The Italian GP's Bride

“Call me,” Orlando said, his voice soft. He raised her hand to his mouth.

The brush of his lips against her skin was momentary. It was a mere courtesy, Eleanor knew—the Italian way of doing things. But there was heat in his eyes. Heat matched by the flicker of desire rising up her spine.

Calling him would be way too dangerous for her peace of mind, but she wasn’t going to argue over it now. Instead she smiled politely.

“Thank you for the lift, Dottore de Luca.”

“Orlando,” he corrected. “Prego.” He smiled, sketched a bow, ran lightly down the steps to his car and drove off….

Dear Reader,

I’ve always thought that the story behind those “lost loves” radio spots—where the presenter tries to put people back in touch with each other—would be a fabulous idea for a book. I’d also been talking about “secret baby” books with some author friends. Supposing my heroine discovered that she was the secret baby, and the first step on the trail to discovering her secret family was hearing something on the radio?

And so the idea for Eleanor’s story began.

Then there’s the book’s setting. It goes without saying that Italian men are gorgeous. (And have gorgeous voices. I adore hearing a good tenor sing in Italian). I’ve always adored Italy, and I’ve always wanted to visit Pompeii. So this book was just begging to be set in Naples. Add a gorgeous Italian doctor, plenty of lattes and gelati, and we’re talking utter bliss.

It takes Eleanor and Orlando a little time to realize that they’re destined to be together—and they have a few weepy moments—but I hope you’ll enjoy their journey as much as I enjoyed writing it.

I’m always delighted to hear from readers, so do come and visit me at www.katehardy.com.

With love,

Kate Hardy

The Italian GP’s Bride

Kate Hardy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Fi, with much love

(and thanks for the asparagus!)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

‘IF THERE’S a doctor on the plane, please could you make yourself known to the flight attendants by switching on the light above your head.’

The announcement that every doctor secretly dreaded. Especially on a plane, where space was so tight that it was difficult to work. Eleanor knew that the crew were trained in basic life support, so the problem was obviously something more complicated than that. They needed her help—her knowledge, her experience in emergency medicine. She switched on her light, and one of the flight attendants came over to her.

‘One of our passengers has collapsed. Would you be able to take a look at her, please?’ she asked in a low voice.

‘Of course,’ Eleanor said, keeping her voice equally low. She knew some people wouldn’t want to get involved, but she’d never stand by and leave someone needing medical help. And in a way this was going to help her, too: instead of spending the whole of the flight from London to Naples wondering just what she was letting herself in for and worrying that maybe she wasn’t doing the right thing, she had something to keep her mind occupied.

‘Oh—do you have any identification?’ The flight attendant swallowed hard. ‘Sorry, I should’ve asked you that first.’

‘No problem,’ Eleanor said. Either the flight attendant was new to the job, or the emergency was something that had thrown her. Eleanor really hoped it was the former. The cramped aisle of an aeroplane, several thousand feet up in the air and half an hour from an ambulance wasn’t the ideal place to deal with something major. ‘You need proof that I’m a qualified doctor.’ Luckily she kept her hospital ID card in her credit-card holder. She fished it out and showed it to the flight attendant, who looked relieved.

‘Would you come this way, please, Dr Forrest? One of my colleagues is fetching the emergency kit.’

Eleanor followed her up the aisle to where a middle-aged, plump woman was slumped in her seat. A quick check told her that the patient wasn’t breathing and didn’t have a pulse. She needed to get the woman flat and start CPR now.

‘Did she bang her head at all?’ she asked the woman seated next to her patient, who was sobbing.

The answer was a flow of Italian that Eleanor really couldn’t follow.

Ah, hell. The chances were that the patient hadn’t hit her head so there wasn’t a risk of a spinal injury, and right now the most important thing was resuscitation. Just as she was about to ask the flight attendant to find someone who could speak Italian and English, to translate for her and get some help in moving the woman so Eleanor could start giving CPR, a man made his way down the aisle, following another flight attendant.

‘Orlando de Luca, family doctor,’ he introduced himself. ‘May I help?’

