The Italian GP's Bride

‘And it’s appreciated.’

He settled opposite her. ‘So, are you on holiday in Naples?’

‘Sort of.’

Not a straight yes or no. And she didn’t offer any details, he noticed. He had a feeling she’d clam up completely if he pushed her, so he tried for levity instead. ‘Your mamma told you never to talk to strangers, is that it?’

‘No.’ Her voice went very quiet. ‘Actually, my mother died just before Christmas.’

Six months ago. And the pain was clearly still raw. ‘Mi dispiace, Eleanor,’ he said softly. ‘I didn’t intend to hurt you.’

‘You weren’t to know. It’s not a problem.’

But he noticed she didn’t explain any further. And those beautiful brown eyes were filled with sadness. He had a feeling it was more than just grief at losing her mother. Something to do with the man who’d made her wary of strangers, perhaps?

Yet she’d put her feelings aside and gone straight to help a stranger when the flight attendants had asked for a doctor. Eleanor Forrest was an intriguing mixture. And Orlando wanted to know what made her tick.

He switched to a safer topic. ‘You’re an emergency doctor?’

‘Yes.’

OK. He’d try the professional route: say nothing, just smile, and give her space to answer more fully. Just like he did with his shyer patients. If he waited long enough, she’d break the silence.

She did. ‘I work in a London hospital.’

Something else they had in common. Good. ‘London’s a beautiful city. I’ve just spent a few days there with the doctor I used to share a flat with, Max. It was his son’s christening.’

There was the tiniest crinkle round her eyes. ‘I don’t know if I dare ask. Were you the…?’

‘Padrino? The godfather, you mean?’ So under her reserve there was a sense of fun. He liked that. Enough to want to see more of it. He hummed the opening bars of the theme tune to the film. ‘Yes, I was.’

Though seeing the expression on Max’s face when he looked at his wife and baby had made Orlando ache. Orlando had stopped believing in love, long ago, when his mother’s fifth marriage had crumbled: every time she’d thought she’d found The One, she’d been disillusioned. But Max was so happy with Rachel and little Connor, it had made Orlando think again. Wonder if maybe love really did exist.

Except he didn’t have a clue where to start looking for it. And he wasn’t sure that he wanted to spend his life searching and yearning and getting more and more disappointed, the way his mother did. So he’d decided to stick to the way he’d lived for the last five years—smile, keep his relationships light, just for fun, and put his energy into his work.

‘You work in London, too?’ she asked.

‘Not any more. I did, for a couple of years, on a children’s ward.’ He spread his hands. ‘But then I discovered I wanted to see my patients grow up—not forget about them once they’d left the hospital. I wanted to treat them, just as I’d treated their parents and their grandparents and would treat their children. I wanted to see them with their families.’

Strange, really, when he didn’t have a family of his own. Just his mother, a few ex-stepfathers and ex-stepsiblings he hadn’t kept in touch with. The only way he’d get an extended family now was to get married: and that was a risk he wasn’t prepared to take.

Keep it light, he reminded himself. ‘And I missed the lemon groves. I missed the sea.’

‘And the sunshine,’ she said with a wry smile.

‘I don’t mind London rain. But I admit, although I like visiting London, it’s good to be back under the Italian sun. And I love being a family doctor.’

She smiled, and he caught his breath. Her serious manner masked her beauty—when she smiled, Eleanor Forrest was absolutely stunning. Perfect teeth and a wide smile and those amazing deep brown eyes.

It made him want to touch her. Trace the outline of her face with the tips of his fingers. Rub his thumb against her lower lip. And then dip his head to hers, claiming her mouth.

Then he became aware she was speaking. Oh, lord. He really hoped he hadn’t ignored a question or something. She must think he was a real idiot.

‘My best friend at medical school, Tamsin, did the same thing,’ Eleanor said. ‘She started in paediatrics and became a GP because she wanted to care for the whole family.’

‘There’s a lot to be said for it.’ But they were talking about him. He wanted to know about her. ‘You prefer the buzz of emergency medicine?’

‘I like knowing I’ve made a difference,’ she said simply.

