an instructor at some trendy fitness club in London and admiring the fact that he had a goal and ambition.
‘He’s too flash,’ her mother had said when she’d finally met Jeff.
‘He’s a big-head,’ her father had sighed. ‘He’s a lot older than you are too. You’d be better off with a boy your own age.’
Jeff had ditched her a couple of times and gone off with other girls. Each time he’d come back to her, and she had been so grateful she’d repressed her hurt and forgiven him. Then he had got the job he had always wanted in London and, struggling to conceal her breaking heart, she had gone out with him and his friends for a last-night celebration. The drinks had been lined up in front of her and Jeff had kept on urging her not to be a killjoy and drink up. He had talked about how she was ‘his’ girl and how he would send for her once he got a place of his own. Hearing him talk like that, including her in his lofty plans, she had almost cried with relief.
‘I really do care about you, Holly,’ he had said fondly. ‘You’re the girl I want to marry, so surely you can come home with me tonight.’
And she had, and she had gritted her teeth in the darkness, tears running down her face at the roughness, embarrassment and pain of the experience. She had wanted to please him, had so wanted to prove that she was not the silly little girl still tied to parental dictums he had often accused her of being but a real adult woman capable of loving her man and being loved.
True to his word, Jeff had phoned her while city life was still strange to him. She had written great, long, adoring screeds to him and had been four months pregnant before she’d even realised that she had conceived. During his final phone call, she had begged him to visit for a weekend. She had needed to see him face-to-face to share her news. But he had complained that it would cost too much and he had not phoned again. Weeks afterwards, when she had been climbing the walls with panic over his silence and trying to conceal her changing shape from her parents, one of her many letters had been returned to her with ‘Not known at this address’ written across it. She had not seen Jeff again until she’d finally tracked him down in London many months later.
Emerging from those unwelcome memories, Holly felt cool air on her face and only then realised that the passenger door was open. The chauffeur was waiting for her to vacate the limo.
The most enormous house lay before her. It had a gravel turning circle in front and tall shaped evergreen trees in fancy metal troughs.
‘Miss Sansom…I’m Ezio Farretti.’
Holly focused shyly on the heavily built older man with his steady dark eyes. ‘Nice to meet you.’
Ezio engaged the employee positioned at the front door in a flood of foreign speech, and motioned Holly into the house. Feeling like a third wheel, Holly followed him inside and skimmed an intimidated glance round the huge hall, the fantastic staircase and the big pictures adorning the walls.
‘Come this way, Miss Sansom,’ Ezio urged.
‘What’s that language you speak?’ she asked to fill the silence.
‘Italian.’
He showed her into what appeared to be a drawing room. Well, she adjusted, what she would call a drawing room, because the opulent sofas and marble fireplace were way too grand to belong in a humble sitting room. A fire glowed in the iron grate. Holly had not seen a real fire since leaving home, and without warning her eyes smarted as she pictured the cosy farmhouse kitchen where her parents sat by the fire on cold nights.
Ezio extended a notepad and pen. ‘Will you make a list of supplies for you and your son?’
‘Supplies?’
‘Anything you require.’
She reddened to the roots of her hair. ‘I don’t have any money.’
‘That’s not a problem.’
The waiting silence that followed embarrassed her into making up a list. Nappies, a feeding cup and baby juice were really all she had to have. She was down on her luck but she was not a freeloader, and she was sure to get the chance to wash their clothes.
‘You should put down a few more things.’ Ezio’s voice was gruff.
Holly shook her head. Having to put down even the necessities had hurt. Rio Lombardi was putting them up and he would be feeding them as well. The very last thing she wanted to do was cost him money into the bargain.
Ezio led her up the imposing staircase. The magnificent landing was adorned with gilded furniture that looked as if it belonged in a palace. But then, Rio Lombardi’s home was just like a palace, Holly conceded in a daze. She was shown into a fabulous guest room, complete with an adjoining bathroom, and then into the smaller room next door which contained a cot. The cot, which contained several very new-looking toys, surprised her. Belatedly it occurred to her that perhaps Rio Lombardi was or had been married and had children. Tensing, tummy suddenly feeling hollow, she asked Ezio right out.
‘The boss is…single,’ the older man stated after a slight hesitation. ‘But he often has relatives with kiddies to stay. The Lombardis are a big family and very close.’
As Ezio departed Holly glimpsed her reflection in a mirror and a mortified gasp left her lips. The backside of her jeans was filthy, probably from the road the night before. Fetching a couple of the toys from the cot, she took Timmie into the bathroom, set him down with them on a bathtowel and then stripped down to her skin. Everything she wore went into the bath to steep in hot water. She stepped into the separate shower cubicle but could only run the water in bursts because she couldn’t close the door properly while she watched over Timmie. Her son could not yet crawl but he could cover a surprising amount of distance by rolling.
It was such bliss, such utter bliss to feel truly scrubbed clean again. Making use of the luxury toiletries in the corner shower compartment, she shampooed her hair and then conditioned it for the first time in many months. Having pounded her clothes back to cleanliness with soap, she then realised in dismay that there were no radiators in which to dry them. At that point, a knock sounded on the bedroom door.
Wrapped in a towel, she peered round the edge of the door. It was Ezio Farretti and he had a large cotton sack in his arms.
‘Where are the radiators?’ she queried.
‘There aren’t any. The heating is under the floor.’
‘Oh…’
‘This bag is full of clothes left behind by other guests,’ Ezio continued. ‘There might be something which will fit you or Timmie.’
‘I can’t wear someone else’s things…they’d be furious—’
‘These are very rich people. They don’t miss what they overlook; they just buy more,’ the older man told her gently. ‘I’ll leave the bag outside the door.’
There was a horrid thickness in her throat. ‘Thanks, Ezio.’
‘No problem.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But, if you don’t mind a spot of advice, give the boss a wide berth. Off the record, he’s just not himself right now and you don’t want to get your feelings hurt.’
Not just himself? Her feelings hurt? What on earth was that supposed to mean?
