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‘I have to. I’m your boss, Marco! I can’t just sleep with you—’
‘Who said anything about sleeping? I think we were both wide awake just then. And don’t even try and tell me you didn’t enjoy it.’
She didn’t. She wasn’t a liar, and he’d only laugh at her anyway.
‘It was a mistake,’ she said, knowing instantly that he’d argue, but he didn’t. Instead he bent his head and kissed her tenderly, nearly trashing her resolve.
‘Yes. It was. You deserved better than a—’ He broke off, and she could almost see him rearranging the words in his mouth. ‘I should have taken you for dinner, taken you back to my house and made love to you slowly, for hours. Explored every part of you, kissed every inch of your skin, made you come for me again and again and again—’
‘It would still have been a mistake,’ she said, her insides weeping at the thought of him loving her so thoroughly, so tenderly, so meticulously. ‘We can’t do this, Marco. I agree we have to find a way to work together without fighting, but this isn’t it. This isn’t the way. We can’t do it again.’
She stood motionless, and after a second or two his arms dropped and he stepped back, glanced down at his ripped shirt with a rueful smile, shrugged and opened the door.
‘I’m sorry. Not for doing it. I can’t regret that. But if that’s what you want it won’t happen again, I promise you. Goodnight, Alice.’
And with that he walked out, headed through the door at the end and left her standing there wondering what on earth she’d done, and why it suddenly felt as if, by letting him go, she’d thrown away a chance at happiness that she hadn’t even known was there...
CHAPTER ONE (#u09fe4294-bb13-53a1-9ec5-2f530c80ba72)
Five weeks later...
‘DO YOU WANT me to close?’
‘What, because you imagine you can do it better than me?’
His eyes crinkled above his mask. ‘Because I know I can do it better than you,’ he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. It was odd, but since that night five weeks ago their sparring had changed to a mutual and much more gentle teasing, almost as if they’d called a truce and were carefully tiptoeing around each other’s feelings. Even his flirting had toned down, which was a shame. She almost missed it, but she knew why he’d done it. It was too dangerous now, after what had happened. It would be fanning the flames of a fire that had to be allowed to die. A fire that hadn’t, sadly, burned itself out.
‘You’re so arrogant,’ she said mildly, stepping away and stripping off her gloves. She tried so hard not to smile, but he just chuckled as if he could see it and held out his hand to the scrub nurse.
‘Three-oh Prolene, please,’ he said, and the nurse placed the suture in his hand and he dropped his eyes and began meticulously drawing the wound edges together, layer by layer.
He was right, he was better than her at suturing, but only by a hair and she had a feeling it was a simple matter of Italian pride that prevented him from failing. And not to be better than her would be failure in his eyes.
She dragged her gaze away. She couldn’t watch him, couldn’t watch those sensitive, intelligent hands delicately repairing the boy’s abdomen. So skilful. So focused. Just as they’d been on her body—
‘I’ll go and talk to his parents.’
‘OK. Just don’t take all the credit.’
‘Only where it’s due.’
She turned away, stripped off her mask and hat and gown and went to change. She would talk to Amil’s parents, tell them how it had gone, and then she had things to do, a patient to see, letters to write to parents, some results to review. She couldn’t just stand around looking at him simply because he was poetry in motion. Too dangerous. She was trying to keep her distance, and watching him wouldn’t help that at all.
And besides, there was something else she had to do. Something pressing. Something she’d never thought she’d need to do, and couldn’t quite believe. Couldn’t dare to believe.
She had to do a pregnancy test, because this morning she’d made herself a coffee and she’d been unable to drink it. She’d sipped it, but it had sat in her stomach like a rock and she’d had to rinse her mouth to get rid of the taste.
Maybe she’d just had too much coffee over the years and her body had started to rebel? But she was hungry, too, and although she was used to that, almost welcomed it because it was a good sign in her case, today she felt a little light-headed and woozy. And her periods, never as regular as clockwork, were an unreliable sign, but even so it had been a while.