She’d make a difference all right, he thought. Whatever branch of medicine she worked in. But before he could say anything, the man he’d spoken to about Eleanor’s luggage came over, carrying one bright pink case.

‘I am sorry for the wait, Dottoressa Forrest,’ he said politely. ‘No problem. Grazie,’ she said, taking the case and checking the label. ‘Yes, this is mine.’

He left after some pleasantries, and Eleanor stood up. ‘Thank you for the coffee, Dottore de Luca.’

‘You haven’t finished it yet.’

She made a face. ‘It’s getting late. I really ought to check into my hotel.’

He didn’t want her to walk out of his life. Not yet. And there was one way he could keep her talking to him for a little longer. ‘You could be waiting a while for a taxi, and although public transport is good in Naples, you have baggage with you. I’ll give you a lift.’

She shook her head. ‘Thank you, but you’ve already been kind enough. I’d rather not impose.’

He wasn’t sure what was going on here—he’d never experienced this weird, unexplainable feeling before—but what he knew for definite was that if he let her walk out of his life now, he’d regret it. Somehow he needed to persuade her to trust him. And to spend time with him so they could get to know each other.

Max had said he’d known the instant he’d met Rachel that she was the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Orlando had scoffed, saying it was just lust and luckily he’d found friendship as well. But now he wasn’t so sure. Was it possible to fall in love with someone at first sight? Did ‘The One’ exist? Was this odd feeling love? And was Eleanor Forrest the one he’d been waiting for?

He needed to know.

Needed to keep her with him.

‘Eleanor, I know I’m a stranger, but you’re a fellow doctor and you’ve helped save the life of one of my countrymen. Don’t they say in England, one good turn deserves another?’

Eleanor couldn’t help smiling at the old-fashioned phrase. ‘You’ve already bought me coffee and sorted out my luggage for me. I think we’re quits.’

‘Let me put this another way. You could take a taxi, but why spend money you could spend on…’ he waved an impatient hand ‘…oh, good coffee or ice cream or something frivolous to make your time here in Italy fun, when I can give you a lift?’

Lord, it was tempting. But she knew it would be a bad idea. Orlando de Luca might be the most attractive man she’d met in a long while—probably ever, if she thought about it—but that didn’t mean she should act on the attraction. She’d already proved her judgement in men was lousy. Spectacularly lousy. OK, so Jeremy had caught her at an acutely vulnerable moment, but she’d still swallowed every single lie. Not just hook, line and sinker—more like the whole fishing rod. ‘We might not be going the same way.’

‘Then again, we might.’

The man should’ve been a lawyer. He had an answer for everything.

‘So where are you going?’ he asked.

A direct question. One she was reluctant to answer.

He lifted an eyebrow. ‘Is it all strangers, all men, or just me?’

She frowned. ‘How do you mean?’

‘I make you nervous, Eleanor.’

‘No.’ Actually, that wasn’t quite true. He did make her nervous. Because she was aware of the chemistry between them. And she remembered what had happened last time she’d acted on chemistry. Cue one broken heart. And she was still picking up the pieces.

‘There’s another saying in your country, is there not?’ he asked softly. ‘Trust me, I’m a doctor.’

Ha. Jeremy had proved that one to be false in the extreme. He was a doctor—and most definitely not to be trusted.

She faced Orlando, ready to be firm and say thank you but, no—she was getting a taxi. And then she saw the challenge in his eyes. As if he dared her to take the risk. Let him drive her to the hotel.

They’d worked well together on the plane. She’d trusted him then. Could she trust him now?

‘I won’t expect you to invite me in for a nightcap, if that’s what you’re worrying about.’

She felt the colour shoot into her face. ‘Actually, that didn’t occur to me.’ Though Orlando had already told her he was single. And he was the most gorgeous man she’d seen in years, with those unruly dark curls, dark expressive eyes and a mouth that promised all kinds of pleasure. And she couldn’t get Tamsin’s suggestion out of her head: that a holiday fling with a gorgeous man would do her good…

He folded his arms. ‘So are you going to stand in a long, long queue, Dottoressa Eleanor, or are you going to let me drop you off on my way home?’

She gave in to temptation. ‘If you’re sure it’s no trouble, then thank you. A lift would be nice.’