His English was perfect, not halting in the slightest, though she was aware of his Italian accent. And he had the most beautiful mouth she’d ever seen.

Though now was absolutely not the time to be thinking about that. They had a patient to save. And right now she needed his skills—language as well as medical. ‘Eleanor Forrest, emergency registrar,’ she replied. ‘Thank you. Her pulse and respiration are flat, so we need to start—’

‘CPR,’ he finished, nodding.

Good. They were on the same wavelength.

‘I don’t speak much Italian. The patient’s travelling companion either doesn’t speak English or is too upset to cope in a different language. Can you ask her if our patient hit her head, is taking any medication or has any medical conditions?’

‘Of course. But first…’ He turned to the flight attendant who’d brought him to the patient. ‘We need your help, please, to fetch supplies. Do you have an Ambubag and a defibrillator? It should be kept with the captain.’

‘I’ll check,’ she said, and hurried away.

Then he spoke to their patient’s travelling companion in Italian much too rapid for Eleanor to follow, given the basic Italian she’d started learning two weeks before. The only word she could catch was ‘dolore’—what was that? Sorrow?

And then she heard him say ‘l’infarto’—it sounded close enough to ‘infarct’, she guessed, for it to mean ‘heart attack’. Usually if a patient was unconscious and there was no pulse, it meant a cardiac arrest—though it could also be a grand mal epileptic seizure.

As if Orlando had guessed what she was thinking, he said, ‘Our patient’s name is Giulietta Russo. She’s travelling back to Napoli—Naples—with her daughter Fabiola. Giulietta complained of a pain in her chest and then collapsed. No history of epilepsy, no history of angina, no other medical condition Fabiola can think of, and she didn’t hit her head when she collapsed.’

So far, so good. ‘Can you ask Fabiola if her mother has a pacemaker?’ she asked.

Another burst of rapid Italian. ‘No,’ he confirmed.

At the same time, Orlando and Eleanor moved the unconscious woman to the aisle and laid her flat. Gently, Eleanor tilted the patient’s head and lifted her chin so she could check the airways. ‘No sign of blockage. Airway’s clear.’ But the B and C of ‘ABC’ were a problem: Giulietta still wasn’t breathing and there was still no pulse: no sign of circulation.

‘Then we start CPR,’ Orlando said. ‘You bag and I do the chest compressions, yes? Five compressions to one breath?’

‘Thank you,’ Eleanor said.

At that moment, the flight attendant arrived with an Ambubag. ‘We’re still checking for the defibrillator and the drugs kit,’ she said.

Eleanor really hoped there was a defibrillator on board. Otherwise their patient had no chance, because even if they landed at the nearest airport it’d take too long to get the help she needed. Without defibrillation, even with CPR, their patient’s chances of survival dropped drastically with every minute.

‘Thanks,’ she said. At least the Ambubag meant that they could give their patient positive pressure ventilation. But when their patient recovered consciousness, she’d need oxygen—more than that available from the aircraft’s emergency oxygen masks. ‘Is there any supplemental oxygen, please?’

‘I’ll check,’ the flight attendant said, and hurried away again, quickly returning with the defibrillator.

‘I’ll attach the defibrillator. Do you mind carrying on with the CPR?’ she asked Orlando.

They both knew that you couldn’t stop the CPR except for the moment when she was ready to administer a shock—if this was a case where she could use a defibrillator. If the monitor showed a different heart rhythm from VF, they were in real trouble.

‘No problem,’ Orlando said.

Lord, he had a gorgeous smile. The sort that would’ve made her weak at the knees if she hadn’t already been kneeling next to their patient. She glanced up at the flight attendant. ‘I need your help to keep doing the breathing while I attach the defibrillator,’ she said. ‘If Dr de Luca tells you what to do, can you keep going for me, please?’

The other flight attendant nodded, and followed Orlando’s instructions while Eleanor attached the defibrillator and checked the monitor reading.

‘She’s in VF,’ she told Orlando, hoping that the abbreviation was the same in his language. Certainly the words would be: ventricular fibrillation, where the heart wasn’t contracting properly and was just quivering instead of beating.

