.’

‘Don’t worry. I don’t care if people talk about us.’

‘Well, I do, and I’m not thrilled about them giving Camilla Ponti directions.’

‘She won’t come after you,’ she said with more confidence than she felt. ‘She’s in Firenze somewhere, trying to hide from the police. Even she’s going to realise she’s in deep enough trouble without making it worse. And anyway, I thought you said she was mortified.’

‘She was. She really didn’t mean to hurt me.’

‘Well, then, we’ll be fine,’ she said firmly. ‘The outside lights come on if anyone approaches, so we can’t be sneaked up on. I’ll set the alarm and put the car in the garage, and nobody would know we were here, if that makes you happier.’

What would make him happier was knowing that Camilla Ponti had been found and seen by a doctor. Until then, this would have to do.

‘Fine.’

‘Good. Now I think it’s time you went to bed.’ Their eyes clashed again, and then he levered himself to his feet.

‘You’d better show me to my room, then,’ he said, and she led him down the hall and pushed open the bedroom door. She’d unpacked his bag and laid his things out on the top of the chest, including his painkillers.

He was pleased to see them. He’d just had some, but he had no doubt he’d need more before the night was out. He hobbled awkwardly past her, looked around and then met her eyes again. ‘It’s a nice room. Thank you.’

‘Prego. I’ll bring you a glass of water. The bathroom’s across the hall, and I’ve put out clean towels and your pills are on the chest. Will you be all right getting ready for bed, or do you want me to help you undress?’

He gave a soft huff of laughter.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

Their eyes locked, his dark and unfathomable. As well as she knew him, she couldn’t read them.

She could feel the heat scorching her cheeks, but she held her ground. ‘I thought you weren’t feeling great.’

‘I’m not, but I’d have to be dead before I let you undress me. Buonanotte, Anita.’

And he closed the door softly in her face.

CHAPTER THREE

HE stood there for a moment, listening, and after a long pause he heard the sound of her banging around in the kitchen.

She sounded mad with him. Not surprising, really. It hadn’t been the politest rejection, and she’d only been trying to help, but—Dio, just being that close to her was killing him, and he might not be feeling great today, but his body clearly didn’t care about that. It was interested in Anita, and saying so.

No way was she taking off his clothes and finding that out!

Which meant he had to do it on his own, and frankly he wasn’t sure he could one-handed. The first thing he had to do, though, was use the bathroom, because he wasn’t going to wander around the house half naked. He knew his limitations, and keeping a lid on his libido was one of them. The more he was wearing when he was exposed to her, frankly, the better.

There was no sign of his washbag, so he assumed she must have put it in the bathroom already. He frowned, feeling another pang of guilt, which was silly. It was nothing he wouldn’t have done for her, and he wouldn’t have taken no for an answer about helping her undress, either. Clearly his skin was tougher than hers. And she wouldn’t have been so rude.

Guilt again.

He limped to the bathroom, spent a few infuriating minutes in there struggling to clean his teeth with the wrong hand, and when he opened the door she was outside.

She hadn’t been able to stay away. She’d gone into the kitchen, steaming mad with him, deeply hurt—

I’d have to be dead before I let you undress me.

What was that about? He’d been keen enough for her to undress him five years ago, for goodness’ sake, so what on earth had changed so much that he wouldn’t even let her help him when he was injured? She’d thought they were friends still, but clearly not. They’d crossed a line when they’d had the affair, and now—now everything was different, and there was no going back.

They couldn’t just undo the fact that they’d been lovers. She realised that, but this was nothing to do with sex! Except clearly, for him, taking off his clothes was something he did on his own, or a prelude to lovemaking. Often, for them, the only prelude, she remembered, because on occasions they’d been so desperate they’d almost torn each other’s clothes off—

‘Oh, stop it! This is ridiculous!’

She slammed the dishwasher shut, battened down the hatches on her memories and swiped a cloth over the worktop. The plates were in the dishwasher, the kitchen was tidy.

And still he was in the bathroom.

In difficulties?

So she’d gone to investigate, listened outside to the sounds of frustration as he struggled with something—his toothbrush?

And then the door opened, and she saw the pain etched into his face, the frustration, the tiredness, and she just wanted to hug him. He shook his head, closing his eyes briefly, and when he opened them she could see guilt written all over his face.

Goodness knows what was written on hers. It must be a mass of emotions, and it seemed he could read them all.

‘I’m sorry, cara,’ he said gruffly, reaching out one-handed to hug her, and then she was there against him, her arms around him, her face buried in his chest just breathing him in and holding on.

‘I’m sorry I flounced off,’ she mumbled. ‘You look awful. I’ve been so worried about you—’

Her voice hitched, and he sighed and rubbed her back gently. ‘I’m fine, Anita. Come on, don’t cry. Go and make us some hot chocolate, and I’ll get my clothes off. No more tears, eh?’

She eased away, sniffing slightly and scrubbing tears from her cheeks. ‘Sorry. I’m such an idiot—’

‘You’re a lovely idiot. I’m lucky to have such a good friend.’

There. He’d said it. Friend.

Not lover.