Italian Surgeon to the Stars (12 page)

‘What about the school’s “no fraternising with the parents” clause?’ I said, even though none existed and I was pretty sure he knew it.

He would have done his research. He was that sort of person. He would make it his business to find out everything he could in order to get what he wanted.

His smile was sexily lopsided again. ‘Rules
can be bent a little to accommodate specific needs,
n’est-ce pas
?’

I wish he wouldn’t do that. Speak in French, I mean. How was I supposed to act cool and composed when he made my spine go all squishy and tingly? His voice was not the only thing that undid me. It was that look in his eyes that made my body vibrate with longing. The look that said,
I want you.
Now
.

I forced myself to sit primly. My mouth was set in a pursed fashion. My hands were clasped in my lap to stop them from wandering over to where I could see the tenting of his trousers.
Be still, my pulse
.

‘You seem pretty confident I’ll say yes,’ I said.

He picked up a stray wisp of my hair and gently tucked it behind my ear. That and the face-cupping and the speaking French were enough to make any hard-case cynic melt, let me tell you. Every muscle in my body felt like it had turned into a blob of hair mousse.

His eyes went to my mouth in that hooded manner that communicated much more than words could ever do. It was the body language of sex and he was totally fluent.

‘It would be a shame to ignore what’s still there between us,’ he said.

The only thing between us right then was the car’s middle console and the gearshift, but I didn’t point that out. I knew exactly what he was referring to. I could feel it. I’d felt it the first time we met and every time I’d come in contact with him since. The air changed. The atmosphere became charged.
I
became charged.

My blood pounded through my veins as if I had been injected with a potent drug. I could feel my heart beating against my rib cage like a sparrow trapped in someone’s hand. My skin tightened all over my body, as if the bones of my skeleton were pushing outwards so I could get closer to him. My breasts ached for the stroke of his hands, for the rasp of his tongue, for the suck and pull of his mouth. I looked at his mouth and felt another wave of need ricochet through me.

‘Here’s the thing,’ I said, forcing my gaze back to his. ‘I don’t hand out second chances. It’s another rule I like to adhere to.’

His eyes stayed locked on mine. ‘I’m not offering you the same relationship as before, so strictly speaking your rule doesn’t apply.’

He was good at the countermoves, I had to admit. But what exactly
was
he offering? And why was I even considering it? Although,
come to think of it, maybe that wasn’t so hard to answer.

‘How would it be different from what we had before?’ I asked.

‘It would be temporary.’

I’m not sure why those four words should have hurt but they did.
Wham
. It was like a knockout punch to the solar plexus. Not that I showed it on my face or anything. I was Too Cool For School. No pun intended.

‘A fling, then.’ I stated it without emotion. Like a robot processing data.

He shifted his gaze and stared out at the rain-lashed street with a frown pulling at his brow. ‘It’s all I can offer now.’

I wiped my hand across my brow. ‘Phew! That’s a relief. So I won’t have to worry about you suddenly springing a romantic proposal on me that I’ll have to refuse on principle.’

His gaze cut back to mine. ‘Marriage is out of the question.’

I lifted one of my eyebrows. ‘That’s quite some turnaround from the guy who once couldn’t wait to get hitched and make babies.’

His jaw worked for a moment and his gaze swung back to the road. His hands gripped the steering wheel for a beat or two before he leaned forward to restart the engine.

‘We’d better get a move on,’ he said. ‘If we don’t show up on time we might lose our booking at the restaurant.’

I sat back in my seat—actually I was thrown back by the g-force of his car—and remained silent for the rest of the journey.

The restaurant was not far from the Roman Baths, and it had more stars than the Milky Way—or so it appeared to me. Even after all this time I still get a little starstruck when I go to posh restaurants. It’s because Bertie and I didn’t eat out when we were kids. Our parents wouldn’t allow it. We weren’t taken to fast-food restaurants, let alone fine dining ones.

I was seventeen and Bertie sixteen when we went to our first proper restaurant. Our parents were away on a rebirthing retreat, and thankfully we were left at home. Personally, I could think of nothing worse than returning to my mother’s birth canal, as apparently I’d come out upside down and back to front and caused quite a bit of damage on the way through. A fact she likes to remind me of from time to time.

