Kate Hardy - The Italian GP's Bride

Orlando clearly knew what she meant, because the pressure of his hand tightened briefly around hers. ‘It might be a post-viral illness—he might be recovering, not becoming sicker,’ he said. ‘But I think you need to talk to him about it. Be open about it. Get him to put your mind at rest.’

‘Or let me prepare for the worst.’

‘You,’ Orlando told her, ‘are looking on the dark side. It might not be what you think. You know as well as I do that the symptoms you listed apply to other illnesses that can be cured, or at least controlled. The breathlessness could be asthma—which can start at any age, so it could be recent and he’s not used to taking his inhalers yet.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Talk to him,’ Orlando advised. ‘And although my medical textbooks are in Italian so they won’t be much use to you, if you need them for research I can translate for you.’

‘That’s a very generous offer.’ She was glad that her sunglasses hid her need to blink back tears.

‘We’re friends. Well, maybe we’re more acquaintances, at the moment,’ he told her, ‘but we’re going to be friends. And friends look out for each other, yes?’

‘Thank you. Grazie.’

He smiled. ‘My pleasure, tesoro. And now I want you to stop worrying. Until you’ve talked to him and found more information, there’s nothing you can do. So relax. Enjoy the sunshine. Things have a way of working out.’

He squeezed her hand once more, then placed his hand back on the steering-wheel. This time he drove a little more sedately than he had from the airport. And then she noticed the music playing softly in the background. A string quartet: something she didn’t recognise, but it was soothing—and very pretty. ‘What’s the music?’ she asked

‘Vivaldi.’

‘It’s lovely.’

‘Well, of course. It’s Italian.’ He gave her a wicked look. ‘We do have more than just “O Sole Mio”, you know.’

‘You listen to mainly classical music?’

‘Depends on my mood. I’ll sing along with Lucio Battisti or Andrea Bocelli—or sometimes I just like the regularity of Vivaldi or Corelli in the background. Had I been a surgeon, I think I would choose this for the operating theatre.’ He paused. ‘And you?’

She shrugged. ‘Whatever’s on the radio. Something I can hum along to.’

‘If you want to change the music, help yourself.’

Jeremy had teased her about singing out of key: no way was she going to sing along in the car beside a man she barely knew. A man she was finding more and more attractive, the more time she spent with him. Today Orlando was wearing casual clothes—pale linen trousers and a white T-shirt—and yet he looked utterly gorgeous. Even more so than he had in a formal suit—because casual meant touchable.

And he’d just been holding her hand.

She gripped the edges of her sunhat to keep herself from temptation.

‘I’m glad you don’t have long hair,’ Orlando said.

Not what the rest of the world had said when she’d gone from hair that was almost waist-length to an urchin cut. ‘Oh?’

‘Because it’s beautiful outside,’ he said. ‘Beautiful enough to have the top down—but if your hair were long and loose, that wouldn’t be much fun for you.’

‘Is that a hint?’

‘Would you mind? I know it’s hot, but we’re not that far from Pompeii so you shouldn’t get a headache from the sun. Though I would advise you to remove your hat.’

She did as he suggested. ‘Prego.’

He pressed a button: moments later, the hood was down and folded away. Automatic. Impressive.

‘Now you’re showing off,’ she said.

He laughed. ‘It’s called “having fun”.’

When they reached Pompeii, Orlando put the hood back up, and took two bottles of water from the glove compartment.

‘You need to keep properly hydrated in this climate,’ he said.

‘Thanks. I didn’t think about that.’

He shrugged. ‘At least you remembered a hat and sunglasses. That’s more than many people would.’

‘And as you drove us here,’ she told him when they joined the queue for tickets, ‘I’m paying the entrance fee.’

‘No. This was my idea. And in my world women don’t pay on a date.’

‘This isn’t a date,’ she reminded him. ‘We’re here as friends. I pay for the tickets, or no deal.’

He laughed. ‘You’re independent and impossible. And I want the pleasure of showing you Pompeii, so what choice do I have?’ He held his hand out for her to shake. ‘OK, it’s a deal. Provided you let me buy you a gelati.’

She shook his hand, and her palm tingled at the contact. ‘Deal,’ she said, hearing the huskiness in her own voice and hoping that Orlando hadn’t noticed.

When she’d paid for their tickets, they wandered through into the old town. There were beautiful frescoes and mosaic floors everywhere. ‘It’s gorgeous. You wouldn’t think this place was over two thousand years old,’ she said, full of wonder.

‘Nearer three,’ Orlando said, ‘as it was first occupied in the eighth century BC. Some of the ruined buildings were actually ruins before the eruption.’

‘Incredible.’ Though there was something that made her uncomfortable. ‘Those bodies on the floor…where did they come from?’

‘They’re plaster casts,’ he told her. ‘The ash from the volcano fell and buried the people and animals, then hardened round them. The bodies decomposed and left a space behind in the ash. In the nineteenth century, the archaeologist Giuseppi Fiorelli had the idea of pumping plaster in to the cavities so we could see what was under the ash.’

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