Lucy Gordon: Accidentally Expecting!

A book in the International Grooms series, 2009

Dear Reader,

When I started writing the first book in my Rinucci series, five years ago, I had no idea what an enjoyable task it was going to be. But as the work developed I discovered that the real joy was not just six attractive heroes, but the feeling of being drawn into a large, united family, where people will do anything for each other. As Dante Rinucci says, “There’s nothing to compare with the feeling that you have the whole tribe behind you.”

So when it came to writing a seventh Rinucci book I was really glad to go back to the Villa Rinucci in Naples and meet all my old friends again.

Dante is a cousin, not a brother, but since his parents died he has lived part of the time at the villa, and has come to see Hope and Toni as extra parents. He’s a man practiced in keeping secrets, since beneath the laughing exterior he’s concealing the tragic knowledge that he might be suffering from an inherited ailment that could lie dormant for years, then suddenly end his life or render him mentally disabled. Of the two, it’s the second one he fears.

To cope, he lives for the moment, avoiding long-term commitments, until he meets the one woman he can love deeply enough to risk the future, and whose own love is deep enough to take the risk with him.

So here’s the seventh Rinucci, as crazy, charming and infuriating-but also as passionately loving-as the others.

Warmest wishes,

Lucy Gordon

HORNSblared, lights flashed in the darkness and Ferne ground her hands together as the cab battled its way through the slow-moving Milan traffic.

‘Oh no! I’m going to miss the train. Please! ’

The driver called back over his shoulder, ‘I’m doing my best, signorina , but the traffic here is like nowhere else in the world.’ He said it with pride.

‘I know it’s not your fault,’ she cried. ‘But I’ve got a ticket on the night train to Naples. It leaves in a quarter of an hour.’

The driver chuckled. ‘Leave it to me. Twenty years I am driving in Milan, and my passengers do not miss their trains.’

The next ten minutes were breathless but triumphant, and at last the ornate façade of Milan Central Station came into view. As Ferne leapt out and paid the driver, a porter appeared.

‘Train to Naples,’ she gasped.

‘This way, signorina .’

They made it to the platform looking so frantic that heads were turned. But suddenly Ferne stumbled and went sprawling right in the path of the porter, who sprawled in turn.

She wanted to yell aloud at being thwarted at the last moment, but miraculously hands came out of nowhere, seized her, thrust her on board, the bags following after her. A door slammed.

‘Stai bene?’ came a man’s voice.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian,’ she said breathlessly, clutching him as he helped her to her feet.

‘I asked if you are all right,’ he said in English.

‘Yes, but-oh heavens, we’re moving. I should have given that poor man something.’

‘Leave it to me.’

There was a narrow opening at the top of the window and the man slid his arm through, his hand full of notes which the porter seized gratefully. Her rescuer waved and turned back to face her in the corridor of the train that was already gathering speed.

Now Ferne had a moment to look at him, and realised that she was suffering delusions. He was so handsome that it was impossible. In his thirties, he stood, tall and impressive, with wide shoulders and hair of a raven-black colour that only Italians seemed to achieve. His eyes were deep blue, gleaming with life, and his whole appearance was something no man could be permitted outside the pages of a novel.

To cap it all, he’d come galloping to her rescue like the hero of a melodrama, which was simply too much. But, what the heck? She was on holiday.

He returned her gaze, briefly but appreciatively, taking in her slender figure and dark-red hair. Without conceit, but also without false modesty, she knew she was attractive; the expression in his eyes was one she’d often seen before, although it was a while since she’d responded to it.

‘I’ll refund you that tip, of course,’ she said.

A woman had appeared behind them in the corridor. She was in her sixties, white-haired, slender and elegant.

‘Are you hurt, my dear?’ she asked. ‘That was a nasty fall you had.’

‘No, I’m fine, just a bit shaken.’

‘Dante, bring her to our compartment.’

‘OK, Aunt Hope. You take her, I’ll bring the bags.’

The woman took Ferne gently by the arm and led her along the corridor to a compartment where a man, also in his sixties, was standing in the doorway watching their approach. He stood back to let them in and ushered Ferne to a seat.

‘From the way you speak, I think you are English,’ the woman said with a charming smile.

‘Yes, my name is Ferne Edmunds.’

‘I too am English. At least, I was long ago. Now I am Signora Hope Rinucci. This is my husband, Toni-and this young man is our nephew, Dante Rinucci.’

Dante was just entering with the bags, which he shoved under the seats, and then he sat down, rubbing his upper arm.

‘Are you hurt?’ Hope asked anxiously.

He grimaced. ‘Pushing my arm through that narrow space has probably left me with bruises for life.’ Then a grin broke over his face. ‘It’s all right, I’m only joking. Stop fussing. It’s our friend here who needs care. Those platforms are hard.’

‘That’s true,’ Ferne said ruefully, rubbing her knees through her trousers.

‘Would you like me to take a look?’ he asked hopefully, reaching out a hand.

‘No, she would not,’ Hope said, determinedly forestalling him. ‘Behave yourself. In fact, why don’t you go to the restaurant-car and order something for this young lady?’ She added sternly, ‘Both of you.’

Like obedient little boys, both men rose and departed without a word. Hope chuckled.

‘Now, signorina -it is signorina ?’

‘Signorina Edmunds. But, please, call me Ferne. After what your family has done for me, let’s not be formal.’

‘Good. In that case-’

There was a knock on the door and a steward looked in.

‘Oh yes, you want to make up the berths,’ Hope said. ‘Let’s join the men.’

As they went along the corridor, Hope asked, ‘Where is your sleeping berth?’

‘I don’t have one,’ Ferne admitted. ‘I booked at the last minute and everything was taken.’

By now they had reached the dining-car, where Toni and Dante had taken a table. Dante stood up and graciously showed her to the seat beside him.

‘Here’s the ticket inspector,’ Hope said. ‘Let’s get the formalities out of the way before we eat. They may be able to find you a berth.’

But from that moment things went horribly wrong. As the others showed their paperwork, Ferne scrabbled hopelessly in her bag, finally facing the terrible truth.

‘It’s gone,’ she whispered. ‘Everything. My money, the tickets-they must have fallen out when I fell on the platform.’

Another search produced no result. Disaster!

‘My passport’s gone too!’ she gasped. ‘I’ve got to go back.’

But the train was now travelling at full speed.

‘It doesn’t stop until Naples,’ Hope explained.

‘They’ll stop to throw me off when they find out I’ve no ticket and no money,’ Ferne said frantically.