Oceans Between Us (A Cinderella Romance)

by Taylor, Helen Scott

  Oceans Between Us

  By

  Helen Scott Taylor

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  Copyright © 2012 by Helen Taylor

  Cover design © Helen Taylor

  *

  The right of Helen Taylor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the Copyright owner.

  Acknowledgement

  Thanks must go to my trusty critique partners Mona Risk and Joan Leacott who always give me useful feedback on how to improve my stories. Special thanks to my editor Pam Berehulke who went above and beyond the call of duty on this one and made some tremendous suggestions.

  Chapter One

  "I demand to see my son." Dino struggled to moderate his voice when he really wanted to shout into the phone.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Rossellini. That's just not possible. The baby belongs to the couple who adopted him."

  Frustration made Dino pace across the office to stare out the dirty window at the busy London street below. "But I'm his father. How is it possible that you can give him to someone without my consent?"

  The woman from the adoption agency released a long-suffering sigh that hissed down the phone line. "I've already told you, sir, there was no father listed on the birth certificate. If we'd had your name, you'd have been contacted before the adoption went ahead."

  Dino cast a dark glance at his manager who returned his gaze with a sheepish smirk. Freddy had kept Rachel's pregnancy a secret from him on purpose.

  He turned his attention back to the unhelpful woman on the phone. "Had I known about my child, I would never have allowed this to happen. You will please get him back from these people." Even as the words came from Dino's mouth, he knew in his heart his son was lost to him. How could the British authorities allow a child to be adopted without the father's permission? This would never happen in Italy.

  "That's just not possible, Mr. Rossellini. According to the law, you no longer have any rights to the boy. I wish I could help you, but I can't."

  "I'll appeal to the court," he said, trying to think of a way to make her take him seriously.

  "That won't do any good. If you consult a solicitor, he'll explain the relevant law. The child now legally belongs to the couple who adopted him."

  Dino turned away from Freddy and lowered his voice, hating that the architect of his heartache would hear him beg. "Just let me see my son once, please."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Rossellini. I can't."

  "A photo, then."

  "No, sir." The woman's voice softened. "I really am sorry, but you can't have any contact with the baby or the adoptive parents. There's nothing more I can say."

  Pain stabbed through Dino's chest. He pressed a hand over his heart, struggling to draw breath. For a moment he feared he might cry right here in front of Freddy. How could Rachel have done this to him? They were no longer a couple but he'd thought they were still friends. Surely she'd known he would love his child and want to give him a home. But Rachel was vulnerable, easily manipulated by Freddy.

  Dino put down the phone and leaned his hands on top of Freddy's smoked glass desk, staring him down. "Why did you hide Rachel's pregnancy from me?"

  "Dino, mate, I had your best interests at heart. Think of your career. How could you tour if you had to look after a baby?"

  "I would have married Rachel. We'd have found a way to manage."

  "It's selfish to expect Rachel to tie herself down with a baby. She didn't want a kid holding her back when she has the world at her feet." Freddy laughed. "Believe me, you had a lucky escape. Not every woman would have agreed to adoption."

  Cold seeped into Dino's muscles as if every scrap of warmth had been sucked out of his world. He'd let Freddy dazzle him with promises of wealth and fame. He’d lost sight of what was really important in life, family, loyalty, and love. He'd even let Freddy talk him into performing over Christmas so he'd missed his usual visit home to see his parents for the holiday season.

  "Where is Rachel?"

  Unease flitted across Freddy's face. "She's recovering. You shouldn't see her right now. Not until you've cooled off."

  Dino had no intention of seeing his ex at the moment. But he wanted to be sure she was all right. She was emotionally fragile at the best of times. Freddy wouldn't care how she felt as long as she fulfilled her contractual obligations, and the money kept rolling in. Bloody Freddy didn't care about anything except his percentage.

  "You've got a month before you're due in New York. Why not get started on the new recordings. It'll take your mind off things."

  Dino stared at the mottled pink carpet, his mind fading to gray. A shiver ran through him and curled icy talons around his heart. He hadn't known it was possible to hurt this much without physical injury.

  "Dino, mate. You all right?"

  Dino grabbed his bag and headed for the office door. He couldn't face a soulless London hotel room. He had to get out of the city, had to outrun this pain, this guilt that swamped him like a choking smog. His baby boy had come into this world and been passed on like an unwanted package. He wasn't sure he could ever forgive himself for letting this happen.

  ***

  Wind buffeted the front of the house, whistling through gaps in the casement windows while rain pelted against the glass. Maria Gardener wiped her face on her sleeve and examined the wall she had just painted. She angled her head, trying to see if she had missed anywhere. It was only midafternoon, but the awful weather meant it was prematurely dark, and she'd had to turn on the light. The golden wheat color glowed, fresh and clean. The greasy finger marks were gone. The guesthouse entrance hall would be ready to start next season spotless and welcoming.

  Happy with her work, she pushed the lid on the paint can, then bent and started gathering the newspaper she'd spread to protect the Victorian mosaic floor. Her parents closed the place each winter and left for a month's cruise. The last few years she had used the quiet time to redecorate. This year she was making good progress. They had only been gone for two days, and already she'd finished a room.

