Pregnant: Father Wanted. Claire BaxterЧитать онлайн книгу.
I didn’t.’
‘They used coffee to keep them awake through the long nights of religious practice.’
‘And millions of people are grateful to them.’
She caught her breath at the sparkle in Ric’s eyes as he lifted his cup. It was a good thing she didn’t have the slightest interest in him as a man, because he certainly had a lot to be interested in. Just the way his eyes glinted could almost make her forget she was nearly a mother.
He’d left the dark suit jacket back in the car and the crisp white shirt showed off his broad shoulders and slim waist. And then, she thought with a silent sigh, there was the way he moved. Without being obvious, she’d watched him go inside earlier and really, he was wasted as a tour guide. With his height and his lean shape he was more suited to…well, anything.
Actually, she suspected he must have a lucrative second source of income to own the type of car he drove. Either that, or being a tour guide paid much more than writing about those same tours.
Not that it was any of her business.
Looks weren’t everything, she reminded herself. Ric Rossetti might turn out to be a bore at best, and she had to spend three weeks with him.
By the time they’d arrived in Salerno and Ric had pointed out some of the historical sites, Lyssa was starving again. They wandered along the main boulevard, Corso Umberto, and she was relieved when Ric led her down a tiny street to a little restaurant. She hoped the portions weren’t on the small side too.
The owner came forward to greet Ric and was clearly pleased to see him. They’d barely settled at their table before they were served a beautifully displayed platter of antipasto.
‘Unless you’d prefer to order from the menu, Roberto would like to surprise us.’
‘Ooh, yes. Let him surprise us. As long as it’s food and plenty of it, I’ll be happy.’
Ric laughed. ‘You can rest assured on that score.’
‘The owners are friends of yours?’
‘Not exactly. I’ll order a bottle of frascati, shall I?’
‘Not for me, thanks.’ She pointed at the thick green jug on the table. ‘I’ll stick to water.’
‘Are you sure? Would you prefer something else? Lambrusco, or Prosecco?’
‘No, thanks. I don’t drink at all, but don’t let that stop you ordering whatever you want.’
He shook his head at the hovering waiter and poured them both water from the frosty jug.
Surprised, she asked him about Salerno while they ate antipasto and was soon astonished by the level of detail he was able to provide about any period of history—from the Goth to the Norman occupations of the town—and yet she was far from bored.
He paused while she got excited over the arrival of ravioli filled with crabmeat in a buttery sauce. She sniffed at the bowl before taking a forkful of the creamy pasta. She closed her eyes for just a moment, then opened them to see Ric watching her with that sparkle of amusement in his eyes again.
He smiled. ‘The plan was to see some more of the town this afternoon, then stay overnight and set out from here on the Amalfi Coast drive tomorrow. But, since you like history, perhaps you’d prefer to head south this afternoon, to visit Paestum?’
‘I’ve never heard of Paestum.’
‘It was an ancient Greek city which was abandoned in the ninth century AD, mainly because of malaria, since it was surrounded by marshes. It gradually became buried by swamps and it was forgotten about for nine hundred years until the construction of a new road, when it was rediscovered and excavated. They found three well-preserved temples as well as other buildings.’
‘Oh, wow, that sounds great. I’d love to visit if we can fit it in.’
‘No problem. I’ll make a call and arrange a hotel down there for tonight.’
Lyssa grinned at the waiter as he placed grilled sea bream with a salsa verde and fried artichokes in front of her. ‘This looks wonderful.’
Then, as she was about to start eating, a man with the deepest wrinkles she’d ever seen approached their table.
‘Scusi, mi scusi.’
He smiled at Ric and spoke in a stream of Italian that Lyssa had no hope of following. He didn’t seem to care, he had eyes only for Ric, so she settled back to enjoy the meal.
Moments later the man pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, borrowed a pen from a passing waiter and thrust them both at Ric, who, she thought, was very patient with the old man as he scribbled on the paper and smiled at the man’s profuse thanks.
Puzzled, she watched the man walk away then asked, ‘Did you just give him your autograph?’
He nodded and picked up his cutlery. ‘How’s your food?’
‘Brilliant. Look, I know I’m being nosy, but I’m intrigued to know what that was all about.’
‘How much did you understand?’
‘Hardly anything. I wasn’t listening, actually. I was eating.’
‘Good choice. Roberto’s chef is one of the best in my opinion.’
‘So…?’
For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to explain, but then he looked up and his dark eyes locked with hers.
‘I should explain. I play football. For one of Italy’s major clubs. In Milano.’
‘Oh.’ She nodded. ‘That explains the car.’
He smiled. ‘Yes. I refused to use the minibus.’
She tilted her head. ‘My brothers are sport mad. They watch the Italian soccer—that’s what we call football back home—on the sports channel.’
‘Do they?’
‘Yes. They might even have heard of you.’
She didn’t like football herself. She didn’t think much of the players either. From what she knew of sportsmen—at least, those who made the news—most of them seemed to be insensitive, looks-obsessed jerks. She didn’t like their hedonistic lifestyles, nor the way they treated their wives and girlfriends.
Knowing Ric was part of that world put things into perspective for her. He might be extraordinarily good-looking, but he was not her type at all. And she clearly wasn’t his type either, since she wasn’t a blonde bimbo.
The thought of bringing up her baby in that world repulsed her, which was fine, as there was not the remotest chance of that happening.
‘I don’t get it myself.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t understand why people become so passionate about it. It’s just a game.’
‘We’ll have to agree to disagree, then.’
‘Yes.’ She narrowed her eyes and looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Another thing I don’t understand is why you’re working as a tour guide. You can’t possibly need the money.’
After a short burst of laughter, he said, ‘No, I don’t. You’re very direct, aren’t you?’
‘Direct is a nice way of putting it. I speak without thinking most of the time. It’s a bad habit. I really should try to fix it.’
‘No, I like it.’
Her eyes met his and she felt a jolt as her insides reacted to his words. Pathetic, she told herself. She wasn’t so starved of affection that she could be affected by a statement that wasn’t even a real compliment.
Or was she?
She cleared her throat. ‘So, the tour guide thing?’
‘It