The Valtieri Baby

by Caroline Anderson

  ‘I’m ready for this,’ he muttered as they arrived at the café, and he pulled out his wallet and ordered his double espresso and her cappuccino. ‘What are you eating?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I can’t decide...’

  He ordered a selection before she could vacillate any longer, and while he was paying she found a table by the window and sat down to wait for him.

  And wait.

  Eventually he came over, a wry smile on his face, and eased himself into the chair with a grunt.

  ‘Sorry. He’d seen the news—wanted to know how I was doing.’

  ‘I’d worked it out, Gio. It’s going to happen all the time. You grew up here, of course they’re interested.’

  ‘Yeah, he was interested in you, too. Were you planning our wedding yet and that sort of thing.’

  Not a chance. Not now, and probably never had been, although she’d let herself believe it for a few delirious weeks.

  Move on!

  ‘So, what do you want to do today?’ she asked, completely ignoring his last remark because there didn’t seem to be anything to say about it, and particularly not in public.

  ‘Apart from buying a coffee maker?’ he said drily. ‘I don’t know. Do you fancy going for a drive? I get cabin fever.’

  ‘That quick?’

  He laughed. ‘I’m not good when I’m not busy. So, shall we do that? We could drive somewhere and stop for lunch.’

  ‘You haven’t even had breakfast yet and you’re worrying about the next meal,’ she teased. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t let you starve. And sure, we can go for a drive. There’s that lovely road high up on the ridge looking towards Monte Amiata. The views are lovely and we could cut back on the other side along the Val d’Orcia and have lunch in Pienza.’

  He nodded, but he didn’t look enthused, and Anita began to wonder how she was going to entertain a man who lived life so hard and so fast that he had cabin fever after a day. Less than that. And she had a fortnight to get through?

  ‘I have a better idea.’

  Good, she thought, because she had none at all. Well, none that were in any way sensible or wouldn’t get her into a whole load of trouble. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Let’s go back to my apartment and pick up my coffee maker. I’ve got a spare one—I’ve got a built-in one now, so it’s redundant. You can have it. And I need clothes. All I’ve got is that overnight bag and it’s a bit challenged. I didn’t really think it through. And trainers, so I have a shoe I can wear on this foot, and I can bring my laptop. I’ve got some work I could be doing on a case that’s coming up.’

  She nodded, relieved that he might actually find something to occupy him, apart from baiting her because they weren’t doing what they both wanted to do because he’d decided five years ago that it was off the menu. ‘OK.’

  She looked up, smiled at the café owner who’d brought over their order and dug into the pastries. She was starving. She hadn’t slept at all well last night, and when she had—

  Back to that again, she thought, growling silently. Well, at least Camilla Ponti had turned up, so she wouldn’t have to spend another night with him so he could ‘protect’ her. Fat lot of protection. She needed protecting from herself, apparently, as well as him.

  ‘Did I say something to upset you?’

  She jerked her head up and met his eyes. ‘What? No. Sorry. I was miles away.’

  About four miles, to be exact, lying in his bed sprawled all over him and behaving like a hussy. She could feel her cheeks getting hotter, and looked hastily away. ‘Good pastries.’

  So she was thinking about that, too, he thought, and gave a silent huff of laughter. Oh, well. He’d thought about it for twenty years without acting on it apart from one short and all too memorable month, so he could do it for another fortnight. And if she wanted to talk about food...

  ‘They always are good pastries in here,’ he said blandly, biting into one as she looked up.

  Their eyes locked, and then her gaze tracked his mouth as he licked his lips. It wasn’t deliberate, it wasn’t conscious, but her pupils flared as she watched him and he just knew he was in trouble, because last night, entirely by accident, they’d broken all the rules in his little black book.

  Starting with rule number one—don’t mess with friends. Especially not one you’ve known since before you could walk. One you’ve already hurt because you couldn’t keep a lid on your lust.

