Fiona McArthur - A Taste Of Italy - Midwife, Mother...Italian's Wife

Midwife, Mother… Italian’s Wife Midwife, Mother…Italian’s Wife Fiona McArthur

Dedication For Rosie and Carol, my fabulous friends, who put up with those phone calls when I’m stuck.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

The Playboy of Rome

Dedication

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 THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

St Piran’s: Italian Surgeon, Forbidden Bride

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

About the Publisher

Midwife, Mother…Italian’s Wife

Fiona McArthur

For Rosie and Carol, my fabulous friends,

who put up with those phone calls when I’m stuck.

AS A reluctant best man, Leonardo Durante Bonmarito caught the unashamed adoration on the groom’s face as he circled the room with his new bride, and knew his own earlier arrival in Australia would have made no difference.

Leon’s intention of stopping this wedding had faltered at the first sight of Gianni at the airport because nothing would have prevented his brother from marrying this woman.

Such happiness made Leon’s chest hurt and he’d never liked wedding feasts. It was even harder when he felt insulated from the joy and gaiety around him by the fact he still hadn’t had a chance to talk to Gianni properly since arriving.

‘Not a big fan of weddings?’ The words were mild enough but the tone held a hint of quiet rebuke. Tammy Moore, chief bridesmaid and for tonight his partner, spoke at his shoulder and Leon returned to the present with a jolt. She went on, ‘We’re supposed to join them on the floor now.’

‘Sì. Of course. My apologies.’ Automatically he glanced around and down and unexpectedly his vision was filled with the delightful valley between her breasts.

He swept his eyes upwards and her dark brows tilted at the flicker of a smile he couldn’t help.

It was a problem but what was a man to do with a bodice just under eye level? It would be strange dancing with a woman willow-slim in body and almost as tall as himself. She felt twice the height of his late wife.

He wondered if others might think they looked good together. Little did observers know their rapport had been anything but cordial, because he feared he hadn’t endeared himself to her.

Leon repressed a sigh. He’d barely talked, in fact, it seemed he’d forgotten how to be at ease with a young woman, but in his defence, his mind had been torn between the recent danger to Paulo and when he could discuss it with his brother.

Tammy tapped her foot with the music, surely not with impatience, as she waited for them to join the bride and groom on the floor and he’d best concentrate. He hoped it would not be too much of a disaster because his heart wasn’t in it. ‘You are very good to remind me,’ he said by way of apology, but she didn’t comment, just held out one slender hand for him to take so the guests could join in after the official party was on the floor.

The music wheezed around them with great gusto if not great skill, like a jolly asthmatic between inhaler puffs, and Leon took her fingers in his and held them. Her hand lay small and slim, and somehow vulnerable, in his clasp, and suddenly he wasn’t thinking of much except the way she unexpectedly fitted perfectly into his arms, her small breasts soft against his chest, and her hair smooth against his face.

In fact, her hip swung against his in seamless timing as if they’d danced together to a breathless piano accordion since birth.

Such precision and magical cadence took him from this place—and his swirling, painful thoughts—to a strange mist of curative tranquillity he’d craved since not just yesterday but from the haze of time in his youth.

Where was the awkwardness that’d always seemed to dog him and his late wife whenever they’d danced? The concept deepened the guilt in his heart and also the frown across his brows.

‘You sway like a reed in my arms.’ He tilted his head in reluctant approval. ‘You must dance often.’

He thought he heard, ‘Nearly as often as you frown, you great thundercloud.’ The unexpected words were quiet, spoken to his feet, and he must have heard wrong because she followed that with, ‘Yes, we love dancing here.’

He decided he was mistaken, but the humility in her expression had a certain facade of mock innocence, and made his suspicions deepen with amused insight. Then he caught his son’s eye as they swept past, and Leon raised his eyebrows at the flower girl standing beside him.

Paulo glanced at the young girl and then back at his father, nodded and took her hand to lead her into the dance. Tammy followed his gaze and smiled stiffly, something, he realised guiltily, she’d been doing for a couple of hours now.

She slanted a glance at him. ‘Does your son dance as well as his father?’

They both turned their heads to watch the children waltz and Leon felt the warmth of pride. Paulo did well and it had not been an easy few days for him. ‘I hope so. He has been taught. A man must be able to lead.’

‘Emma’s daughter can hold her own,’ she murmured, and he bent his head closer to catch her words. Did the woman talk to him or to herself? An elusive scent, perfectly heated by the satin skin of her ridiculously long neck, curled around his senses with an unexpectedly potent assault. Without thought he closed his eyes and inhaled more deeply. This scent was a siren’s weapon, yet she portrayed none of the siren’s tricks.

He realised with delay that she’d continued the conversation. ‘We have a bring-a-plate country dance once a month in the old hall. The children enjoy it as much as the adults.’

Leon eased back, he hoped unobtrusively, to clear the opulent fog from his mind but his voice came out deeper than he expected—deeper, lower, almost a caress. ‘So dance nights are common in Australia?’ What was happening? His brain seemed to have slowed to half speed as if he’d been drugged. Perhaps she did have tricks he was unaware of.

He lifted his head higher and sought out his son. The most important reason he needed his wits about him. Whatever spell she’d cast over him, he did not want it.

No doubt she’d sensed the change in him. He could only hope he’d left her as confused as she’d left him. ‘To hold a dance is not unusual in a country town.’ Her dark brows drew together in a glower such as she’d accused him of.

‘Of course.’ Thankfully, this time, his voice emerged normally, though he wondered if she could hear the ironic twist under the words. ‘My brother is full of the virtues of your Lyrebird Lake.’ And its incredibly fertile qualities, but he wouldn’t go there.

She lifted her chin high and stared into his eyes as if suspicious of his tone and the implication he might disparage her hometown. Her irises were a startling blue and reminded him of the glorious sea on the Amalfi Coast, disturbingly attractive, yet with little waves of tempest not quite concealed and a danger that could not be underestimated. He knew all about that.