Latin Lovers: Italian Husbands: The Italian's Bought Bride / The Italian Playboy's Secret Son / The Italian Doctor's Perfect Family

She slipped on the coat dress, only to grimace in rueful dismay at her reflection. She looked awful, drab and dreary, and she was vain enough to want to look at least half-decent for Stefano.

Not beautiful, not sexy, not alluring. But attractive, at least. Attractive and professional, confident and calm.

She chose a pair of slim-fitting black trousers and a white silk blouse that was plain but well-tailored.

Catching her hair up in a chignon—nothing careless about it this time—she nodded at the rather austere image she presented. Professional, puritanical.

‘For the best,’ she reminded herself. After all, she was having dinner with Stefano in her professional capacity, not personal. Nothing personal. Nothing ever personal.

The intercom for the front door sounded, and Allegra hurried to buzz him through.

The walls were so thin, she could hear the creak of the stairs and his tread down the hall and her heart started to hammer.

She grabbed her coat and handbag and met him in the hallway.

‘Thanks for coming,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m ready.’

Stefano raised an eyebrow. He looked devastating in a charcoal-coloured suit, a crisp white shirt and mulberry-coloured silk tie. ‘We could have a drink first.’

‘Let’s go out,’ Allegra suggested. ‘My flat’s tiny.’ She realized with a little pang of shame that she didn’t want him to see her poky flat with its second-hand furnishings. Art therapists, even ones who’d had significant successes, didn’t make much money.

She was proud of her flat, but she knew it would seem pathetic to him—the little life she’d built for herself—compared with what he had. What he’d been prepared to offer her.

Stefano made no comment, merely shrugged one shoulder before gesturing for her to lead the way down the cramped hallway.

Out in the street, traffic blared along with the stereo systems propped in windows, and there was an overwhelming smell of greasy kebab on the air.

Allegra smiled brightly. ‘Where to? We could walk …’

Stupid, she told herself. Stefano would have made reservations at a place far from here.

‘I have a car.’ He gestured to a black luxury car idling at the kerb. A few passers-by were giving it curious—and envious—looks as the driver hopped out and opened the back door for them.

‘I hope you don’t mind …?’ Stefano asked politely. ‘If you wanted to eat more locally—’

‘No,’ Allegra hastened to assure him, ‘this is fine.’

It was more than fine. It was amazing. She’d spent the last seven years in severely squeezed circumstances and she’d forgotten that this was the kind of life she’d once been accustomed to. The kind of life Stefano had always known.

‘Thank you for giving me a lift,’ she said stiffly as the car pulled away from the kerb. ‘I could have taken a cab, met you at the restaurant.’

‘Yes,’ Stefano agreed, his voice pleasant and mild, ‘you could have.’

Allegra was conscious of the enclosed space, the forced intimacy of their shared seat, thighs and shoulders brushing, touching. She sneaked a glance at Stefano, saw the clean, strong lines of his cheek, his jaw, and curled her fingers into a fist in her lap.

‘So why don’t you tell me about the child in need of therapy?’ she said after a moment when the only sounds had been the muted traffic from outside and their own breathing.

‘Let’s wait until we get to the restaurant,’ Stefano replied. ‘Then we won’t be interrupted.’

Allegra nodded. It made sense, but the silence that stretched between them was unnerving, and she didn’t even know why.

This wasn’t personal, she reminded herself. It was professional. Stefano was nothing more than another parent in desperate need of help for his child. As long as she remembered that …

‘Allegra,’ Stefano said softly. He smiled as he put one large hand on her leg. Her thigh. Allegra stared down at his fingers, tense, transfixed. ‘Relax.’

She realized how tense she was, coiled tightly, ready to strike or to flee. She smiled, tried to laugh, tried to relax, and failed at both. ‘I’m sorry, Stefano. This is just a bit strange for me.’

He smiled, his gaze flickering over her features. ‘Me too.’

‘Is it?’ she asked frankly, and his smile deepened.

‘Of course. But what’s important now, what has to be important, is Lucio.’

‘Lucio,’ Allegra repeated. His son. ‘Tell me about him.’

‘I will, soon.’ He gazed down at his own hand, her leg, as if suddenly aware of what he had done. How he’d touched her.

He didn’t move his hand, and the confines of the car suddenly seemed airless, tiny. Allegra couldn’t remember how to breathe. He has a son, she told herself, which means he has a wife.

