An Enticing Proposal

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‘What, in the name of all that’s holy, have my mistresses to do with Lucia?’

It was Paige’s turn for bewilderment—only that was too weak a word. ‘Flabbergasted’ fitted better. She stared at him, carefully controlling a lower jaw which seemed inclined to drop to an open-mouthed gape of disbelief. She wanted to shake him—pummel him—felt her fingers tingle with an itch to belt some sense into him, but it was none of her business how he ran his life.

‘I’ve got patients to see,’ she muttered, turning away from him and striding down the road. He caught up in two paces, so she let him have a short blast of the anger churning inside her. ‘And if you don’t understand how a young sensitive woman like Lucia would view your behaviour—would suffer enormous anguish over it—then I’m certainly not wasting my breath telling you.’

They walked in silence for a few minutes, then he said, ‘OK, so she’s pregnant. Let’s forget the other nonsense and proceed from there. I know I reacted badly to that news. Anyone would.’

Another mind-boggling concept—and one she had to refute.

‘Not in Australia!’ Again she stopped and faced him, wondering how a man who looked so good could be so shallow and fickle and downright stupid. ‘Over here, prospective fathers are usually delighted to receive the news that their wives are pregnant. Most even put on a show of concern for them.’

His frown drew his eyebrows together in a slightly satanic manner.

‘Prospective fathers? What does the reaction of prospective fathers have to do with me?’

Paige shook her head. First a fairytale prince, now fantasy land! Did this man know nothing about the process of reproduction? Or was he assuming the child wasn’t his?

‘Lucia is eighteen weeks pregnant,’ she said carefully, wondering if, in spite of his beautifully correct use of English, he didn’t understand it as well as she’d assumed. ‘Given the date of your wedding, I would say she became pregnant in the early days of your honeymoon.’

It was his turn to do the flabbergasted act.

‘My wedding? My honeymoon? You think Lucia is my wife? That it was me she ran away from?’

Only he wasn’t flabbergasted at all. He was laughing, his head thrown back and the deep rumbles of sound echoing up into the trees.

‘Well, if you’re not her husband, who are you?’ Paige asked the question crossly, cutting across his mirth, shaken by this turn of events and by the effect of his glee on her already stretched nerves.

‘I am Marco,’ he said, with a funny little bow. ‘Lucia’s loving and long-suffering brother. And knowing that, Miss Morgan, shall we start again?’

He held out his hand in a formal gesture and, reluctantly, she took it.

‘It’s Paige, not Miss Morgan,’ she said, wondering where her voice had gone, leaving the words to falter out in a breathless undertone.

‘Now we are friends,’ he announced with complete assurance. He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. ‘Already I’ve delayed you so first we visit your patients, then we talk about Lucia, her marriage, her husband, her pregnancy and her flight. For the moment, it is enough to have seen her and know she is safe.’

Paige tried to think of some objection, considered removing her hand from the warm place where it lay—asserting her independence—but her mind had fled back to the fantasy land and it was only with a strenuous effort of will that she managed to dredge up one weak objection to his plan.

‘You can walk with me but you can’t visit my patients.’

He cocked his head to one side as he looked down at her.

‘They would not like a visit from a prince?’

His lips teased into a smile, and she shook her head, although she knew the three women she was about to see would all revel in a visit from a prince, no matter how ancient or meaningless his title was. All three were housebound and anything out of the usual could provide them with something to think and talk about for weeks to come.

‘These are medical visits,’ she said primly, not wanting to say no outright, but aware of the ethical considerations of taking strangers into her patients’ homes.

‘So a doctor could accompany you?’ he asked. ‘Even a visiting doctor?’

Her hand was feeling increasingly comfortable, and the close proximity of his body was creating havoc with her senses, so she didn’t place any importance on his questions, assuming he was making conversation. She struggled to keep her end of it going so he wouldn’t guess at her thoughts and feelings.

‘Of course, if the patients agreed to see him.’

‘Well, that is arranged,’ he said, satisfaction purring in the deep tones of his voice. ‘You will say I wish to see Australian medicine while in your country and ask if they will allow me in.’

She pulled her hand away and tucked it out of temptation’s reach in the pocket of her jacket.

‘I can’t pretend you’re a doctor just to get you inside a few Australian homes, however interested you may be. And why should you be interested anyway? The health service clients are poor people, not only poor financially but some are lacking the skills necessary to survive without help. This is not typical Australia you’d be seeing, and I don’t know that it’s right to put them…on display, I suppose, for you or anyone else.’

He didn’t reply immediately, but frowned off into the distance as if trying to work out his answer. Or perhaps thinking in Italian and translating into English. She looked at the strong profile, the dark hair brushed back but with one lock escaping control to fall across his temple.

