With ice-cold precision he brought the helicopter in to land and, without waiting for the blades to stop spinning, leapt down, running across the uneven grass to the horribly still figure on the ground. As he grew nearer he felt the colour drain from his face and the acid rise to his throat.
No. God, no. Please don’t let it be—
He knelt on the damp grass and reached out a shaking hand to the slender neck beneath the tumble of dark hair, with its fading streaks of pink.
It was Anna.
But the faint flutter of a pulse told him she was alive.
Thank God.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ANGELO pressed his fists to his temples in a despairing attempt to stop himself from snatching Anna up and pressing her to him. Somewhere in the recesses of his frozen brain he was still thinking rationally enough to know that he mustn’t move her in case her spine was damaged.
Why, per l’amore di dio, hadn’t she been wearing a hard hat?
Ruthlessly suppressing the panic that was swelling inside him, he moved around to the other side of her, so he could see her face.
He gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand back, not to touch her. Dark lashes swept over cheeks that were deathly pale but, other than that, her face was exactly … the same. The same face that had drifted in and out of his broken dreams and restless nights for the last month.
He let out a desolate moan and sank to his knees beside her, feeling in the pocket of his jacket for his mobile and jabbing the emergency service number with shaking fingers.
‘Wh—what—?’
Her eyes opened just a crack, but enough for her to see the face that swam hazily in front of her like some fierce guardian angel. It looked like Angelo’s face, but it couldn’t be, because Angelo was in Italy—or was it France?—and he was making love to beautiful blonde women and, anyway, his eyes were cold, cold, cold, and these eyes burned with …
‘No!’
Anna struggled to sit up. She knew what this meant. When you saw angels and felt surrounded by love—that meant you were dying. And she wasn’t ready to die now.
‘No! no!’
Strong arms went round her, a hard body covered her own, easing her gently back on to the ground, cushioning her, cradling her with infinite tenderness. And it was Angelo’s voice she heard, murmuring, Angelo’s scent that filled her nostrils, Angelo’s warmth against her cold cheek.
Oh, please … yes … don’t make this stop. If this is death, I’ll take it …
She felt the tears squeeze from beneath her closed eyelids as she stopped fighting and surrendered, going limp and pliant in his arms.
‘Anna. Gesù—Anna?’
His hands cupped her face and then, miraculously, his lips brushed against hers. With a moan of longing, she tilted her face upwards and caught his mouth with hers, kissing him hungrily, with all the pent-up despair and hopeless longing of the past empty month. Helplessly she felt her arms snake around his neck until she was clinging to him, kissing the life out of him. Kissing the life back into herself.
‘Anna, stop!’ His voice was like ground glass. ‘You might be hurt.’
He disentangled himself, holding her away from him at arm’s length so he could look into her face. Apart from the pallor and two faint crescents of blue beneath her eyes she looked OK, but he couldn’t take any chances.
‘I need to call an ambulance. Please, until they get here, lie still.’
‘What are you doing here?’
He tried to keep his tone light, not let her see the panic that was pulsing through his veins. ‘I came to see you, which under the circumstances was just as well. What the hell do you think you’re playing at, riding like a madwoman, without a hat? You could have been killed.’
‘Only because of you,’ she said faintly. ‘It was the helicopter that scared the horse.’ She sank back on to the grass, waiting for the pounding in her head to subside. It didn’t.
‘Dio, Anna, I didn’t come here to argue with you,’ he muttered through gritted teeth. ‘I think we both had enough of that last time. Just do as you’re told for once in your life and lie still, please.’
‘I’m fine.’ Suddenly she realized that the top of her ridiculously low-cut and inauthentic dairy maid costume had slipped down off one shoulder and her breasts were spilling over the top. Ineffectually she tugged at it, grateful that at least she still had the vestiges of her Riviera tan. She giggled weakly. She could hardly be at death’s door if all she could think about was her cleavage.
She struggled into an upright position and began to tentatively flex her arms and legs. ‘Look. No damage done.’ She frowned up at him as the darkness seemed to gather behind his blond head, concentrating the light around him like a halo. She felt suddenly very, very tired.
