Italian Doctor, Full-Time Father

by Dianne Drake

  “He’s hoping within the next hour or two.”

  Clinic policy was nagging at her now. This was an expensive facility, very small, very exclusive, with the best physicians and the best accommodations in the world. More like a resort than a medical treatment facility. People who paid to be here expected their doctor in attendance immediately. Dante wouldn’t be an exception. “Call the floor nurse and tell her I’ll be down to see Mr Baldassare in five minutes.” Five minutes, five hours, five years…it really didn’t matter. She had to do it. That’s all there was to it. Once, five years ago, she’d donned sturdy armor when she’d kicked Dante out of her life. Now she only hoped she had some of that armor left over, because one thing was certain. Dante Baldassare did know how to get to her. That was evidenced in the half-moons her fingernails had just dug into the palms of her hands when she thought about him.

  “No, I don’t want to be here. Why the hell couldn’t I have just gone home, put my foot up and healed there?” Spent the mornings looking out the window and afternoons listening to Gianni learn to read. Not a bad way to pass the time during this imposed holiday, as he preferred to think of it.

  “You know why, Dante,” Cristofor Baldassare said, tucking his brother’s suitcase into the closet. “Because you won’t heal there. You’ll find a way to do everything your doctors told you not to do, and injure yourself again. Again! Like you did last time you came home to recover. You’ve got a good chance to fully recuperate for the start of the next racing season if we let someone else take charge of you.”

  He gave his older brother a toothy grin. Separated by fifteen years, with Dante the older at thirty-five, the two of them bore no family resemblance to each other. Dante’s classically handsome Italian looks, as well as his dark and brooding attitude, were in stark contrast to Cristofor’s sunny disposition, fair-skinned complexion and blond hair, a remnant of his great-grandmother’s Scandinavian blood. “And I’m not going to be the one to go against Papa on this, Dante. If you want to argue with him about checking out of here and going home, that’s fine, you can argue. But I’m staying out of it.” He threw his hands into the air in mock surrender. “Your decision entirely.”

  Dante ran an irritated hand through his hair. Papa’s expectations and demands were a force to be reckoned with in the family, especially as his father wasn’t allowed to be as physically active since his heart attack, and right now he didn’t feel like reckoning with the man. Besides, he understood his father’s concern over his condition. One son already dead, and now another one seriously injured. As a father himself, he knew what his own parents were feeling. So, out of respect, he’d go along with this inconvenience for a while, stay here, take a rest, submit to physical therapy.

  “OK, so I’ll let it go for now. You don’t have to go against Papa. But I’m not staying long. A week or two at the most, until I know what I need to do to get full movement back and build up my muscles. Then I’m coming home.” Two weeks without Gianni—it was already killing him.

  Who’d have ever thought he could get so attached to another person? But Gianni was his heart and soul and the separation was pure torture.

  “Let’s wait for a week or two before we make any decisions, OK?” Cristofor said.

  “We? Since when is this a we decision? Have I ever let my baby brother make decisions for me?” Laughing, Dante picked up a spare pillow and lobbed it across the room at Cristofor.

  “It became my decision when Papa told me to make sure you do what you’re told.” He caught the pillow and threw it back. “And I’m not about to cross him, Dante. He’s under too much stress already. He doesn’t need more.”

  The pillow hit Dante square in the face, and he threw it right back, but Cristofor deflected it and it went sailing at the door just as the door opened and someone stepped in. A woman…a woman who wasn’t quick enough to avert the flying pillow. She took the hit square in the chest, then stepped back, shocked, not injured, clutching the pillow to herself.

  Cristofor turned red-faced, while Dante wiped his eyes and forced himself to stop laughing. Then he turned to her to apologize. “I’m…” His voice broke, and he stopped. Swallowed. Drew in a deep breath. “Catherine?”

  “Dante,” she said, without inflection.

  Her voice was the same, yet different. Fuller. A little throatier. “What…? Um…I didn’t know you were here.” Her fixed stare on him was cool. Not friendly, not unfriendly. Not affected in any way, which surprised him because he remembered her eyes as warm, and the stare she’d always given him provocative. But not now. He stared for a moment, trying to find a bit of the old Catherine, but none of it was there. “I didn’t see your name on the literature.”