She was glad he wasn’t married to Lucia!

Stupid thought!

‘We have poor people in Italy as well,’ he said, cutting into her self-castigation. ‘And those who are inadequately equipped in living skills as well. I would not judge your country on what I see, but, with that said, shouldn’t a country be judged on how it treats these very people? How it provides support so they can live fulfilling and worthwhile lives?’

She had to smile, having used the same argument so often herself.

‘I agree,’ she conceded, ‘but it still doesn’t make you a doctor.’

She walked on, because smiling at him—and having him smile back—had turned out to be a very bad idea.

‘But I am a doctor,’ he announced, catching up with her in three long strides and falling into step again.

Marco a doctor?

She glanced at him, at the erect carriage, the aristocratic head, and said, ‘Rubbish! You’re a prince. Mr Benelli said so, and even a girl from the back blocks of New South Wales can recognise royalty when she sees it!’

She spoke lightly, jokingly, although she half meant every word.

‘The “prince” is a an old title handed down through my family—inescapable if one is the eldest son—but it isn’t a job description, Paige Morgan, any more than “Miss” describes the work you do.’

‘You are a doctor?’

Disbelief ran riot through the question, but again he bowed just slightly in reply.

‘I am,’ he said. ‘Now, should we continue this delightful chat here on the street or walk on to visit your patients?’

She walked on, remembering Lucia’s words… ‘Marco always gets his way.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘MY FIRST patient lives in here,’ Paige said, stopping in front of a small bungalow tucked well back from the road and almost hidden behind huge cotoneaster bushes which had been allowed to run wild.

‘Sleeping Beauty, presumably,’ Marco remarked, and Paige glanced swiftly at him, recalling how often she’d had that thought herself.

‘Almost,’ she said. ‘Mrs Bevan was fine up until five years ago when her husband fell ill. She then began to feel all the classic symptoms of panic attacks—accelerated heart rate, flushing, faintness, perspiring heavily—usually when the doctor called. By the time Mr Bevan died a year later, she was unable to leave the house without being overcome by these sensations—often fainting before she reached the gate.’

Paige pushed through the same gate as she spoke and looked around as she walked up the path. Time to get the Scouts here again to do some subtle trimming of the trees.

‘Was she diagnosed as agoraphobic?’ Marco asked. ‘If so, she may not wish to see me. I will understand.’

Paige was still coming to terms with his apparent interest. This was the same man who’d arrogantly demanded access to his sister earlier—who’d wanted nothing more than to be out of this town and on his way back to his home country. Now he was walking the back streets of the town with Paige—and offering to wait outside.

‘She hasn’t seen a psychiatrist if you feel that’s required for official diagnosis. And I don’t think she’ll object to your visit. She’s more secure in her own home these days and even welcomes company—it’s going beyond the garden gate which induces the anxiety.’

‘And her treatment?’ Marco pursued as Paige lifted her hand to ring the bell.

She shrugged one shoulder, uncomfortable with admitting that in this respect she’d failed.

‘She’s not receiving any—’ The explanation was cut short by the door opening as far as the safety chain would allow.

‘Hi, Mrs Bevan. It’s Paige and I’ve someone with me, a visiting doctor from Italy. Would you like him to come in or shall I ask him to wait outside?’

‘Not the prince?’ Mrs Bevan responded in a breathless voice. ‘Oh, my, oh, my!’

Paige could hear her fingers scrabbling against the wood, fiddling with the chain as she hurried to unlatch it—apparently anxious to provide a royal welcome.

‘Yes, yes, bring him in. Mabel called on her way back from the centre and told me he was visiting you.’ Mrs Bevan must have freed the chain at last for she flung open the door and all but bowed Marco into the hall. ‘Said he came in such a lovely car and with a courtier and all, she said.’

Marco seemed to accept this evidence of grandeur with equanimity, standing back and indicating that Paige should go ahead, but she was rooted to the top step, praying Mrs Bevan wouldn’t repeat any of the other things Mabel had told her—particularly about Paige being in need of a man.

A light touch on her shoulder propelled her forward—out of touching range—gabbling explanations and excuses no one in their right mind would understand. Not that Mrs Bevan had noticed. Oh, no, she was far too busy gazing in awe at her visitor, standing, her hands clasped in front of her apron, and staring at him as if he’d arrived clad in ermine robes—or whatever princes traditionally clad themselves in—complete with crown and sceptre.

Paige took control of herself and Mrs Bevan. She guided her patient to a chair, indicating to the visitor to take another, then looked around, wondering what she’d done with her bag. Perhaps not quite in control!

