Celebration: Italian Boss, Ruthless RevengeOne Magical ChristmasHired: The Italian’s Convenient Mistress

by Carol Marinelli

  Getting on with life.

  A blast of icy December air hit them as they stepped out onto the busy street. It was the strangest walk; he took her backpack and Ainslie pushed the stroller. Christmas was everywhere—the shops ablaze with decorations, people tipsy from pre-dinner drinks heading for a work party—and it just seemed to magnify his loss. Even the chemist was full of cheery, piped music, chiming Christmas songs, and lazy shoppers were grabbing easy gifts as they stopped to buy Guido’s paracetamol.

  ‘Should we get nappies, wipes … or do you have plenty?’

  ‘I haven’t been to the house since I arrived—I have no idea what my sister would have. We’d better get them—get whatever you think he might need.’

  So she did—put whatever she thought might be needed into a basket and stood trying to hush the little boy as his uncle paid, watching the checkout assistant chatting happily away to her colleague, briefly asking the man if he had had a good day, not noticing that he didn’t respond, his face a quilt of muscles as he handed over his credit card.

  ‘I don’t know your name.’ It was the first thing she said as he made his way back to them.

  ‘Elijah …’ He gave a tight smile. ‘Elijah Vanaldi. And you?’

  ‘Ainslie Farrell.’

  And that was all they said. They walked along in silence till they came to a quieter street and stopped outside a vast four-storey residence.

  But somehow, for now, it was enough.

  It was surreal—Elijah working out keys as she stared at the wreath on the door, stepping into someone’s house, someone’s life, someone you didn’t even know, and being entrusted to take care of their most treasured possession. And though it was a beautiful towering white stucco home, as she stepped in, walked along polished floorboards and glimpsed the vast lounge, though her eyes took in the high ceilings and vast windows and expensive furnishings, they didn’t merit a mention. The only thing Ainslie could really notice was the collection of shoes and coats in the hall, the scent of pine in the air from the Christmas tree, and the half-cup of cold tea on the granite bench when she walked into the luxury kitchen. Sadness engulfed her when she saw the simple shopping list on the fridge and the breakfast dishes piled by the sink.

  Elijah undressed an exhausted Guido.

  ‘Has he had dinner?’

  ‘He had some biscuits, he doesn’t seem very hungry.’ Elijah held his hand to his forehead. ‘He still feels hot. Should I bathe him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about it tonight. Let’s just get him changed for bed and give him his medicine.’ As she wandered upstairs to find pyjamas for Guido, Ainslie could tell that this elegant house with its lavish furniture and expensive fittings was first and foremost a home—a home with a book by the unmade bed, and hair staighteners still plugged in. In the bathroom a tap drizzled, and piles of damp towels and knickers littered the floor, reminding Ainslie that this was a family home that had been left with every intention of coming back.

  ‘She rang me last week to say she was giving in and finally going to get a housekeeper …’ His voice behind her made Ainslie jump, and she felt the sting of tears behind her eyes as he walked over and turned off the tap. ‘She was never very good at tidying up.’

  ‘Mess doesn’t matter.’

  ‘She’d die if she knew we’d seen it like this …’ Elijah halted, grimacing at his own words. ‘You always had to ring Maria to warn her you coming over—she hated it when people dropped in. She’d hate that she didn’t do one of her infamous quick tidies—she’d be embarrassed at someone seeing the place like this.’

  ‘She thought she was coming home.’

  ‘He has an ear infection.’ Elijah watched as she easily measured out the antibiotics. ‘The doctor said that was why he was miserable and so naughty, but—as I explained to him—from what my sister tells me, and what I have seen of him, he is always trouble!’

  ‘He’s got croup too,’ Ainslie said, as Guido suitably barked. ‘Poor little thing. The medicine should help his pain, though, and the antibiotics will hopefully kick in soon.’

  ‘Hopefully.’ Elijah sighed. ‘For now I will make him some food, then he can go to bed.’ He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and looked at it for a moment, then headed to where Guido was sitting on the couch, his eyes half closed, half watching the cartoon that Elijah had put on for him.