His smile was breathtaking. And it made every single one of her nerve-endings feel as if it were purring.

‘Then let’s go through Customs, tesoro,’ he said softly.

The queues at the customs area and passport control had died down, and they moved through the airport surprisingly quickly. She followed Orlando into the car park—just as she could’ve guessed, he drove a low-slung, shiny black car. A convertible, to be exact. Men and their toys. And didn’t they say that all Italian men wanted to be racing-car drivers?

As if her thoughts were written all over her face, he laughed and stowed her case in the boot next to his. ‘I have only myself to please, Eleanor. And I love driving along the coast road with the hood down and the wind in my hair and the scent of the sea and lemon groves everywhere. If you have time in your schedule here, maybe you’d like to come with me some time.’

He made it sound so inviting.

And it made her knees go weak to imagine it: Orlando, wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans, a pair of dark glasses covering his eyes, at the wheel of the open-topped car.

‘So, your hotel?’

She told him the name, and before she could tell him the address he told her exactly where it was. Clearly he knew his home city well. ‘And just to stop you feeling guilty about taking me out of my way, it’s on my side of the city. On my way home, to be precise. It’s within walking distance of my apartment, in the Old Quarter.’ He opened the passenger door for her, an old-fashioned gesture of courtesy she found charming.

Though some nervousness must have shown on her face because he added, ‘I assure you, Eleanor, you will be perfectly safe. I am a good driver.’

He proved it. Though he was also a very fast driver, and her knuckles were white by the time he pulled up outside her hotel.

‘We are both in one piece,’ he said with a grin. ‘Relax.’

She wasn’t sure if it was the way he’d driven—exactly the same as all the other people on the road, taking advantage of every little gap in the traffic—or being so close to him in such a small space, but relaxing was the last thing she felt like doing right now.

‘Enjoy your stay in Italy, Eleanor.’ When he’d taken her case from the back of his car and carried it up the steps to the entrance of the hotel, he took a card from his wallet, and scribbled a number on the back of it. ‘If you have some spare time while you are in Naples, maybe we could have dinner. My surgery number is on the front. The one I’ve written on the back is my mobile. Call me.’

It wasn’t a question.

‘Call me,’ he said again, his voice soft, and raised her hand to his mouth.

The brush of his lips against her skin was momentary. It was a mere courtesy, she knew, the Italian way of doing things. It didn’t mean anything. But there was heat in his eyes. Heat matched by the flicker of desire rising up her spine.

Calling him would be way too dangerous for her peace of mind. But she wasn’t going to argue over it now. Instead, she smiled politely. ‘Thank you for the lift, Dottore de Luca.’

‘Orlando,’ he corrected. ‘Prego.’ He smiled, sketched a bow, ran lightly down the steps to his car and drove off.

CHAPTER THREE

ONCE Eleanor had signed the register and been shown to her room, she unpacked swiftly and took a shower. She was too tired and it was too late to eat a proper meal, so she ordered a milky hot chocolate from room service. She started to text her mum to say she’d arrived safely, then realised what she was doing halfway through, blinked away the tears, reminded herself to stop being over-emotional and texted Tamsin instead.

When she’d finished her hot chocolate, she slid into bed and curled into a ball. The sheets were cool and smooth and the bed was comfortable, but despite the milky drink she couldn’t sleep.

Because she couldn’t get a certain face out of her mind. Orlando de Luca. Every time she closed her eyes she saw his face. His smile. That hot look in his eyes.

Which was crazy.

Right now she wasn’t in the market for a relationship. She knew she needed to get over Jeremy’s betrayal and move on with her life, but was having a holiday fling with a gorgeous man really the right way to do that? And anyway there must be some reason why Orlando was single.

She didn’t think it was a personality flaw—the way he’d worked with her was nothing like the way Jeremy worked, being so charming that you didn’t realise until it was too late that he’d taken the credit for everything. Orlando was genuine. A nice guy, as well as one of the most attractive he’d ever met.

