The Italian Surgeon's Christmas Miracle (4 page)

She couldn’t let it happen.

Catching Luke’s gaze, Amy knew she was sending out a desperate plea.

‘This is Mr Harrington,’ she told Robert. ‘He’s Summer’s doctor and he’s just come to make sure she’s all right.’

‘Oh…’ Robert straightened his shoulders and became visibly taller. ‘That’s OK, then.’

Amy could see Luke assessing the situation. Deciding whether or not to go along with her white lie.

Please
, she begged silently.
Don’t hurt these children. At least give me time to prepare them. To reassure them and find a solution.

Luke’s face was expressionless. He looked at Robert for what seemed like a long time and then turned slowly to meet Amy’s gaze again, and she’d never been so acutely aware of this man’s looks before.

Oh, he was gorgeous. Everybody knew that. Very tall, very dark. His features as carefully sculpted as the way he carried himself. A bit over the top, really—like that designer coat, probably French, that he was wearing so casually unbuttoned to reveal a pinstriped suit. There was a distinct aura of perfection about Luke Harrington. The way he looked. The way he worked. The standards he expected from everyone around him. Perfection. Control.

What on earth was she thinking, even hoping that he might back up something that was rather a lot less than the truth?

No wonder there was no hint of a smile on his face when he opened his mouth to respond. Amy’s heart skipped a beat as it sank, waiting for the blow to fall.

‘That’s right,’ Luke said gravely. He began to walk over the flagstones. Slowly. As though he was sleepwalking. His gaze still touching Amy’s. ‘How
is
Summer today?’

Tears of gratitude stung Amy’s eyes and she hurriedly blinked them away. As Luke reached the couch and bent down, his face loomed closer and Amy could see what had not been apparent at a distance. He knew exactly what he was doing by not contradicting her.

He
understood
.

And it was enough for hope to be born.

Enough to make Amy’s heart sing and her lips to curve into a smile that said exactly how important this was. He understood, so surely he would not be able to go ahead and hurt this family.

She was smiling at him.

As though he’d just given her the greatest gift anyone could ever receive.

It made her eyes sparkle and the warmth emanating from that smile seemed to enter every cell of Luke’s body.

He felt…weird.

Powerful and generous and…and like he’d done something wonderful.

How ridiculous was that?

All he’d done had been to keep the real nature of this visit private from a bunch of children who should not be involved in business between adults.

It didn’t mean that he was about to change his mind. No matter how gorgeous that smile was. Luke dragged his gaze away from Amy’s face.

‘Hey, Summer. It’s been a while since I saw you.’

Automatically, he took the tiny wrist between his fingers to feel her pulse and watched the small chest to assess how much effort was going into breathing. Post-surgery, patients like Summer Bell returned to the care of a cardiologist so unless Luke made an effort, it was hard to keep up with how well they were doing.

And this little girl was not doing very well. Little Summer was the kind of case that could break your heart if you let it. Some months ago, Luke had done his best to make final corrections to the major congenital anomalies of her heart and the vessels that connected it to her lungs, but there was only so much that could be done. And in this case, it hadn’t been enough.

If she stayed alive long enough, she would be a candidate for a heart transplant, but her condition was clearly deteriorating.

‘Have you got a pulse oximeter?’ Luke queried.

‘No.’

‘A stethoscope?’

Again, Amy shook her head and Luke tried to push aside his frustration. This was a house, not a hospital ward, after all. Summer was probably fortunate to have a qualified nurse caring for her.

Or she would be, if that qualified nurse wasn’t running some kind of orphanage. Luke looked over his shoulder. The two small boys behind him were scuffling over their sweeping duties. Giggling. They were indistinguishable and, Luke had to admit, very cute. Curly and dark and energetic. Rather like the woman they had called, what had it been—
Zietta
? Aunty? He shifted his gaze to Amy who was watching him assess Summer, her eyes wide and anxious.

‘How many children do you have living here?’

Amy blinked. She looked nervous, Luke decided. Was she thinking he was about to criticise her ability to care for a sick child because there were too many other demands on her attention?

He could see no reason to do so, so far. Summer was warm and comfortable and looked happy. She was receiving oxygen. Presumably being given all her medications or she would be a lot worse than she was. What more could anyone be doing?

‘Right now?’ Amy was responding. ‘Seven.’

‘And you’re trying to care for them all? By yourself?’

Her chin lifted a fraction. She had taken his incredulous question as criticism rather than concern.

‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘My mother is the official foster-parent. My sister also lives here. Marco and Angelo are her children. My nephews.’

