Pregnant: Father Wanted. Claire Baxter

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СКАЧАТЬ cities, she’d have to go to a museum to see the type of history that here people lived with every day.

      Crumbling statues, fountains, ancient monuments and ornate churches. Twenty-first-century traffic passing two-thousand-year-old ruins. History, graffiti, advertising and art mixing together madly.

      And then there were the beautiful people. Sexy Roman women who all seemed to be dressed in the latest designer fashions. Not that she’d know anything about that—she wouldn’t know a Valentino from a Versace and she’d skipped the section in the guide book about shopping. But she could see that they had style, these women.

      She settled back as they left the city behind and took the autostrada south. So much for her chance to see Rome, but she couldn’t complain. She was here to do a job and that was to write about this company’s tours of the Amalfi Coast.

      How could anyone complain about an all-expenses-paid opportunity to see one of the world’s most beautiful stretches of coastline?

      Besides, once she’d finished working she’d have a couple of days in Rome before catching the flight home. It was all good.

      Talking of good, she sneaked a glance at her driver. No tour guide she’d ever met before had looked liked this. Leaning against the flash car in his charcoal suit—designer, she assumed—and white shirt, open at the neck, he’d looked more like a model or a movie star than a driver. Even the baseball cap couldn’t spoil the image.

      As she’d walked up to the car, eyes as dark as espresso coffee had studied her and she hadn’t liked the fluttering that had started up in her stomach in direct response. It had seemed as if he was totally focused on her, and she’d had the oddest feeling that she knew him.

      She didn’t know him, of course. Although…

      She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth. It was ridiculous, but he looked exactly like the fantasy man she’d imagined years ago when she’d first dreamed about travelling to Italy.

      Now that he’d lost the cap she could see his dark hair, short but just long enough to curl, and, combined with the sharp line of his jaw and straight nose, the look caused a quiver of recognition in her stomach.

      She turned to stare out of the window without seeing the cars that whizzed by. It was weird that she remembered her fantasy with such clarity. She’d been with Steve for a couple of years, and there had been boyfriends before him. But talking about the dream with Chloe had probably kept the image alive over the years.

      She jumped as a car horn blasted right next to her window.

      ‘OK?’

      She nodded at Ric, who was expertly darting in and out of lanes of traffic. Convinced now that Italian drivers were obsessed with testing the decibel count of their car horns, she was glad the tour company had insisted on collecting her from Rome. If she’d had to drive south alone, she’d have been a nervous wreck.

      ‘Where are we heading?’

      ‘Salerno. We’ll eat lunch there.’

      ‘Lunch? How long will it take us to get there?’

      ‘Three, maybe three and a half hours.’

      ‘Oh, boy. That long?’ But she was hungry now. That was one thing she’d noticed about being pregnant—the outrageous hunger. Well, that and the tiredness. At least she’d escaped morning sickness. So far, anyway.

      ‘Do you think we could stop somewhere to eat before then? Soon? I didn’t have time for breakfast and I’m…’ She stopped. There was absolutely no need for him to know about her condition. ‘I’m hungry,’ she finished hurriedly.

      He shot her a glance. ‘You should have said. I’ll find a pasticceria, yes?’

      ‘Yes.’ Oh, yes. That sounded good.

      Within minutes, Ric had turned off the autostrada and Lyssa had time to look at the scenery, the creamy-coloured cows and clusters of terracotta-roofed houses clinging to the sides of hills.

      He drove into a small town and parked at the end of a higgledy-piggledy line of cars that made Lyssa smile. It was just so…Italian. There was no other word for it.

      CHAPTER TWO

      LYSSA stood in front of the sparkling glass cabinets, pondering her choice with as much awe as if she’d been staring at a Michelangelo sculpture or a fresco by Raphael.

      The cases were crammed with artistically arranged trays of focaccias, filled panini and bowls of brightly coloured fruit. Finally she settled on a panini piled high with ham, salami, mortadella, fontina and pecorino.

      They carried their purchases outside to a tiny table in the shade of a striped awning. After a few mouthfuls, Lyssa sat back with a contented sigh.

      ‘Better?’ Ric asked.

      ‘Much. I’m sorry about the delay. I know you probably have a timetable to keep to.’

      ‘No, not at all. The philosophy of Amalfitori is to be flexible, to fit in with whatever the clients want to do, to create a unique and unforgettable holiday experience for them.

      ‘Nothing about the tours is “off-the-shelf”. We aim to satisfy our clients’ individual wishes while ensuring total immersion in the life and culture of the area.’

      She chuckled. ‘That sounded like a well-practised sales spiel.’

      Ric broke into a grin that made his eyes sparkle. One cheek dimpled and Lyssa suppressed another sigh. He really was exceptionally good-looking and if this trip had taken place at another time, in another life…

      But there was no point in letting herself think that way. No point at all.

      ‘I practised it specially for you,’ he said with a wry smile, ‘for the important travel writer I had to make an effort to impress, but you don’t seem very impressed.’

      She shrugged. ‘I’ve heard so many of those speeches and read so many brochures, they all sound the same after a while.’

      ‘So what does impress you about the places you visit, then? It’s important that I know. I need to make sure you don’t leave disappointed.’

      ‘It’s hard to say.’ She picked at a piece of ham that was falling from the panini. ‘Often it’s the smallest things. You know, if the waiters in a town are unfriendly, or a hotel’s receptionist is helpful—it all influences your opinion. But then, it’s important to remember that other travellers might have a very different experience, so you have to try to remain objective when you write the story.’

      He nodded.

      ‘Of course, bigger things can make a difference too. If, say, you visit a town where there’s a vibrant festival going on and the whole place is buzzing with excitement, and the next day you visit another where the streets are empty and everyone seems to be asleep, you’re going to gain very different impressions of the two towns. But on another day, it might be reversed. You see what I mean?’

      ‘How long have you been doing this for a living?’

      ‘Five СКАЧАТЬ