Her Italian Soldier. Rebecca WintersЧитать онлайн книгу.
I don’t know the exact time of my arrival, but rest assured I’ll be alone,” she promised with a pleasant expression.
He watched her disappear out the side door. If she could be believed, then he had little to worry about for the rest of the day. But it caused him to wonder that she’d be willing to keep his secret that long.
Why would she do it? For how long? She wanted something in return, evidently enough to be willing to cooperate.
Breaking in on a defenseless woman in the dead of night should have scared her senseless. Instead, she’d turned the tables on him and had made threatening gestures with the cane. He felt a grudging admiration for her resourcefulness. But he couldn’t help but question what she expected to gain by her compliance with Lucca’s wishes. Did she think getting on his good side would earn her a promotion with his father down the road? More perks?
What was his father playing at? To let his alleged employee have her own way and install her in Lucca’s house meant she’d twisted him around her finger. What kind of advertising was she doing for his father?
It was a little late for him to be having a midlife crisis. Surely his second wife—Maria was enough for him. She’d managed to marry him only six months after Lucca’s mother had been buried. For years Lucca had blamed her for changing his father. Until one day when Lucca grew up and realized no force could make Guilio marry the attractive widow who had two sons of her own if he hadn’t wanted to.
Now this American woman—a nurse, no less—had come into Guilio’s life, so different in every way that Lucca was baffled.
He frowned. Nine months ago when he’d flown to Milan on furlough for a brief visit to see his father, Signorina Marsh hadn’t been on the payroll. That meant she was a fairly recent addition to the company, but because she was in his father’s confidence, she had Lucca at a disadvantage.
He didn’t like the idea that she would know more about him than he wanted anyone to know, yet for the time being he had no choice but to live with it. It didn’t escape him that he bore some responsibility for arriving in the dead of night.
After locking the door, he turned to the fridge. While he rummaged for items to fix himself a sandwich, he heard a car turn into the gravel drive. The voices were too faint for him to make out conversation. Before long it drove off.
In a minute he sank down on one of the hand-carved wooden chairs. He extended his long legs, trying to get into a more comfortable position, which was virtually impossible, just like she’d said. As he bit into some locally grown ham and his favorite provolone dolce cheese, he found himself glowering at the daisies she’d put in the old family pitcher and hardly noticed the taste.
He’d wanted complete solitude and sleep for one night. That way he could appear at his father’s door today looking rested enough that Guilio’s first reaction wouldn’t be one of heartache over his son. There’d been enough of that in the early days.
Soon enough his father would learn about the flashbacks, but they usually happened after he fell asleep.
Starting to get that drugged feeling, he headed for the bedroom. Whether Signorina Marsh exposed him or not, he was no longer alone in his own home and wouldn’t be able to totally relax.
He should phone his father right now, but the pain since his fall last night was more than he could bear right now. Once the pills took effect, he would pass out again for a few hours. When he awakened, he had to pray the throbbing would have died down enough that he could make the call.
Annabelle stepped out of the van where they’d done her hair and makeup. “Perfetto, signorina. That’s the look I want. Like a margheritina!”
“What is that?”
“A flower.” Giovanni, the photographer, put one of his hands on top of the other and made spokes.
“Ah. A wheel. You mean like, he loves me, he loves me not?”
He grinned. “Sì, Sì.”
Annabelle didn’t mind being compared to a daisy. Not at all. The beautiful ones she’d picked earlier that morning had called to her. She’d experienced a euphoric moment until she’d gone back in the kitchen and found the dark Italian owner scrutinizing her with all the intensity of his brooding soul. She wished she still didn’t quake when she thought about it.
Meeting him in the flesh in the middle of the night had, to some extent, altered her vision of the picture his father had portrayed of a strong, powerful man. But obviously that was her fault for endowing his hero son with certain admirable virtues. Maybe his good qualities were there, but they were disguised by pain and his participation in a war where no one ever came home the same as before they left.
She admitted to being worried about his insistence on not letting his father know he was back yet. Though it wasn’t any of her business, as Lucca had said, she did care. More than she should. It made her impatient with herself.
“Annabelle?”
Her head jerked up. “Yes?”
The shorter, overweight man Basilio—one of Guilio’s assistants, who’d driven her this morning—provided the interpretation for the pose he had in mind. “We want you to get in the driver’s seat now and lean to the passenger side, putting your right arm here. Remember you’re out beneath a midafternoon sun, driving for the sheer thrill of it. Then you see the water below and you have to pull over to get a better view. React the way you would naturally. Forget the camera.”
Easy for him to say. But this was an adventure she wouldn’t have missed.
Without needing more urging, Annabelle climbed in the black Amalfi convertible. She could almost believe this was Mrs. James Bond’s car. The rich black-leather interior provided the ideal foil for the white outfit she’d put on before leaving the farmhouse. So far she couldn’t fault Marcella’s superb fashion taste.
Annabelle couldn’t decide which sports car she liked better. The other one in Rome parked in front of the fighter jet had been white with light pearl-grey leather. Lucca would look sensational speeding around in either of them, but the thrill probably wouldn’t be the same after the years he’d flown above the clouds at supersonic speeds.
Once she’d gotten into her role, Giovanni put the straw hat back on her head, studying the angle for a minute and doing a rearrangement of her hair before he started taking one picture after another.
The car had been parked next to the wall of the steep highway below Positano. When she looked down, she gasped at the sheer drop to the water, forgetting everything else. Such gorgeous scenery—reputed to be the most fantastic in this part of the world—defied verbal description and became a spiritual experience with nature. This kind of beauty actually hurt.
With the help of the police, hundreds of cars going both ways had to pass single file where the photo shoot was taking place. Though there were a few angry shouts and horn honks, by far more tourists whistled and shouted “squisitas” and “bellissimas”, throwing her kisses as they passed by.
Yet the view was too mesmerizing and she was barely cognizant of anything else going on around her. If the truth be told, her mind was preoccupied with an image of the wounded Italian pilot who’d finally fallen asleep last night, relaxing his hold so she could escape. Talk about a beautiful man…
When Giovanni announced he had all the shots he needed, she hurried back to the van to remove her makeup. She’d brought her own change of clothes in the straw bag and quickly slipped on her jeans and a blouse. Once she was dressed, she left everything else in the van and stepped outside clutching her own purse.
Besides the sports car and the van, there was the third car Basilio had driven when he’d picked her up at the farm. It was an older model blue Amalfi sedan. He gave her the key, telling her it was now hers to use while she was in Italy.
The police directing traffic indicated they needed to get rid of the roadblock as fast as possible. With the agreement