rest of her was dressed in a sleeveless white top trimmed with a small white eyelet ruffle. Equally immaculate white pants skimmed womanly hips down to the bone-colored sandals on her feet, where he glimpsed frosted pink toenails.
He waited until she turned enough for him to see the classic profile of Signorina Marsh. So she hadn’t gone off early … Last night her bathrobe had covered up her slender curves.
The whiteness of her fresh-looking outfit combined with the profusion of white petals drew his gaze. With that face partially hidden beneath the hat rim and set against a backdrop of blue sky melding into cobalt waters far below, it was like beholding one of those picture-perfect postcards in dazzling Technicolor.
As she came in through the unlocked doors bringing the sunshine with her, her eyes lit on him, but she kept going and put the flowers in a ceramic pitcher on the counter. After filling it with water, she placed it in the center of the rectangular kitchen table, which was inlaid with hand-painted tiles of lemons.
His mother used to bring in fresh flowers in the early morning. He experienced a moment’s resentment to be reminded of happier times that would never come again.
“I’ve always wanted to be able to decorate with flowers from my own garden. These are for me, but enjoy them if you want to. They’re glorious.” Dusting off her hands, she reached for a large straw handbag lying on one of the chairs and walked over to the side door.
With a parting glance from eyes a rare shade of periwinkle she added, “My ride will be arriving any minute. I’m going to walk out to the drive so you can remain invisible.” She started to open the door, then paused.
“Please wipe that morose expression off your face. You’re probably not that bad-looking when you aren’t carrying the world around on your shoulders like Atlas. Surely you realize I didn’t mean the things I said last night.”
“Only half,” he muttered in an acerbic tone after finishing the rest of his coffee.
“Hmm, maybe three quarters. When you make yourself another cup of coffee, there’s sugar in the cupboard. I’d say you needed a little sweetening. Before I leave, tell me the truth. How recently were you released from the hospital?”
His lips twisted unpleasantly. “What hospital would that be?” He opened the fridge and found a plum to bite into.
“The one where you had surgery on your right thigh. You’re favoring your other leg and can’t get into any one comfortable position for long.”
He munched until there was nothing left but the pit, which he removed and tossed in the wastebasket in the corner. “You’re mistaken, signorina.”
“No.” Annabelle remained firm. “The medication you’re taking tells me otherwise.”
On cue his dark brows furrowed with menace. “What makes you such an authority?”
“I’m a nurse with experience taking care of patients recovering from heart and thoracic surgery, gunshot wounds, broken bones.”
Stillness surrounded him before she saw a look of alarm break out on his face. “What’s wrong with my father?”
She blinked, trying to make sense of his hyperspeed leap from the subject at hand to Guilio. Once the light dawned, she cried, “No, no—I’m not working for your father in that capacity. I’m helping do some advertising for him. As far as I know, he’s fine!” she assured him, noting that his first reaction had been one of a son who loved his father. That cleared up one question haunting her.
His eyes looked disbelieving.
“You’re the person I’m worried about, signore. I’ve a feeling you left the hospital before it was wise. Combined with the fall you had last night, you need to nurse that leg as much as possible. Even if the pain has subsided for now, you’re wiped out.”
“Grazie for your concern.”
She decided the ice between them was thawing a few degrees. His sarcasm didn’t come off sounding quite as bitter as before. “Prego.” It was one of few words she knew in Italian for you’re welcome.
“One more thing, signore. I told Guilio I didn’t want any maids or housekeepers around while I’m here, so you should have no worries in that department. After work I’ll be back to pack and go to a hotel. I don’t know the exact time of my arrival, but rest assured I’ll be alone,” she promised with a pleasant expression.
He watched her disappear out the side door. If she could be believed, then he had little to worry about for the rest of the day. But it caused him to wonder that she’d be willing to keep his secret that long.
Why would she do it? For how long? She wanted something in return, evidently enough to be willing to cooperate.
Breaking in on a defenseless woman in the dead of night should have scared her senseless. Instead, she’d turned the tables on him and had made threatening gestures with the cane. He felt a grudging admiration for her resourcefulness. But he couldn’t help but question what she expected to gain by her compliance with Lucca’s wishes. Did she think getting on his good side would earn her a promotion with his father down the road? More perks?
What was his father playing at? To let his alleged employee have her own way and install her in Lucca’s house meant she’d twisted him around her finger. What kind of advertising was she doing for his father?
It was a little late for him to be having a midlife crisis. Surely his second wife—Maria was enough for him. She’d managed to marry him only six months after Lucca’s mother had been buried. For years Lucca had blamed her for changing his father. Until one day when Lucca grew up and realized no force could make Guilio marry the attractive widow who had two sons of her own if he hadn’t wanted to.
Now this American woman—a nurse, no less—had come into Guilio’s life, so different in every way that Lucca was baffled.
He frowned. Nine months ago when he’d flown to Milan on furlough for a brief visit to see his father, Signorina Marsh hadn’t been on the payroll. That meant she was a fairly recent addition to the company, but because she was in his father’s confidence, she had Lucca at a disadvantage.
He didn’t like the idea that she would know more about him than he wanted anyone to know, yet for the time being he had no choice but to live with it. It didn’t escape him that he bore some responsibility for arriving in the dead of night.
After locking the door, he turned to the fridge. While he rummaged for items to fix himself a sandwich, he heard a car turn into the gravel drive. The voices were too faint for him to make out conversation. Before long it drove off.
In a minute he sank down on one of the hand-carved wooden chairs. He extended his long legs, trying to get into a more comfortable position, which was virtually impossible, just like she’d said. As he bit into some locally grown ham and his favorite provolone dolce cheese, he found himself glowering at the daisies she’d put in the old family pitcher and hardly noticed the taste.
He’d wanted complete solitude and sleep for one night. That way he could appear at his father’s door today looking rested enough that Guilio’s first reaction wouldn’t be one of heartache over his son. There’d been enough of that in the early days.
Soon enough
