Valtieri's Bride & A Bride Worth Waiting For: Valtieri's BrideA Bride Worth Waiting For

by Caroline Anderson

  He’d brought a wheelchair, and she eyed it doubtfully.

  ‘I don’t know if the dress will fit in it. Horrible thing! I’m going to burn it just as soon as I get it off.’

  ‘Good idea,’ he said drily, and they exchanged a smile.

  He squashed it in around her, and wheeled her towards the exit. Then he stopped the chair by the door and looked down at her.

  ‘Do you really want to go to the hotel?’ he asked.

  She tipped her head back to look at him, but it hurt, and she let her breath out in a gusty sigh. ‘I don’t have a choice. I need a bed for the night, and I can’t afford anywhere else.’

  He moved so she could see him, crouching down beside her. ‘You do have a choice. You can’t fly for a few days, and you don’t want to stay in a strange hotel on your own for all that time. And anyway, you don’t have your bag, so why don’t you come back with me?’ he said, the guilt about his children growing now and the solution to both problems suddenly blindingly obvious.

  ‘I need to get home to see my children, they’ve been patient long enough, and you can clean up there and change into your own comfortable clothes and have something to eat and a good night’s sleep. Carlotta will look after you.’

  Carlotta? Lydia scanned their earlier conversations and came up with the name. She was the woman who looked after his children, who’d worked for them for a hundred years, as he’d put it, and had delivered him.

  Carlotta sounded good.

  ‘That’s such an imposition. Are you sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘I’m sure. It’s by far the easiest thing for me. The hotel’s the other way, and it would save me a lot of time I don’t really have, especially by the time I’ve dropped your bag over there. And you don’t honestly want to be there on your own for days, do you?’

  Guilt swamped her, heaped on the disappointment and the worry about Jen, and she felt crushed under the weight of it all. She felt her spine sag, and shook her head. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve wasted your entire day. If you hadn’t given me a lift…’

  ‘Don’t go there. What-ifs are a waste of time. Yes or no?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said fervently. ‘That would be really kind.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. I feel it’s all my fault anyway.’

  ‘Rubbish. Of course it’s not your fault. You’ve done so much already, and I don’t think I’ve even thanked you.’

  ‘You have. You were doing that when you fell down the steps.’

  ‘Was I?’ She gave him a wry grin, and turned to look up at him as they arrived at the car, resting her hand on his arm lightly to reassure him. ‘It’s really not your fault, you know.’

  ‘I know. You missed your step. I know this. I still…’

  He was still haunted, because of the head injury, images of Angelina crowding in on him. Angelina falling, Angelina with a headache, Angelina slumped over the kitchen table with one side of her face collapsed. Angelina linked up to a life support machine…

  ‘Massimo?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ he said gruffly, and pressing the remote, he opened the door for her and settled her in, then returned the wheelchair and slid into the driver’s seat beside her. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Good. Let’s go.’

  * * *

  She phoned Claire and told her what was happening, assured her she would be all right and promised to phone her the next day, then put the phone down in her lap and rested her head back.

  Under normal circumstances, she thought numbly, she’d be wallowing in the luxury of his butter-soft leather, beautifully supportive car seats, or taking in the picture-postcard countryside of Tuscany as the car wove and swooped along the narrow winding roads.

  As it was she gazed blankly at it all, knowing that she’d have to phone Jen, knowing she should have done it sooner, that her sister would be on tenterhooks, but she didn’t have the strength to crush her hopes and dreams.

  ‘Have you told your sister yet?’ he asked, as if he’d read her mind.

  She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t know what to say. If I hadn’t fallen, we would have won. Easily. It was just so stupid, so clumsy.’

  He sighed, his hand reaching out and closing over hers briefly, the warmth of it oddly comforting in a disturbing way. ‘I’m sorry. Not because I feel it was my fault, because I know it wasn’t, really, but because I know how it feels to let someone down, to have everyone’s hopes and dreams resting on your shoulders, to have to carry the responsibility for someone else’s happiness.’

  She turned towards him, inhibited by the awful, scratchy dress that she couldn’t wait to get out of, and studied his profile.

  Strong. Clean cut, although no longer clean-shaven, the dark stubble that shadowed his jaw making her hand itch to feel the texture of it against her palm. In the dusk of early evening his olive skin was darker, somehow exotic, and with a little shiver she realised she didn’t know him at all. He could be taking her anywhere.

  She closed her eyes and told herself not to be ridiculous. He’d followed them to the hospital, got his brother in on the act, a brother she’d heard referred to as il professore, and now he was taking her to his family home, to his children, his parents, the woman who’d delivered him all those years ago. Forty years? Maybe. Maybe more, maybe less, but give or take.

  Someone who’d stayed with the family for all that time, who surely wouldn’t still be there if they were nasty people?

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  She shrugged, too honest to lie. ‘I was just thinking, I don’t know you. You could be anyone. After all, I was going in the plane with Nico, and you’ve pointed out in no uncertain terms that that wouldn’t have been a good idea, and I just don’t think I’m a very good judge of character.’

  ‘Are you saying you don’t trust me?’