‘Angelo, you are here, aren’t you? I haven’t imagined you, have I? Am I going to wake up and find this is just another wonderful, cruel dream? Because, if I do, I can’t bear it, I—’
He just managed to catch her as she blacked out.
‘Concussion.’
Angelo stood up as the doctor came into the sitting room. He’d been trying to make a fire out of the meagre amount of damp kindling and logs and had finally achieved a small but promising blaze. However, the temperature still felt lower in there than it was outside.
‘It’s nothing too serious,’ the young doctor continued, ‘but I want you to keep a close eye on her for the next twenty-four hours. If she shows any sign of losing consciousness again, or she’s sick or confused or you’re at all worried, please don’t hesitate to call, Mr er …’
‘I’m worried now,’ Angelo growled, ignoring the courtesy. ‘I think she should go to hospital.’
Dr Adams adjusted his glasses nervously. ‘I can assure you, they won’t be able to do anything more for her than let her rest, which she can do better here. I can understand your concern—she’s had a nasty fall, but she’s really been very lucky. There’s absolutely no sign of any internal bleed—I’ve checked her over very thoroughly.’
Angelo’s eyes narrowed dangerously. That was an image he didn’t want to dwell on.
‘She’s pretty sleepy now, but make sure you wake her every hour or so, just to check she’s all right. While I’m here I’ll pop in on Sir William, make sure he’s doing OK and fill him in on the situation, if that’s all right with you?’
Angelo nodded curtly, turning towards the fire and stretching out his cold hands to the weak flames.
The doctor opened the door and was just about to leave, but hesitated and looked back at the imposing blond stranger. He was intimidatingly good-looking and exuded power and wealth, but there was something touching about the anxiety in his narrow blue eyes.
‘She’ll be fine, you know,’ he said.
Walking down the gloomy corridor towards the library where he knew Sir William would be found, Dr Adams allowed himself a rueful smile. Whoever this guy was, he was obviously utterly besotted with Roseanna Delafield, but he’d have his hands full with her.
Lucky, lucky bloke.
Angelo knocked gently on the heavy oak door to Anna’s room and, hearing no sound, pushed it open.
Madre di dio, it was even colder up here. That was why he was shivering so violently.
Lying in the enormous four-poster bed with its dark red curtains of moth-eaten velvet, Anna looked about twelve years old. Angelo felt his heart miss a beat at the sight of her porcelain-pale face, her dark hair falling back on to the pillow. For a moment he gazed helplessly down on her. Since the summer the pink had begun to grow out of her hair and she’d lost weight, so that her face had a new angularity. She had lost some of that childlike softness he remembered and, devouring her with his eyes, he noticed her arms were thinner. Stifling a groan of physical pain, he remembered the sinuous grace with which she’d swung around the pole on the yacht. God, she didn’t look strong enough to lift a spoon now.
His throat tightened and he felt as if a lead weight were crushing his ches
t. The hour that had passed since he had carried her in here after the fall felt like a week. She’d drifted back to consciousness pretty quickly, but had been drowsy and confused, and he had had to hold her against his chest as he’d undone the little hooks at the back of the odd Victorian-style dress she was wearing. At one point her head had rolled sideways, off his shoulder, and he had caught her, cradling her cheek against his hand, finding himself unable to stop shaking as he’d felt her fragility.
That was the point when he’d found himself right up against the wall, facing the black shadow of his own private nemesis. There was nowhere else to run. He had nothing with which to defend himself against the emotion which rampaged through him.
Easing the bodice down off her shoulders, he had lain her down on the bed and searched around for something in which to dress her. Reaching under the pillows, he had grasped what he’d assumed was her nightdress and pulled it out.
It was his shirt—the one he had put on her in the Villa Santa Domitilla.
He pulled a ridiculously low, threadbare chair over to Anna’s bedside and settled himself into it. Up until now he had automatically dealt with emotion by ruthlessly blanking it out—by distracting himself with the next project, the next hand of cards, the next blonde. He’d thought that by now his heart had simply shrivelled and died.
