the Colombos waited to greet their guest.
“Signorina, these are your hosts, Stella and Luigi Colombo,” he told her. “I will leave you in their very capable hands.”
All cool, unflappable reserve, she said, “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll do very well with them.”
She didn’t need to add, Unlike with you! Her body language said it for her, and he forcibly suppressed another urge to grab her by her slender shoulders and shake her. What was it about her, he wondered, that brought about such unreasonableness in him? How, on such short, unfavorable acquaintance, had she managed to get so thoroughly under his skin?
Furious with her and even more so with himself, he climbed into his car and drove away. Initially, he’d planned to go straight home, but a restlessness coursed through him, so instead of turning left at the main shoreline road, he took a right and headed toward the Alps. The Lamborghini responded to his mood, taking the hairpin bends with contemptuous ease. Half an hour later when he pulled over and stepped out of the vehicle at a lookout point, snow curled around his ankles and the crisp mountain air stung his eyes.
Far below, the lake lay shadowed with dusk. In town, street lamps sprang alive along the promenade. Lights shone at the windows of the houses as people gathered for the evening meal.
At his own villa, his daughter waited for him to come home, eager to show him the new kittens, to share other news of her day. Calandria would be putting the finishing touches to dinner.
What was he thinking of, to squander precious family time in such a fashion, and all because Danielle Blake, a complete stranger, happened to come briefly into his life? Why was he allowing her to invade his thoughts, to tempt him beyond all reason? It wasn’t as if he was short of female companionship. He didn’t live like a priest. His sexual needs were very well taken care of.
Despising his weakness, he filled his lungs with a blast of pure, bracing air, and held it a punishing length of time. When, finally, he released it, he let go of the turmoil, too. The aberration, or whatever it was that had possessed him, had passed. He was himself again.
Or so he liked to believe.
Burrowed under a cloud-soft duvet, Danielle slept for fifteen hours straight. But not dreamlessly. His voice flowed through the warm, comforting blackness, imprinting itself so thoroughly that its deep, exotic lilt still echoed in her mind when she awoke the next morning. And nothing—not the brilliant sun streaming in the window, nor the bright colors of the flowers in the garden below, nor the sharp, clear outline of the snowcapped Alps—could erase his dark, beautiful face from the picture screen of her memory. He had remained with her all night long, and was with her still.
He did not like her, and she knew she should not care, yet she yearned for his approval. Yesterday, when she’d opened her eyes in his car and seen him looming over her, she’d thought he was going to kiss her. If he’d tried, she’d have let him. He made her aware that she was a woman, with all the needs and wants that implied, even though she’d sworn off men, lost faith in love, and decided sex was an overrated waste of time.
Now, how delusional was all that?
Amused by such contrariness, she threw back the covers, marched into the adjoining bathroom, and stepped under the hot shower where she proceeded to scrub away the last remnants of sleep, and the nonsense that went with it. She was in Italy for one reason only: to act as advocate for her father until such time as he was able to act for himself. Her falling victim to a pointless infatuation with his doctor simply wasn’t an option.
She’d just finished drying her hair when Stella arrived at her door with a loaded tray. “Buon giorno, signorina! I heard you were awake and thought you might enjoy some coffee and a little fruit. The sun is warm on the balcony outside your French doors, if you’d like to sit there, and I will be pleased to serve you an early lunch a little later, if you wish.”
“Grazie, Stella,” Danielle said, standing back to let her enter the room. “I certainly do appreciate the coffee, but I’ll probably eat lunch in town. I packed in a hurry and have a little shopping to do.”
Stella pushed open the French doors with her free hand. “You must allow us to spoil you a little, signorina. We promised Dr. Rossi that we’d take good care of you, and it is our pleasure to accommodate him.”
Danielle knew she’d be better off not pursuing the all-too-fascinating subject of Carlo Rossi, but following through on the idea was another matter entirely. “Dr. Rossi seems to wield a great deal of influence over people,” she said lightly. “Do they always do as he tells them?”
Stella laughed. “If it appears to be that way, perhaps it’s because he’s the best neurosurgeon for many miles around. The best in all of Italy, according to many. We are honored to have such a man living in our community.”
“Do you consider him a friend?”
“We move in different circles, of course, but Galanio is a small town. Among the permanent residents, everyone knows everyone else, and the clinic sits always at the very center of things. Before he came here, the nearest hospital of any consequence was in Milano.” She set the tray on a small wrought-iron table and shook out a linen napkin. “Shall I pour your coffee now, signorina?”
“Please.” Danielle drew up a chair. “I find it interesting that Dr. Rossi chooses to practice in a town as small as this.”
“Why would he not? It is a beautiful place to live.”
“Well, yes, I agree, it is quite lovely. But for a man with his level of skill…” She let her shrug speak for itself.
“Ah, but his life is here, signorina. His daughter attends school close by. He is dedicated to his work in the clinic which he ordered built with his own money. His beloved wife lies in the church graveyard.” Stella spread her hands and raised her shoulders expressively. “How can the prestige of a bigger city, a more famous hospital, compete with all that?”
How, indeed? Danielle thought dryly. If she was determined to wallow in a bout of romantic hero worship, she’d be better off setting her sights on a more lowly object than the saintly Carlo Rossi. The brilliant shine of his halo might blind her!
Maybe his second-in-command…Dr. Brunelli, wasn’t it?…maybe he was a more suitable candidate.
But she hurriedly abandoned that notion when, a couple of hours later, she bumped into the good doctor outside the ICU station. Zarah Brunelli, a woman who, given her medical background, had to be well into her thirties, looked not a day over twenty.
Petite and gorgeous, with big liquid brown eyes, smooth olive skin and a gamine haircut, she could have been strutting the fashion runways in Milan had she been taller. But instead of a designer outfit, she wore a starched white coat whose only adornments were the name tag pinned to its left breast pocket, and the stethoscope looped around her neck.
“I was just in to see your father, Signorina Blake,” she announced, flipping closed a chart. “There is no change. He remains stable but unresponsive.”
“You assisted at his surgery, I understand?”
“Si.”
“How do you rate his chances of recovery?”
Zarah Brunelli afforded her a cool, professional smile. “Exactly as my colleague reported them to you, signorina. My assessment coincides completely
