The Ultimate Romance Box (6 Bestselling Romance Novels)

by Eckhart, Lorhainne

  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, scattering 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.

  ***

  Dino Rossellini sat on a rocky outcrop overlooking the Cornish fishing village and stared at the bright specks of light in the darkness that pinpointed ships far out to sea. When he was a boy, the sound of waves beating against rocks had energized him, excited him. Now it did nothing to rouse him from his desolate, dark mood.

  His feet were wet and cold. A bitter chill hardened inside him, but the feeling was only partly due to the cool of the night. He had tramped along the deserted coast path for hours in an effort to walk away his hollow feeling of grief. It hadn't worked. His mind had endlessly replayed his conversation with the woman from the adoption agency.

  Pain, anger, and frustration raged through him anew, and he hurled a rock down into the dark waters below. How many hours had it been since he walked out of Freddy's office? He didn't remember. He'd rented a car and headed out of London, just driven with no destination in mind, then stopped exhausted at a motorway service area and spent the night in the car. When the vehicle ran low on petrol, he'd stopped in Truro to refuel and seen a photo of the fishing village of Porthale. It reminded him of the place where he grew up. A place where family was still valued, where people lived simple, wholesome lives. A place off the beaten track where he might not be recognized.

  At the thought of home, he pulled his phone from his pocket and, for the first time since he discovered he had a son, he switched it on. Immediately the device chimed to notify him of messages. Ignoring them, he dialed his parents' number in Italy.

  "Si?" his mother answered.

  "It's Dino, Mamma," he said in Italian.

  "Dino, Dino, where are you? Freddy Short called us to find out if you were here."

  "I'm sorry if he worried you, Mamma. I'm okay. I just need some time on my own."

  "It is a relief to hear your voice, chicco. We see so little of you these days. We miss you."

  "I miss you, too. I know I haven't been home for ages, but I promise I will be there for your birthday. I must go now. Ciao, Mamma. Ciao."

  He gripped the phone to his chest, tears in his eyes. He shouldn't have agreed when Freddy asked him to perform at Christmas. His family was more important to him than anything else. He should go home now, take advantage of the rare break in his schedule, but his mamma would take one look at him and know something was badly wrong.

  He wished he could tell her he had a son, but he would never share this secret with his parents. It would break their hearts to know they could never see their grandson. He had to bear this grief alone. With a shiver he got to his feet, hands deep in his jacket pockets, and walked towards the village.

  ***

  It was nearly dark when Maria finally heard the front door. She darted along the corridor to the entrance hall and caught the Italian with his foot on the bottom stair. "Mr. Rossellini," she gasped, breathlessly, and blushed when he frowned at her. He must think she'd been laying in wait to pounce on him, and she had. "You didn't have breakfast. It's included in the room rate."

  He shrugged. "No matter."

  "Do you want dinner? I won't charge you for it to make up for the breakfast you missed." She cringed. That wasn't what she'd planned to say. It sounded as though she was trying to bribe him to eat her food.

  He moved his hand in a careless gesture of acceptance. "I will have dinner, please."

  Relief burst through her, which was crazy. He was a strapping six-foot healthy male. He wasn't about to fade away from lack of a meal or two. "I only have two choices, I'm afraid. Are you happy with boeuf bourguignon, or would you like sea bass?"

  He sniffed the air. "If that is the beef I smell, then it will be acceptable."

  As he continued up the stairs, she quickly added, "Eight o'clock then?"

  He turned, lean hand gripping the handrail, and glanced down at her. "Eight it is."

  She watched him mount the rest of the stairs, admiring the way his black trousers hugged his backside. Then she noticed he was barefoot. A muddy pair of what must have once been stylish suede shoes sat beside the front door in the plastic tray intended for dirty walking boots. Grabbing them up, she deposited them in the drying room to tend to later.

  With renewed purpose, Maria returned to the kitchen and baked some dinner rolls with dough she had prepared earlier. Then she made a crème brûlée and put it in the fridge, hoping it would chill in time to serve that night. Just before eight o'clock, she changed out the breakfast table setting for dinner, lit a candle, and
placed a wine list on the table. She slotted an easy-listening music CD into the player and turned it on softly. Then she lowered the lights and stood back to gauge the effect. The soft music, candle, and low lighting felt too romantic, so she turned the lights back up in case her Italian got the wrong idea.

  At five to eight, Mr. Rossellini came into the dining room. He'd changed into a black shirt and a slightly wrinkled, emerald cashmere sweater. "Good evening," he said and a tingle raced down her spine. Strange how English sounded so much sexier when spoken in an Italian accent.

  "Good evening, Mr. Rossellini. Please sit down." She indicated the table by the window. The weather had cleared, giving a beautiful view of the village below. Tiny points of light from the cottage windows trailed down the hill and clustered around the harbor like a garland of fairy lights. "Would you like a starter? I have spicy cucumber soup or scallops."

  "No, thank you." He broke open one of the warm bread rolls. "You baked this yourself?" he asked, a hint of surprise in his voice.

  "Yes. Cooking is one of my passions."

  He took a bite and nodded. "Very good... What is your name, please?"

  "Maria."

  "Very good, Maria." Her name rolled off his tongue with the honeyed inflection of an endearment, and her cheeks heated. Although she was sure he hadn't meant anything by it. In his accent, the word toilet probably sounded sexy.

  "I'll fetch your boeuf bourguignon." She hurried towards the kitchen, her pulse racing, and carefully dished out the beef with potatoes dauphinoise, green beans, and baby carrots. Then she carried his steaming plate through to him. He had seemed brighter than yesterday, but as she re-entered the dining room, she found him staring blankly into space, his lips tight, his half-eaten roll forgotten on his side plate. Her heart dropped. Whatever troubled him was still very much on his mind.

  He sucked in a breath as she approached and moved his hands aside for her to put down the plate. He gave her a perfunctory smile. "Thank you. This looks delicious."