‘So where is your mother? And your sister?’ He would have to speak to them all. Three Italian women who were not going to like what he had to say, God help him!

‘Um…’ Amy’s gaze slid sideways. ‘They’re in Italy just at the moment.’

‘
Bisnonna
’s sick,’ Angelo piped up helpfully. ‘She is a sick…’ He looked at Amy questioningly.
‘Cuore?’

‘Heart,’ Amy supplied. ‘She
has
a sick heart. It’s my grandmother,’ she explained to Luke. ‘She’s had an MI. My mother had to go to her and she needed my sister to travel with her. I couldn’t leave because I have to work.’

Luke’s eyebrows rose involuntarily.

‘It’s only for a day or so. They’re going to bring Nonna back.’

Luke sucked in a breath. ‘Here?’

‘Yes,’ Amy said firmly. ‘Here. We’re going to give her Uncle Vanni’s room.’

Luke let his breath out slowly. So he was not only going to have to find suitable accommodation for a collection of children, including one who was terminally ill, he now had to throw an elderly, recuperating cardiac patient into the mix.

With a bemused shake of his head, he turned back to something much easier to deal with. Summer.

‘Can I listen to you heart, chicken?’ he asked. ‘With my ear?’

Amy looked startled but Summer didn’t seem to mind the unusual request and the twins were fascinated to see Luke bend his head to place his ear directly on Summer’s bare, frail chest.

‘What you doing?’ Marco asked.

‘I’m listening to Summer’s heart. And her lungs.’

‘Can I listen, too?’

‘No.’ It was Amy who spoke. ‘I want you boys to go and get into the bath before it gets cold. Go now. Shoo!’ she added as the twins shuffled reluctantly. ‘I’ll be up in a minute to make sure you’ve washed behind your ears.’

‘Can we make it hot again?’

‘Just a little bit. The big boys still haven’t had their bath.’

The information that the hot-water supply in the house was less than ideal barely filtered into the back of Luke’s mind thanks to his concentration. Even without the magnification a stethoscope would have provided, he could hear all he needed to reassure himself there was nothing major happening on top of the expected murmurs of abnormal blood flow through Summer’s heart.

He lifted the blankets a moment later to check her ankles. There was no swelling to suggest that her heart failure was not under control but he still wasn’t entirely happy and he knew he was frowning as he looked at Amy.

Her face was so…alive. She could talk without saying a word. Luke could see she understood his disquiet perfectly. That she also sensed something was brewing but, as yet, there was nothing to point out the direction any deterioration was taking. It was impressive that this nurse could share what was an instinctive warning bell. It was somewhat disturbing that they could communicate almost telepathically.

Amy probably found it equally disturbing. ‘We’re looking after her,’ she said aloud. ‘We all love Summer.’ She stooped to kiss the child. ‘I’m going get your medicine now, darling, and put you to bed. Zoe’s coming to look after you and read you a story.’

‘Zoe?’

‘The babysitter. I’m on night shift tonight.’

Luke was shocked. ‘You’re going to work? Tonight?’

Her look was steady and Luke almost felt embarrassed. Yes, she could communicate very well non-verbally. Bills needed to be paid, the look said. Mouths needed to be fed. Not everybody had the luxury of being able to afford designer coats. Some people had no choice about having to work, no matter how difficult it might be.

‘Robert’s here, as well.’ Amy motioned towards the lanky boy who was now washing dishes. ‘He’s fourteen and he’s our man of the house.’

Luke could hear the pride in Amy’s tone. He could see the way the corner of Robert’s mouth twitched—as though he was suppressing a pleased smile. The teenager didn’t turn towards them, however. Instead, he spoke gruffly to the younger boy beside him.

‘Get those bowls off the table,’ he ordered. ‘They need doing, as well.’

‘That’s Andrew,’ Amy told Luke. ‘He’s eleven.’ She smiled at the boy. ‘You’re doing a great job, Andy. Thank you.’

The twins had disappeared, presumably into the bath, but the two girls were still at the table and Luke raised an eyebrow. Seeing as they had started introductions, they might as well finish.

‘Chantelle’s eight and Kyra’s twelve,’ Amy said cooperatively. ‘They’ve both been living with us for nearly two years now.’

‘Amy?’ Chantelle had her hands full of paper loops. ‘Can we put these on the tree now?’

Amy nodded. ‘And then it’s bed for you and homework for Kyra. I’m going to put Summer to bed now and get changed for work.’

‘OK.’ The girls headed through the door.

Luke suddenly felt as though he didn’t belong there. He should get out of the way and let Amy sort out her unconventional household.

