Italian Mavericks: Forbidden Nights With The Italian. Sarah Morgan

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      ‘They gave him a sedative and some other stuff. I don’t know what. They say the first twenty-four hours are crucial.’ Her slim fingers were curled around her grandfather’s. ‘If he wakes up now he’ll be angry that I’m holding his hand. He’s not great at the physical stuff. Never has been.’

      Santo realised that this woman’s whole life revolved around the man currently lying in the bed and the child fast asleep in his car.

      ‘When did you last eat?’ It was the automatic Ferrara response to all moments of crisis and he almost laughed at himself for being so predictable.

      ‘I’m not hungry.’ Her voice was husky and she didn’t shift her gaze from her grandfather. ‘In a minute I’ll go and check on Luca.’

      ‘I just checked him. He hasn’t stirred. He and Luigi are both asleep.’

      ‘I’ll bring him in here and tuck him up on the chair. Then you can go home. Gina will come and I need to call Ben and ask him to cover tomorrow.’

      Santo felt an irrational surge of anger. ‘He doesn’t need to. I’ve already sorted that out. My team will take over running the Beach Shack for the time being.’

      Her spine tensed. ‘You’re taking advantage of this situation to take over my business?’

      Santo held on to his own temper. ‘You need to stop thinking like a Baracchi. This is not about revenge. I’m not taking over your business, just making sure you still have one to come home to. I assumed you didn’t want to leave your grandfather’s bedside to cook calamari for a bunch of strangers.’

      Her cheeks were pale. ‘I’m sorry.’ Her gaze skated back to her grandfather. ‘I am grateful to you. I just assumed—’

      ‘Well, stop assuming.’ Her fragility unsettled him. And it wasn’t the only thing that unsettled him. The response of his body was equally disturbing. His feelings were entirely inappropriate for the surroundings. ‘You can do no more here tonight. Your grandfather is going to sleep and it’s not going to help anyone if you collapse. We’re leaving now. I’ve told the staff to call me if there is any change.’

      ‘I can’t leave. It’s too far to get back here again if something happens.’

      ‘My apartment is only ten minutes from here. If something happens, I’ll drive you. If we leave now you can still get some rest and my son can wake up in a proper bed.’ He’d been trying not to think about that side of things, putting his own emotions on hold in order to maintain the delicate balance of a situation that could only be described as difficult.

      Perhaps it was the logic of his argument. Perhaps it was the words ‘my son’. Either way, she ceased arguing and allowed him to lead her away from the bedside to the car.

      Ten minutes later Luca was tucked up in the centre of an enormous double bed in one of his spare bedrooms.

      Santo watched as she spread pillows on the floor next to the bed. ‘What are you doing?’

      ‘Sometimes he rolls. I don’t want him to fall onto the tiled floor,’ she muttered. ‘Do you have a baby alarm?’

      ‘No. Leave the door open a crack. Then we’ll hear him if he wakes.’ Santo strode out of the room and she followed, her eyes tracing every detail of his apartment.

      ‘Do you live alone?’

      ‘You think I’m hiding women under the sofa?’

      ‘I just mean it’s very big for one person.’

      ‘I like the space and the views. The balconies face over the old part of the town, not that I think Luca will be that discerning. What can I get you to eat?’

      ‘Nothing, thank you.’ Restless and tense, she walked over to the doors that led to the balcony and opened them. ‘Don’t you keep these locked?’

      ‘You’re worrying about my security?’

      ‘I’m worrying about Luca’s security.’ Biting her lip, she stepped onto the small area and ran her finger along the iron railings. Then she gauged the height of the balcony. ‘This is a real hazard. Luca is two years old. His favourite pastime is climbing. He climbs anything and everything he can find. We’re going to have to lock the doors to the balconies and remove the keys.’ She was brisk and practical, but then she walked past him and he caught the scent of her hair. Flowers. She always smelt like flowers.

      Irritated with himself for being so easily distracted, Santo followed her back into the apartment. This time her eyes were on the large sunken living room that formed the centrepiece of his luxurious apartment. ‘You’re worrying about the welfare of my white sofas? Don’t. My niece has already spilled something unmentionable on them. I don’t care. People are more important than things.’

      ‘I agree. And I’m not thinking about your sofas, I’m thinking of Luca. More particularly, I’m thinking about the step down to your living room.’

      ‘It’s an architectural feature.’

      ‘It’s a trap for a fearless toddler. He’s going to fall.’

      Santo digested that. ‘He walks perfectly well. We will teach him to be careful.’

      ‘He gets enthusiastic and excited. If he sees something he wants, he runs. If he does that here, he’ll trip and smash his head on your priceless Italian tiles.’

      Santo spread his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘So this place is not exactly child-proofed; I accept that. I will deal with it.’

      ‘How? You can’t exactly remodel the apartment, can you?’

      ‘If necessary. And in the meantime I will teach him to watch the step.’ He tried to hide his exasperation. However angry he was, he was well aware that she’d been through the most stressful twenty-four hours of her life and yet, apart from her visible panic when she’d found her grandfather, she hadn’t shown any emotion. She was frighteningly calm. The little girl who had refused to shed a tear had grown into a woman with the same emotional restraint. The only sign that she was suffering was the rigid tension in her narrow shoulders. ‘Are you always like this? It’s a wonder Luca isn’t a bundle of nerves, living with you.’

      ‘One minute you accuse me of not taking good care of your son and then you accuse me of taking too much care. Make up your mind.’ She picked up a slender glass vase and transferred it to a high shelf.

      ‘I was not accusing you of anything. Just pointing out that you’re overreacting.’

      ‘You have no idea what it’s like, living with an active toddler.’

      Her words snapped something inside him. ‘And whose fault is that?’ Bitterness welled up and threatened to spill over. Afraid he might say something he’d later regret, Santo strode towards the kitchen, struggling with the intensity of his own emotions.

      ‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice came from the doorway.

      ‘What for?’ He dragged open a cupboard. ‘Keeping my son from me or casting doubt on my abilities as a father?’

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