Discovering that it hadn’t, that in fact he was as susceptible, as fallible, as capable of falling headlong in love with someone should have come as a huge relief. Would have done. If only it hadn’t been so bloody excruciatingly painful.
For numberless hours he sat beside her, watching her face as the afternoon shadows deepened and he couldn’t see her properly any more. Not that it mattered. Every curve of lip and cheekbone, every eyelash was imprinted on his mind like a photograph.
But it was cold. Like the cold of the orphanage, he thought bleakly, getting up and stretching his cramped limbs. And to think he had scathingly condemned her for her privileged upbringing. This place was straight out of Dickens.
‘Anna?’ He shook her gently, using every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep his hand on her shoulder and not slide it into the thick tangle of her hair. She moved her head slightly, but didn’t open her eyes. He bent down to her, feeling the whisper of her breath against his cheek and pressed his lips to her forehead.
‘Anna, dolce amore, open your eyes for me, please.’
She murmured and stirred, her dark lashes fluttering like the wings of some exotic butterfly against her blue-shadowed skin. Beneath them he caught the glint of her dark eyes and felt his breathing steady again. She was all right.
‘I’m going to make you a cup of tea.’
A frown creased her smooth forehead and she lifted a hand to her temple. Angelo took it in his, trying to keep the anguish from showing on his face as he felt the bones beneath the skin.
‘Go back to sleep.’
‘But … my father. I have to …’
‘Don’t worry about anything. Leave it to me.’ He was aware that his voice sounded harsh and cold, but was terrified of letting her see how scared he was.
How raw.
She turned her head away from him as a tear trickled down her cheek and into her hair. ‘I’m sorry, Angelo.’
He sighed. ‘Don’t be silly. Now, tell me where to find your father and go back to sleep.’
‘Library.’
‘Good girl.’ He crossed the room, fists clenched, wondering if she was thinking, as he was, of that night on the beach when he had teased her with those words, but, glancing back at the bed, she seemed to have drifted back into sleep.
‘Sir William?’
The old man was sitting in the evening gloom, staring out of the window, the embers of a dead fire glowing feebly in the grate, but he looked up when Angelo entered the room. Striding across to where he sat, Angelo extended a hand. ‘I’m Angelo Emiliani. Please don’t stand.’
Sir William sank back into his chair gratefully. His hand was thin but surprisingly strong and the eyes that met Angelo’s were sharp.
‘So you’re the chap who bought the château. Hope you didn’t come here to tell me you want your money back. Too late, I’m afraid—all gone to the blasted taxman already. Have you seen Rose?’
For a moment Angelo was confused. ‘Rose?’
‘Yes. Doctor said she’d had a fall.’
‘Oh, Anna! She’s asleep.’
Sir William laughed wheezily. ‘Ever the chameleon. D’you know, one summer she kept two boyfriends on the go by pretending she had a sister. So one of them always asked for Rose and the other one for Anna. One was terribly respectable, took her to the ballet and all that carry-on, while the other was a tearaway with a motorbike.’ He shook his head. ‘I could never keep up with her.’
Angelo smiled bleakly. ‘I’m afraid that makes two of us.’
The old man’s face looked suddenly sad. ‘Lisette understood her. Damn tragedy that she died. For Roseanna and for me.’ He looked up at the portrait of an incredibly beautiful blonde woman which was over the fireplace. She was dressed in a clinging scarlet evening dress; the painter had captured exactly the glow of her golden skin, so that in the darkling gloom of the dank room it seemed to give out light. Angelo thrust his hands in his pockets and looked up at the picture. Something bothered him about it.
‘Anna’s mother?’
She wasn’t at all like Anna. Ice-cool, elegant, her beauty had a look-but-don’t-touch air that made him shiver. Anna’s heat and vitality seemed suddenly even braver and more special by comparison.
‘Anyway, you didn’t come here to hear ancient family history. What can I do for you?’
