The Valtieri Baby

by Caroline Anderson

  She pulled plates out and started arranging the salad. He was watching the television now, flicking through the channels, and then he stopped. ‘Oh, no, for heaven’s sake, why can’t they leave me alone?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s made the news. Look. The police said it might and they were going to do some damage limitation, but it doesn’t sound like it.’

  She put the knife down and went over, perching on the end of the sofa and watching.

  ‘Police say Giovanni Valtieri was released from hospital at midday today following an incident yesterday in which he was assaulted. He was seen being driven away from the hospital by a woman believed to be Anita Della Rosso, a friend of the family and one-time girlfriend of the lawyer, who’s been at his side since the incident.’

  ‘What!’ She plonked down onto the sofa next to him and stared at the television in astonishment. ‘How did they find that out?’

  He shrugged. ‘They’re everywhere. Listen.’

  There was a reporter standing outside the hospital now, talking about how she’d been seen arriving yesterday and again this morning, and then further talk about their relationship.

  ‘A hugely successful lawyer in his own right, Giovanni is the colourful and flamboyant youngest son of Vittorio and Elisa Valtieri, members of one of Tuscany’s oldest and most respected families, and his renewed relationship with society wedding planner Anita Della Rossa is bound to be a cause for speculation. Will Anita be planning her own wedding soon?’

  The screen went suddenly blank, and she looked at Gio.

  His face was rigid, his lips pressed tightly together into a straight line, a muscle in his jaw jumping. He threw down the remote control and sat back, arms folded, fulminating in silence.

  He was furious, she could tell, but more than that, he was worried.

  He dragged in a breath and turned to her.

  ‘I never should have dragged you into this. All this talk about our relationship—it’s so public, and now they’re going to point Camilla Ponti straight at you.’

  She smiled a little ruefully and touched his cheek. ‘Gio, it’s OK. This is my private bolt-hole, a secret hideout that hardly anybody knows about. She won’t look for us here, everyone thinks I live either in my apartment in Firenze or with my parents. There’s nothing to link it to me, not even the address. I give my parents’ villa as my postal address here. This is just like a guest villa.’

  ‘Talking of your parents, you’d better warn them,’ he said. ‘If they’re watching this news bulletin—’

  Her phone rang, right on cue, and she spent the next five minutes telling her mother he was all right, they were at her villa and it was all just idle speculation. She was simply looking after an old friend.

  ‘You expect me to believe that? There’s no smoke without fire, Anita.’

  She coloured. Her mother didn’t know about their brief affair five years ago. Nobody did, not really. They certainly hadn’t told anyone. Luca and Massimo had guessed, but nobody else had, as far as she knew. Well, apart from the press and now half of Tuscany—

  ‘It’s just rumour,’ she said lightly. ‘Ignore it. I have to go, I’m cooking supper for us.’

  But her mother wasn’t stupid. ‘Take care, carissima,’ she said softly, and Anita swallowed.

  ‘I will. Ciao, Mamma. Love to Papà.’

  She lowered her phone and met his eyes.

  ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘She’s fussing.’

  ‘Of course she’s fussing, she’s your mother. I’m surprised she’s not over here right now checking the sleeping arrangements.’

  ‘Well, she’ll be disappointed, then, because I’ve made up the spare room for you. Do you want to eat where you are, or at the table?’

  ‘Here? Do you mind? I can’t be bothered to move.’

  Subtext: it’ll hurt too much, even though he’d had his painkillers with coffee earlier. She took his food over to him, with a glass of wine to wash it down.

  Not that she approved, but it might help relax him and she wasn’t in the mood to play his mother.

  ‘Thanks, that looks really good. I can’t tell you how hungry I am.’

  She’d spread the pâté on the toasted ciabatta, so he could eat it one-handed, and he forked in the salad and mopped up the dressing with the last of the toast. ‘That was good. Tasty. What can I smell?’

  ‘Lasagne. I thought you could eat it with a fork.’

  ‘Great idea.’