Finally, with a little smile, he removed his hand and Allegra drew in a lungful of air. Had he always affected her that way, she wondered hazily, or was it new?

Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t.

They rode in silence for a quarter of an hour before the car pulled up to a luxury hotel on Piccadilly.

Stefano ushered her up the steps and through the doors and then, surprisingly, to a lift. They rode up in silence and when the lift doors opened Allegra gave a little gasp of pleasure, for they were at the top of the hotel and beyond the elegantly set tables and tall glass vases of creamy lilies, the whole of London’s skyline stretched enticingly to the dark horizon, spangled with lights, glittering with promise.

A waiter ushered them to the most private table, tucked in an alcove with long windows on either side of them. Allegra sat down, felt the weight of the heavy linen napkin as the waiter placed it in her lap.

‘Is this all right?’ Stefano asked and she smiled mischievously.

‘I suppose it will have to do.’

Stefano smiled back, his eyes glinting in the dim light, and for a moment they seemed complicit in their own little joke, their own world. It caused Allegra’s heart to skip two beats and a bubble of laughter to well up in her throat.

She felt the cares and worries that had been tightening like an iron band around her heart ease. They very nearly slipped away altogether and she let them go, even gave them a little push.

This could work, she told herself. It was working. They were interacting in a professional way, friendly and relaxed. Just as it should be.

Allegra took a sip of water. ‘Tell me, do you come to London often?’

‘Occasionally on business,’ Stefano replied, ‘although mainly I’ve been doing business in Belgium.’

‘Belgium? What’s there?’

He gave a little shrug. ‘That industrial machinery I told you about. Mining industry.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Very boring.’

‘Not to you, I suppose.’

‘No,’ he agreed, his expression darkening as if a shadow had passed briefly over him, ‘not to me.’

‘I don’t even know what made you interested in that,’ Allegra acknowledged ruefully. ‘I feel like I actually know very little about you.’ When they’d met all those years ago, he’d asked her questions about herself. She’d been happy to chatter on about all of her silly, girlish interests. He’d been happy to listen. She winced now at the memory.

And what had she known of him? He was from Rome; he owned his own company; he was rich and handsome and he had wanted her.

Or so she’d thought … until she’d realized that all he’d wanted was her social status, her family’s standing.

Not her, never her.

‘I suppose I thought you knew what was important,’ Stefano replied.

‘Like what?’

‘That I’d protect and provide for you,’ Stefano replied. He spoke calmly, easily even, and yet Allegra felt chilled.

He was the same, she realized with a sickening stab of disappointed longing. Protection. Provision. Those were what had mattered, what still mattered. Not love, respect, honesty, or even common interests, shared joys. Just the careful handling of an object. A possession … something bought and paid for. That wasn’t love, she thought, wondering why it mattered. Why she cared. That kind of love wasn’t real. It was worthless.

Why should she have thought—hoped—he’d changed? That kind of belief was the bedrock of a man’s soul. It didn’t change. It didn’t even crumble.

‘Yes,’ she murmured, taking another sip of water to ease the sudden dryness of her throat, ‘I knew that.’

‘Why don’t we look at the menu?’ Stefano suggested and there was a knowing gleam in his eye. Allegra had no doubt that he’d realized how dangerously deep the waters swirling between them had become, and he was steering them to safer, shallower eddies.

She glanced down at the menu, the elegant gold script, half of it in French, and swallowed a laugh.

Stefano glanced at her over the top of his menu. ‘You learned French in school, didn’t you?’

Allegra thought of the convent, the lessons she’d learned there. Silence. Submission. Subservience. ‘Schoolgirl stuff,’ she dismissed with a little smile, and stared back down at her menu. ‘What are langoustines?’

‘Lobster.’

‘Oh.’ She gave a little grimace; she’d never liked seafood. Stefano chuckled softly. ‘Perhaps we should have gone somewhere a bit less international.’ He perused the wine menu, adding carelessly, ‘You seem to have become rather English.’

Allegra didn’t know why she felt stung, except that it sounded like an insult. ‘I am half English,’ she reminded him and he glanced up at her, his eyes dark, fathomless.

‘Yes, but the girl I knew was Italian to her core … or so I thought.’

Allegra put down her menu. ‘I thought we agreed that we didn’t know each other very well back then. And anyway, we’re different people now.’

‘Absolutely.’ Stefano put down his own menu. ‘Have you decided?’