‘I still need to talk to you,’ he warned.

Surprisingly, Amy nodded. ‘Give me a few minutes to get Summer to bed and the other children organised. Unless it can wait until tomorrow?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Luke wanted to get it over with. He had no intention of coming back here tomorrow. Or any other day, for that matter.

Amy disconnected the tubing from the oxygen cylinder and gathered Summer into her arms. A few minutes later, the boys finished their task of clearing the bench and also left the kitchen. Luke found himself alone, the noise of activity and voices fading into the distance.

He scanned the room. The old range still had spots of burnt sauce all over it. The table was a mess and it looked as though somebody had had a tantrum with the contents of the hutch dresser. Why was it being emptied all over the floor like that? Had Amy been searching for something?

Like a will?

Was
there another will that would have left the house to its current occupants? His information was that the only will ever recorded by Giovanni Moretti had been made shortly after his marriage to Caroline Harrington in which he had left all his worldly goods to his wife and any children they might be blessed with. His wife had died over thirty years ago, however, and he’d never bothered to locate his child. It was quite possible he would be less than happy with what had eventuated.

Well, tough! If he wasn’t getting what he wanted, it was exactly what he deserved. Even if he
had
made another will, Luke could contest it and no doubt win the case easily as the closest living relative.

Still…Luke felt uncomfortable. Movement seemed a good distraction and it could be useful. Already he could see things that made this house substandard, like the old cooker, the dripping taps, the bare light bulbs and the peeling paint on the ceiling. Was the rest of the house in even worse condition? A list of such inadequacies would strengthen his case that better accommodation would be more suitable for these people.

And with that in mind, Luke dismissed his aversion to being inside this house and set off to explore.

I
T WAS
worse than he had expected.

Or perhaps better, given that he was looking for ammunition with which to strengthen his position.

A large room next to the kitchen and scullery complex had a television in one corner. A fire burned merrily, safely covered by a wire screen, but the warmth and cleanliness of the room was easy to overlook.

Luke’s attention was on several very old and mismatched couches that could well have been rescued from a rubbish dump, with their lumpy cushions and frayed fabrics. Battered toys lay scattered about, some of the lead-light windows had cracks covered with masking tape and, if he concentrated, he could feel a draft of icy air around his ankles.

The two older boys lay on the floor in front of the television with what looked like schoolwork around them. Robert noticed Luke entering the room and he could feel the challenging glare on his back as he walked over to a set of French doors. This was where the draft was coming from but Luke could see why the curtains had not been drawn. The ancient velvet would probably disintegrate under the pressure required to pull them into place.

Enough light escaped the room to illuminate a flagged terrace area and the shaggy edges of a large, dark garden. Luke knew it was a large garden because a plan of the property had been included with the paperwork his solicitor had sent him weeks ago now.

Large
was not really the word for it, he thought, staring out at the smudged outlines of old trees. It was vast by London standards. With the house removed, it would be easy to build an entire apartment block on the site. With Regent’s Park virtually across the road, it wasn’t reasonable for anyone to sit on private parkland that supported only one dwelling. Financially, it was just plain stupid.

The observation he was still under from Robert made Luke vaguely uncomfortable but he was satisfied with the list of inadequacies he had noted in this room, so he acknowledged the boys with a nod and somewhat tight smile, leaving the room to cross the wide hallway where he entered what must have originally been a drawing room.

There were more leaded windows here and the fanlights had coloured glass in an intricate pattern. The ceiling in this room was very high and the plasterwork very ornate, but it failed to impress Luke. How could it when it was a pale imitation of the architectural splendour Harrington Manor had to offer and when its condition was so bad? The paint on this ceiling was peeling off in large flakes. Probably lead-based paint, Luke decided. Dangerous for children.

Such as the two girls who were sitting on a faded rug in front of a cavernous fireplace that contained some half-burnt logs and no doubt provided a whistling, icy draft. The girls didn’t notice Luke enter the room because they were too intent on admiring their handiwork.

A tall but scraggly tree branch—possibly yew—was propped up in a plastic bucket that had a tartan ribbon tied around it. More of the tartan ribbon was tied in bows on the branch offshoots and it was now also draped with the strings of paper loops he’d seen Chantelle carrying.

‘We need an angel,’ he heard her say to Kyra. ‘For the top.’

‘Angels are expensive,’ Kyra said doubtfully. ‘There might not be enough money if we’re all going to get a present.’

‘We could make one.’

Kyra shook her head. ‘That would be a really hard thing to make. We could make a star, though. A really big one and I think we’ve got some glitter.’

