She’d known him, what, less than two hours altogether? Scarcely more than one. And she’d already put her foot firmly in it.
Vowing not to say another thing, she settled back in her seat and looked out of the window at the mountains.
They must be the Alps, she realised, fascinated by the jagged peaks and plunging valleys, and then the mountains fell away behind them and they were moving over a chequered landscape of forests and small, neat fields. They were curiously ordered and disciplined, serried ranks of what must be olive trees and grape vines, she guessed, planted with geometric precision, the pattern of the fields interlaced with narrow winding roads lined with avenues of tall, slender cypress trees.
Tuscany, she thought with a shiver of excitement.
The seat belt light came on, and Massimo returned to his seat across the aisle from her as the plane started its descent.
‘Not long now,’ he said, flashing her a smile. And then they were there, a perfect touchdown on Tuscan soil with the prize almost in reach.
Jen was going to get her wedding. Just a few more minutes …
They taxied to a stop outside the airport building, and after a moment the steps were wheeled out to them and the door was opened.
‘We’re really here!’ she said to Claire, and Claire’s eyes were sparkling as she got to her feet.
‘I know. I can’t believe it!’
They were standing at the top of the steps now, and Massimo smiled and gestured to them. ‘After you. Do you have the address of the hotel? I’ll drive you there.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’d hate you not to win after all this,’ he said with a grin.
‘Wow, thank you, that’s really kind of you!’ Lydia said, reaching for her skirts as she took another step.
It happened in slow motion.
One moment she was there beside him, the next the steps had disappeared from under her feet and she was falling, tumbling end over end, hitting what seemed like every step until finally her head reached the tarmac and she crumpled on the ground in a heap.
Her scream was cut off abruptly, and Massimo hurled himself down the steps to her side, his heart racing. No! Please, she couldn’t be dead …
She wasn’t. He could feel a pulse in her neck, and he let his breath out on a long, ragged sigh and sat back on his heels to assess her.
Stay calm, he told himself. She’s alive. She’ll be all right.
But he wouldn’t really believe it until she stirred, and even then …
‘Is she all right?’
He glanced up at Claire, kneeling on the other side of her, her face chalk white with fear.
‘I think so,’ he said, but he didn’t think any such thing. Fear was coursing through him, bringing bile rising to his throat. Why wasn’t she moving? This couldn’t be happening again.
Lydia moaned. Warm, hard fingers had searched for a pulse in her neck, and as she slowly came to, she heard him snap out something in Italian while she lay there, shocked and a little stunned, wondering if it was a good idea to open her eyes. Maybe not yet.
‘Lydia? Lydia, talk to me! Open your eyes.’
Her eyes opened slowly and she tried to sit up, but he pressed a hand to her shoulder.
‘Stay still. You might have a neck injury. Where do you hurt?’
Where didn’t she? She turned her head and winced. ‘Ow … my head, for a start. What happened? Did I trip? Oh, I can’t believe I was so stupid!’
‘You fell down the steps.’
‘I know that—ouch.’ She felt her head, and her hand came away bloodied and sticky. She stared at it. ‘I’ve cut myself,’ she said, and everything began to swim.
‘It’s OK, Lydia. You’ll be OK,’ Claire said, but her face was worried and suddenly everything began to hurt a whole lot more.
Massimo tucked his jacket gently beside her head to support it, just in case she had a neck injury. He wasn’t taking any chances on that, but it was the head injury that was worrying him the most, the graze on her forehead, just under her hair. How hard had she hit it? Hard enough to …
It was bleeding faster now, he realised with a wave of dread, a red streak appearing as she shifted slightly, and he stayed beside her on his knees, holding her hand and talking to her comfortingly in between snapping out instructions.
She heard the words ‘ambulanza’ and ‘ospedale’, and tried to move, wincing and whimpering with pain, but he held her still.
‘Don’t move. The ambulance is coming to take you to hospital.’
‘I don’t need to go to hospital, I’m fine, we need to get to the hotel!’
‘No,’ Massimo and Claire said in unison.
‘But the competition.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said flatly. ‘You’re hurt. You have to be checked out.’
‘I’ll go later.’
‘No.’ His voice was implacable, hard and cold and somehow strange, and Lydia looked at him and saw his skin was colourless and grey, his mouth pinched, his eyes veiled.
He obviously couldn’t stand the sight of blood, Lydia realised, and reached out her other hand to Claire.
She took it, then looked at Massimo. ‘I’ll look after her,’ she said. ‘You go, you’ve got lots to do. We’ll be all right.’
His eyes never left Lydia’s.
‘No. I’ll stay with you,’ he insisted, but he moved out of the way to give her space.
She looked so frail suddenly, lying there streaked with blood, the puffy layers of the dress rising up around her legs and making her look like a broken china doll.
Dio, he felt sick just looking at her, and her face swam, another face drifting over it. He shut his eyes tight, squeezing out the images of his wife, but they refused to fade.
Lydia tried to struggle up again. ‘I want to go to the hotel,’ she said to Claire, and his eyes snapped open again.
‘No way.’
‘He’s right. Don’t be silly. You just lie there and we’ll get you checked out, then we’ll go. There’s still plenty of time.’
But there might not be, she realised, as she lay there on the tarmac in her ridiculous charity shop wedding dress with blood seeping from her head wound, and as the minutes ticked by her joy slid slowly away …
