Kate Hardy - The Italian GP's Bride

But then again, she knew her judgement in men was lousy. Just because he was a good doctor, it didn’t mean he was a good man: Jeremy certainly wasn’t. And Orlando was probably married anyway. A man that good-looking couldn’t possibly be single. Even if Eleanor was going to act on Tamsin’s suggestion of having a holiday fling—which she had no intention of doing—Orlando de Luca wasn’t the one for her.

Their paths would probably never cross again, so there was no point in dwelling on it. Besides, she had something else to think about.

Her meeting tomorrow, with the man who might just turn out to be her real father.

And maybe, just maybe, she’d have a family to belong to again. Wouldn’t be alone any more.

THEY were two hours late getting to the airport at Naples. And then there was the wait for the luggage to arrive…except Eleanor couldn’t see her suitcase at all.

Maybe she’d just missed it, taken her eye off the conveyor belt during the moment it had passed her, and the suitcase would be there the second time round.

Except it wasn’t. Or the third time.

Oh, great. Not only was she late—tired, and in need of a shower and a cup of decent coffee—now her luggage was missing. Thank God she’d put the most important things in her hand luggage. She still had the original photographs back in England, so she could’ve had replacement copies made, but she’d wanted to hand them over in person.

And although, yes, she could go into the centre of Naples and replace most of her luggage first thing tomorrow morning, she already had plans. A meeting to which she didn’t want to go wearing travel-stained clothes. Even if she rinsed her clothes out in her hotel room tonight, they’d be crumpled and scruffy and…

Oh-h-h.

She could have howled with frustration. The shops were probably closed by now and, even if she got up really early tomorrow morning, she wouldn’t have enough time to find the shops, buy new clothes and be on time to meet Bartolomeo.

First impressions were important. Especially in this case. This really, really wasn’t fair.

‘Problems, Dottoressa Eleanor?’

Orlando’s voice was like melted chocolate. Soothing and comforting and sinful, all at the same time.

And she really shouldn’t give in to the urge to lean on him. She was perfectly capable of sorting things out on her own. She had a phrasebook in her bag—given a little time and effort, she’d be able to make herself understood. Luggage must go missing all the time. It was probably just mislaid, on the wrong carousel or something. And when she got to the hotel, she could talk to someone in the reception area and ask where she should go to buy clothes and shoes tomorrow. She could call Bartolomeo and put back their meeting by an hour, if need be.

‘I’m just waiting for my luggage,’ she said.

‘It hasn’t arrived yet?’

He was carrying a small, stylish case. And there were only three cases left on the conveyor belt—none of which was hers.

‘I was just about to go and ask.’

‘Let me,’ he said.

Before she could protest, he added, ‘You said on the plane that you didn’t speak much Italian. So let me help you.’

Italian was his native tongue and he spoke perfect English, too: it made sense to let him interpret for her instead of struggling. ‘Grazie.’ Though she still had reservations. ‘But won’t it make you really late home? Especially as our flight was delayed.’

He shrugged. ‘Non importa. It doesn’t matter.’

‘It’s not fair to your family, to keep them waiting even longer.’

He spread his hands. ‘Nobody’s waiting for me. I live alone.’

Now, that she hadn’t expected. She’d been so sure a man like Orlando de Luca—capable, practical and gorgeous—would be married to a wife who adored him, with several children who adored him even more and a menagerie of dogs and cats he’d rescued over the years.

‘I won’t be long. What does your bag look like?’

‘It’s a trolley suitcase—about so big.’ She described the size with her hands. ‘And it’s, um, bright pink.’

‘Bright pink,’ he echoed. His voice was completely deadpan, but there was a sparkle of amusement in his eyes—as if he thought she’d chosen something completely frivolous and un-doctor-like.

She wished now she’d bought her luggage in a neutral colour. Grey, beige or black. She’d just thought that a bright suitcase would be easier to spot at the airport.

He smiled at her and went over to one of the airport staff. During the conversation, the man nodded, looked over at Eleanor with an expression of respect, said something to Orlando, and then strode away.

‘He’s going to check for you,’ Orlando confirmed when he returned. ‘I explained that our flight was late in because of a medical emergency on the plane. You saved the patient’s life and we should be looking after you, not losing your baggage.’

She felt colour flood into her face. ‘I didn’t save Giulietta’s life on my own. You did the chest compressions and got a patient history from her daughter. I couldn’t have done it without you.’

‘Teamwork, then. We worked well together.’ His eyes narrowed as he glanced at her. ‘You look tired. You’ve had a long journey, plus the stress of dealing with a cardiac arrest in a cramped space without the kind of equipment you’re used to, and now your baggage has disappeared. Come and sit down. I will get you some coffee.’

He was taking over and Eleanor knew she should be standing up for herself, telling him that she appreciated the offer but she really didn’t need looking after. Her feelings must have shown on her face because he said gently, ‘It may be a while until they locate your luggage. Why stand around waiting and getting stressed, when the coffee-shop is just here, to our right, and you can sit down in comfort and relax?’

And he was right. She was tired. Caffeine was just what she needed to get her through the rest of this evening until she got to the hotel.

‘Do you take milk, sugar?’ he asked when he’d settled her at a table.

‘Just milk, please.’

There was something about the English dottoressa. Orlando couldn’t define it or even begin to put his finger on it, but something about her made him want to get to know her better.

Much better.

He’d liked the way she’d been so cool and calm on the plane, got on with her job without barking orders or being rude to the flight attendants, and had even tried speaking the little Italian she knew to help reassure Giulietta’s daughter. There was a warmth to Eleanor Forrest that attracted him.

A warmth that had suddenly shut off when he’d asked her a personal question.

And he wanted to know why.

He ordered coffee and cantuccini, then carried a tray over to their table.

‘Biscuits?’ she asked.

‘Because I missed them in England,’ he said simply. ‘Your English biscuits fall apart when you dip them in coffee. These don’t.’ He smiled at her. ‘They’re nice dipped in vin santo, too, but I think for now coffee is what you need.’

‘Thanks. Odd how just sitting around can make you feel tired.’

‘Don’t forget you saved a life in the middle of all that,’ he reminded her.

She ignored his comment. ‘How much do I owe you for the coffee?’

An independent woman. One who’d insist on paying her way. He liked that, too: she wouldn’t take anyone for granted. She was the kind of woman who’d want an equal. ‘My suggestion, my bill.’

He caught the expression on her face just before she masked it. Someone had obviously hurt her—hurt her so badly that she wouldn’t even accept a cup of coffee from a man she barely knew, and saw strangers as a potential for hurt instead of a potential friend.