And she couldn’t get Tamsin’s suggestion out of her head: that a holiday fling with a gorgeous man would do her good…
He folded his arms. ‘So are you going to stand in a long, long queue, Dottoressa Eleanor, or are you going to let me drop you off on my way home?’
She gave in to temptation. ‘If you’re sure it’s no trouble, then thank you. A lift would be nice.’
His smile was breathtaking. And it made every single one of her nerve-endings feel as if it were purring.
‘Then let’s go through Customs, tesoro,’ he said softly.
The queues at the customs area and passport control had died down, and they moved through the airport surprisingly quickly. She followed Orlando into the car park—just as she could’ve guessed, he drove a low-slung, shiny black car. A convertible, to be exact. Men and their toys. And didn’t they say that all Italian men wanted to be racing-car drivers?
As if her thoughts were written all over her face, he laughed and stowed her case in the boot next to his. ‘I have only myself to please, Eleanor. And I love driving along the coast road with the hood down and the wind in my hair and the scent of the sea and lemon groves everywhere. If you have time in your schedule here, maybe you’d like to come with me some time.’
He made it sound so inviting.
And it made her knees go weak to imagine it: Orlando, wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans, a pair of dark glasses covering his eyes, at the wheel of the open-topped car.
‘So, your hotel?’
She told him the name, and before she could tell him the address he told her exactly where it was. Clearly he knew his home city well. ‘And just to stop you feeling guilty about taking me out of my way, it’s on my side of the city. On my way home, to be precise. It’s within walking distance of my apartment, in the Old Quarter.’ He opened the passenger door for her, an old-fashioned gesture of courtesy she found charming.
Though some nervousness must have shown on her face because he added, ‘I assure you, Eleanor, you will be perfectly safe. I am a good driver.’
He proved it. Though he was also a very fast driver, and her knuckles were white by the time he pulled up outside her hotel.
‘We are both in one piece,’ he said with a grin. ‘Relax.’
She wasn’t sure if it was the way he’d driven—exactly the same as all the other people on the road, taking advantage of every little gap in the traffic—or being so close to him in such a small space, but relaxing was the last thing she felt like doing right now.
‘Enjoy your stay in Italy, Eleanor.’ When he’d taken her case from the back of his car and carried it up the steps to the entrance of the hotel, he took a card from his wallet, and scribbled a number on the back of it. ‘If you have some spare time while you are in Naples, maybe we could have dinner. My surgery number is on the front. The one I’ve written on the back is my mobile. Call me.’
It wasn’t a question.
‘Call me,’ he said again, his voice soft, and raised her hand to his mouth.
The brush of his lips against her skin was momentary. It was a mere courtesy, she knew, the Italian way of doing things. It didn’t mean anything. But there was heat in his eyes. Heat matched by the flicker of desire rising up her spine.
Calling him would be way too dangerous for her peace of mind. But she wasn’t going to argue over it now. Instead, she smiled politely. ‘Thank you for the lift, Dottore de Luca.’
‘Orlando,’ he corrected. ‘Prego.’ He smiled, sketched a bow, ran lightly down the steps to his car and drove off.
CHAPTER THREE
ONCE Eleanor had signed the register and been shown to her room, she unpacked swiftly and took a shower. She was too tired and it was too late to eat a proper meal, so she ordered a milky hot chocolate from room service. She started to text her mum to say she’d arrived safely, then realised what she was doing halfway through, blinked away the tears, reminded herself to stop being over-emotional and texted Tamsin instead.
When she’d finished her hot chocolate, she slid into bed and curled into a ball. The sheets were cool and smooth and the bed was comfortable, but despite the milky drink she couldn’t sleep.
Because she couldn’t get a certain face out of her mind. Orlando de Luca. Every time she closed her eyes she saw his face. His smile. That hot look in his eyes.
Which was crazy.
Right now she wasn’t in the market for a relationship. She knew she needed to get over Jeremy’s betrayal and move on with her life, but was having a holiday fling with a gorgeous man really the right way to do that? And anyway there must be some reason why Orlando was single.
She didn’t think it was a personality flaw—the way he’d worked with her was nothing like the way Jeremy worked, being so charming that you didn’t realise until it was too late that he’d taken the credit for everything. Orlando was genuine. A nice guy, as well as one of the most attractive he’d ever met.
So why? He’d said he’d worked as a paediatrician then turned to family medicine. So was he still building his career and putting his love life on hold until he was where he wanted to be? Was he the sort who was dedicated to his career and didn’t want the commitment to a relationship? In that case he would be the perfect fling—and maybe she should call him…
But not until after her meeting tomorrow. Her stomach tightened with nerves. What would Bartolomeo Conti be like? He’d sounded nice, on the phone. The photograph he’d emailed to her was that of a man in his mid-fifties with a charming smile. But she knew firsthand that charm often covered something far less pleasant. And her mother hadn’t stayed with Bartolomeo. So was the man who might be her father a snake beneath the smile? Or was she judging him unfairly?
Finally, Eleanor fell asleep; the next morning, the alarm woke her, and by the time she’d showered her stomach was in knots. She couldn’t face even the usual light Italian breakfast of a crumbly pastry, just a frothy cappuccino—and she checked her watch what turned out to be every thirty seconds to make sure she wasn’t going to be late.
After one last glance in the mirror in her room to check she looked respectable, she headed for the hotel lounge. The second she walked in, a tall man stood up and waved to her. She recognised him instantly from the photo he’d emailed her—just as he’d clearly recognised her.
A moment of panic. What did she call him? ‘Signor Conti?’
‘Bartolomeo,’ he corrected. ‘And I hope you will let me call you Eleanor.’ He enveloped her in a hug. ‘Thank you so much for coming to see me—and all this way, from London.’
‘Prego.’
He looked delighted that she’d made the effort to speak his language. ‘We are both early.’ His smile turned slightly wry. ‘I slept badly.’
‘Me, too,’ she admitted.
He put his hands on her shoulders and looked closely at her. ‘I thought it from your photo, and now I know for sure. You look so much like my Costanza.