‘Silver glitter?’ Chantelle asked hopefully.

‘No. I think it’s blue. Or green. It’s left over from that birthday card we made Robert.’

‘Oh…That was blue. ’Cos he’s a boy, remember?’

‘Oh, yeah…That’s right.’

Blue didn’t seem to be acceptable. Luke watched as Chantelle wriggled closer to Kyra and the older girl put her arm around her shoulders.

‘It’s still beautiful,’ Kyra said. ‘And we’re lucky. Some kids don’t even get a tree.’

And some had so many beautiful new decorations, they had no use for a big box of older ones. Imagine how excited these girls would be if they had that whole box that had been left in the ward office. It wouldn’t be hard to pick it up and leave it on the doorstep here.

The apparent brilliance of the idea was surprising. The strength of desire to follow it through was unsettling. What was he thinking? The cleaners had most likely taken the box away as rubbish by now and even if they hadn’t, all he’d achieve would be to give the impression that he wanted these children to stay here and enjoy Christmas. He could make sure they got a much better tree somewhere else. In their new home. A real spruce tree that had gifts beneath it and an angel on the top.

The girls needed to be cuddled together for more than comfort. That fire would have to be well stoked for a long time to take the chill off this enormous room. He took note of a slightly damp smell, as well, as he slipped out.

A peal of childish laughter drifted down the sweep of the staircase at the end of the hallway, but fortunately Luke could think of no reason he needed to go upstairs. Except that he felt curiously disappointed. Although he had seen enough to fuel the argument he knew was looming, he decided to check out the last downstairs room. Perhaps the distinct feeling of discomfort at what he was doing here would be relieved if he found something more personal to the previous owner of this house.

Something that might rekindle the anger that had grown from the loneliness of being so different. Alone. Brought up isolated from parents or siblings. Unwanted to the extent that not even a spark of responsibility remained.

He hit the jackpot through the door that opened beneath the staircase. Having turned on the light and instantly sensing that this room’s occupant had been absent for some time, Luke froze.

This was it. Away from an upstairs inhabited by numerous women and children, this had been a man’s domain. The old brass bed had a maroon cover. A dark woollen dressing-gown hung on one of the brass knobs and a pair of well-used men’s slippers lay beneath it. A maroon colour, like the bedspread, the woollen toes of the slippers were a little frayed and the sheepskin lining squashed into an off-white felt. They could have been anyone’s slippers.

Except they weren’t.

These slippers had been worn by Giovanni Moretti.

His father.

Luke’s mouth was dry. He hadn’t expected anything like this. He’d grown up knowing that his father was a monster. Responsible for his mother’s death and too uncaring to think of his son. He had been an ogre until Luke had been old enough to start feeling angry. To start hating the man. Even then, he had always seemed larger than life. An enemy. A man powerful enough to ruin the lives of others.

But huge, powerful, evil men did not wear slippers like this.

They didn’t collect homeless children and get called ‘Uncle’ by everyone, either. His father had owned this house and presumably lived in London since
he
had been five years old, and he’d never made contact. Never remembered a birthday or sent a letter. And yet he’d left him this house.

Why?

To underline the fact that he had existed—close by—and hadn’t given a damn? To make sure Luke never forgot?

As if he could!

Luke could actually taste the bitterness that rose within him. Giovanni Moretti had cared about the children other people didn’t want, but he hadn’t cared about his own son.

He was right to hate this man. To dismiss his life—and this room—with no more than a cursory look.

A gaze that took in a plain dressing-table that had a brush and comb on its dusty surface and unframed photographs jammed into the frame around the large mirror. Snapshots of people. Dozens of them. Luke found his feet moving in much the same way as he’d been drawn towards Amy and Summer in the kitchen. Pulled by something he couldn’t—or didn’t want to—identify.

One photograph stood out from the rest. In pride of place maybe, at the top left-hand corner. Or maybe it looked different because it was older. Curled at the edges. The hairs on the back of Luke’s neck prickled as he stepped closer, however. What, in God’s name, was a photograph of himself doing in this man’s room?

It wasn’t him. Of course it wasn’t. The explanation was genetic. This was a picture of his father taken more than thirty years ago when he had looked extraordinarily like Luke did now.

The gorgeous blonde woman in the photograph was just as easily recognisable. Caroline Harrington had been frozen in time and had always looked like this as far as Luke had known. Except there was a difference here. Compared to the studio portraits Grandmother had in plenty, this was just a candid shot. The focus wasn’t perfect and the colours had faded. What was even more different was his mother’s expression.