Anyway, Bertie and I rocked up to a mid-priced restaurant—we didn’t want to look foolish using the wrong cutlery or something—and we both ordered big juicy steaks.
It’s kind of a sisterly tradition between us now. Of course we don’t tell our parents what we get up to…although if my mother opens my fridge at home I guess the game will be well and truly up.

The
maître d’
showed Alessandro and me to our table as if we were the guests of honour. I suddenly felt self-conscious. Were all the other diners looking at me and wondering what I was doing with Alessandro? Wondering how a plain and ordinary, conservatively dressed primary schoolteacher could possibly interest a man as clever and sophisticated as him? Then I had another thought. Were there any parents from school in the restaurant? I did a quick covert sweep of the room, but thankfully didn’t recognise anyone.

We sat down and the waiter took our drinks order. I’m not a big drinker. I’m too much of a control freak. I like to be fully in charge of my faculties at all times and in all places. There’s nothing quite like a drink spike when you’re thirteen to teach you
that
lesson once and for all.

Alessandro wasn’t a big drinker either. At least that hadn’t changed, even if his views on marriage and kids had. He had a glass of mineral water while I had a glass of cola.
I know it’s bad for you. Twenty-two teaspoons of sugar and all that. But if I have the diet variety then there’s all those ghastly chemicals to think about. The way I see it, I can’t win.

Mind you, I’m lucky it doesn’t come back to bite me on the bottom. I’m happy to say my bottom is exactly the same size it has been since I was eighteen. Bertie hates me for it. I can eat and drink pretty much what I want.

I reckon it’s the nervous energy that burns all the calories off. I look like I’ve got it all sorted on the surface, but underneath my ice-maiden mask I’m a basket case. I ruminate. I fret. I chew my nails and pick at my cuticles when no one is looking. I would thumb-suck if I could get away with it. I’ve been known to roll into the foetal position and rock, but not for a while. Months, actually.

Alessandro looked up from perusing the gourmet menu. ‘What do you fancy?’

You
, I wanted to say.

I dipped my head and made a show of examining my menu like it was a newly discovered addition to the Dead Sea Scrolls. ‘Hmm, let me see.’ I even tapped my fingertip against my lips. ‘Aha! Beef Wellington with scalloped potatoes and green beans.’ I
closed my menu and sent him a ‘that’s settled’ smile. ‘You?’

He was looking at me as if I were the most fascinating thing on the menu. But then I realised I
was
on the menu. We hadn’t said it in so many words, but we’d more or less agreed on a fling.
Hadn’t we?
Would we race through dinner and go back to his place? We certainly couldn’t go back to mine. Not with my parents there. My mother would have her ear to the wall, listening to make sure I was having tantric sex or counting my orgasms or something.

Alessandro reached for my hand across the table, his long tanned fingers closing gently around mine, his eyes holding my gaze in a sensual tether I could feel tugging on me all the way to my core.

‘I’ve thought about you a lot,
ma petite
,’ he said.

‘Why do you speak French so much?’ I said. ‘Why not Italian, given your Sicilian heritage?’

I thought I saw something brittle come and go in his gaze before it shifted to watch his thumb stroking the back of my hand in slow rhythmic strokes.

‘I haven’t been back to Sicily since I left when I was eighteen.’

‘Because of your father?’

His gaze met mine once more. ‘My life is in England now. This is home.’

I searched his coal-black gaze for a beat or two. Was he distancing himself from his father by becoming more English than Italian? Had his year in Paris been another part of that distancing plan?

‘What sort of work does your father do? Or is he retired?’ I asked into the brooding silence.

His hand released mine and he picked up his glass and drank a draught of his water before answering. ‘He’s a property developer.’

‘Successful?’

‘Very.’

‘Was he disappointed you didn’t follow him into the business?’ I asked.

That hard look came back into his eyes. ‘I didn’t ask you out to dinner to talk about my father. Let’s talk about something else.’

‘I’d like to know more about you,’ I said. ‘I feel like I’m only now starting to get to know you. You kept so much hidden from me in the past.’