  There were people who had no idea about children, and people who had no idea about children, and Ainslie watched as he peeled a rather overripe banana and handed it to the little boy, who just blinked back at him, bemused.

  ‘Maria said he liked bananas.’

  ‘He’s not a monkey …’ Ainslie’s grin faded. ‘Let me,’ she said instead, and headed to the kitchen. She found some bread in the freezer and gave it a spin in the microwave, then took off the crusts and put some mashed banana in. She arranged it on a plastic plate and offered it to Guido, who this time accepted it.

  Later—when he was falling asleep with exhaustion—Elijah carried his nephew upstairs and Ainslie followed, tucking the little boy, unresisting, into bed.

  ‘He has a night light.’ Elijah was looking at his bit of paper again. ‘He wakes up, but all he wants is his blanket put back on.’

  Watching his strong hands tuck the blanket around the little boy’s shoulders, Ainslie could feel her nose running, and had to turn her head quickly away as he straightened up. She headed down the stairs and into the lounge, sniffing away tears as a short time later he came back in, holding two mugs of coffee.

  ‘Thank you.’ He handed one to her and sat down, took a sip of his drink and held it in his mouth before talking again. ‘I am not a stupid person …’

  ‘I know.’ Ainslie gulped. ‘I’m sorry about what I said about the banana thing …’ She managed a little smile, and he did the same.

  ‘I have nothing, nothing to do with children. Nothing!’ he added again, in case she hadn’t heard it the first or second time. ‘And my sister said that she wanted me to have him. That she wanted me to be the one who raises him.’

  ‘What happened?’

  For the first time it seemed right to ask—right that she should know a little bit more.

  ‘There was a car accident—it ran off the road and caught fire on impact.’ He gave a hopeless shrug. ‘I was at work when the hospital called—in the middle of a meeting. Normally I would not be disturbed, but my PA called me out, said this was a call I needed to take. I knew it would be bad. I had no idea how bad, though—a doctor told me that Rico, Guido’s father, was already dead, and that my sister was asking for me. I came straight away. Guido had been at a crèche and they’d brought him to the hospital.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘She knew she was dying—she had terrible burns—but she was able to talk. She waited for me to get there so she could tell me what she wanted, so she could tell me herself the things Guido likes …’

  ‘That was the list you were reading?’

  He nodded, but it was a hopeless one. ‘I love my sister, I love my nephew, but I have no idea how they really lived. I saw them often, but I have no clue with day-to-day things, I’ve never even thought of having children …’

  ‘Is there anyone else?’ Ainslie blinked, glimpsing how impossible it must be for him—for his whole life to be turned around, to be so suddenly plunged into grief and told you were to be a father.

  ‘There was just my sister—our parents are dead.’

  ‘But her husband’s family …’ It was never going to be the easiest conversation to have—sitting with a stranger who was engulfed by grief and exhaustion—it was always going to be difficult. But, watching his face harden, hearing his sharp intake of breath, even if she didn’t know him at all, Ainslie knew she had said the wrong thing.

  ‘Never!’ The venom behind the single world had Ainslie reeling.

  ‘Soon they will be here. Already they are making noises about taking care of Guido, and noises are all I will let them be. They are not inter
ested in him.’

  ‘But they say they want him?’ Ainslie frowned, her mouth opening to speak again, and then she got it. As he flicked his hand at their impressive surroundings, she answered in her head the question she hadn’t even asked yet.

  Elijah answered it with words. ‘They want this. And the insurance pay-out—and the property Maria and Rico had in Italy …’ He glanced over to her. ‘And in case you are wondering—I do not need it …’ He drained his mug. ‘Neither do I need a toddler. Especially one who spits!’ In the pit of his grief he managed to smile at the memory, and then it faded; his voice was pensive when next it came. ‘I hope Rico knew that I did actually like him.’

  She didn’t understand, but it wasn’t right to ask—wasn’t right to demand more information from a man who had lost so much, a man who had just been plunged into hell.

  ‘You should try and sleep,’ Ainslie offered instead.