So why? He’d said he’d worked as a paediatrician then turned to family medicine. So was he still building his career and putting his love life on hold until he was where he wanted to be? Was he the sort who was dedicated to his career and didn’t want the commitment to a relationship? In that case he would be the perfect fling—and maybe she should call him…

But not until after her meeting tomorrow. Her stomach tightened with nerves. What would Bartolomeo Conti be like? He’d sounded nice, on the phone. The photograph he’d emailed to her was that of a man in his mid-fifties with a charming smile. But she knew firsthand that charm often covered something far less pleasant. And her mother hadn’t stayed with Bartolomeo. So was the man who might be her father a snake beneath the smile? Or was she judging him unfairly?

Finally, Eleanor fell asleep; the next morning, the alarm woke her, and by the time she’d showered her stomach was in knots. She couldn’t face even the usual light Italian breakfast of a crumbly pastry, just a frothy cappuccino—and she checked her watch what turned out to be every thirty seconds to make sure she wasn’t going to be late.

After one last glance in the mirror in her room to check she looked respectable, she headed for the hotel lounge. The second she walked in, a tall man stood up and waved to her. She recognised him instantly from the photo he’d emailed her—just as he’d clearly recognised her.

A moment of panic. What did she call him? ‘Signor Conti?’

‘Bartolomeo,’ he corrected. ‘And I hope you will let me call you Eleanor.’ He enveloped her in a hug. ‘Thank you so much for coming to see me—and all this way, from London.’

‘Prego.’

He looked delighted that she’d made the effort to speak his language. ‘We are both early.’ His smile turned slightly wry. ‘I slept badly.’

‘Me, too,’ she admitted.

He put his hands on her shoulders and looked closely at her. ‘I thought it from your photo, and now I know for sure. You look so much like my Costanza. Constance Firth,’ he corrected, ‘the woman I fell in love with, thirty years ago.’ He added softly, ‘But your colouring is all mine.’

Constance Forrest had been fair-haired and Tim Forrest had had sandy hair; both had been blue-eyed. What were the chances of them producing a brown-eyed, dark-haired child—one with olive skin that didn’t burn, rather than an English rose? Whereas Bartolomeo Conti, the man whose initial had been at the bottom of the love letter she’d found among her mother’s things, had hair, skin and eyes the same colour as her own. Coincidence? Or was he her biological father?

‘Have you had breakfast, Eleanor?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘I was too nervous to eat.’

‘Me, too. Let’s go and have a late breakfast and watch the world go by.’

He took her to a little caffè-bar and ordered them both coffee and sfogliatelle. ‘You will like these, Eleanor—they are a Neapolitan speciality. Sweet pastry shaped like a shell and filled with sweetened ricotta cheese and candied orange rind.’ His smile was full of memories. ‘I bought these for your mamma, the first time we went to a caffè together.’

She had so many questions. But they had time.

‘I thought you might like to see these,’ Eleanor said when they’d sat down, handing him an envelope.

Bartolomeo leafed through them. ‘Yes, this is how I remember my Costanza,’ he said softly. ‘And she grew into a very, very beautiful woman. This one of her in the garden…’ There was a catch in his voice. ‘And this is you as a bambina?’ He smiled. ‘You look so much like my sisters Luisella and Federica when they were bambini. Those dimples…May I borrow these to make copies?’

‘Keep them. I did this set for you,’ Eleanor explained.

He reached over the table and hugged her. ‘I never thought I would be blessed with children. And now…’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘And now it seems I have a daughter. A daughter I would very much like to get to know. If your papà does not mind?’

She appreciated the fact he’d asked. Even though strictly speaking it didn’t matter any more. ‘Dad had a stroke the year after I graduated as a doctor.’ Though at least Tim Forrest had been there for her graduation. He’d shared that particular triumph with her. ‘There’s only me now.’

‘You are alone in the world?’ Bartolomeo looked shocked. ‘What of Costanza’s famiglia? Her mother, her father?’

‘I never knew them.’

He frowned. ‘Are you telling me they disowned Costanza because she had you when she was not married?’

Eleanor shook her head. ‘I don’t really know anything about them. The only grandparents I remember were dad’s parents, but he was twenty years older than Mum and they died when I was in my early teens.’ She’d often wondered about her grandparents but hadn’t wanted to hurt her mother by asking. And, thirty years ago, being pregnant and unmarried had still had a bit of a stigma. So maybe Bartolomeo’s theory was right. ‘You really had no idea I existed?’