  She almost wished she were with her mum and dad, boarding the cruise ship in Florida. Almost. Despite the weather, she would still rather be safe at home. As she gathered up her paintbrushes, the doorbell chimed. It couldn't be her sister, Chris. She'd be collecting her twins from playgroup. And, in this weather, none of the locals would be crazy enough to walk up the hill to the Crow's Nest guesthouse on its rocky perch overlooking the village of Porthale. If any tourists were brave enough to visit Cornwall in winter, they would surely have seen the large CLOSED sign on the front gate. So who was her mystery caller?

  Maria dropped her brushes onto the newspaper and stripped off her paint-stained gloves before unlocking the door. It swung against her in a gust of wet wind. A dripping man stood on the top step huddled into his jacket. A little stab of fear hit Maria and she told herself not to be silly. The poor man looked like a drowned rat. He wasn't going to hurt her. She stepped back and gestured him in. She couldn't leave him standing outside in the downpour.

  Safely out of the rain, he ran his fingers back through gleaming black hair, sc
attering drips on the newspaper. Water trailed down his skin, caught in his thick black eyelashes. Foreign, she thought, Italian or Spanish, perhaps. She noticed a leather overnight bag in his hand. He must be looking for somewhere to stay. With the low light and bad weather he could have missed the closed sign, or his English might not be good. "I'm sorry," she said slowly so he would understand, "we're c—" But her words died in her mouth as he turned his gaze on her.

  He was beautiful—golden skin, classic good looks—but that wasn't what broke her train of thought. His bleak expression did that. Lines of tension bracketed his mouth and fanned out from deep brown eyes filled with anguish. "Do you have a room?" he asked in soft, accented English.

  She was alone in the place, vulnerable. It was on the tip of her tongue to say no, suggest he go to Truro where the hotels remained open all year. But he was softly spoken, unthreatening, and his obvious distress tugged at her heart. She nodded and went to the bureau they used as a reception desk. They had twelve bedrooms and during the winter shutdown, four had a makeover. She chose the key to number twelve, a family room at the far end of the upstairs corridor, the accommodation furthest from where she would be painting.

  Opening the guest register, she glanced over her shoulder to find him staring blankly into space. "What's your name, please?"

  He blinked and focused on her. "Mr. Rossellini." He spelled his name out for her. "It's Italian," he added.

  "How long do you plan to stay, Mr. Rossellini?" He shook his head slowly, the vacant expression sliding back into his eyes. "I don't know."

  "No worries. It doesn't matter." She closed the bureau and headed towards the stairs. "Follow me, please." As Maria mounted the steps, she remembered she had a hole in the seat of her old leggings, and she was wearing one of her dad's ancient T-shirts, one that had once been black but was now a washed-out gray with Led Zeppelin written across the front. And she probably had paint on her face. Not that Mr. Rossellini was likely to notice. He seemed so preoccupied. She wondered if he even knew he was in Porthale.

  He followed her along the hall to room twelve. She opened the door and led him inside. He pulled up with a sharp intake of breath and stared at the baby's cot. "I hope you don't mind having a family room," she said quickly. "It has an ensuite bathroom and lovely sea views." Not that he would see much out of the windows right now. An American family who stayed last summer had called the outlook a 'million dollar view,' but at the moment the large bay window overlooking the harbor was awash with rain. Gradually the Italian's tense shoulders eased, and he moved into the room. He dropped his bag and wandered towards the window.

  "Would you like me to put your leather jacket in the drying room, Mr. Rossellini?" She glanced down at his expensive-looking black shoes. "Your shoes, as well, if you like." He didn't seem to hear her. She moved closer to him, her gaze sweeping from his broad shoulders to his narrow hips. He was rather gorgeous, and his clothes and bag looked expensive. He belonged in an upscale city hotel, not a family-run guesthouse. Especially one that was supposed to be closed for the winter.

  "Mr. Rossellini," she tried again, "shall I dry your jacket?"

  He didn't look at her, but he unbuttoned the jacket, slipped it off his shoulders and held it out.

  "Will you be wanting dinner?"

  He shook his head and resumed staring out through the rivulets of rain snaking down the glass.

  "Okay, well come down if you want anything." Maria hastened to the door and slipped out, closing it quietly behind her. The poor man was hurting for some reason, that much was obvious. She hated seeing anyone unhappy. Her greatest joy was to hear the laughter of the families who stayed at the Crow's Nest. The bucket-and-spade brigade, her dad called them. Along with the hikers who stayed a night or two during a trek around the Cornish coast, families were the guesthouse's mainstay.

  She made her way downstairs and went to the warm drying room beside the laundry at the back. She carefully arranged the Italian's jacket on a hanger. The garment was certainly expensive, the leather and the satin lining both of good quality. Smoothing her hand down the wet sleeve, she wished she could smooth away the stranger's troubles as easily.

  While he was here, she would do her best to pull him out of his dismal mood, make him forget his worries and relax. Her dad joked that she always wanted to pamper the guests. Really, she just enjoyed looking after people and until she had her own husband and children to pamper, the guests filled the gap. And she certainly wouldn't mind pampering the handsome Italian.

