Anne Mather – The Baby Gambit (страница 2)

She sighed contentedly, feeling grateful that Julia had come to the rescue with the offer of this chance to share her apartment for two weeks. Booking a holiday at the height of the tourist season could have proved difficult, and she preferred the anonymity of private accommodation to the obvious disadvantages of a hotel. All she’d wanted was somewhere warm and sunny, with nothing to do but laze the days away.

‘I won’t be around much, I’m afraid,’ Julia had said, when Grace had phoned her from the hospital to tell her what was going on. “This is the busiest time of the year for me, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Portofalco is a pretty place, and if you get bored you can always hire a car and go exploring.’

Grace had assured her that it sounded like heaven and consequently here she was, the morning after her arrival, standing on Julia’s balcony just drinking in the view. And it was quite a view, she conceded, with the Bay of Portofalco below her, and the curve of the mainland sweeping round to Viareggio and beyond.

She took a deep breath, her nose wrinkling at the mingled perfumes of the flowers that rose from the walled garden beneath the balcony. It wasn’t much of a garden, really, and it had been sadly neglected, but the tangled scents of jasmine and verbena, and the roses that clung tenaciously to the crumbling walls, were a heady delight. Somehow, even the overgrown garden had an enchanted air about it, hinting of assignations beside the lichen-studded fountain whose basin was crumbling, too.

Turning away from the view, Grace decided it was time she took a shower and got dressed. When she’d arrived the night before, she’d been too tired to do anything more than phone her mother to assure her she’d arrived safely, and strip off her clothes and tumble into bed. But it was eight o’clock in the morning now and her unpacking beckoned. Then breakfast, she thought with some anticipation, remembering that Julia had told her there was a bakery just down the street. The prospect of warm rolls and flaky pastries was appealing, and she strode across the rather overfurnished salotto into the bathroom beyond.

Fifteen minutes later, she felt considerably more energetic, and although she’d decided to put off her unpacking until later she put on a pair of cream silk shorts and a matching tank top to make her feel more like a holidaymaker. A glance in the bathroom mirror assured her that her mouth required little in the way of cosmetics, and she merely added a trace of blusher to give colour to her pale cheeks.

Her face was only too familiar to her and therefore nothing out of the ordinary, so that when she scraped back her hair into its usual braid and several rebellious loose ends curled about her temples she saw only the untidiness of it. But the old caretaker who looked after the building, and who had given her the key Julia had left for her the night before, greeted her with genuine pleasure, his rheumy old eyes glinting appreciatively as he watched her saunter off down the cobbled street.

The Villa Modena—Grace privately thought its title was rather flattering—stood halfway down a narrow street of similar dwellings. The street, the Via Cortese, wound up from the harbour, and she could see snatches of blue, blue water between vine-hung walls and over colour-washed roofs. Every now and then, an opening offered a tantalising view of the bay, with the masts of yachts moored at the jetty moving gently on the incoming tide.

She smelled the bakery before she reached it, the delicious aroma of newly baked bread making her mouth water. Which was unusual for her considering she hadn’t had much of an appetite at all since her illness, and she looked forward to enjoying a warm roll with the pot of coffee she’d left on the hotplate at the apartment.

The baker was red-cheeked and friendly, dismissing Grace’s attempts to make herself understood with a cheerful shake of his head. ‘Va bene, signorina,’ he assured her firmly. ‘I have the English, no?’ He smiled and gestured to the impressive array of bread available. ‘You tell me what you like.’

‘Grazie.’ Grace gave him an apologetic smile. ‘I’m not very good at learning languages, I’m afraid. But I’m staying for two weeks, so perhaps my Italian will improve.’

‘Prego!’ The man laughed. ‘We Itatianos will always forgive a beautiful woman, sì?’

Grace’s lips thinned a little at the familiar compliment, but she accepted his flattery good-humouredly. ‘You’re very kind,’ she said, pointing to a batch of crusty rolls. ‘I’ll have three of those, please, and two pastries. Grazie!’