‘None,’ he said firmly. ‘Had I known my Costanza was carrying my baby, I would have flown straight to England and married her.’

‘So what happened?’ She needed to know. Why had her mother gone back to England alone?

Bartolomeo sighed. ‘I don’t come out of it very well, but I want to be honest with you from the start. I fell in love with your mother, but I wasn’t really free to do so.’ He looked awkward. ‘I wasn’t formally betrothed to Mariella, the daughter of my father’s business partner, but we’d grown up together and our families both expected us to get married. Except then I met Costanza. She was on holiday. It was springtime. I drove past her and caught her in a shower from a puddle. I stopped and took her for a coffee to apologise and that was it. Love at first sight.’

Something she didn’t believe in—in her view, you had to get to know someone properly first—so why couldn’t she get Orlando de Luca out of her head?

Memories softened Bartolomeo’s face. ‘Your mother was so warm, so vibrant—nothing like the cool English rose I thought she would be when I first heard her accent. She made me laugh, and I fell in love with her smile. We were inseparable in the days after that. Everything happened very fast, and I knew I wanted to marry her. I told my parents that I could not marry Mariella, that I wanted my bright English girl. And it was made very clear to me that I would have to choose between my family and Costanza.’

‘So you chose your family.’ Eleanor could understand that. She would’ve hated being cut off from her parents.

‘Not at all. I told them if they were going to insist I had to choose, then I would choose my Costanza.’ Bartolomeo’s face tightened. ‘But she had already made the decision for me. I went to her hotel and she was gone. She’d left me a letter, saying she would not come between me and my family. She was going back to England and she wasn’t going to see me again. And I was to marry Mariella, as everyone expected, and be happy.’

Which had given him a neat get-out. And even though Bartolomeo had warned her he didn’t come out of it well, disappointment seeped through her. ‘Didn’t you even try to get in touch with her?’

‘Of course I did. But I didn’t have a telephone number for her, only an address.’ He frowned. ‘I wrote to her but my letters were returned unopened.’

‘And that was it? You just gave up?’

He smiled wryly. ‘You have to remember, I wasn’t that old. I was twenty-two. So I did the impulsive thing and flew over to England. I thought that I could make her change her mind if I saw her—but when I arrived your grandparents told me she had moved out and they wouldn’t give me a forwarding address. I didn’t know who her friends were, where she worked, where even to start finding her. And then I thought, clearly, she meant it. She really didn’t want to see me again or she would have left me clues.’ He looked sad. ‘And now I know I was right. She decided to keep it a clean break. Otherwise she would have told me about you. My Costanza was never a liar.’

‘But she never told me about you. I grew up thinking Dad was…’ She shrugged. ‘Well, my dad. I only started wondering when I bought my house and the bank queried the fact my birth certificate had my surname as Firth. Mum said it was just an admin thing. Then, when I was clearing out her things afterwards, I found the papers: they changed my name from Firth to Forrest by deed poll after they married.’

‘So her husband brought you up as his own.’ Bartolomeo looked anxious. ‘She was happy with him? He treated her well? Treated you both well?’

There was a lump in Eleanor’s throat as she remembered. ‘They loved each other very, very much. And, yes, they were happy. We were happy. We were a family.’ The perfect family. And how she missed them.

‘I am glad.’ Her surprise must have shown on her face because he said, ‘I would not want my Costanza to be sad. And I would want your childhood to be full of smiles.’

‘It was. Tim obviously wasn’t my biological father, but he was my dad. He read me bedtime stories, taught me to ride a bike and drive a car, grilled my boyfriends and grounded me when I was late home, helped me with my homework and opened the champagne when I got my exam results. He was always there any time I needed to talk—always there with a hug and a smile and sheer common sense when I was full of teenage angst. Mum was, too.’ She swallowed back the tears, the aching loss. The knowledge that Tim would’ve seen through Jeremy and gently made her see the truth. ‘And you? You were happy with Mariella?’

‘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.