  She took his plate and brought it back with the lasagne on it, and after they’d eaten it he leant back and sighed in contentment.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Amazing. That was really good. I was ready for it. I haven’t eaten anything proper since the day before yesterday.’

  He rolled his head towards her, his eyes serious, the food forgotten. ‘Anita, I hate involving you in this. You should be on holiday, not sitting here babysitting me while they gossip about us on the news.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I don’t care if people talk about us.’

  ‘Well, I do, and I’m not thrilled about them giving Camilla Ponti directions.’

  ‘She won’t come after you,’ she said with more confidence than she felt. ‘She’s in Firenze somewhere, trying to hide from the police. Even she’s going to realise she’s in deep enough trouble without making it worse. And anyway, I thought you said she was mortified.’

  ‘She was. She really didn’t mean to hurt me.’

  ‘Well, then, we’ll be fine,’ she said firmly. ‘The outside lights come on if anyone approaches, so we can’t be sneaked up on. I’ll set the alarm and put the car in the garage, and nobody would know we were here, if that makes you happier.’

  What would make him happier was knowing that Camilla Ponti had been found and seen by a doctor. Until then, this would have to do.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Good. Now I think it’s time you went to bed.’

  Their eyes clashed again, and then he levered himself to his feet.

  ‘You’d better show me to my room, then,’ he said, and she led him down the hall and pushed open the bedroom door. She’d unpacked his bag and laid his things out on the top of the chest, including his painkillers.

  He was pleased to see them. He’d just had some, but he had no doubt he’d need more before the night was out. He hobbled awkwardly past her, looked around and then met her eyes again. ‘It’s a nice room. Thank you.’

  ‘Prego. I’ll bring you a glass of water. The bathroom’s across the hall, and I’ve put out clean towels and your pills are on the chest. Will you be all right getting ready for bed, or do you want me to help you undress?’

  He gave a soft huff of laughter.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  Their eyes locked, his dark and unfathomable. As well as she knew him, she couldn’t read them.

  She could feel the heat scorching her cheeks, but she held her ground. ‘I thought you weren’t feeling great.’

  ‘I’m not, but I’d have to be dead before I let you undress me. Buonanotte, Anita.’

  And he closed the door softly in her face.

  CHAPTER THREE

  HE stood there for a moment, listening, and after a long pause he heard the sound of her banging around in the kitchen.

  She sounded mad with him. Not surprising, really. It hadn’t been the politest rejection, and she’d only been trying to help, but—Dio, just being that close to her was killing him, and he might not be feeling great today, but his body clearly didn’t care about that. It was interested in Anita, and saying so.

  No way was she taking off his clothes and finding that out!

  Which meant he had to do it on his own, and frankly he wasn’t sure he could one-handed. The first thing he had to do, though, was use the bathroom, because he wasn’t going to wander around the house half naked. He knew his limitations, and keeping a lid on his libido was one of them. The more he was wearing when he was exposed to her, frankly, the better
.

  There was no sign of his washbag, so he assumed she must have put it in the bathroom already. He frowned, feeling another pang of guilt, which was silly. It was nothing he wouldn’t have done for her, and he wouldn’t have taken no for an answer about helping her undress, either. Clearly his skin was tougher than hers. And she wouldn’t have been so rude.

  Guilt again.

  He limped to the bathroom, spent a few infuriating minutes in there struggling to clean his teeth with the wrong hand, and when he opened the door she was outside.

  She hadn’t been able to stay away. She’d gone into the kitchen, steaming mad with him, deeply hurt—

  I’d have to be dead before I let you undress me.

  What was that about? He’d been keen enough for her to undress him five years ago, for goodness’ sake, so what on earth had changed so much that he wouldn’t even let her help him when he was injured? She’d thought they were friends still, but clearly not. They’d crossed a line when they’d had the affair, and now—now everything was different, and there was no going back.

