The Italian Doctor's Mistress. Catherine SpencerЧитать онлайн книгу.
and discussing the justice system with his cronies at his club, or attending the opera with his latest mistress on his arm—often a woman younger than Danielle; someone who, in return for an expensive trinket or two and her photograph on the society page of the newspaper, was prepared to bat her eyelashes and prop up his middle-aged ego with flattery.
Unfortunately he didn’t confide his romantic entanglements to Danielle. She had no idea who his current lover might be, and consequently no way of bringing the woman to his bedside. The opera, however, was another matter, one she could do something about.
We have professionals to assist out-of-town relatives. You have only to ask at the desk, Zarah Brunelli had once informed her disapprovingly, and for that and her latest advice, Danielle owed her a smidgeon of gratitude now. Within the hour, she was once more headed into town, armed with a map and very specific directions for finding what she needed.
CHAPTER THREE
CASA Di Musica was situated at the top of a very steep hill leading up from the promenade. The owner spoke English about as well as Danielle spoke Italian, but opera, she discovered, was universally understood, regardless of language. She had no difficulty making her needs known, and left the shop with a CD player and enough disc recordings of the world’s favorite operas to keep the most ardent fan happy.
By then it was well past noon and the delicious aroma of food wafting from a small sidewalk trattoria reminded her how long it had been since she’d enjoyed a good meal. Settling herself at an umbrella-shaded table, she ordered a large bottle of San Pellegrino water and a plate of linguine with clam sauce.
The weather again was perfect, the scene around her delightful. Her side of the street was lively, with people hurrying in and out of the shops. But across the street, couples strolled arm-in-arm along the shaded paths of yet another of Galanio’s many parks, while young mothers pushed baby carriages or watched their children feeding breadcrumbs to the birds.
Of course, her father’s precarious condition was never far from Danielle’s mind, but just for a little while, it was nice to relax and enjoy the ambience surrounding her. Below, a ferry chugged its way across the blue lake. Above, the Alps soared against the cloudless sky.
Small wonder tourists flocked to the area for its year-round attractions. Skiing, mountain climbing, hiking, boating, swimming—Galanio had it all. The town was so picture-postcard pretty, so vital and alive, that it was easy to forget those same attractions were the cause of accident victims being rushed through the doors of L’Ospedale di Karina Rossi on a daily basis, and placed under the skilled care of Carlo Rossi.
Lifting her face to the sun, Danielle closed her eyes. Immediately, he swam to the forefront of her mind: Carlo Rossi of the beautiful hands, the stormy gray eyes, and a mouth that made her own run dry and sent a surge of excitement shooting to the pit of her stomach. What did he look like naked? Were the parts hidden by his hospital greens as sensational as the rest of him?
“Ciao! Farà caldo eggi, si, signorina?”
Startled by the proximity of the sweet, girlish voice, she bolted upright in her seat and found Anita Rossi standing on the sidewalk, regarding her curiously.
“Oh, hello…ciao!” Danielle stammered, embarrassed to be caught in such an outrageous fantasy by the daughter of the man occupying altogether too much of her attention. “It’s nice to see you again, but I’m afraid I didn’t understand you just now.”
“I said that it is hot today, yes?”
“Very.”
“Were you sleeping?”
Danielle laughed. “No. Just daydreaming.”
“I do not know that word.”
“It means I was thinking—with my eyes closed.”
“About your father?”
“Among other things, yes. He’s very ill.” Anxious to change the subject, she hooked her finger around the strap of the leather satchel swinging from the child’s shoulder. “What about you, Miss Anita? Shouldn’t you be in school?”
The girl flashed a dimpled smile. “School is done for today. We begin lessons very early so that we finish early and have time to play. I was walking home through the park when I saw you, and I came to say ciao.”
“I’m very glad you did.” Danielle glanced around. “But do you usually walk home alone?”
“I was with my friends, but they have gone now.”
I hope you didn’t come here by yourself, her father had said, when she’d burst into his office that first day. He surely wouldn’t be pleased to know she was breaking the rules now.
“Perhaps I’d better walk the rest of the way with you, just to be sure you get home safely.”
“There is no need.” Anita shook her head and sent her long dark braids swinging. “I am almost eight. I know the way, and Calandria comes every day to meet me at the gates.” She pointed to the iron gates marking the entrance to the park, half a block down the street. “She is already there. I can see her.”
“Then you’d better not keep her waiting.”
“No, I must hurry. Bianca will have missed me. You must come and see her babies, signorina. They are most beautiful.”
And so are you, Danielle thought. In fact, you’re adorable! “Perhaps before I leave, I’ll do that,” she said. “Now off you go before you get us both into trouble. Ciao, Anita!”
“Ciao!” the little girl chirped merrily, turning to wave before she stepped off the curb into the road.
She wasn’t looking where she was going. And the driver of the car barreling down the hill wasn’t paying attention. Couldn’t have been, or he’d have seen the child blithely running into his path. But Danielle saw and felt sheer horror rising up to choke her.
She tried to leap out of her chair, to streak across the few feet separating her from Carlo Rossi’s beloved daughter. Yet although her heart was racing, her limbs seemed encased in molasses so thick and heavy that she moved in slow motion.
She heard the blare of a car horn, the shriek of brakes applied too late, the stifled cries of witnesses, and her own scream of warning bursting from a throat so filled with terror that she could hardly breathe. With a superhuman effort, she launched herself at the child, grasping roughly at that tender, slender body with desperate hands, and shoving it aside at the same time that she used herself as a shield.
And then…nothing but a searing pain in her side that crushed the breath from her lungs…and blackness rising up to swallow her whole…
“I saw Danielle Blake again this morning,” Zarah said, joining him in the staff lounge for a quick cup of coffee before they started afternoon rounds together. “It’s only the second time since she arrived here. I think she goes out of her way to avoid me.”
Annoyed at the way his flesh tightened at the mention of Danielle’s name, Carlo scowled at his espresso. So much for ridding her from his system!
There’d been women since Karina died. Of course there’d been women. They, though, had been the kind he could love for a night, and leave for a lifetime. But Danielle Blake…? Without even trying, she’d worked her way under his skin. He’d seen her once, and never forgotten her, much though he’d wished he could. Without knowing the first thing about her, he’d wanted her, and never mind if she was bad or good for him.
“You’re being ridiculous, Zarah. Why would she avoid you?”
“Because she knows I disapproved that she put you to the trouble of arranging hotel accommodation for her.” She sifted her fingers through her hair, a frequent habit when she was perplexed. “I confess I’m surprised by your actions, Carlo. It’s not like you to take such a personal interest in a non-patient.”
It wasn’t like him to wake up