  “My name is at the top of the literature, actually,” she said, dropping the pillow onto the plush easy chair by the door.

  As if to prove her wrong, Dante grabbed up the packet of information he’d been given pre-admission, and took a look at the staff roster. But what he saw wasn’t Catherine Brannon. It was Dr Catherine Wilder. Which meant she’d gotten married. He hadn’t expected that. Of course, he didn’t have the right to that expectation, did he? Didn’t have the right to anything where Catherine was concerned. Not even to think of her.

  Dante looked up at Catherine again. “I didn’t know.” And that was the truth. Sure, the fact that he’d be under the care of a rehab doctor by the name of Catherine had possibly persuaded him to choose this clinic over several others, for no particular reason other than a little sentimentality. Yet he’d had no reason to suspect that his Catherine would be the Catherine in the brochure. But, damn, if that hadn’t turned out to be, well, he wouldn’t go so far as to say good. Maybe interesting?

  “And if you had known, would you have chosen Aeberhard?”

  He was still surprised by the turn of events. “It’s the best in Europe, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she answered, “it is.”

  “Then I would have chosen it.” Easy to say, but he wasn’t sure. Catherine was good. He knew that. But having the doctor in charge of his medical care falling into the line of past lovers? Well, he’d expected to be bored out of his mind here but, if nothing else, the next couple of weeks should prove to be interesting.

  “Small world, isn’t it?” she said, shifting a quick glance at Cristofor.

  “Smaller than we’d ever guess,” Dante responded, also shifting his glance to Cristofor. “My brother,” he said, nodding in Cristofor’s direction. “Cristofor, this is Catherine Brann—Wilder. Dr Catherine Wilder. We were…colleagues, back in Boston.”

  Cristofor looked first at Dante, then at Catherine. Then smiled. “He never told us he had such a beautiful colleague,” he replied, turning on his typical ladies’-man charm, something that had never, until that very moment, bothered Dante.

  “And he never told me he had such a handsome brother,” she answered, duplicating Cristofor’s charm with a warm smile. “Or, actually, any living brother at all.”

  Dante cleared his throat. “I don’t recall you ever asking.”

  The warm smile she had for Cristofor went stone cold as she turned to Dante. “Even if I had, would you have told me? You weren’t exactly open about things, were you? Open, or honest?”

  “Why do I get the feeling there’s more going on here than meets the eye?” Cristofor asked.

  “The only thing going on here,” Catherine stated, “is that, as director of this clinic, I’ve come to welcome your brother to our facility and to help him get settled in and acclimated. It’s what I would do for any patient.” She was avoiding looking at Dante now, instead fixing her stare on his brother.

  “Except I’m not just any patient, Catherine,” Dante said, drawing in a tense breath. “No matter how you want to frame it, you know I’m not!”

  Cristofor took a long, hard look at the both of them and started to edge his way to the hall leading to the door.

  “No,” Catherine admitted. “I don’t suppose you are just any patient.”

>   Dante eased out the breath he’d been holding. “Good, because I don’t want our past—”

  “Our past is just that. Our past.”

  “But you admitted I’m not just any patient.”

  “You’re not. You’re a celebrity. You can afford our best suite. We’ve had celebrities before, and we have to take special precautions to keep their fawning public at bay. I’m sure it will be no different with you.”

  Cristofor finally made it to the door, and as he slipped into the hall, he paused briefly. “Nice to meet you, Dr Wilder. I think I’ll leave you and Dante alone to settle this…whatever it is going on between you, and go find myself a cup of coffee.”

  Before either Dante or Catherine could say a word, Cristofor was beating a hasty retreat down the hall, not even looking back.

  “Looks like we scared him off,” Dante commented casually.

  “Speak for yourself, Dante. You can read anything you want into this situation, but to me it’s strictly professional. I’m the doctor, you’re the patient. That’s all there is. We’ll heal your broken ankle and you’ll be gone. End of story.”