  They couldn’t just undo the fact that they’d been lovers. She realised that, but this was nothing to do with sex! Except clearly, for him, taking off his clothes was something he did on his own, or a prelude to lovemaking. Often, for them, the only prelude, she remembered, because on occasions they’d been so desperate they’d almost torn each other’s clothes off—

  ‘Oh, stop it! This is ridiculous!’

  She slammed the dishwasher shut, battened down the hatches on her memories and swiped a cloth over the worktop. The plates were in the dishwasher, the kitchen was tidy.

  And still he was in the bathroom.

  In difficulties?

  So she’d gone to investigate, listened outside to the sounds of frustration as he struggled with something—his toothbrush?

  And then the door opened, and she saw the pain etched into his face, the frustration, the tiredness, and she just wanted to hug him. He shook his head, closing his eyes briefly, and when he opened them she could see guilt written all over his face.

  Goodness knows what was written on hers. It must be a mass of emotions, and it seemed he could read them all.

  ‘I’m sorry, cara,’ he said gruffly, reaching out one-handed to hug her, and then she was there against him, her arms around him, her face buried in his chest just breathing him in and holding on.

  ‘I’m sorry I flounced off,’ she mumbled. ‘You look awful. I’ve been so worried about you—’

  Her voice hitched, and he sighed and rubbed her back gently. ‘I’m fine, Anita. Come on, don’t cry. Go and make us some hot chocolate, and I’ll get my clothes off. No more tears, eh?’

  She eased away, sniffing slightly and scrubbing tears from her cheeks. ‘Sorry. I’m such an idiot—’

  ‘You’re a lovely idiot. I’m lucky to have such a good friend.’

  There. He’d said it. Friend.

  Not lover.

  She nodded, and walked away towards the kitchen to make the hot chocolate, and he gritted his teeth and made it the last few steps to the bedroom.

  Then he looked at his foot.

  The nurses had struggled to get his trousers on over it without hurting him. What hope did he have, one-handed? He couldn’t do it alone.

  Which meant asking Anita.

  She came back with the hot chocolate while he was sitting on the side of the bed scowling.

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘I can’t get my trousers off on my own,’ he said grudgingly.

  She suppressed a smile. ‘No, I don’t suppose you can. And you need something to keep the weight off your foot in the night.’ She plonked the chocolate down on the bedside table, threw the bottom of the quilt back and put two pillows in the bed.

  ‘OK. That should do it. So, are you sleeping in the trousers, bearing in mind that you’d have to be dead to let me help you?’

  He winced at the mild tone which belied a world of hurt—hurt of his making. He deserved her sarcasm. Hell, he deserved more than that. It would serve him right if she left him to struggle on his own. So he swallowed his pride. He needed her help, like it or not, and he realised he might have to grovel to get it.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that quite as it came out. No, I’m not sleeping in them, but I have no idea how to get them off, I just know it’s going to hurt.’

  ‘Not if I do it—assuming you’ll let me help you?’ she asked more gently.

  He shrugged, hating it but out of options, and unfastened his trousers, pushing them down to his knees before sitting back down on the edge of the bed. He felt naked and vulnerable. Ridiculous. He’d been fine with the nurses, so why was he worried about Anita?

  Because I know what it’s like to make love to her.

  ‘Just do it, Anita,’ he said, and she gave a little shrug and knelt down at his feet, which brought her eyes in line with the telltale bulge in his jersey shorts. And just south, on the inside of his muscular thigh, was the transparent dressing over his wound.

  She winced. ‘That was close. It could have been really catastrophic.’

  ‘My sex life’s not really your problem,’ he said shortly, struggling with her proximity and wishing she’d just look somewhere else before he gave himself away, but she just rolled her eyes.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking about your sex life,’ she bit back drily. ‘But since you mention it, there are all those children you might never have been able to have. That would be a waste.’

  ‘Except I’m not planning on having any children, cara. No way. I’m not cut out to be a father.’

  She sat back on her heels and stared up at him, astonished. ‘What? That’s ridiculous, you’d be a marvellous father,’ she said crossly. ‘You’re wonderful with your brothers’ children. They adore you.’