  ***

  By seven the next morning Maria was down in the kitchen. She didn't expect her guest to be ready for breakfast this early, but according to Murphy's Law, he would come down at exactly the moment the carpet layers arrived. So she wanted to have everything prepared.

  First, she fed Arthur, the village tomcat who turned up at her door every three or four days. He wolfed down his meat, then sauntered out again as though he owned the place.

  In the dining room, Maria set the table in the bay window, the one with the nicest view, and put out the various breakfast cereals and fruit juices. She checked the contents of the fridge to make sure she had all the ingredients to cook a full English breakfast. Mr. Rossellini was bound to be ravenous as he hadn't come down for dinner the previous night. When she was ready for him, she prepared herself some toast and coffee. Then she waited.

  The kitchen was at the back of the house, but she had a view down the corridor past the office to the dining room. She leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and watching for the Italian. She tried to read a novel but couldn't concentrate. Every noise made her gaze jump from the page. Then water gushed down the pipe outside the back door. As Mr. Rossellini was the only person upstairs, it meant he must be showering.

  Abandoning her book, she switched on the coffee machine and checked the kettle was full. Then she paced. This was crazy. She and her mum and dad managed twelve rooms full of guests, but this one man had Maria in a spin.

  The phone rang, and she was so wound up she nearly jumped out of her skin. She muttered a rude word and grabbed the handset.

  As she started to answer, her sister Christine's voice cut in. "Mari, can you do me a huge, huge favor and look after the girls for an hour this afternoon? Eric's hurt his back, and I need to take him to the chiropractor."

  Maria had intended to start decorating the upstairs rooms once the carpet layers finished, but she had four weeks before her parents came home, so it wouldn't matter if she missed one afternoon. "Okay."

  "You're a gem. I'll see you later," Chris said.

  Maria turned to glance out the window. A few streaks of blue sky had broken through the clouds. If the rain stayed away, she would take her nieces down to the beach. At that moment a door slammed. She pivoted around, wide-eyed. Typical, she had looked away for a second and missed her guest. She dashed along the corridor to the front hall.

  She'd left Mr. Rossellini's leather jacket over the chair in the lobby. It was gone. But he wasn't in the dining room. She wrenched open the front door and raced out, just in time to see him striding away down the lane towards the village. Why hadn't he eaten breakfast? Perhaps he didn't know it was included in the room rate. But surely he would have asked? He'd missed two meals now. She watched his tall, lean form disappear around a corner and bit her lip.

  Apart from worrying about him missing the meals, she was disappointed she hadn't managed to chat with him. She had wanted him to move his car so the carpet van had more room to turn. She wandered over to his sleek black BMW. A Hertz sticker in the window identified the car as a rental. Surely he hadn't come all the way from Italy?

  Her breath hissed out in frustration and she returned to tidy the kitchen. Now she wouldn't have a chance to ask him what he wanted for dinner. If he wanted anything at all! Perhaps he didn't think the food in the guesthouse would be up to his standards. Catering for one guest was definitely more difficult than catering for a houseful.

  Just in case he did deign
to try her cooking, she prepared boeuf bourguignon and put it in the slow cooker while she waited for the carpet delivery. She also called the wife of one of the local fishermen and asked if they could deliver some of today's catch, so her errant Italian had a choice of menu. Anything he didn't eat, she would freeze or eat herself.

  At nine thirty, the carpet delivery van arrived. She watched as the two men hefted the huge rolls upstairs. All four of the bedrooms due for redecorating were off-limits this morning. Two were being carpeted, and the other two were temporarily stuffed with the displaced furniture.

  While the carpets were laid, she gathered cleaning materials and went to service room twelve. Visitors usually left belongings around their rooms, giving them a lived-in look. Mr. Rossellini was either very tidy or he hadn't unpacked. She vacuumed, made the bed, and restocked the tea and coffee tray, relieved to see he had at least made himself two cups of coffee and eaten the small complimentary packs of biscuits.

  His leather bag still looked wet. She prodded it with her toe. It was heavy—full of damp, creased clothes that should be hung up, no doubt. She itched to take the bag down to the drying room, empty it, and dry and iron the contents. But that would be too presumptuous. The black shoes he'd been wearing when he arrived lay neatly under a chair and they, too, were damp. She grabbed them up with a sigh and took them downstairs to dry. It wasn't much, but it went some way towards soothing her itch to take care of the man.

  After lunch, her sister brought Charlotte and Poppy over, Maria's eighteen-month-old, twin nieces. It had started to drizzle, so the beach was out. Instead, Maria made pastry and helped each of the girls to roll some out and make jam tarts, while she prepared a lemon meringue pie and some muffins.

  Although she was busy, her thoughts kept slipping back to her Italian guest. Where had he gone? Was he all right? The misery in his eyes haunted her. She hated to see anyone so unhappy. By six, she was on edge, listening for the front door. Mr. Rossellini had been gone for nine hours. If he'd taken his car, she wouldn't have worried. But he'd walked—and he was not dressed for hiking.