right?’
‘Fine.’ Lara stretched forward to relive the nagging ache in her back. She had read all the books and she knew this was normal. But she also knew the warmth, the spreading stain were not...
‘Raoul...!’
He turned his head in alarm, then slowly followed the direction of her fixed stare.
For a few heart-thudding moments he was paralysed as he stared down at the crimson stain on her skirt and the seat, dripping onto the floor.
Lara whimpered. ‘Something’s wrong.’ It provided the impetus for him to react.
Curling his hand over hers, he turned his head to yell at the driver, who threw the car into a screeching one-eighty-degree turn and set off at speed, ignoring the numerous horn blasts of complaint that followed him.
‘Don’t worry. Vincenzo drove tanks in the military. We’ll have you there in five minutes.’ Would five minutes be quick enough? There was so much blood. He looked away from it, focusing on her face, her white, tragic, pain-filled face, while he tried to channel calm.
Inside, Raoul didn’t feel calm. He felt an icy fist clawing in his belly, tightening, spreading cold and fear... Could anyone lose that much blood and survive? Of course she could; this wasn’t the Dark Ages—women didn’t die this way any more. They could transplant hearts and rebuild shattered limbs...but there was so, so much blood!
‘Faster!’ he flung over his shoulder to Vincenzo, who was already breaking speed limits in a major way.
‘Is the baby all right, Raoul...?’
Wishing he could take away the fear in her shadowed eyes, he took her hands between his; they seemed so small and white, and they were cold, so very cold.
He had never felt so helpless in his entire life.
He shook his head. ‘Don’t talk now, cara, save your—No, don’t close your eyes, Lara, Lara, stay with me, cara.’ His voice cracked as he pleaded, ‘Stay with me!’
The lashes that lay against her waxen cheeks lifted and Raoul exhaled a gasp of relief. ‘I’ve made such a mess of your lovely car.’
He swore with soft, savage fluency and lifted her hands to his lips, kissing her individual fingertips. ‘I’ll send you the bill.’ He lifted his head in response to the driver’s voice. ‘We’re here!’ he said to Lara, whose eyes had begun to flutter closed once more. ‘Everything will be all right, just hold on.’
* * *
‘Who do you think you are? You can’t park here! This space is reserved for ambulance emergencies.’
Raoul responded to the officious instructions in the same language, slicing out in a steel monotone, ‘Can’t you see it is an emergency? Get me a doctor! Now!’
Any inclination to argue the point faded as Raoul emerged and his interrogator saw Lara, who was drifting in and out of consciousness. He turned and shouted; in response two figures and a trolley appeared. They had transferred Lara to it when a doctor arrived and began to take charge.
The questions he shot at Raoul were reassuringly concise and to the point. In comparison, his own response seemed painfully slow as his tongue struggled to keep pace with his brain.
‘I’m afraid you can’t go beyond this point. Please take a seat.’
At the prospect of Lara being wheeled through those big double doors, away from him, something close to panic slid though Raoul. Then, as if she sensed what he was feeling, the little hand in his tightened and Raoul shook his head, barely recognising his own voice as he responded, ‘No, I will not.’
The comment didn’t throw the nurse, who made the request more firmly but still politely. She gave an understanding smile that made him want to yell at her—he didn’t want smiles, he wanted someone to do something.
‘I’m afraid, sir, that you—’
Raoul was afraid too, very afraid as the fingers in his suddenly went limp.
‘Lara!’ His yell of anguish diverted attention from him to Lara. It seemed to him that she was barely breathing. ‘Do something!’
They were doing things, pushing him out of the way to get to the unconscious figure. When the doors swung shut moments later, leaving him standing the wrong side, he didn’t move. He just stood there, hands clenched and white at his sides, feeling the weight of paralysing helplessness bearing down on him.
Raoul had lost count of the number of people who had walked through the door but on each successive occasion he braced himself only to experience a massive anticlimax as they walked on by. He was pretty much resigned for more of the same when a tall, grey-haired figure still wearing scrubs pushed the door open.
The man walked straight up to him and held out his hand. The grasp was reassuringly strong. ‘I’m your wife’s surgeon. She came through the operation well.’
It wasn’t until the older man released his hand that Raoul realised his own was shaking. The screaming tension that held his body rigid released itself in a slow sibilant sigh.
The man looked at him with sympathy. ‘You must have questions.’
‘It happened so quickly.’
The doctor inclined his head. ‘If you’d like to come through to my office...?’
* * *
Lara was dimly aware of being moved from the car to the trolley, but it all had a nightmarish quality. But the nightmare was not real, not while she had hold of Raoul’s hand. So she held on tight as she was whisked along corridors, aware of the blur of faces, the glare of lights overhead hurting her eyes, hearing snatches of the buzz of conversation going on around her.
Then there was just black.
‘No, leave it, Lara.’ Fingers cool and firm stopped her pulling at the thing taped to her hand.
She knew the voice, the touch; she opened her eyes and Raoul was still holding her hand.
She was grateful he didn’t wait for her to ask.
‘They couldn’t save the baby.’
She had known already, but hearing it made it real. ‘What did I do wrong?’
It was not the response that he had anticipated but before Raoul could react to it a figure strolled into the room. The scrubs were gone and he was dressed in an open-necked shirt; it was only the badge he wore and the stethoscope protruding from his pocket that pronounced his medical status.
‘You did nothing, Mrs Di Vittorio,’ the doctor said firmly in his perfect English. ‘Many mothers experience irrational guilt after a miscarriage.’ He addressed his remark to Raoul and, after glancing at the chart at the foot of Lara’s bed, walked around to stand closer to her head.
‘And there was nothing you could have done to prevent it.’
‘But I was nearly twenty weeks. I thought after the first twelve—’
‘Miscarriages