She was pocketing her change before taking the bag of sweet-smelling pastries from his hand when, to her relief, the arrival of another customer distracted him. ‘A domani,’ he called after her. ‘Until tomorrow.’ And Grace lifted a hand in reluctant acknowledgement as she made her escape.

She could smell the pot of coffee as soon as she opened the door. The apartment, which was situated on the second floor of the villa, opened directly into the living room, with the tiny kitchenette occupying an alcove off the living area. A trellis of climbing greenery set in an earthenware container provided an impromptu screen, with a narrow counter at right angles to it where Julia evidently took her meals when she was at home.

Grace found some low-fat butter substitute in the small fridge and spread some on one of the warm rolls. Then, after pouring herself a mug of the strong black coffee, she perched on one of the tall stools that were pushed against the bar to enjoy her meal.

She was flicking idly through an old copy of Figaro when someone knocked at the door. She turned at once, guessing it was a visitor for Julia who didn’t know she was away. Hopefully, not a man, she thought ruefully, wiping a crumb from her lip. If she remembered correctly, Julia was spending the weekend with the current man in her life and, judging by her excitement when she’d mentioned him to Grace, it seemed that she hoped that this might be the one.

Grace grimaced. Her friend was much less cynical than she was. Even with a failed marriage behind her, Julia had still maintained that there was a man out there somewhere just waiting for her to come along. Perhaps this weekend’s amoroso, as they said in Italy, was different. Grace begged leave to reserve judgement until she’d met the man for herself.

But she was wasting time. As another knock sounded at the door, she slid off the stool and crossed the room. It could just be the old caretaker, she surmised. Perhaps he’d smelled the appetising aroma of the coffee, and found some excuse to come up here so that she could offer him a cup. If so, he was going to be disappointed. She had no intention of inviting any strange man into the apartment.

But the man standing outside was not the caretaker. ‘Miss Horton?’ he asked, and although she was sure he was Italian there was no trace of an accent in his low, attractive voice.

There was a suitcase standing beside him, but Grace registered this only peripherally as she gazed at one of the few men who could give her a few inches in height. He was tall, extremely dark both in hair and skin, with a lean yet obviously muscular body. He was certainly one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen, yet no one, not even his mother, could have called him handsome.

His eyes—dark eyes, what else? she mocked herself sardonically—were too deeply set, with hooded lids and thick black lashes hiding their expression. His cheekbones were harshly carved in a face that looked more inclined to severity than humour. Yet his mouth belied that conclusion, she reflected. Thin-lipped, perhaps, but with an obvious tendency towards laughter. Right now, she suspected he was laughing at her, and she felt a sharp tug of resentment at the thought.

‘Yes?’ she said coolly, unhappily aware that she had been staring at him far longer than she should have. She registered the suitcase properly now, propped beside one loafer-clad foot. A foot without any sock, she appended cynically, below loose-fitting cotton trousers that only hinted at the powerful thighs that flexed beneath.

Who was he? she wondered irritably. Surely Julia hadn’t invited someone else to stay to keep her company. Yet how else had he known her name? ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, aware of the violent urge she had to scream.

He bent and picked up the suitcase. ‘I just want to leave this for Julia,’ he said, as Grace was preparing herself to block his way. ‘It’s hers,’ he explained, evidently recognising her hostility. ‘She was my guest last evening and I agreed to deliver it back to her apartment.’

Grace’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean, you’re—’

‘Matteo di Falco,’ he introduced himself easily as she stepped aside to allow him to set the suitcase down inside the door. ‘Unfortunately, Julia was obliged to cut the weekend short. She had to get back to the hotel.’

‘She did?’ Grace knew she sounded blank, but she couldn’t help it.

‘They phoned this morning,’ he agreed, straightening. ‘There has been some illness and they are short of staff. They asked if she could return immediately.’ He shrugged his shoulders, broad beneath the lightweight jacket he was wearing over a white tee shirt. ‘Cosi sia! So be it.’