  She found herself smiling. ‘Curiously, I do, or I wouldn’t be here with you.’

  He flashed her a look, and his mouth tipped into a wry grin. ‘Well, thanks.’

  ‘Sorry. It wasn’t meant to sound patronising. It’s just been a bit of a whirlwind today, and I’m not really firing on all cylinders.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re not. Don’t worry, you’re safe with me, I promise, and we’re nearly there. You can have a long lazy shower, or lie in the bath, or have a swim. Whatever you choose.’

  ‘So long as I can get out of this horrible dress, I’ll be happy.’

  He laughed, the sound filling the car and making something deep inside her shift.

  ‘Good. Stand by to be happy very soon.’

  He turned off the road onto a curving gravelled track lined by cypress trees, winding away towards what looked like a huge stone fortress. She sat up straighter. ‘What’s that building?’

  ‘The house.’

  ‘House?’ She felt her jaw drop, and shut her mouth quickly. That was their house?

  ‘So…is this your land?’

  ‘Sì.’

  She stared around her, but the light was fading and it was hard to tell what she was looking at. But the massive edifice ahead of them was outlined against the sunset, and as they drew closer she could see lights twinkling in the windows.

  They climbed the hill, driving through a massive archway and pulling up in front of a set of sweeping steps. Security lights came on as they stopped, and she could see the steps were flanked by huge terracotta pots with what looked like olive trees in them. The steps rose majestically up to the biggest set of double doors she’d ever seen in her life. Strong doors, doors that would keep you safe against all invaders.

  She had to catch her jaw again, and for once in her life she was lost for words. She’d thought, foolishly, it seemed, that it might shrink as they got closer, but
it hadn’t. If anything it had grown, and she realised it truly was a fortress.

  An ancient, impressive and no doubt historically significant fortress. And it was his family home?

  She thought of their modest farmhouse, the place she called home, and felt the sudden almost overwhelming urge to laugh. What on earth did he think of her, all tarted up in her ludicrous charity shop wedding dress and capering about outside the airport begging a lift from any old stranger?

  ‘Lydia?’

  He was standing by her, the door open, and she gathered up the dress and her purse and phone and squirmed off the seat and out of the car, balancing on her good leg and eyeing the steps dubiously.

  How on earth—?

  No problem, apparently. He shut the car door, and then to her surprise he scooped her up into his arms.

  She gave a little shriek and wrapped her arms around his neck, so that her nose was pressed close to his throat in the open neck of his shirt. Oh, God. He smelt of lemons and musk and warm, virile male, and she could feel the beat of his heart against her side.

  Or was it her own? She didn’t know. It could have been either.

  He glanced down at her, concerned that he might be hurting her. There was a little frown creasing the soft skin between her brows, and he had the crazy urge to kiss it away. He almost did, but stopped himself in time.

  She was a stranger, nothing more, and he tried to ignore the feel of her against his chest, the fullness of her breasts pressing into his ribs and making his heart pound like a drum. She had her head tucked close to his shoulder, and he could feel the whisper of her breath against his skin. Under the antiseptic her hair smelled of fresh fruit and summer flowers, and he wanted to bury his face in it and breathe in.

  He daren’t look down again, though. She’d wrapped her arms around his neck and the front of the dress was gaping slightly, the soft swell of those beautiful breasts tempting him almost beyond endurance.

  Crazy. Stupid. Whatever was the matter with him? He gritted his teeth, shifted her a little closer and turned towards the steps.

  Lydia felt his body tense, saw his jaw tighten and she wondered why. She didn’t have time to work it out, though, even if she could, because as he headed towards the house three children came tumbling down the steps and came to a sliding halt in front of them, their mouths open, their faces shocked.

  ‘Papà?’

  The eldest, a thin, gangly girl with a riot of dark curls and her father’s beautiful eyes, stared from one of them to the other, and the look on her face was pure horror.

  ‘I think you’d better explain to your children that I am not your new wife,’ she said drily, and the girl glanced back at her and then up at her father again.

  ‘Papà?’

  He was miles away, caught up in a fairy-tale fantasy of carrying this beautiful woman over the threshold and then peeling away the layers of her bridal gown…

  ‘Massimo? I think you need to explain to the children,’ Lydia said softly, watching his face at close range. There was a tic in his jaw, the muscle jumping. Had he carried Angelina up these steps?

  ‘It’s all right, Francesca,’ he said in English, struggling to find his voice. ‘This is Miss Fletcher. I met her today at the airport, and she’s had an accident and has to rest for a few days, so I’ve brought her here. Say hello.’

  She frowned and asked something in Italian, and he smiled a little grimly and shook his head. ‘No. We are not married. Say hello to Miss Fletcher, cara.’

  ‘Hello, Miss Fletcher,’ Francesca said in careful English, her smile wary but her shoulders relaxing a little, and Lydia smiled back at her. She felt a little awkward, gathered up in his arms against that hard, broad chest with the scent of his body doing extraordinary things to her heart, but there was nothing she could do about it except smile and hope his arms didn’t break.

  ‘Hello, Francesca. Thank you for speaking English so I can understand you.’