‘Yes. I’ll have the steak.’

‘And to start?’

‘The herb salad.’ She pressed her lips together, because she knew he was going to order for her and it irritated her. Another way of providing, she thought sardonically, gazing out of the window.

The waiter, aware of the precise second they’d put down their menus, came to the table.

As Allegra had thought, Stefano ordered for both of them.

‘How would madam like the steak done?’

Stefano began to speak and Allegra interjected frostily, ‘Mademoiselle would like it medium rare.’

There was a moment of surprised silence and Allegra realized she’d just spoken like a child.

Acted like one.

Felt like one.

Why did Stefano do that to her? she wondered wearily. Why did she allow him to? Even now, when she was here as a professional, when he wanted her for her expert services?

‘If you wanted to order for yourself,’ Stefano said mildly once the waiter had gone, ‘you could have told me.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Allegra dismissed firmly, although Stefano still looked unconvinced. ‘Why don’t we talk about Lucio now?’ she suggested. No more raking up the past, the memories swirling about like fallen leaves around them. ‘He’s your son?’

Stefano looked genuinely startled. ‘No, he’s not. I don’t have a son, Allegra.’ He paused, and she thought she saw something flicker in his eyes—that darkness again, a glimpse of his soul. Then he continued, ‘I’m not married.’

‘I see.’ She took a sip of water and tried to frame her thoughts. Her feelings. Relief was the overwhelming emotion, and on its heels came annoyance for she’d no business being relieved about Stefano’s single status. ‘I just assumed,’ she explained. ‘Most adults who come to me are the parents of the child in question.’

‘Understandable,’ Stefano replied, ‘and in truth Lucio is like a son to me. A nephew, at the very least. His mother, Bianca, is my housekeeper.’

And mistress? Allegra wondered. She pressed her lips together to stop herself from voicing her suspicion aloud, knowing just how petty and petulant she would sound. ‘I see.’

Stefano smiled although there was a hardness in his eyes. ‘You probably see quite a lot that isn’t there,’ he replied, and Allegra blushed. ‘But, in fact, Lucio and Bianca are like family to me. Bianca’s father, Matteo …’ He stopped, shrugged. ‘The relevant details are that Lucio’s father, Enzo, died nine months ago in a tractor accident. He was the groundskeeper for my villa in Abruzzo. After his death, Lucio began to lose his speech. Within a month of the accident he stopped speaking completely. He hasn’t …’ He paused, his expression darkening, eyes shadowed with painful memory.

‘He’s retreated into his own world,’ Allegra surmised softly. ‘I’ve seen it before, when children experience a sudden and severe trauma. Sometimes the easiest way of coping is by not coping at all. Just existing without feeling.’

‘Yes,’ Stefano said, and Allegra heard ragged relief in his voice. ‘That’s just what he’s done. No one can reach him, not even his own mother. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t throw tantrums …’ He shrugged helplessly, hands spread wide. ‘He doesn’t do anything, or even seem to feel anything.’

Allegra nodded. ‘And you’ve tried therapies before this, I presume? If this has been going on for nine months?’

‘He’s been evaluated,’ Stefano explained heavily. ‘Although not as quickly as he should have been.’ Regret turned his voice harsh. ‘At the time of his father’s accident, Lucio wasn’t even four years old. He was a quiet boy as it was, and so his condition went undetected. Bianca had taken him to a grief counsellor, who said that some withdrawal was a normal sign of grieving.’ Stefano’s head was bowed and Allegra felt a tightening pang of sympathy for him and his situation. It was so familiar from her work, but it always hurt. Always.

‘Then,’ Stefano continued, ‘as he began to lose speech, develop certain behaviours, the counsellor recommended he be evaluated. When he was, he was diagnosed with pervasive developmental disorder.’

‘Autism,’ Allegra finished quietly and Stefano nodded. ‘What types of behaviours was he exhibiting?’

‘You can look at his case notes, of course, but the most obvious one was lack of speech or eye contact. Methodical, or repetitive, play. Abnormal level of sustained concentration, resistance to cuddling or physical contact.’ Stefano recited the litany of symptoms in a flat voice and Allegra could imagine how he—and Lucio’s mother—had felt when they’d heard the doctor. No one wanted to hear the news that their child was flawed in some way, especially when the problems associated with autism were not easily treated.

The waiter came with their first courses and they spent a few moments eating, both grateful for the slight respite. When their plates had been cleared, Stefano continued.