Marco guessed what she was seeking and held up the bag he’d carried, amused by her confusion and surprised by the older woman’s reaction to his title. Not that he hadn’t experienced it before. Even at home, where old titles were common, the older people—those who knew—still treated him as something special. But here in egalitarian Australia?

He introduced himself to their hostess and watched as Paige took out a small sphygmomanometer from the bag and wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around Mrs Bevan’s arm.

‘You have a problem with your blood pressure?’ he asked the patient.

‘It’s old age,’ she responded. ‘Everything breaking down, and what does work usually hurts. I guess it will happen even to princes when they get old.’

‘That’s telling you,’ Paige whispered to him, jotting down her findings on a card and tucking the equipment back into the bag. She smiled at her patient. ‘Your blood pressure is fine today, Mrs B. You’ve obviously been taking the tablets. Now, what about exercise? Are you walking in the garden each day?’

Mrs Bevan beamed, first at Paige, then at Marco and said, as proudly as a child revealing a good mark at school, ‘Ten times in the morning and another ten in the afternoon.’

‘That’s grand,’ Paige responded, while Marco considered the bungalow’s size and wondered if twenty might not have been a better target. ‘Perhaps you could build it up to twelve this week. Or do a few quick turns after dinner as well.’

He nodded his head in acknowledgment that their thoughts were in tandem, realising that the nurse was treading very carefully with this particular patient.

While he chatted to Mrs Bevan, Paige checked some small bottles which were lined up on a bench at the end of the room, then turned back to announce they should be on their way.

‘You’ve enough tablets to last until next week, but if you think of anything you need, give me a call,’ she said as she tucked some slips of paper into her pocket. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Then, to Marco’s astonishment, she bent and kissed the wrinkled cheek, before heading towards the door. He followed, so many questions flung up by this routine visit that he hoped the next patient lived a long way down the road.

‘Is she on some form of anti-anxiety medication?’ he asked as they made their way to the gate. ‘Under a psychiatrist? Do you encourage her to go out? Have you used behaviour therapies at all to get her over the initial shock of being out of her own environment? What treatment is considered appropriate over here?’

She must have been surprised by his interest for she stopped abruptly and he ran into her—felt the softness of her body against his chest.

He put a hand on her shoulder to steady them both, told himself it was the softness of her jacket he’d felt, and why should he notice anyway? All women had soft bodies. She dodged away from his hand and half turned to face him.

‘The answer to all but the last of your questions is no. Yes, all of those treatments are used here, but you have to remember that most people suffering from anxiety disorders are young, with the mean onset in the early twenties. The seriousness of the disorder necessitates drugs for many people and psychiatrists use the often harsh treatment judged necessary to alter behaviour because of a patient’s youth and the fact that he or she should have a long and productive life ahead of them. Even then many refuse treatment, being unable to admit to illness by taking drugs or visiting a specialist.’

He considered this and shook his head.

‘So Mrs Bevan’s age means you don’t bother treating her?’ he demanded, angry for the gentle old woman who’d reminded him of his grandmother.

Paige waved a hand, indicating they should walk and talk, and he wondered if she, like he, thought better when her body was in motion. Following a pace behind her through the gate, his mind clipped the two words together in a different frame and decided her body in motion was a most attractive sight. In fact, the impression of slimness was misleading as she undoubtedly had curves in all the right places. Plump curve of hips tapering into a tiny waist he could perhaps span with his hands—not that he could see her waist under the bulky jacket, but he’d noticed earlier—

‘Pardon?’

She turned her head and smiled at him—that warm and genuine smile he’d observed and admired earlier.

‘I’ve just produced a perfect explanation for not treating Mrs Bevan—or at least treating her in a way that’s beyond the parameters of so-called normal therapy—and you haven’t heard a word of it. Are you worrying about Lucia?’

Her brows, a darker gold than her hair, twitched together, and when he answered with a slight negative movement of his head she provided him with another excuse for his inattention.

‘You must be tired,’ she said. ‘And here I am dragging you all over town, visiting the elderly.’

He shook his head again, denying tiredness but glad he didn’t have to explain the real cause of his distraction.

She walked on and he caught up with her.

‘I was saying we’ve tackled Mrs Bevan differently, encouraging her to have people in, to accept visitors. At first it was difficult as her husband’s illness had isolated her, but as you saw today even a stranger didn’t upset her unduly. And I’ve got her exercising in the yard. She’s keen on birds, and always knows where the nests are in her garden. I live in hope that one day a bird will tempt her beyond the gate, and when she’s done it once, it might become easier.’

‘And have you constructed the nest of the bird beyond her boundary yet and trained the bird to fly above her towards the gate?’