She really needed access to Giulietta’s neck veins to administer the adrenaline, but in the confines of the aisle space she didn’t want to interfere with ventilation. ‘I’m going for IV access in the right subclavian vein,’ she said to Orlando. ‘Administering one milligram of adrenaline. Six-oh-six p.m.’

‘Got you.’ Although he was a family doctor—a GP—obviously he knew the protocol in this sort of case: one milligram of adrenaline every three minutes. He smiled at her, and kept directing the flight attendant while Eleanor put the paddles of the defibrillator in place.

‘Shocking at two hundred joules. Clear,’ she said.

As soon as Orlando and the flight attendant had taken their hands off the patient, she administered the shock and continued looking at the readout. ‘Still in VF. Charging to two hundred. And clear.’

Another shock. Still no change. ‘Still VF. Charging to three-sixty.’

‘Mamma?’ Fabiola asked.

‘Um, bene. Soon,’ Eleanor said, trying to remember the Italian phrases she’d learned and hoping that her voice sounded soothing enough for Fabiola to understand what she meant.

She didn’t have time to react to the amusement in Orlando’s eyes. ‘And clear.’

This time, to her relief, Giulietta responded.

‘Sinus rhythm. Can you tell Fabiola that it will be all right? We just need to get her mother to the hospital.’

Orlando nodded, and turned to the flight attendant. ‘Can you ask the captain if he can divert the plane to the nearest airport? And talk to the pronto soccorso at the hospital—we need the paramedics on standby. Autoambulanza,’ he added.

Then he talked to Fabiola again in Italian.

‘I’ve explained that her mother needs to go to hospital,’ he told Eleanor. ‘And we will stay with her until the paramedics can stabilise her.’

It was part and parcel of being a good Samaritan—if there was an emergency and you were present simply as a passer-by and not officially as a doctor, you didn’t charge for your service and you stayed with the patient until he or she was stabilised or a doctor with equivalent or higher training took over. Eleanor had heard horror stories of doctors being sued for good Samaritan acts, but she knew if you kept to the protocol and delivered as near to hospital-standard care as you could, you’d be indemnified by either the travel company or your medical union.

The flight attendant who’d been acting as runner came back. ‘Captain says he’ll land us at Milan. We have clearance, so we should be on the ground in about twenty minutes. The airport’s contacting the hospital for us. Oh, and the supplemental oxygen…?’

‘Excellent work.’ Orlando said with a smile. ‘Thank you, signorina…?’

The flight attendant blushed. ‘Melanie.’

Orlando de Luca was living up to the stereotype, Eleanor thought. Charming every female in the vicinity.

Just like Jeremy.

Well, she wasn’t falling for that sort of charm again. Anyway, this relationship was strictly emergency. And strictly medicine. It shouldn’t bother her who Orlando de Luca flirted with. It was nothing to do with her.

She busied herself fitting the mask over Giulietta’s face.

‘Eleanor, your party must be wondering what happened to you.’

Party? Oh. He meant travelling companions. ‘It’s not a problem, Dr de Luca.’

‘Orlando, please.’

Even his name sounded sexy. Her best friend’s words echoed in her head: Even if this thing doesn’t work out, a week in Italy will do you good. What you need is some Italian glamour…and a fling with a gorgeous man to get that sleazebag Jeremy out of your head.

Tamsin would definitely describe Orlando de Luca as gorgeous. Her exact words would be along the lines of ‘sex on legs’. Eleanor couldn’t help smiling at the thought.

‘My name makes you laugh?’

‘No.’ Though she certainly wasn’t going to explain why she was smiling. What was ‘sorry’, again? ‘Mi dispiace.’

‘You speak some Italian.’

She needed to turn this back to business. Fast. ‘A little. But not enough to help Fabiola. Thank you for that. Grazie.’

‘Prego.’ He inclined his head.

At that moment, Giulietta recovered full consciousness and pulled at the mask.

Immediately, Orlando went back into doctor mode, taking her hand and calming her and speaking to her gently in Italian. Eleanor guessed he was telling Giulietta what had happened and where she was going as soon as they reached Milan. She caught the words ‘Inglese’ and ‘dottoressa’—clearly he was explaining who she was, too.