  ‘Why?’ He stared back at her. ‘Somehow I do not believe that things will be better in the morning.’

  ‘They might …’Ainslie attempted, but it was pretty futile.

  ‘Thank you …’ He said it again, only it was more determined now. He was back in control and, ready to face the challenge of what lay ahead, he stood up. ‘Thank you for explaining about the medicine and for helping me to get him to sleep. I will be fine now. Can I get you a taxi …?’

  ‘Actually …’ Ainslie ran a worried hand through her hair. She had been so consumed with his problems that for a little while she’d actually forgotten her own.

  ‘Do you know a number?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  He was picking up the phone. ‘For the taxi—do you know a number?’

  ‘I can walk.’ Ainslie’s voice was a croak, but she cleared her throat. Surely a youth hostel would still be open? Surely?

  ‘You’re not walking!’ Elijah shook his head. ‘I will take …’ He must have remembered at that point the sleeping toddler upstairs, because his voice trailed off. ‘I insist you take a taxi.’ Which was easier said than done. First he had to find a telephone directory, and then, as Ainslie stood there, he punched in the numbers and looked over. ‘To where?’

  ‘The youth hostel.’

  ‘Youth hostel?’ He frowned at her skirt and boots, at her twenty-eight-year-old face and glanced at his watch. In those two small gestures he compounded every one of her fears—she wasn’t a backpacker, and nine p.m. on a dark December night was too late to start acting like one. ‘How long have you been staying there?’

  ‘I haven’t.’ Ainslie gave a tight shrug. ‘I was on my way there when we met. I’m actually from Australia …’

  ‘I have just come from Italy—first class,’ he added, ‘and I looked more dishevelled than you when I got off the plane.’

  Somehow she doubted it, but she understood the point he was making.

  ‘Well, I’ve been here for three months. I have a job—had a job …’

  ‘Working with children?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But not now?’ She shook her head, loath to elaborate, but thankfully he sensed her unwillingness and didn’t push.

  ‘Stay.’ It was an offer, not a plea. The phone rested on his shoulder as he affirmed his offer. ‘Stay for tonight—as you say, tomorrow things may seem better.’

  Ainslie opened her mouth to tell him why she couldn’t possibly—only nothing came out.

  Even if a hostel was open, even if she could get in one, the thought of registering, the thought of starting again, of greeting strangers, lying in a bed in a room for six, held utterly no appeal.

  ‘Stay!’ Elijah said more firmly. ‘Guido is sick—it makes sense.’

  It made no sense.

  Not a single scrap of sense.

  But somehow it did.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THOUGH he never voiced it, Ainslie knew and could understand that he didn’t want to be alone. Jangling with nerves after the day’s events, while simultaneously drooping with exhaustion, she sat on the sofa, tucked her legs under her and stifled a yawn as Elijah located two glasses and poured them both a vast brandy. Even though she didn’t particularly like the taste, she accepted it, screwing up her nose as she took a sip, the warmth spreading down her throat to her stomach. She knew there and then why it was called medicinal—for the first time since she’d caught Gemma in between the sheets the adrenaline that had propelled her dimmed slightly, and she actually relaxed a touch—till he asked her a question.

  ‘You said you worked with children?’

  ‘I’m a kindergarten teacher—well, I am in Australia. Here I’ve been working as a live-in nanny.’

  ‘Why?’ Elijah frowned.

  ‘Why not?’ Ainslie retorted—though he was hardly the first to ask. Why would she give up a perfectly nice job, walk out on her perfectly nice boyfriend, and travel to the other side of the world to be paid peanuts to live in someone else’s home and look after their kids?

  ‘What were you running away from?’

  ‘I wasn’t running …’ Ainslie bristled, and then, because he had been honest, somehow she could be more honest with this stranger than she had been with her own family. ‘I suppose I was running away—only I didn’t know from what at the time. I had a nice job, a lovely boyfriend, nice everything, really …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Something wasn’t right.’ Ainslie gave a tight shrug. ‘It was nothing I could put my finger on, but it turns out my instincts were right.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Shrewd eyes narrowed on her as she stiffened, and Elijah didn’t push as, with a shake of her head, Ainslie stared into her glass and declined to elaborate. ‘Everyone said I was crazy, that I’d regret it, but coming to London was the best thing I’ve ever done—I’ve loved every minute.’