  He looked down at the table, located his coffee and took a gulp. It was hot. Too hot, and he felt it burn his tongue, but at least it took his mind off Anita’s body.

  * * *

  They arrived in Firenze shortly before lunchtime, and she pulled up next to his Mercedes sports. It was his new toy, and he’d been looking forward to driving it up into the Alps.

  And then the Ponti woman—

  He cut off that line of thought, got out of the car and saw a shard of broken glass lying on the ground.

  He bent and picked it up, and felt a cold shiver run over him.

  ‘Why was she so desperate to talk to me, Anita?’ he asked softly, staring at the glass in his hand. ‘I was only doing my job. She had no entitlement to that money, and she must have known that. So what was there to say that she so desperately needed me to hear?’

  ‘Who knows? She’s a liar and a cheat. Don’t waste time thinking about her.’

  She all but dragged him towards the door, and he let them in and looked at the stairs.

  ‘Want me to carry you up?’ she suggested sassily, and he glowered at her for a second, then gave a reluctant laugh.

  ‘It’s very kind of you to offer, but I think I can manage.’ He could. Just about. He hopped, he hobbled, and finally they were there and he could sprawl on his sofa and look out over the rooftops to the hills in the distance while he recovered.

  ‘Could you put this glass in the bin? You’d better wrap it. There’s a pile of old newspapers in one of the cupboards in the kitchen—and while you’re there, I need a coffee.’

  Anita, busy taking in the changes he’d made to the kitchen area in the last five years, rolled her eyes. ‘You always need a coffee. I don’t know why I indulge you.’ She dealt with the glass, then looked around. ‘So, where is it anyway, this new gadget of yours?’

  ‘Under that glass door—no, not that one, that’s the steam oven. Next to it. Lift the door up and slide it back.’

  She studied it. It seemed pretty straightforward, but some instructions wouldn’t go amiss. ‘So, how does this thing work?’

  ‘You put beans in it from in the freezer, put a cup under it and press the button. It’s not exactly rocket science.’

  She ignored the sarcasm. ‘Cups? Freezer?’

  It would have been easier to get up, but it was more entertaining lying there watching her pottering in his kitchen, so he stayed put and gave her instructions, and every time she bent over to get something out of a cupboard, he was treated to the delectable view of her smooth, rounded bottom in jeans that hugged her lovingly.

  His jeans were getting a bit more loving just watching her, and he dragged his eyes away and tried to get himself under control.

  Anita threw a glance over her shoulder and saw him flicking idly through a magazine. Sarky swine, she thought. She could have smacked him, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He’d been so different five years ago. He wouldn’t have left her alone in the kitchen, he would have been in there, standing behind her with his arms around her, his body warm and hard and very, very close, and sometimes he’d turn her towards him and lift her so she was perched on the edge of the counter, and he’d take her then and there, his eyes hot and smoky with need, and then he’d gather her up in his arms, her legs still locked around his waist, and carry her to the bedroom to finish what he’d started.

  Until he ended it, without a word of warning.

  ‘There, was that so hard?’ he asked when she set his espresso down in front of him with rather more force than was necessary.

>   ‘It’s not a case of hard, it’s a case of not having seen it before. I’m not an idiot—don’t patronise me.’

  She was cross, he realised. Cross because she was in his apartment? Cross because he was being an ass? Or cross because the last time she’d been here, he’d been telling her all the reasons why their affair should end?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, meaning it. Sorry for all sorts of things. ‘Thank you for making the coffee.’

  ‘You don’t have to grovel. Have you got anything here to eat?’

  ‘No, not really. I’d run the fridge down because I was going away. There’s no milk, either.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll have it black, if it’s as good as you say it is. Are you hungry? I could go out and get something.’

  ‘Or we can order pizza.’

  He pulled out his phone. It didn’t surprise her that the number was on speed-dial, or that the intercom buzzed after just five minutes.

