deep rumbles of sound echoing up into the trees.
‘Well, if you’re not her husband, who are you?’ Paige asked the question crossly, cutting across his mirth, shaken by this turn of events and by the effect of his glee on her already stretched nerves.
‘I am Marco,’ he said, with a funny little bow. ‘Lucia’s loving and long-suffering brother. And knowing that, Miss Morgan, shall we start again?’
He held out his hand in a formal gesture and, reluctantly, she took it.
‘It’s Paige, not Miss Morgan,’ she said, wondering where her voice had gone, leaving the words to falter out in a breathless undertone.
‘Now we are friends,’ he announced with complete assurance. He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. ‘Already I’ve delayed you so first we visit your patients, then we talk about Lucia, her marriage, her husband, her pregnancy and her flight. For the moment, it is enough to have seen her and know she is safe.’
Paige tried to think of some objection, considered removing her hand from the warm place where it lay—asserting her independence—but her mind had fled back to the fantasy land and it was only with a strenuous effort of will that she managed to dredge up one weak objection to his plan.
‘You can walk with me but you can’t visit my patients.’
He cocked his head to one side as he looked down at her.
‘They would not like a visit from a prince?’
His lips teased into a smile, and she shook her head, although she knew the three women she was about to see would all revel in a visit from a prince, no matter how ancient or meaningless his title was. All three were housebound and anything out of the usual could provide them with something to think and talk about for weeks to come.
‘These are medical visits,’ she said primly, not wanting to say no outright, but aware of the ethical considerations of taking strangers into her patients’ homes.
‘So a doctor could accompany you?’ he asked. ‘Even a visiting doctor?’
Her hand was feeling increasingly comfortable, and the close proximity of his body was creating havoc with her senses, so she didn’t place any importance on his questions, assuming he was making conversation. She struggled to keep her end of it going so he wouldn’t guess at her thoughts and feelings.
‘Of course, if the patients agreed to see him.’
‘Well, that is arranged,’ he said, satisfaction purring in the deep tones of his voice. ‘You will say I wish to see Australian medicine while in your country and ask if they will allow me in.’
She pulled her hand away and tucked it out of temptation’s reach in the pocket of her jacket.
‘I can’t pretend you’re a doctor just to get you inside a few Australian homes, however interested you may be. And why should you be interested anyway? The health service clients are poor people, not only poor financially but some are lacking the skills necessary to survive without help. This is not typical Australia you’d be seeing, and I don’t know that it’s right to put them…on display, I suppose, for you or anyone else.’
He didn’t reply immediately, but frowned off into the distance as if trying to work out his answer. Or perhaps thinking in Italian and translating into English. She looked at the strong profile, the dark hair brushed back but with one lock escaping control to fall across his temple.
She was glad he wasn’t married to Lucia!
Stupid thought!
‘We have poor people in Italy as well,’ he said, cutting into her self-castigation. ‘And those who are inadequately equipped in living skills as well. I would not judge your country on what I see, but, with that said, shouldn’t a country be judged on how it treats these very people? How it provides support so they can live fulfilling and worthwhile lives?’
She had to smile, having used the same argument so often herself.
‘I agree,’ she conceded, ‘but it still doesn’t make you a doctor.’
She walked on, because smiling at him—and having him smile back—had turned out to be a very bad idea.
‘But I am a doctor,’ he announced, catching up with her in three long strides and falling into step again.
Marco a doctor?
She glanced at him, at the erect carriage, the aristocratic head, and said, ‘Rubbish! You’re a prince. Mr Benelli said so, and even a girl from the back blocks of New South Wales can recognise royalty when she sees it!’
She spoke lightly, jokingly, although she half meant every word.
‘The “prince” is a an old title handed down through my family—inescapable if one is the eldest son—but it isn’t a job description, Paige Morgan, any more than “Miss” describes the work you do.’
‘You are a doctor?’
Disbelief ran riot through the question, but again he bowed just slightly in reply.
‘I am,’ he said. ‘Now, should we continue this delightful chat here on the street or walk on to visit your patients?’
She walked on, remembering Lucia’s words… ‘Marco always gets his way.’
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