  “Then sleeping together the way we did for all those months, and getting engaged, didn’t mean anything to you?” he challenged, not intending to be contentious as much as wanting to evoke something more than ice from Catherine.

  She cocked her head, looking thoughtful for a moment. Then finally, she said, “That’s right. We did sleep together, didn’t we? I guess I’d forgotten about that part of my life.”

  He opened his mouth to reply, then shut it, and simply smiled. Sizzling, red-headed temper. Beautiful fire in those green eyes. He’d never seen that in her before, but he had to admit, he liked it in her now.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “HE’s w-what?” Catherine sputtered, not sure she’d heard that right.

  “He’s requested you to be his physician here. I went in to explain his therapy schedule to him and he said he wanted Doctor Wilder to oversee his therapy.” Dr Friedrich Rilke shrugged casually. “Sorry, Catherine, but we do always bow to our patients’ requests if at all possible or reasonable. Dr Aeberhard insisted on that when he ran the clinic and I’m sure he wouldn’t have that changed now that he’s stepped down from admin duties. Dante Baldassare specifically said he wants you to be his doctor in charge so, unless there’s a good reason for you not to be, I’m literally handing his chart back to you.” Which was what he did.

  A good reason? Did she ever have a good reason! “I admitted him, Friedrich. Went down to greet him, said hello, gave him a five-minute explanation of how we do things here at Aeberhard, then left. That’s all there was to it. And I don’t want to be Mr Baldassare’s doctor. I don’t like him, I have a full schedule of other patients, and you’re much better with ankles than I am. I specialize in knees, for heaven’s sake. Did you explain that to him, that you’re the ankle specialist?”

  “Explained it, and he wasn’t interested.”

  “Do you think you could you talk him into using one of the other staff members?”

  Rilke gave his head an adamant shake. “The man was damned insistent about wanting you. He made that perfectly clear, and he threatened to call Dr Aeberhard personally if we don’t grant his request.” He paused for a moment, looked thoughtful, then finally said what he seemed almost reluctant to say. “Is there something personal between the two of you? He seems almost…proprietorial. Well, maybe that’s not the best word to describe it, but he does act like he has some connection to you. And you’re protesting this whole situation much more than you should be.”

  Dante being proprietorial after all these years. Now, wasn’t that funny? Like he had the right to be anything where she was concerned! “Maybe it’s because I was the first doctor he met here. Patients do become attached, you know.”

  “After five minutes?” Friedrich shook his head. “I shouldn’t think so, but if that’s what it is, I’d call it more a fixation. And that still doesn’t explain your reaction, Catherine.”

  “Not a fixation. We worked together briefly back in Boston, years ago. Didn’t get along then. But I suppose he’s requested me because he knows my qualifications better than he knows yours.” It sounded logical, although Friedrich’s eyes were squinting, indicating he still wasn’t convinced. “He’s a very controlling man…” To say the least!

  “So, you worked together? How’s that? He’s a race driver.”

  Catherine nodded. “He used to be a surgeon.” Odd, to say that. Used to be a surgeon. On the occasions she’d listened to sports reporters mentioning his name, even then the image of Dr Baldassare had not dissipated. Simply a case of her own stubborn mind not moving forward.

  “That’s awesome. I didn’t know any of the Baldassares had done anything other than auto racing.”

  “You’re a fan of the sport?” she asked, a little surprised by that.

  He nodded. “And of the whole Baldassare family. They’re legends. One of the best race teams in the world. Dante’s so close to the title, and after Dario was killed…”

  “Dario,” Catherine stated. She knew the story. Painful. Sad. Not much was ever said about him, and she understood that. She’d suffered her own losses, which was why she’d never asked questions. Dario Baldassare had died in a race in Spain several months before she’d met Dante, and that’s all she knew. Naturally, when Dante’s father had suffered a heart attack, and Dante had assumed the grief over Dario’s death to be a good part of the reason for it, she’d encouraged him to stay close to his family in Italy for as long as he was needed. That was all part of the story she knew. But the part she hadn’t expected had been the announcement she’d seen on a television sports program that her future husband would be staying there permanently and, on top of that, racing for the Baldassare team. That had been painful and sad, too. At least, for her.