The flight attendants managed to persuade people in the aisle seats to change places with Eleanor and Orlando, so they could continue monitoring Giulietta throughout the descent—both of them were aware that she could easily go back into VF and need shocking again.

But at last they were at the airport. The paramedics boarded the plane with a trolley, and Orlando gave them the full handover details in rapid Italian, pausing every so often to check readings with Eleanor. Fabiola accompanied her mother off the plane, and Eleanor returned to her seat—at the opposite end of the plane to Orlando’s.

She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or disappointed when he didn’t suggest changing places and sitting with her. Relieved, because then she wouldn’t have to make polite conversation and her stomach was already in knots with her impending meeting tomorrow. Yet disappointed, because there was something calming about Orlando—the way he’d assessed the situation, acknowledged that she was the one with emergency experience and hadn’t made a fuss about her leading, and had gently turned Fabiola’s reaction from panic to understanding. He was the kind of man who made people feel safe.

But then again, she knew her judgement in men was lousy. Just because he was a good doctor, it didn’t mean he was a good man: Jeremy certainly wasn’t. And Orlando was probably married anyway. A man that good-looking couldn’t possibly be single. Even if Eleanor was going to act on Tamsin’s suggestion of having a holiday fling—which she had no intention of doing—Orlando de Luca wasn’t the one for her.

Their paths would probably never cross again, so there was no point in dwelling on it. Besides, she had something else to think about.

Her meeting tomorrow, with the man who might just turn out to be her real father.

And maybe, just maybe, she’d have a family to belong to again. Wouldn’t be alone any more.

CHAPTER TWO

THEY were two hours late getting to the airport at Naples. And then there was the wait for the luggage to arrive…except Eleanor couldn’t see her suitcase at all.

Maybe she’d just missed it, taken her eye off the conveyor belt during the moment it had passed her, and the suitcase would be there the second time round.

Except it wasn’t. Or the third time.

Oh, great. Not only was she late—tired, and in need of a shower and a cup of decent coffee—now her luggage was missing. Thank God she’d put the most important things in her hand luggage. She still had the original photographs back in England, so she could’ve had replacement copies made, but she’d wanted to hand them over in person.

And although, yes, she could go into the centre of Naples and replace most of her luggage first thing tomorrow morning, she already had plans. A meeting to which she didn’t want to go wearing travel-stained clothes. Even if she rinsed her clothes out in her hotel room tonight, they’d be crumpled and scruffy and…

Oh-h-h.

She could have howled with frustration. The shops were probably closed by now and, even if she got up really early tomorrow morning, she wouldn’t have enough time to find the shops, buy new clothes and be on time to meet Bartolomeo.

First impressions were important. Especially in this case. This really, really wasn’t fair.

‘Problems, Dottoressa Eleanor?’

Orlando’s voice was like melted chocolate. Soothing and comforting and sinful, all at the same time.

And she really shouldn’t give in to the urge to lean on him. She was perfectly capable of sorting things out on her own. She had a phrasebook in her bag—given a little time and effort, she’d be able to make herself understood. Luggage must go missing all the time. It was probably just mislaid, on the wrong carousel or something. And when she got to the hotel, she could talk to someone in the reception area and ask where she should go to buy clothes and shoes tomorrow. She could call Bartolomeo and put back their meeting by an hour, if need be.

‘I’m just waiting for my luggage,’ she said.

‘It hasn’t arrived yet?’

He was carrying a small, stylish case. And there were only three cases left on the conveyor belt—none of which was hers.

‘I was just about to go and ask.’

‘Let me,’ he said.

Before she could protest, he added, ‘You said on the plane that you didn’t speak much Italian. So let me help you.’

Italian was his native tongue and he spoke perfect English, too: it made sense to let him interpret for her instead of struggling. ‘Grazie.’ Though she still had reservations. ‘But won’t it make you really late home? Especially as our flight was delayed.’

He shrugged. ‘Non importa. It doesn’t matter.’