Sheer joy radiated from her face as she looked up at the man beside her.

Even the baby in her arms seemed to be laughing. Tiny fists punched the air in an exuberance of happiness. Luke had never seen a photograph of himself as a baby. For a long, long moment, he simply stood there. Staring.

Shocked.

Faintly, the sound of feet running down the stairs and Amy’s voice filtered through the haze.

‘I’ll be back up in a minute,’ Amy was calling. ‘I just need to talk to Mr Harrington before he goes home.’

There was no time to try and analyse any of the odd, unsettling emotions Luke was experiencing. And there was no point, was there? It was all in the past and best forgotten. Destroying the evidence would make it all so much simpler.

Without really thinking about what he was doing, Luke tugged the photograph free of the mirror and slipped it into his coat pocket. He flicked the light off as he left the room and strode back towards the kitchen. The sooner he left this house the better.

All he had to do was make sure Amy understood that the same applied to her.

Amy wound a rubber band around the end of the sleek French plait taming her hair that she had accomplished before hauling the twins from the bath and getting them dry and into their pyjamas. She changed into the tunic top and trousers of her uniform as the boys scrambled into the bunk beds in the room they shared with Robert and Andrew. She laced comfortable shoes onto her feet as she sat on the end of the trundle bed in her room where Summer was now tucked up.

The bedroom oxygen cylinder was full and the coal fire stoked and screened. Summer was warm and already asleep. Amy kissed her, hating it that she had to leave to go to work.

‘Zoe will be here any minute,’ she whispered, more to reassure herself than anyone else. ‘She’s going to sleep in my bed so she’ll be right here beside you.’

She kissed her again, and stroked her hair softly. One of these nights, Summer was going to go to sleep and simply not wake up.

Not tonight. Please…Not before Christmas!

Giving her uniform a final tug into place and letting the twins know she’d be back up to say good-night, Amy ran down the stairs. It was amazing how being clean and tidy and ready for work made her feel so much more in control.

Ready for anything.

Or almost anything. The empty kitchen took the wind out of her sails momentarily. So did the odd expression on Mr Harrington’s face when he appeared a few seconds later. Had he been snooping? Would that explain the curiously guilty flash she thought she saw in his eyes?

‘This house is appalling,’ Luke said without preamble, walking towards Amy. ‘It’s falling to pieces.’ He stopped when he reached the kitchen table, resting a hand on the back of one of the chairs. ‘It’s neither a safe nor a healthy environment for anyone to live in. Particularly children.
Especially
a sick child. It’s simply not fit for human habitation.’

‘
We
love it.’ Amy’s heart sank at the wobble in her voice. She could do with a chair to hang onto herself. How had that confidence she’d brought downstairs with her evaporated so instantly?

Maybe there was a disadvantage to wearing her uniform, as well. The confidence might be part of her work frame of mind but work was a place where no one would dream of disputing the authority of someone like Luke Harrington.

Someone whose wrath was feared. You made sure children were where they were supposed to be when Mr Harrington was due for rounds. You picked up toys that could be tripped over. You made absolutely sure that any test results were available and you sympathised with the registrars and housemen who had to work to their utmost ability to win recognition from this perfectionist surgeon.

‘You’ll find something else is far more suitable,’ Luke said firmly. ‘A house that has adequate insulation and central oil-fired heating and plumbing that works, for instance.’

He was so confident. Standing there all dark and serious and so sure of himself. So far above Amy in any pecking order she could think of. It took courage to stand up to him.

‘We can’t afford to rent a house like that. Not big enough for all of us. Not in central London, that’s for sure.’

‘So move away from London, then. Surely a rural environment would be a better place to be running a…whatever the modern equivalent of an orphanage is?’

‘A foster-home,’ Amy responded quietly. ‘And some of these children retain contact with their birth families. Kyra visits her mother every couple of weeks. She’s hoping she can move home again one day. That contact would be lost if we moved away.’

Amy took a step closer. She had to make him see how important this was. Her voice rose but she was pleased to hear it gaining strength. ‘We’d probably lose the children because Social Services tries to place them in a radius of their own homes for precisely that kind of reason. They need something familiar in their territory like a school. And besides…’ Amy straightened her back and glared at Luke, outrage colouring her tone. ‘This is my
home
. I came here to live when I was ten years old. When my dad died. Uncle Vanni was like a father to my sister and me. There’s no way he would have wanted us to lose this house. There
is
another will. There
has
to be.’

‘Arrangements are already in place,’ Luke said with finality. ‘The house is going to be demolished.’