  Talented man…men,” Friedrich said. “Both of them. Such a pity about what happened to Dario. He had the potential to become a legend in the sport. Although Dante is well on his way to accomplishing that himself. “

  “I don’t like auto racing,” she said bluntly. “Not a thing about it.” Too many risks, and she hated risk-taking.

  Friedrich shrugged. “Then I’d suggest you not mention that to Dante while you’re treating him, as he’s a world renowned figure in the sport.”

  “I’m sorry he didn’t want you, Friedrich,” she said genuinely. “I’d honestly thought you’d pair up well as doctor and patient.” She meant that, too. Friedrich was excellent and he had a way about him that wouldn’t have let Dante bully him. But that wasn’t meant to be, she supposed.

  He shrugged again. “You’ll do fine with him, but watch yourself, Catherine. He’s got a reputation, lucky man.” Friedrich gave a knowing wiggle to his eyebrows, leaving Catherine with no doubt about what the reputation was. She lived with it, after all. And once was enough.

  “It won’t be long,” Dante assured Gianni. “And if you keep asking, maybe your grandfather will bring you here on a weekend holiday.” His father, Marco Baldassare, was a tough man. He ran one of the leading race teams in the world and expected strict obedience from his sons and daughters. Even after he’d cut back on his responsibilities, he still worked harder than most men. Tough as nails all the way round, yet when it came to his grandchildren, Marco was a pushover. A real softy. “Just give him a big hug, then ask him.”

  “Can I stay with you?” Gianni asked. “I can sleep in a chair if there’s not another bed. Or on the floor.”

  “No. This is a rehabilitation clinic. You can stay for a night or two, but that’s all they’ll allow.” Dante truly was sorry about that, too, because he would have loved having his son there with him, but Gianni was better off with his grandparents for the time being. Since he’d adopted his nephew, they hadn’t spent too many nights apart, and Dante counted on that stability in his son’s otherwise hectic life. Marco and Rosa Baldassare were the stability the boy needed right now.

  “Couldn’t
you rest at home?” Gianni whined. “I can help you walk on your broken foot. Help you use your cane, and get things for you when you don’t feel like walking.”

  “Can’t rest at home, not the way I’m supposed to. And they have things here that will help my foot feel better.”

  “Maybe Papa Marco will bring me this weekend!”

  “Maybe he will.”

  Dante and Gianni talked another few minutes, mostly about school work and new friends Gianni was making now that he was living with Papa Marco and Mama Rosa. When the phone conversation was over, Dante clutched the phone receiver another minute, like holding it kept him closer to his son.

  He hadn’t expected to keep Gianni permanently. After Dario’s death, Gianni had gone immediately to live with his grandparents, Marco and Rosa, and no one had questioned that. Then, after Marco’s heart attack, Dante had agreed to keep the boy for a while. A few weeks at the most, while Papa Marco had been recovering and Mama Rosa taking care of him. There had never been any talk that Dante would become a full-time parent then, all of a sudden, he had been. It had been a letter from Dario, something that had been misplaced after he’d been killed. In it had been a heartfelt and sad plea from a lonely man who’d just lost his wife, desperately begging his twin to raise his son in the event anything ever happened to him.

  So, how could he not? It was his duty to honor his brother’s wish but, more than that, it was what he’d wanted to do. Of course, his own parents had expected to raise their grandson, but they had been good about respecting Dario’s wishes. And, Dante suspected, a little relieved, considering Papa Marco’s new, more delicate condition.

  Of course, wanting to raise Gianni and actually doing it had been two different things. His life had been unsettled. At the time he’d wanted to go back to medicine, and had fully intended to. Yet he had been pulled back more and more into the family operation, feeling pressure to step back into a race car and, once again, put the name Baldassare back on the track. With all that going on, then adopting Gianni, it had been a difficult time all the way round. A boy Gianni’s age needed a home and stability, which he hadn’t had to offer. No stability, no parenting skills.