His hand reached for mine again and gave
it a tiny squeeze. ‘Some things are best not talked about.’

Who was I to argue about that? I had my own dirty little secret.

I must have shown something of my conflicted feelings on my face, for Alessandro picked up my hand from where it was resting on the table and brought it to his mouth. He pressed a soft kiss to my bent knuckles, his eyes still holding mine.

‘Tell me about you.’

I could feel every muscle in my body shrinking back from the table, like a snail retreating into its shell, but there was only so far I could go with Alessandro’s hand anchoring me to him. ‘What about me?’

‘Tell me why you chose to teach in Bath.’

I flicked the tip of my tongue over my lips. ‘I’ve always liked the area. I love the Regency period and Georgian architecture. I guess this sounds a bit weird, but I felt kind of drawn to the place. I had other options, but I felt compelled to take the job at Emily Sudgrove. Of course my mother would say it was cosmic intervention, or some such nonsense.’

His smile was crooked and heart-stoppingly gorgeous. ‘Maybe it was destined that we would meet again, if only for me to apologise
for how I handled things.’ He stroked the back of my hand again. ‘I’ve missed you, Jem. Really missed you. I’ve never met anyone else quite like you.’

I felt a sudden contraction in my chest. Had he loved me? Truly loved me? Or was it his pride that had taken the biggest hit? He had lost his ex just weeks before he met me. Would I be fooling myself to think I was somehow special? Had I been The One? He hadn’t actually formally asked me to marry him. But he’d hinted he was going to. The talk of making babies and so on had made me believe I was in with a chance.

‘I think you’re mistaking a holiday fling for something else,’ I said.

His eyes meshed with mine. ‘Was that what it was for you?’

I carefully screened my features. ‘In hindsight, yes, I think it was.’ I gave a not very convincing little laugh. ‘It was Paris, don’t forget. That city’s bound to make anyone think they’re head over heels in love.’

His gaze was unnervingly steady on mine. ‘So you’re not interested in marriage and having a family now?’

‘God, no.’

I probably shouldn’t have answered so
quickly and emphatically. Or given a theatrical shudder. I kept my expression composed, but inside I was thinking of babies. Tiny little squirmy pink bodies with ten little fingers and ten little toes. Soft downy heads and fat little bellies and dimples on elbows and knees. Cute button noses and cupid’s bow mouths. Little starfish hands reaching out for mine. Little gummy smiles and happy, contented chortles. The sweet, innocent smell of their milky breath.

I’d always wanted at least three or four kids when I was growing up. I liked the idea of being a family. Of having my own tribe. I wanted the security of marriage because my parents’ open relationship had always deeply troubled me as a child. I was worried one or both of them would take off with someone else, and Bertie and I would be left. Or, worse, one parent would take Bertie and leave me with the other.

Even though our parents assured us we would always come first, children don’t always believe what they’re told. They believe what they feel. What they sense. What they fear. What they dread.

Alessandro’s thumb moved over the back
of my hand again. ‘I always thought you’d make a beautiful bride.’

I could feel a prickly heat coming into my cheeks. ‘Weddings are such a ridiculous waste of money,’ I said. ‘It’s just a piece of paper. Look at my parents. They’ve been together for thirty-one years. They’re no less married than any other couple who walks down the aisle of a church.’

‘True, but don’t most girls dream of being a princess for the day?’

I had been one of those girls. I’d planned my wedding day since I was seven years old. I didn’t tell Bertie. I didn’t tell anyone, in case they thought I was a soppy fool. It was my private fantasy. A flower-filled cathedral. A beautiful gown with an elegant train and a long flowing veil. A bouquet of orange blossom and white peonies and gypsophila. Rose petals being thrown as I came out of the church with my smiling and adoring husband by my side.

I was jolted back to the moment when I realised Alessandro was still waiting for my response to his question. The heat was lingering in my cheeks.

I fanned my face with my hand. ‘Is it just me or is it ridiculously hot in here?’ I said.
‘They should turn the heating down. It’s not good for business. That’s why fast-food chains have the air-con on cool. It makes people eat more.’

A half smile kicked up one corner of his mouth. ‘Let’s order, shall we?’

CHAPTER SEVEN