‘He was first diagnosed with autism a few months ago but Bianca resisted. She felt certain that Lucio’s behaviour stemmed from grief rather than a disorder, and I feel the same way.’

Allegra took a sip of water. ‘I presume it has been explained to you,’ she said gently, ‘that the symptoms associated with autism often manifest themselves at Lucio’s age.’

‘Yes, of course, but right around the time his father died? It’s too much of a coincidence.’

‘It also doesn’t make sense for Lucio to lose speech and develop other worrisome behaviours months after a trauma,’ Allegra countered, her voice steady and quiet. ‘Especially at such a young age.’

‘Are you trying to tell me you think he’s autistic?’ Stefano demanded.

‘It’s a possibility,’ Allegra replied. ‘A misdiagnosis among professionals is rare, Stefano. Psychiatrists aren’t just slapping a label on a child without care or reason. They draw on extensive evaluation and data—’

‘I thought you’d had experience with a child who was misdiagnosed,’ Stefano replied coolly.

‘Yes, one. One child in hundreds, thousands. And it simply happened that he responded to art therapy, and I happened to be his art therapist.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not a miracle worker, Stefano. If you want to hire me to prove Lucio isn’t autistic, then I can give you no guarantees.’

‘I don’t expect guarantees,’ Stefano replied. ‘If, after extensive work, you come to the same conclusion as the other medical professionals, then Bianca and I will have no choice but to accept it. However, before that time, I want to give Lucio another chance to heal. For the last several months, the doctors involved have been treating him for autism. What if his real problem is grief?’ He lifted his bleak gaze to meet hers and Allegra felt a wave of something unfamiliar, something tender, sweep over her.

‘It is possible,’ she allowed, ‘and I couldn’t really say any more until I saw his case notes. Why do you think art therapy in particular might help Lucio?’

‘He always loved to draw,’ Stefano said with a little smile. ‘I have a dozen thirty-second masterpieces by my desk. And while I’ll admit I was sceptical with the idea of creative therapy—’ he shrugged, his mouth quirking cynically ‘—at this point, I’m willing to try anything. Especially when I heard about your success with a similar case.’

‘I see.’ She appreciated his honesty, and it was no more than what most parents initially expressed. ‘So Lucio lives in Abruzzo?’

‘Yes, and I won’t move him. Bianca had to take him out of nursery because he couldn’t abide strange places any more. Regular trips to Milan or further afield would not be possible.’

‘So,’ Allegra surmised slowly, ‘you need an art therapist—me—to come to Abruzzo.’

‘Yes, to live there,’ Stefano completed without a flicker. ‘For at least a few months initially, but ideally …’ he paused ‘… as long as it takes.’

He poured them both wine from the bottle the waiter had uncorked and left on the side of the table. Allegra took a sip, letting the velvety-smooth liquid coat her throat and burn in her belly.

Several months in Abruzzo. With Stefano.

Professional.

‘That’s quite a commitment,’ she said at last.

‘Yes. I imagine you have some cases you’d need to deal with, business that would have to be wrapped up. I’m returning to London in a fortnight. You could be ready by then?’ There was a slight lilt to his voice, but Allegra knew it wasn’t really a question.

Stefano wasn’t even asking her to come to Abruzzo. He was expecting her. Telling her.

As high-handed as ever, she thought. As arrogant and presumptuous as he’d been when he’d patted her on the head and told her to go to bed.

Dream of me.

What more is there?

She shook her head, a tiny movement, but one Stefano still noticed. ‘Allegra?’ he queried softly. ‘Two weeks surely is enough to do what you need to do here?’

Questions clamoured in her throat. ‘What if I can’t come to Abruzzo, Stefano?’ she asked, and heard the needling challenge in her voice. ‘What if I say no?’

Stefano was silent, his eyes blazing into hers for a long, heated moment. ‘I didn’t think,’ he said finally, quietly, enunciating every syllable with chilling precision, ‘that you would allow the past, our past, to threaten the future of an innocent child.’

Allegra’s face flushed with anger. ‘This isn’t about the past, Stefano! It’s about the present, and my professional life. I’m not your star-struck little fiancée to order about at will. I’m a qualified therapist, a professional you are seeking to contract.’ She broke off, letting her breath out sharply.

An all too knowing smile flickered across Stefano’s face and died. ‘Are you sure it’s not about the past, Allegra?’ he asked softly, and at that moment Allegra wasn’t.