‘I came to return some things that got left behind in the château. In the attics there were some photos and letters and clothes.’
Sir William snorted. ‘Jolly decent of you, but you could have saved yourself the trouble. Nothing there that I want. Never liked the place. Avoided it.’ He looked suddenly agitated. ‘Letters, you say? Photographs? Best just get rid of it all. Don’t want to rake over old wounds now.’
‘Of course,’ Angelo replied with impeccable courtesy. There was something odd about the other man’s reaction. ‘Do you think Anna would like to keep any of it, if it belonged to her mother…?’
Sir William’s head jerked upwards, his eyes blazing. ‘No! I don’t want you showing any of it to her, d’you hear me? It’s private. Personal. It all happened a long time ago. She’s been upset enough—finding out about all that would just hurt her more.’
‘Finding out about what?’
For a moment Angelo thought the old man hadn’t heard him, or had chosen not to answer, but then he spoke. ‘The baby. Lisette …’ His voice was harsh with remembered pain. ‘It was the summer we got engaged. She was too young, really—too young by far for an old bachelor like me, but her parents wanted it. The title, you see? Anyway, that summer she went back to Belle-Eden to plan the wedding and met some chap.’ He gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘Of course her parents were having none of it. Forbade her to see him. But the damage was already done, d’you see?’
Angelo looked up at the golden girl in the picture. ‘She got pregnant?’
Sir William gave an almost imperceptible nod. ‘But Roseanna doesn’t know. When Lisette was alive she was too young to understand, and now … Well, it could only make things worse. She mustn’t see those letters, d’you understand?’
Angelo saw the old man’s distress and felt a twinge of pity. ‘I understand. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I came to make a cup of tea for Anna. Could I bring one for you too?’
‘What?’ The old man was lost in a world of his own. ‘Oh, yes. Yes. Kitchen’s across the hall and along the passage to the left. Bit of a mess, I’m afraid. Mrs Haskett’s in again tomorrow.’
Reaching the door, Angelo paused and turned back. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to the baby?’
Sir William looked at him vaguely, as if struggling to remember. ‘Hmm? The baby? Adopte
d, I suppose.’
Angelo nodded thoughtfully and opened the door. Instantly the draught from the passageway outside curled around him like the caress of a ghost and followed him along the dim hallway towards the kitchen.
‘Bit of a mess’ had been something of an understatement. Washing-up was piled in the sink and assorted cats lay about on surfaces and along the length of the huge scrubbed pine table in the centre of the room. Putting the large kettle on to the hotplate of an old, chipped Aga, Angelo found himself fighting the temptation to go upstairs, gather Anna up in his arms and fly her somewhere where he could make her warm and comfortable and take care of her properly.
Leaning against the rail of the Aga while he waited for the kettle to boil, he dropped his head briefly into his hands in an agony of despair and frustration. The reality was that he could do nothing. He was utterly powerless. The feeling was as unpleasant as it was unfamiliar.
He rubbed his cold fingers over his forehead and thought about the conversation he’d just had with Anna’s father.
Adopted, I suppose … He had made it sound so insignificant, and Angelo felt his lip curl into a sneer of contempt.
To his sort it probably was. It only reinforced what Angelo had suspected about the aristocracy all along. A baby with a blemished bloodline was worth nothing.
Clumsily, feeling dizzy and disorientated, Anna made her way slowly down the stairs. Dr Adams had given her something to take the edge off the pain in her head and the gathering ache in her shoulders and ribs, but it had also made everything else feel slightly fuzzy.
Like the fact that Angelo Emiliani was downstairs in the kitchen making tea.
The image was so unlikely that she wondered if she’d dreamt it. Maybe the fall had made her hallucinate? Which would also mean she’d imagined the bit where he’d carried her upstairs and held her against him as he’d taken off her dress. She felt the blood flood into her cheeks as she remembered how he had pulled back the cover on her bed and looked beneath her pillow for a nightdress, eventually unearthing the garment she’d been sleeping in since she’d left him in St Honorat.
One Night In Collection Page 49