  ‘That’s OK. We have to speak English to Auntie Isabelle. This is Lavinia, and this is Antonino. Say hello,’ she prompted.

  Lydia looked at the other two, clustered round their sister. Lavinia was the next in line, with the same dark, glorious curls but mischief dancing in her eyes, and Antonino, leaning against Francesca and squiggling the toe of his shoe on the gravel, was the youngest. The baby in the photo, the little one who must have lost his mother before he ever really knew her.

  Her heart ached for them all, and she felt a welling in her chest and crushed it as she smiled at them.

  ‘Hello, Lavinia, hello, Antonino. It’s nice to meet you,’ she said, and they replied politely, Lavinia openly studying her, her eyes brimming over with questions.

  ‘And this is Carlotta,’ Massimo said, and she lifted her head and met searching, wise eyes in a wizened face. He spoke rapidly to her in Italian, explaining her ridiculous fancy-dress outfit no doubt, and she saw the moment he told her that they’d lost the competition, because Carlotta’s face softened and she looked at Lydia and shook her head.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, lifting her hands. ‘So sorry for you. Come, I help you change and you will be happier, Sì?’

  ‘Sì,’ she said with a wry chuckle, and Massimo shifted her more firmly against his chest and followed Carlotta puffing and wheezing up the steps.

  The children were tugging at him and questioning him in Italian, and he was laughing and answering them as fast as he could. Bless their little hearts, she could see they were hanging on his every word.

  He was the centre of their world, and they’d missed him, and she’d kept him away from them all these hours when they must have been desperate to have him back. She felt another shaft of guilt, but Carlotta was leading the way through the big double doors, and she looked away from the children and gasped softly.

  They were in a cloistered courtyard, with a broad covered walkway surrounding the open central area that must cast a welcome shade in the heat of the day, but now in the evening it was softly lit and she could see more of the huge pots of olive trees set on the old stone paving in the centre, and on the low wall that divided the courtyard from the cloistered walkway geraniums tumbled over the edge, bringing colour and scent to the evening air.

  But that wasn’t what had caught her attention. It was the frescoed walls, the ancient faded murals under the shelter of the cloisters that took her breath away.

  He didn’t pause, though, or give her time to take in the beautiful paintings, but carried her through one of the several doors set in the walls, then along a short hallway and into a bedroom.

  He set her gently on the bed, and she felt oddly bereft as he straightened up and moved away.

  ‘I’ll be in the kitchen with the children. Carlotta will tell me when you’re ready and I’ll come and get you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He smiled fleetingly and went out, the children’s clamouring voices receding as he walked away, and Carlotta closed the door.

  ‘Your bath,’ she said, pushing open another door, and she saw a room lined with pale travertine marble, the white suite simple and yet luxurious. And the bath—she could stick her bandaged leg up on the side and just wallow. Pure luxury.

  ‘Thank you.’ She couldn’t wait. All she wanted was to get out of the dress and into water. But the zip…

  ‘I help you,’ Carlotta said, and as the zip slid down, she was freed from the scratchy fabric at last. A bit too freed. She clutched at the top as it threatened to drift away and smiled at Carlotta.

  ‘I can manage now,’ she said, and Carlotta nodded.

  ‘I get your bag.’

  She went out, and Lydia closed the bedroom door behind her, leaning back against it and looking around again.

  It was much simpler than the imposing and impressive entrance, she saw with
relief. Against expectations it wasn’t vast, but it was pristine, the bed made up with sparkling white linen, the rug on the floor soft underfoot, and the view from the French window would be amazing in daylight.

  She limped gingerly over to the window and stared out, pressing her face against the glass. The doors opened onto what looked like a terrace, and beyond—gosh, the view must be utterly breathtaking, she imagined, because even at dusk it was extraordinary, the twinkling lights of villages and scattered houses sparkling in the twilight.

  Moving away from the window, she glanced around her, taking in her surroundings in more detail. The floor was tiled, the ceiling beamed, with chestnut perhaps? Probably, with terracotta tiles between the beams. Sturdy, simple and homely—which was crazy, considering the scale of the place and the grandeur of the entrance! But it seemed more like a farm now, curiously, less of a fortress, and much less threatening.

  And that established, she let go of the awful dress, kicked it away from her legs, bundled it up in a ball and hopped into the bathroom.

  The water was calling her. Studying the architecture could wait.

  CHAPTER THREE

  WHAT was that noise?

  Lydia lifted her head, water streaming off her hair as she surfaced to investigate.

  ‘Signorina? Signorina!’

  Carlotta’s voice was desperate as she rattled the handle on the bathroom door, and Lydia felt a stab of alarm.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, sitting up with a splash and sluicing the water from her hair with her hands.

  ‘Oh, signorina! You are all right?’

  She closed her eyes and twisted her hair into a rope, squeezing out the rest of the water and suppressing a sigh. ‘I’m fine. I’m OK, really. I won’t be long.’

  ‘I wait, I help you.’

  ‘No, really, there’s no need. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘But Massimo say I no leave you!’ she protested, clearly worried for some reason, but Lydia assured her again that she was fine.

  ‘OK,’ she said after a moment, sounding dubious. ‘I leave your bag here. You call me for help?’