  He shrugged. ‘So? I’m their uncle, I spoil them. It changes nothing. I’m not having children, ever. I don’t want the responsibility. If I did, I would have done something about it.’

  With her? Hardly. The moment their relationship had started to look cosy and semi-permanent, he’d legged it into the wide blue yonder. But one day, surely, with someone...?

  ‘You might change your mind,’ she said doggedly. ‘It would be a shame to waste all the potential in those genes.’

  ‘Potential for what?’ he asked, exasperated. ‘I’ve told you, I’ve got no intention of passing on my genes to anyone. There isn’t a woman in the world who could talk me into it.’

  Well, that was telling her, she thought, and under the resignation—because after all, she knew her relationship with him was going nowhere—was a pang of what felt like grief. She’d dreamed of it so many times, could conjure up an image of a child with his eyes and her hair, but only if she let herself, and she didn’t, because she didn’t want to lose what was left of her sanity. He’d had quite enough of that already.

  ‘Well, that’s a shame,’ she said lightly, trying to make a joke out of it. ‘I mean, I don’t want to inflate your ego, but you’re healthy, passably good-looking and when you aren’t tripping over your own refuse bag, you’re reasonably intelligent. You could have some quite nice children, so long as they didn’t inherit your attitude.’

  It was the sort of sassy remark he expected from her, so without thinking he came straight back at her.

  ‘Dio, you can talk! What about your attitude?’

  ‘There’s no chance your children will inherit my attitude, is there? You made that quite clear five years ago.’

  There was a second of shocked silence, and then he reached out a hand and touched her cheek.

  ‘Anita?’

  To his astonishment she blushed and turned her head away. ‘Ignore me,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m just worried about you.’

  He frowned. ‘Well, you don’t need to be.’ He sighed and rammed his hand through his hair, then winced. He’d have to remember to use the other one, but right now he was so tired and sore he was ready to fall over, and her words had created a sudde
n, shocking image of a cheeky little girl with a sassy smile and a wit like a razor. And it took the wind right out of his sails.’I need to get to bed,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘Sorry,’ she muttered, and then she hooked off his left boot and eased the trousers down, first off his left foot, then very carefully over his right. Then she peeled the sock off.

  He flexed his ankle slightly and winced as she sat back on her heels and looked at it.

  ‘It’s an impressive colour,’ she said, getting to her feet.

  He peered at it thoughtfully. It was black and blue, the bits he could see of it around the strapping, and no doubt in time it would go all shades of the rainbow. He looked forward to it. It might hurt less by then.

  He eased back onto the mattress, unable to use his bad hand to shift himself, refusing to ask her help, but she gave it anyway, hooking her arm in his armpit and hauling the bad side up the bed while he shoved the good side.

  Then she plumped the pillows and covered him carefully with the quilt, hesitating to frown down at his thigh.

  ‘Is it all right? Does the dressing need changing?’

  ‘No. They’ve given me a supply of fresh dressings, but they’d told me to leave it for a day or so. It should be fine—assuming I can peel it off the hairs.’

  Her laugh had a little mocking edge to it that he didn’t like. ‘It’ll be like having a leg wax. I’m sure you’ll cope, you big baby.’

  He winced, and she laughed again, then her smile faded and she reached out a cool, gentle hand and laid it on his leg, just below the wound, all signs of mockery gone.

  ‘Even if it is none of my business, I’m glad the glass hasn’t done any lasting damage,’ she said a little gruffly as she covered him up and gave him back some privacy.

  ‘As you were kind enough to point out, if I hadn’t been so stupid we wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation.’ He patted the bedcovers beside him. ‘Come here. Grab the hot chocolate and turn out the light, and come and sit with me for a bit. I’m too tired to argue with you.’

  ‘That’ll be a first,’ she said drily, but she climbed up onto the bed beside him, wriggling back against the pillows and handing him his hot chocolate before turning off the bedside light so they could see the twinkling lights in the distance. For a moment he said nothing, then he gave a contented sigh.