Kate Hardy - The Italian GP's Bride

‘We married, but it was a mistake.’ He sighed. ‘I loved her, but not in the way I loved Costanza—there wasn’t the same spark, the same passion I found with Costanza. We were more…friends. I tried to be a good husband, worked hard to provide for her and build up my family’s business. Too hard, maybe, because she thought I neglected her.’ He shrugged. ‘She found love in someone else’s arms.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He sipped his coffee. ‘No matter. But I’ve had my work, and my sisters are close to me. And I have two nieces to spoil.’ He smiled. ‘And you? You have a husband, a fidanzato?’

She’d had a fiancé. Five months ago. ‘No. I’m single.’

‘A beautiful ragazza like you? Why?’

‘There was someone,’ she admitted.

‘What happened?’

‘He was wrong for me.’ She wasn’t prepared to tell Bartolomeo just how close she’d been to making the biggest mistake of her life. If she hadn’t met Penelope and found out the truth…She pushed the thought away. ‘So what made you send that message to the radio station?’

‘To find my lost love? I’ve reached that age when you look back at your life and you wonder what you would have done differently.’ He spread his hands. ‘I am just lucky you heard the Lost Loves programme.’

‘And put the pieces together.’ She nodded. ‘That song always made Mum cry. And the dates fitted—the summer before I was born. I never even knew she’d been to Italy.’

‘I regret that I never knew you as a baby.’ His voice softened. ‘I can’t change the past. But we can change the future. And I would very much like you to be part of my future, Eleanor. Part of my family.’

Longing tugged at her. To be part of a family again…how could she say no?

Before Eleanor knew it, it was lunchtime. She and Bartolomeo ate a leisurely panini and fruit and ordered more coffee, and spent their time talking and catching up.

Finally she glanced at her watch. ‘I’m sorry—have I made you late for an appointment?’

Bartolomeo smiled. ‘I kept my diary free today.’

But he looked pale, tired. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

‘Just getting old—at the stage in my life where I need a sonnelino, a nap.’

But Bartolomeo could only be in his early fifties. If he’d been twenty-two when her mother had fallen pregnant, that would make him fifty-three now. He was too young to feel this tired, this early in the day.

‘Come to dinner tonight,’ he said. He took a business card from a small leather case, and wrote swiftly on the back. ‘This is my address. My sisters and their husbands usually come over for supper on a Tuesday evening. Come and meet them.’

Eleanor wasn’t sure. ‘It’s the evening you spend with your family.’

‘You are my daughter. So they are your family, too.’ He smiled and squeezed her hand. ‘It’s nothing formal—a simple supper. Please come.’

‘I…’

‘Please?’

How could she resist that beseeching look? ‘All right.’

He beamed at her. ‘Then I will see you at seven, yes?’

Once his taxi had driven off, Eleanor headed into the centre of Naples. For a mad moment she thought about calling Orlando—but he was probably in surgery right now. And anyway, she wasn’t there to have a holiday fling: she was there to find out the truth about her father. She really didn’t need the extra complication.

She wasn’t sure whether the etiquette of dinner parties was the same in Italy as it was in England, but she bought wine and chocolates to take with her anyway. She’d just finished changing when the phone in her room rang.

‘Dottoressa Forrest? I have a call for you,’ the receptionist said.

Odd. If it was Tamsin, the call would’ve come through on her mobile phone. Who would call her at the hotel? Bartolomeo, to cancel this evening? ‘Thank you. I’ll take it,’ she said quietly.

‘Hello, Eleanor?’

She recognised the voice immediately, and a shiver of pure pleasure ran down her spine. ‘Orlando?’

‘I was just passing your hotel on my way home. Do you have time to have a drink with me in the bar?’

She glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes until she needed to catch the metro. Fifteen minutes when she could sit on her own and worry about whether Bartolomeo’s family would accept her, or… ‘I have to leave in about fifteen minutes,’ she said.

‘Then you do have time. Bene. What would you like to drink?’

She knew that alcohol wasn’t the right way to soothe her nerves: she didn’t want to turn up at dinner reeking of wine the first time she met the Conti family. ‘Mineral water would be lovely. Sparkling, please. I’ll be right down.’

She replaced the receiver, picked up the things she wanted to take with her to Bartolomeo’s, and went to join Orlando in the bar. He was sitting at a table on his own, skimming through a newspaper and seemingly oblivious to the admiring glances of the women sitting in the bar. Including her own. In a well-cut dark suit with a sober tie and a white shirt, he looked absolutely edible. As she reached the table, he put down the newspaper and stood up. ‘Thank you for joining me, Eleanor.’

Old-fashioned etiquette. Funny how it made her knees weak.

‘I assumed you’d like ice and lemon,’ he said, indicating the glass at the place opposite him.

‘Grazie,’ she said, sitting down.

‘Prego.’ He smiled at her, sat down and poured water from the bottle into her glass. ‘I rang the hospital in Milan today. I thought you’d like to know that Giulietta Russo is doing just fine and they expect her to make a full recovery from her heart attack.’

She smiled back. ‘That’s great news. Thanks for telling me.’

‘Though I admit, it wasn’t the only reason I called by.’ He took a sip of his own drink—also mineral water, she noticed. ‘I wondered if you might be free the day after tomorrow—if you’d like to come to Pompeii with me.’

He was asking her on a date?

Her first thought was, Yes, please. Her second was more sensible: despite Tamsin’s suggestion, she really wasn’t here in Naples to have a fling. And the fact that she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Orlando meant she really ought to steer clear: things could get way too complicated, and right now there were enough complications in her life.

She took a sip of iced water to give her a breathing space. The answer was no—but nicely. Because in other circumstances it would definitely have been yes.

‘It’s very kind of you to ask,’ she said, ‘but I’m not in the market for a date.’

He looked pointedly at her left hand. ‘Not married. So you’re involved with someone at home—someone who couldn’t join you here in Italy?’

‘No. I’m single,’ she admitted.

‘As am I. So what’s the harm? You’re here on holiday, yes?’

‘Not exactly,’ she hedged.

‘Business, then?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s personal. But I can’t really talk about it right now. I need to get some things straight in my head.’

‘It sounds,’ Orlando said thoughtfully, ‘as if you could use a friend. A sounding-board, you could say. Someone who’s not involved.’

Lord, he was acute. That was exactly what she needed. Someone who was objective, who could see things more clearly than she could right now.

‘You barely know me, I admit—but I think we could be friends. And, as a medico di famiglia, I’m a good listener.’ He spread his hands. ‘Come to Pompeii with me. We can potter around among the ruins and eat gelati…and you can talk to me, knowing that whatever you tell me won’t go any further.’

Tempting. So tempting

But Eleanor wasn’t sure she could handle the beginning of a relationship as well as everything else—even if it was just temporary, a holiday fling.