So while he was working miracles on the child’s skin, she spoke to the boy’s parents, went to her locker, got out the test kit she’d bought on the way to work and went to the ladies’ loo.
It wouldn’t be positive. It couldn’t be. Her body didn’t do ovulation—couldn’t do it, because her ovaries were stupid.
PREGNANT
She stared at the wand for a good five minutes before she moved, her mind in freefall.
She was pregnant with Marco’s baby.
How? It couldn’t have happened. There was no way she could have conceived, and besides, he’d used a condom! But one of her nails had snagged her dress as she’d tugged it straight afterwards. Just a tiny jagged edge where she must have caught it on something. When she’d shredded his shirt and raked her nails across that strong, solid expanse of chest? Could that have been enough? And when she’d reached down and touched him right after that, helped him put the condom on, had her nail torn it maybe?
It seemed so unlikely—but what other explanation was there?
None. And, however it had happened, however unbelievable it was, it was definitely Marco’s baby, so she’d have to tell him, but how?
She closed her eyes, squeezing them hard against the well of mixed emotions, and pressed her hand over her mouth. How would he react? Would he be angry? She hoped not. Delighted? Unlikely. And then a chilling thought crossed her mind. Would he want her to keep it, or—?
No. She’d seen him with children. There was no way he’d want that. He was an Italian, and children were at the front and centre of their world. They were for her, too, which was why she’d chosen paediatrics, because it was the closest she’d thought she’d ever come to having children.
Until now. And now, totally unexpectedly, right out of the blue, she was having a baby. The thing she’d dreamed of and longed for and tried to put out of her mind ever since she’d been told it might never happen for her was happening, but she daren’t invest too much of herself in it because she knew there was a distinct possibility it might all go wrong, because it would be considered a high-risk pregnancy.
Pregnancy. A word she’d never thought she’d use in association with herself, certainly not now in her late thirties, and as she sifted through the blizzard of emotions whirling through her, she didn’t know how she felt about it.
Thrilled? Shocked? Or just plain terrified?
All of them. And add sick to that.
* * *
‘How’s Amil?’
‘Fine. He’s in Recovery, looking good. They’re moving him to PICU shortly and the anaesthetist is going to keep his pain relief topped up with the epidural so he should feel much better soon. I spoke to the parents again, filled them in a bit more.’ He cocked his head on one side. ‘How about you? Get your admin done?’
Admin? She hadn’t even been in her office. ‘Some of it,’ she said—which, if you counted finding out if you’d need maternity leave as ‘admin’, wasn’t a lie. ‘We need to talk.’
‘About a patient? I’ve got time now.’
‘No. Not about a patient. About—us.’
His right eyebrow climbed into his hair. ‘Us?’
She held his eyes silently and with a huge effort, and he shrugged.
‘Sure. How about this evening over dinner? I know a nice little Italian restaurant. They do great pasta.’
Pasta. Hunger and nausea warred, and hunger won. ‘That sounds good. What time? Do we need to book?’
‘No. Seven?’
She nodded. ‘I’ll meet you there.’
‘No. I’ll pick you up.’
‘You don’t know where I live.’
‘Yes, I do. I run past your house some mornings, and I’ve seen you coming out in your gym kit on your way to the hospital.’
He ran past her house? Why had she never seen him? Or had she, maybe, once or twice, and not realised who he was? There were plenty of runners in the morning. She often saw them. He must be one of them.
‘So—shall I come for you at ten to seven? The restaurant’s not far from you, it’ll only take a few minutes to get there on foot.’
‘Ten to seven is fine. Now I need to go and make some calls and write a couple of letters. I’ll see you later.’
* * *
He didn’t see much of her for the rest of the day, which was just as well because he didn’t know what to think and she’d only distract him. She always distracted him, unless he was operating. Then he was focused, but otherwise...
They should never have done what they did at the gala. Not that he regretted it, not a bit, and things between them had been easier since, in a way. She’d been less on his case about everything, but he wanted more than they’d had that night, much more, and he knew she didn’t. She’d made that perfectly clear, and he had to respect that, but the memories were playing hell with his sleep and he kept imagining her with him, sharing his bed, sharing his house—sharing his life? Never going to happen, he’d told himself, and now this.