  She ran down and paid and carried the steaming box back upstairs and put it on the coffee table in front of him. It was a quattro stagioni, with a different topping on each quarter, and she pulled off a slice and ate it hungrily.

  ‘Oh, gorgeous. It’s so fresh—where’s the pizzeria?’

  ‘Just round the corner. Literally.’

  ‘And they know you well.’

  He grinned mischievously. ‘Don’t tell my mother.’

  She studied him, unshaven because it was too challenging to bother with, the stubble on his jaw making him look just a little wicked and slightly dangerous. She felt a shiver of excitement down her spine and crushed it ruthlessly.

  ‘I’m sure of all the things I shouldn’t be telling your mother, Giovanni Valtieri, that’s the least of them.’

  He winked and chuckled, sinking his teeth into the second slice of pizza. The flavour exploded on his tongue, and he sighed contentedly and demolished it, and reached for another, and another.

  She left him the last slice, sitting back and wiping her fingers on the paper napkin.

  ‘I can’t remember when I last had pizza. That was amazing.’

  ‘It is good there. They use our olives.’

  ‘Do they? I wonder why?’ she teased, and he laughed softly.

  ‘Because they’re the best?’

  ‘My father might argue, but Massimo would be pleased to hear you say that. He works hard to uphold the family name for quality, and he’s very proud of it.’

  ‘And your father?’

  She grinned. ‘He thinks his olives are better. He concedes on the wine and the cheese.’

  ‘That’s because he doesn’t make either of them.’

  She shrugged, her eyes teasing, and he felt a pang of loss. They’d been so good together, and he’d had real hopes for them, but then reality had intruded with shocking force and reminded him of just what a lousy bet he was.

  He couldn’t give a relationship what it deserved. He never had, and he was afraid he never could, not even with Anita, and he’d thought it was better for her to get out of it before she got in too deep and ended up destroyed, like Kirsten. And not just Kirsten.

  There was enough on his conscience already. Too much. He couldn’t have Anita on it as well. Not his dearest friend.

  Looking at her now, he felt nothing but regret, but that was selfish. For once, it wasn’t all about him and what he wanted, and he knew he was going to have to exercise enormous self-control in the next fortnight. He couldn’t let his own selfish wants and needs override his common sense and decency, however much he wanted her. Not if she was ever going to move on and find someone else.

  He didn’t want to think about that.

  ‘I suppose we should get on,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘Probably.’ She got to her feet and washed her hands in the sink, then looked around. ‘So where’s this coffee maker?’

  ‘In that cupboard on the left—no, the next one.’

  She opened the cupboard and found it, lifted it out and set it on the worktop. She eyed it dubiously. Apart from the fact that it would take up her entire kitchen, it weighed a ton and she was going to have to carry it downstairs. ‘It seems a bit excessive.’

  ‘Where coffee’s concerned, nothing is too excessive,’ he said emphatically. ‘There are some unopened beans in the next cupboard.’

  She got them out, put them with the machine and then walked towards his bedroom. She hadn’t been in there since their affair, but it hadn’t changed a lot.

  He had a new blind, but that was it. The bed was the same, she noticed with a pang, swathed in vast acres of the finest threadcount Egyptian cotton; pure white, unadorned, uncomplicated luxury. It was the most comfortable bed she’d ever slept in, and she’d been happier there than she had anywhere in her life.

  She’d gone out and bought herself the same bedding after they’d split up, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to use it because just the feel of it reminded her so strongly of him that it broke her heart.

  ‘So, what do you need?’ she asked, forcing herself to focus on something other than the bed.

  ‘Underwear, socks, casual shirts, sweaters, trousers—there are some jog bottoms in the bottom drawer in the wardrobe, I think. They might be easier to get on and off over my foot. And my trainers.’

  She found them, and the underwear. Soft, clingy jersey shorts that hugged his body enticingly. A heap of socks, all carefully paired. Shirts, hung by colour and style.