‘It’s not fair to your family, to keep them waiting even longer.’

He spread his hands. ‘Nobody’s waiting for me. I live alone.’

Now, that she hadn’t expected. She’d been so sure a man like Orlando de Luca—capable, practical and gorgeous—would be married to a wife who adored him, with several children who adored him even more and a menagerie of dogs and cats he’d rescued over the years.

‘I won’t be long. What does your bag look like?’

‘It’s a trolley suitcase—about so big.’ She described the size with her hands. ‘And it’s, um, bright pink.’

‘Bright pink,’ he echoed. His voice was completely deadpan, but there was a sparkle of amusement in his eyes—as if he thought she’d chosen something completely frivolous and un-doctor-like.

She wished now she’d bought her luggage in a neutral colour. Grey, beige or black. She’d just thought that a bright suitcase would be easier to spot at the airport.

He smiled at her and went over to one of the airport staff. During the conversation, the man nodded, looked over at Eleanor with an expression of respect, said something to Orlando, and then strode away.

‘He’s going to check for you,’ Orlando confirmed when he returned. ‘I explained that our flight was late in because of a medical emergency on the plane. You saved the patient’s life and we should be looking after you, not losing your baggage.’

She felt colour flood into her face. ‘I didn’t save Giulietta’s life on my own. You did the chest compressions and got a patient history from her daughter. I couldn’t have done it without you.’

‘Teamwork, then. We worked well together.’ His eyes narrowed as he glanced at her. ‘You look tired. You’ve had a long journey, plus the stress of dealing with a cardiac arrest in a cramped space without the kind of equipment you’re used to, and now your baggage has disappeared. Come and sit down. I will get you some coffee.’

He was taking over and Eleanor knew she should be standing up for herself, telling him that she appreciated the offer but she really didn’t need looking after. Her feelings must have shown on her face because he said gently, ‘It may be a while until they locate your luggage. Why stand around waiting and getting stressed, when the coffee-shop is just here, to our right, and you can sit down in comfort and relax?’

And he was right. She was tired. Caffeine was just what she needed to get her through the rest of this evening until she got to the hotel.

‘Do you take milk, sugar?’ he asked when he’d settled her at a table.

‘Just milk, please.’

There was something about the English dottoressa. Orlando couldn’t define it or even begin to put his finger on it, but something about her made him want to get to know her better.

Much better.

He’d liked the way she’d been so cool and calm on the plane, got on with her job without barking orders or being rude to the flight attendants, and had even tried speaking the little Italian she knew to help reassure Giulietta’s daughter. There was a warmth to Eleanor Forrest that attracted him.

A warmth that had suddenly shut off when he’d asked her a personal question.

And he wanted to know why.

He ordered coffee and cantuccini, then carried a tray over to their table.

‘Biscuits?’ she asked.

‘Because I missed them in England,’ he said simply. ‘Your English biscuits fall apart when you dip them in coffee. These don’t.’ He smiled at her. ‘They’re nice dipped in vin santo, too, but I think for now coffee is what you need.’

‘Thanks. Odd how just sitting around can make you feel tired.’

‘Don’t forget you saved a life in the middle of all that,’ he reminded her.

She ignored his comment. ‘How much do I owe you for the coffee?’

An independent woman. One who’d insist on paying her way. He liked that, too: she wouldn’t take anyone for granted. She was the kind of woman who’d want an equal. ‘My suggestion, my bill.’

He caught the expression on her face just before she masked it. Someone had obviously hurt her—hurt her so badly that she wouldn’t even accept a cup of coffee from a man she barely knew, and saw strangers as a potential for hurt instead of a potential friend.

Softly, he added, ‘That puts you under no obligation to me at all, Eleanor. Whatever you might have heard about Italian men, I can assure you I’m not expecting anything from you. I haven’t put anything in your coffee and you’re not going to wake up tomorrow morning in a room you can’t remember seeing before with no clothes, no money and one hell of a headache.’

‘I…I’m sorry. And I didn’t mean to insult you or your countrymen,’ she said, looking awkward and embarrassed.