This wanting to talk to him about ‘us’. What ‘us’? Was there going to be an ‘us’?
It drove him crazy for the rest of the day, so it was a good job he was busy checking on his post-op patients, ending with Amil Khan in PICU, and he spent a long time talking to the boy’s parents about his condition going forward. One of Theo Hawkwood’s pro bono cases, the boy had Crohn’s disease, and so far he hadn’t been in remission. Maybe they could turn it round for him at last, and this op to remove a section of badly damaged bowel had at least given him a chance of recovery. And he hadn’t needed a stoma, so he wouldn’t need a bag, which was good news.
It was after six before he left them, and he ran home, showered rapidly and got to her house a minute late. She opened her door and for once didn’t comment on his timekeeping. And she looked—nervous? Why? If she was going to suggest they had an affair, he was more than willing. And they were working better together, so it wasn’t that...
‘Ready?’
She nodded, and he stepped back and held open the little gate at the end of her path, then fell into step beside her as they walked into the centre and turned down a narrow, cobbled street, and as they walked he told her a little about the restaurant.
‘This place is a gem. I found it when I first moved here seventeen years ago, and it’s still run by the same family, but the son’s taken over and he’s every bit as good as his father. I eat here often because the food’s healthy and it’s delicious and it reminds me of home.’
‘I’m surprised we didn’t have to book if it’s that good.’
‘They were expecting me tonight anyway. Here we are.’
He opened the door and held it for her, and as she walked in she hesitated and he nearly bumped into her.
‘Are you OK?’
She nodded, her pale hair bobbing brightly in the atmospheric lighting. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’
No, she wasn’t, but he couldn’t work out why and then he didn’t have time because the old man was walking towards him with a beaming smile, addressing him by name as he always did, showing them to their table, taking her coat, telling them about the specials.
‘Alice?’
‘I just want something simple,’ she said quickly. ‘Something fairly plain and light.’
‘My son cooks a wonderful fish linguine,’ Renzo said. ‘That’s light and delicate with a touch of fresh chilli.’
‘Just a touch?’
‘I can ask him to put less.’
She nodded. ‘Thank you. And could I have some iced water, please?’
‘I’ll have the same. It’s a great dish. And a glass of house white, Renzo. Grazie mille.’
He watched Renzo walk away, then propped his elbows on the table and searched her eyes, his patience finally at an end. ‘So—this “us” you wanted to talk about...’
* * *
She wasn’t sure she did. Not now, not here where he had friends. And she wasn’t sure the restaurant was a great idea for another reason, either. One she hadn’t even thought of, stupidly.
‘Alice?’
She’d looked down, knotting her hands on the edge of the table, unsure how she felt, but now she made herself look up and meet his searching brown eyes. ‘It’s about what—happened.’
‘The gala.’
She nodded and swallowed. ‘I—um—it seems it’s had...’
‘Had...?’
She dropped her eyes again, unable to hold that searching gaze while she groped for the word. ‘Consequences,’ she said at last, and held her breath.
He said nothing. Not for at least thirty seconds, maybe even a minute. Then he reached out slowly, tipped up her face with gentle fingers and gave her a slightly bemused smile.
‘You’re pregnant?’ he mouthed.
She nodded. ‘Yes. Apparently I am.’
He leant forward, his voice low. ‘But—how? I was careful.’
‘I know. I’m not sure. I might have broken a nail when I—when I ripped your shirt. Maybe that...’
‘Your nail? But...’
She could see him scrolling through what they’d done in those few frantic minutes, and saw the moment the light dawned.
He swore softly in Italian, then took her hands in his and held them firmly. ‘I am so sorry. I never meant that to happen, but of course it changes everything.’
‘Everything?’
‘Sì. Because we’re definitely an “us” now. I can’t walk away from this.’
‘But it may not even—’
They were interrupted by the arrival of the steaming, fragrant linguine. Renzo set a plate down in front of Alice, and as he turned away she felt her colour drain.