Their second courses arrived, and she looked down at her succulent steak with absolutely no appetite.

‘Let’s eat,’ Stefano suggested. ‘You can take the time to consider any more questions you might have regarding this situation. I’m happy to answer them.’

‘Will you be in Abruzzo for the entire time?’ Allegra asked abruptly. Stefano stilled, and she felt exposed, as if she’d revealed something too intimate by that simple question.

Perhaps she had.

‘No,’ he answered after a moment. ‘I’ll divide my time between Abruzzo and Rome. You’ll deal mostly with Lucio’s mother, Bianca, although, of course, I will continue to take an interest.’

‘I see.’ Relief and disappointment coursed through her, each emotion irritating in its complexity.

They ate then and Allegra found, a bit to her annoyance, that her appetite had returned and the steak was delicious.

By the time their meal was finished, she felt her calm, cool, impersonal demeanour return. She was grateful for it; it gave her armour. ‘I’ll need to see Lucio’s case notes, of course,’ she said as the waiter took their plates. ‘And speak to Dr Speri, and anyone else who has interacted with him.’

‘Of course.’

Allegra glanced at Stefano and saw, despite his carefully neutral expression, the hope in the brightness of his eyes, the determined, drawn line of his mouth. ‘I’m not a miracle worker, Stefano,’ she reminded him gently. ‘I may be no help at all. As I said before, you have to contend with the possibility that Lucio is indeed autistic.’

A muscle bunched in Stefano’s jaw and he gave a little shrug. ‘Just do your job, Allegra,’ he said, ‘and I’ll do mine.’

Allegra nodded, slightly stung by his tone, although she knew she shouldn’t be. ‘I’ll need a few days to look over all the material on Lucio’s case,’ she said after a moment. ‘I’ll let you know my decision by the end of this week.’

‘Wednesday.’

She wanted to protest, felt a cry clamour up her throat, straight from her gut, her heart. She wanted to tell him he couldn’t order her around her any more, that she knew—she knew what kind of man he was.

Yet she pressed her lips against such useless retorts. The past was forgotten. She just seemed to keep having to forget it.

Besides, Stefano’s behaviour was only that of a concerned adult. He wanted answers, and he wanted them quickly.

‘Wednesday,’ she repeated with a small, brisk nod. ‘I’ll do my best, Stefano, but there is no point rushing me. You’re asking a lot of me, you realize, to give up my entire life in London for an extended period—’

‘I thought you’d appreciate a professional challenge,’ Stefano countered. ‘And a few months is hardly a long time, Allegra. It’s not seven years.’

She glanced at him sharply, wondering what he meant by such a comment. She didn’t feel like asking. She didn’t want to fight.

‘Even so, this is a decision which should be considered carefully on both sides. As you reminded me yourself, it’s Lucio we have to consider foremost.’

‘Of course.’ He spoke as if it were assumed, automatic. As if he hadn’t considered anything else, hadn’t for one second been caught up in the emotions that Allegra felt swirling around and through her, making her think, wonder.

Remember.

‘Will you be having dessert?’ The waiter had come to their table, and they ordered dessert, a chocolate gateau for Stefano and a sticky toffee pudding for her. When the waiter had gone and the menus were cleared Stefano faced her again, brisk and businesslike.

‘I’ll ring you on Wednesday, then.’

‘Yes, fine.’ Allegra licked her lips, felt the deepening pang of doubt. ‘Stefano, perhaps you should consider another art therapist. There are plenty available, and even though the past is forgotten, it still exists.’ She toyed with her fork, unable to quite meet his eyes as she confessed quietly, ‘It could be difficult at times for both of us.’

Stefano was silent long enough for Allegra to look up and meet his knowing gaze.

‘There isn’t another art therapist who has the experience you do,’ he replied, his tone flat and final. ‘One who is also Italian, who has the ability and willingness to spend several months in a rather remote place.’

‘You’re assuming rather a lot—’ Allegra interjected and Stefano smiled, although it was a gesture tinged with sorrow.

‘Am I? The girl I knew would have done anything—gone anywhere—to help someone in need. But perhaps you’ve changed.’

‘It’s not that simple, Stefano,’ Allegra replied. She wouldn’t be manipulated or emotionally blackmailed. She wouldn’t let Stefano use those tactics on her. Not now. Not again.