About the Author
CAROL MARINELLI recently filled in a form where she was asked for her job title and was thrilled, after all these years, to be able to put down her answer as ‘writer’. Then it asked what Carol did for relaxation. After chewing her pen for a moment Carol put down the truth—‘writing’. The third question asked—‘What are your hobbies?’. Well, not wanting to look obsessed or, worse still, boring, she crossed the fingers on her free hand and answered ‘swimming and tennis’. But, given that the chlorine in the pool does terrible things to her highlights, and the closest she’s got to a tennis racket in the last couple of years is watching the Australian Open, I’m sure you can guess the real answer!
The Scandalous Kolovskys
Knight on the Children’s Ward
The Last Kolovsky Playboy
The Devil Wears Kolovsky
Carol Marinelli
Knight on the Children’s Ward
Carol Marinelli
PROLOGUE
‘CAN I ask what happened, Reyes?’
Ross didn’t answer his mother for a moment—instead he carried on sorting out clothes, stray earrings, books, make-up, and a shoe that didn’t have a partner. He loaded them into a suitcase.
He’d been putting the job off, and when he’d finally accepted his mother’s offer to sort Imelda’s things, he had accepted also that with her help might come questions.
Questions that he couldn’t properly answer.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Were you arguing?’ Estella asked, and then tried to hold back a sigh when Ross shook his head. ‘I loved Imelda,’ Estella said.
‘I know,’ Ross said, and that just made it harder—Imelda had loved his family and they had loved her too. ‘She was funny and kind and I really, really thought I could make it work. I can’t honestly think of one thing that was wrong … It was just …’
‘Just what, Reyes?’ His mother was the only person who called him that. When he had arrived in Australia aged seven, somehow his real name had slipped away. The other children, fascinated by the little dark-haired, olive-skinned Spanish boy who spoke no English, had translated Reyes to Ross—and that was who he had become.
Ross Wyatt.
Son of Dr George and Mrs Estella Wyatt. Older brother to Maria and Sophia Wyatt.
Only it was more complicated than that, and all too often far easier not to explain.
Sometimes he had to explain—after all, when he was growing up people had noticed the differences. George’s hair, when he had had some, had been blond, like his daughters’. George was sensible, stern, perfectly nice and a wonderful father—but it wasn’t his blood that ran in Ross’s veins.
And he could tell from his mother’s worried eyes that she was worried that was the problem.
Estella’s brief love affair at sixteen with a forbidden Gitano, or Romany, had resulted in Reyes. The family had rallied around. His grandmother had looked after the dark baby while his mother had worked in a local bar, where, a few years later, she’d met a young Australian man, just out of medical school. George had surprised his rather staid family by falling in love and bringing home from his travels in Europe two unexpected souvenirs.
George had raised Reyes as his own, loved him as his own, and treated him no differently from his sisters.
Except Reyes, or rather Ross, was different.
‘It wasn’t …’ His voice trailed off. He knew his mother was hoping for a rather more eloquent answer. He knew that she was worried just from the fact she was asking, for his mother never usually interfered. ‘There wasn’t that …’ He couldn’t find the word but he tried. He raked his mind but couldn’t find it in English and so, rarely for Ross, he reverted to his native tongue. ‘Buena onda.’ His mother tensed when he said it, and he knew she understood—for that was the phrase she used when she talked about his father.
His real father.
Buena onda—an attraction, a connection, a vibe from another person, from that person.
‘Then you’re looking for a fairytale, Reyes! And real-life fairytales don’t have happy endings.’ Estella’s voice was unusually sharp. ‘It’s time you grew up. Look where buena onda left me—sixteen and pregnant.’
Only then, for the first time in his thirty-two years did Ross glimpse the anger that simmered beneath the surface of his mother.
‘Passion flares and then dims. Your father—the father who held you and fed you and put you through school—stands for more than some stupid dream. Some gypsy dream that you—’ She stopped abruptly, remembering perhaps that they were actually discussing him. ‘Imelda was a good woman, a loyal and loving partner. She would have been a wonderful wife and you threw it away—for what?’
He didn’t know.
It had been the same argument all his life as his mother and George had tried to rein in his restless energy. He struggled with conformity, though it could hardly be called rebellion.
Grade-wise he had done well at school. He had a mortgage, was a paediatrician—a consultant, in fact—he loved his family, was a good friend.
On paper all was fine.
In his soul all was not.
The mortgage wasn’t for a bachelor’s city dwelling—though he had a small one of those for nights on call, or when he was particularly concerned about a patient—no, his handsome wage was poured into an acreage, with stables and horses, olive and fruit trees and rows of vines, and not another residence in sight.
Just as there had been arguments about his attitude at school, even as a consultant he found it was more of the same. Budgets, policies, more budgets—all he wanted to do was his job, and at home all he wanted to do was be.
There was nothing wrong that he could pin down.
And there was no one who could pin him down.
Many had tried.
‘Should I take this round to her?’ Ross asked.
‘Put it in the cupboard for now,’ Estella said. ‘If she comes for her things, then at least it is all together. If she doesn’t …’ She gave a little shrug. ‘It’s just some clothes. Maybe she would prefer no contact.’
He felt like a louse as he closed