  ‘You’re a neat freak,’ she said drily, throwing the clothes into a heap ready for packing. He was standing in the doorway, frowning.

  ‘Don’t crease those shirts.’

  ‘I thought they were casual? And you’re going to be wearing them with jog bottoms.’

  ‘They don’t have to look as if I’ve slept in them.’

  She propped herself against the door of the wardrobe and folded her arms.

  ‘Do you want to do this yourself, or would you like me to help you? In which case, you need to shut up.’

  He opened his mouth, then clamped it shut in a grim line. She smiled and carried on, and he retrieved a few things from the bathroom, then packed up his laptop and the documents he needed. Ten minutes later they were on their way out.

  He limped slowly towards the car with his laptop bag over his shoulder while she made another trip for the coffee maker. By the time she was back with it, he was in the car with his eyes closed.

  ‘Did you bring any painkillers with you?’ she asked, and he shook his head.

  ‘I’m fine. Let’s just go.’

  * * *

  They went to the supermarket on the way home, to buy things for supper. She’d only done a hasty shop the day before, just enough to tide them over, so she left him in the car and worked her way a bit more systematically along the aisles for something to make that evening.

  Nothing too easy, she thought. A dish that needed a bit of preparation, something to occupy her. She trawled the meat aisle, and came up with wild boar. Brilliant! She could make a wild boar casserole for supper, from a recipe she’d been given by Lydia, Massimo’s new wife.

  The Englishwoman had been a chef until Gio’s brother had swept her off her feet, and she’d shared lots of recipes with Anita, most of which she hadn’t got round to trying. But they were elaborate enough to kill time, and that was perfect for her purposes.

  She gathered up vegetables, bread, milk and a few other essentials, and made her way back to the car, feeling guilty for taking so long.

  She needn’t have worried. He was fiddling on his laptop, and he shut it and put it back in the case as she got in.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘Yes, I was just catching up on some work.’

  ‘You shouldn’t really be doing that. You should be resting.’

  ‘It’s not exactly physically stressful,’ he said drily, and she couldn’t argue with him. It was pointless, she wouldn’t win. She never did, not really, not a real argument. He was too clever with his words. They were his stock in trade, an
d she’d given up trying years ago.

  Pity she couldn’t give up loving him. It would make life a whole heck of a lot easier.

  * * *

  He went to bed when they got back, saying he needed a rest, and so she busied herself in the kitchen making the casserole.

  Stupid, she realised later when he’d reappeared from the bedroom, because now supper was all taken care of and she had nothing, absolutely nothing, to do.

  They hadn’t even been there long enough to generate any washing, so she went and got a book from her bedside table that had been on her ‘to be read’ pile for much too long. But that didn’t work, either. Somehow sitting there reading while he fiddled on his laptop seemed crazily intimate and settled—the sort of thing a couple did.

  And they were not a couple, she reminded herself fiercely.

  ‘You don’t look as if you’re enjoying that book,’ he said, cutting into her train of thought.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The book. If you don’t like it, why read it?’

  She frowned down at it. She’d read the same paragraph about six times, and still didn’t know what it said. With a disgusted sigh she threw it down and went over to the kitchen, opening the fridge and searching for inspiration.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Looking for something to cook.’ Or something to do, more correctly. Something a little further away from him, that she had to concentrate on.

  ‘What kind of something? I thought you’d already prepared our food? I can smell something really good, so I hope it’s for later.’

  ‘It is. It’s wild boar casserole. Easy to eat with one hand. I thought I might make some chocolate mousse for dessert.’

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘Well, now, let me see—of course I can!’ she retorted, rolling her eyes sarcastically.

  She just needed to be able to concentrate, and that, with him in the room, was easier said than done, but she dug out Lydia’s recipe, took eggs and dark, bitter chocolate and cream out of the fridge and worked her way systematically through the instructions. A few minutes later she spooned the soft, fluffy chocolate mixture into two white ramekins and smiled with satisfaction.