  ‘So why were you standing on the platform crying?’ Elijah asked, and her eyes flew back to his. She was surprised he’d even noticed. ‘And why are you checking into a youth hostel so late in the evening?’

  ‘Things didn’t work out with my boss …’ Ainslie attempted casual, but those astute eyes were still watching her carefully. ‘I’ll find something else.’

  ‘You already have,’ Elijah answered easily. ‘I don’t know how long it will be for, but I’m certainly going to be here till after Christmas …’

  ‘You don’t know me …’ Ainslie frowned.

  ‘I won’t know the girl the agency sends tomorrow either!’ he pointed out. ‘The offer’s there if you want it.’

  ‘Won’t his father’s family want to help out?’ She could see him bristle—see him tense, just as he had before when they were mentioned.

  He was about to tell her it was none of her business—about to snap some smart response—but those green eyes that beckoned him weren’t judging, and there was no trace of nosiness in her voice. Elijah realised he didn’t want to push her away, didn’t want to be alone. For the first time in his life he actually needed to talk.

  ‘Our families have never got on. When Maria started going out with Rico I didn’t talk to my sister for two years.’

  ‘Were you close before that?’

  ‘We were all the other had. I was five when my mother died; Maria was only one. Our father turned to drink, and he died when I was twelve.’

  He’d never told anyone this—could scarcely believe the words were coming out of his own mouth. Her jade-green eyes hardly ever left his. Every now and then she looked away, swirling her brandy in her glass as he spoke, but her gaze always returned to him. Her damp blonde hair was drying now, coiling into curls on her shoulders, and for the first time he walked through the murky depths of his past in the hope that it would guide him to the right future, that the decisions that must surely be made now would be the right ones for Guido.

  ‘We brought ourselves up,’ Elijah explained. ‘Did things that today I am not proud of. But at the time …’ He gave a regretful shrug. ‘There was a family in our village—the Castellas. They were as ro
ugh as us, and after the same thing—money to survive. You could say we were rivals, I guess. One day Rico’s older brother Marco came on to Maria.’ His eyes flinched at the memory. ‘She was still a child—thirteen—and she was an innocent child too. I had always been the one who did the cheating and stealing while Maria went to school; she was a good girl. Maria always hated Marco for what he did to her; she would not want him near Guido.’

  ‘So this isn’t about revenge?’

  ‘I had my revenge the day it happened,’ Elijah said darkly. ‘I beat him to a pulp.’

  ‘So the hatred just grew?’ Ainslie asked, but Elijah didn’t answer directly.

  ‘When I was seventeen I was outside a café, watching some rich tourists. It was a couple, and I was waiting till it was darker, till they’d had a few more drinks and wouldn’t be paying close attention to their wallets. They spoke to the waiter. Their Italian was quite good—they were looking to retire, wanted a property with a view …’ He smiled at the memory. ‘There was no estate agent in our small village in Sicily then—it wasn’t a tourist spot. I knew, I just knew, that I didn’t want to be stealing and cheating to get by any more. Finally I knew what I could do to get out of it.’

  She didn’t comment further, didn’t frown at the fact that he’d stolen, didn’t wince at his past, and that gave him the strength to continue.

  ‘I sold them my late grandfather’s home—to me and to my friends it was a shack, just a deserted place we hung out in. It had been passed to us, Maria and me, but till then it had been worth nothing. But we cleaned it painted and polished it, and Maria picked flowers for the inside. I could see what they wanted, and knew that this villa was it.’

  ‘You sold it to them?’

  ‘They dealt with the lawyers, they had the papers drawn up.’ Elijah nodded. ‘Then, after that, I sold our own home. With every bit of money I made I bought more properties, then I moved out of our village and on to bigger things—and the Castellas were still there, thieving on the beach. With every success that came our way they hated us more—just as we hated them.’