The Italian Doctor's Mistress. Catherine Spencer

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Something she said made him laugh. He reached for her hand. Raised it to his lips and kissed it. The obvious affection between them had Danielle choking back a sob. To be needed like that…to be loved…!

      The nurse must have heard. She joined her at the window, her eyes full of concern. “If you feel up to it, there’s a footpath leading from the hospital grounds to the main part of town,” she suggested kindly. “You’ll find a map in the reception area, and a sign posted outside the front entrance, showing the way. It’s only about a twenty-minute walk, and it might do you some good to get out for a few hours. There’s nothing you can do here, except wait.”

      It seemed to Danielle that she’d been waiting a lifetime already. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said. Anything was better than watching the big hand on the wall clock jerk from second to second, from minute to minute. Anything was better than listening to the apprehensive thud of her own heart racing ahead of the unhurried blip and beep of the computer measuring her father’s.

      Already the first ambulances were racing up to the emergency doors on the left as she came out of the building. And more would soon follow. The wail of their sirens growing closer echoed clearly in the still morning air.

      Turning to the right, she set off in the opposite direction, walking briskly toward the little town of Galanio. The footpath wove from the manicured hospital grounds through a sloping meadow where tiny blue flowers grew in the grass, and ended at a bridge which spanned a bubbling stream of water so clear that it must have tumbled straight down the mountain from the snow fields. Beyond the bridge, a paved lane led directly to the center of town.

      Galanio huddled between the Alps and the shore of Lake Como in a fairy-tale maze of steep, cobbled streets that opened into unexpected little piazzas and quiet parks. Splashing fountains, chic boutiques, and elegant restaurants lined the broad promenade bordering the waterfront. Magnificent old villas, their terraced gardens overflowing with flowering camellias and other spring blossoms, perched on the hillside, and spread some distance along the shores of the lake beyond the town itself.

      Under any other circumstances, Danielle would have found the place enchanting. It was a town for lovers, for romance; a place she and Tom might have come for their honeymoon, if he hadn’t decided at the last minute that he’d rather marry her best friend. Instead, she was here alone, waiting for her father to open his eyes, and terribly afraid his doctor would tell her it was never going to happen.

      What then? She knew what her father would say. Pull the damned plug, Danielle! Don’t let me lie here a vegetable.

      But to authorize this Dr. Rossi to disconnect the machines that kept Alan Blake alive? In effect, to sign his death warrant? How could she do that?

      Somehow the morning passed. At noon she stopped for lunch at a sidewalk café on the promenade. Then, hoping that a miracle had occurred during her absence, she made her way back to the hospital and her father.

      Nothing had changed except for the angle of the sun creeping across the floor and striping the pale blue cover on his bed with bars of golden light. Dropping into the easy chair, she resumed her vigil until, at long last, four o’clock arrived.

      She found the doctor’s suite of offices at the end of a wing on the main floor, with his name, Carlo Rossi, engraved on a small brass plaque on the door.

      “Signorina Blake?” The middle-aged woman in the small outer office smiled pleasantly. “Dr. Rossi is ready to see you.”

      Danielle had thought she was ready, too. From the various awed references to him, and his seniority in the hospital chain of command, she’d expected him to be an older man. Kindly, gray-haired, distinguished, and slightly built—in other words similar in appearance to the impeccably tailored maître d’ of the five-star Italian restaurant she frequented at home in Seattle.

      In fact, the man rising to greet her from behind a paper-strewn desk was none of those things. In his late thirties, he possessed the fit athletic build of a cross-country skier, although the shadows beneath his eyes suggested he relied on too much strong coffee and too little sleep to get him through his long hospital shifts. But even in hospital greens, with exhaustion painting his features and his dark hair falling in disarray over his forehead, he was still the most strikingly attractive man Danielle had ever seen.

      “Signorina Blake, my apologies for not being here to meet you when you first arrived.”

      He had a beautiful voice, deep and hypnotically soothing with its lilting Italian intonation. And beautiful hands. His long fingers closed around hers in a grip at once gentle and sure. Slightly dazed, Danielle allowed him to lead her to one of two club chairs situated at the other end of the room, next to a wall of windows looking out on a reflecting pool surrounded by rhododendrons already in full bloom.

      “Thank you for seeing me now,” she said stiffly, horrified that, with her father so dreadfully ill, she could find herself drawn to this magnetic stranger. “I understand you’ve been busy.”

      “Always, I’m afraid.” He took a seat in the other chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “No sooner is one emergency taken care of than another arises. But you are not here to listen to me complain.” His eyes, a deep velvety gray trimmed with indecently long lashes, surveyed her soberly. As for his mouth…! In terms of sheer sex appeal, nothing the latest Hollywood idol could offer came even close to it. “You wish to discuss your father’s condition, yes?”

      She nodded, the gravity in his voice leaving her almost hyperventilating.

      “You are familiar, of course, with what happened to him? How he came to be brought here?”

      “No,” she said. “All I was told was that he’d had an accident and was badly hurt.”

      “He was in the mountains, snow-boarding in an out-of-bounds area, and fell down a sheer rock face.”

      Snow-boarding? She shook her head, stunned. How like her father to take up a sport better suited to someone a third his age, and to break the rules when he did so. But then, Alan Blake had always believed he was a law unto himself. “I had no idea he was in Italy, let alone that he had taken up snow-boarding.”

      If Carlo Rossi was surprised that she knew so little of her father’s activities, he didn’t let it show. “I’m afraid he sustained a very serious head injury,” he said.

      “How serious?”

      “He fractured his skull.”

      “Wasn’t he wearing a safety helmet?”

      “I suspect not, although given the severity of his fall, I doubt a helmet would have helped very much. All skull fractures are cause for concern, signorina, but an occipital fracture such as your father suffered, is particularly critical.”

      “Why is that?”

      “Because of its location.” He reached for the pad of paper on the occasional table next to him, took a pen from the breast pocket of his tunic, and drew his chair closer to hers. “The skull is made up of several bones. The largest is the parietal bone here.” He sketched rapidly and with the fluid skill of one very familiar with his subject. “The occipital bone sits immediately below it, at the base of the skull. Fractures in this vulnerable area occur as the result of what we term a ‘high energy blunt trauma,’ and are divided into three types. The first two are classified as stable. A Type 111 fracture, however, is the most severe and potentially very unstable.”

      “And СКАЧАТЬ