- -
- 100%
- +
‘Elijah, what on—?’
She never got to finish, never got to say another word, because his mouth was on hers, his flesh pressing hers, his skin warm against her frozen cheeks. He pinned her against the wall, kissing her cheeks, her eyes, as he took her icy hands. Then, just as she regrouped, just as she opened her mouth to speak, his lips hushed her again. She could feel him pressing a ring on her finger.
The whole intoxicating, dizzying contact took seconds, perhaps, but it utterly, utterly spun her mind. This kiss was nothing like the one they had shared last night.
She pushed him back, frightened by his fervour, till her eyes met his. She frowned at the silent plea she saw there… Another presence was making itself known—a figure on the peripheries of her vision, walking down the hall.
‘Ms Anderson!’ Elijah’s hand gripped hers tightly. ‘This is Ainslie…’
‘Ainslie?’
The middle-aged woman was picking up Guido. Maybe she was an aunt Elijah had discovered? Maybe the relatives had arrived and they were talking? Or a neighbour, perhaps? All these thoughts whirred through her head as a very dishevelled and bemused Ainslie offered her hand.
‘Is this the nanny?’
‘The nanny?’ Elijah let out a slightly incredulous laugh. ‘Heavens, no—didn’t I tell you? Ainslie is my fiancée.’
Carol Marinelli recently filled in a form where she was asked for her job title and was thrilled, after all these years, to be able to put down her answer as writer. Then it asked what Carol did for relaxation, and after chewing her pen for a moment Carol put down the truth: writing. The third question asked—What are your hobbies? Well, not wanting to look obsessed or, worse still, boring, she crossed the fingers on her free hand and answered swimming and tennis. But, given that the chlorine in the pool does terrible things to her highlights, and the closest she’s got to a tennis racket in the last couple of years is watching the Australian Open—I’m sure you can guess the real answer!
Carol also writes for Medical™ Romance. Her latest Medical, ONE MAGICAL CHRISTMAS, is out next month!
BY
CAROL MARINELLI
CHAPTER ONE
WHERE?
Jammed closely between rush hour commuters, her backpack hopefully still by the door where she’d left it, Ainslie didn’t even need to hold the handrail to stay standing as the London Underground jolted her towards a destination unknown and her mind begged the question: where could she go?
There was Earls Court, of course—wasn’t that where all Australian backpackers went when they were in London?
Only she wasn’t backpacking. She had come to London to work. She’d had a job and accommodation already secured, and had been enjoying her work and life for three very full months—until today.
Her thick blonde hair was still dripping from the rain shower she’d been caught in, and beads of sweat broke out onto her brow as another surge of panic hit.
What on earth was she going to do?
Oh, she had friends, of course. Or rather other nannies she’d first met at playgroup, then at weekly get-togethers with the children. Later, on their time off, they’d discovered together all that London had to offer.
Friends who right now would be sitting in a bar. Sitting and listening, aghast, to the news that Ainslie had been fired, had been accused of stealing from her employers. And whether they believed she’d done it or not didn’t really matter—their bosses moved in her ex-boss’s circles, and if they wanted to keep their jobs the last thing they needed was a branded thief arriving homeless at their doors.
‘Scusi.’ A low male voice growled in her ear as the tube lurched, and the baby the man was holding was pressed further against her.
‘It’s okay,’ Ainslie said, not even looking up, instead trying to move back a touch as the tube halted in a tunnel between stations. But there was no room to manoeuvre, and she arched her back, trying hard not to disturb the sleeping child in his arms.
God, it was hot!
Despite the cold December conditions outside, here on the tube it was boiling. Hundreds of people were crammed together, dressed in winter coats and scarves, damp from the rain, turning the carriage into an uncomfortable sauna, and Ainslie took a grateful gulp of air as someone opened an air vent.
The baby looked hot too. Bundled into a coat, he was wearing gloves and a woolly hat with earflaps—like an old-fashion fighter pilot—and his little cheeks were red and angry. But he didn’t seem distressed. In fact he was asleep, long black eyelashes fanning the red cheeks.
Cute kid, Ainslie thought for about a tenth of a second—before her eyes pooled with tears at the thought of Jack and Clemmie, the little charges she hadn’t even been allowed to say goodbye to.
‘Sorry!’ It was now Ainslie’s turn to apologise, as she was pushed further against the baby. She saw his little face screw up in discomfort, and she pressed herself back, to try and give him more room, looking up at his father to briefly express her helplessness. Only suddenly she was just that…
Helpless.
Lost, just lost for a moment, as she stared into the most exquisite face she had ever witnessed close up. Glassy blue eyes that were bloodshot briefly met hers. His thick glossy black hair was unkempt, and his black eyelashes were as long as his son’s. His mouth was set in a grim line as he nodded his understanding that it wasn’t her fault, before his eyes flicked away down to his son, trying to soothe the now restless, grizzling baby back to sleep, talking to him in Italian. But his rich, deep voice did nothing to soothe the child. The babe’s eyes fluttered open, as blue as his father’s, but it was as if the child didn’t even recognise him. His wail of distress caused a few heads to turn.
‘Hush, Guido, it is okay…’ He was speaking to him in English now—English that was laced with a rich accent as he again attempted to calm the baby. Now that he wasn’t looking at her, Ainslie could look at him more closely. Though stunning, he was clearly exhausted, his skin pale, huge violet smudges beneath his eyes, and he needed to shave. The stubble on his jaw was so black it appeared blue.
‘Guido, it is okay…’ His voice was louder now, as the tube lurched back into motion, but it only distressed the baby further. His back arching like a cat trying to escape, he clawed his way up his father’s chest, flinging himself backwards. But there was nowhere to go, and his little face pressed into Ainslie’s as his father struggled to contain him.
‘It’s okay…’ Ainslie didn’t know if she was talking to the father or his child as he apologised, gained control and pulled the babe tightly in. But Ainslie could see the child’s panic, had felt his burning cheek against hers for just a fraction of time—it had been boiling. Instinctively, as if at work, she put her hand to his head and felt him burning beneath it.
‘He’s hot…’ For a second time she looked into the man’s eyes, only this time her mind was on the child. ‘He has a fever…’
‘He’s sick…’ The man nodded, and Ainslie didn’t know if he would have elaborated further because just then the tube pulled into a station, and as commuters piled off and piled on they were separated.
She should have put it out of her mind. Heaven knows she had enough to think about at the moment—like finding somewhere to stay for tonight, finding a job with no reference, clearing her name, telling her mum—only she couldn’t. The little boy’s screams, though muffled, still reached her; the look on his father’s face, the wretched exhaustion, his voice, his eyes, stayed with her. This stranger had whirred her senses. He was wearing a heavy grey coat, but she’d caught a glimpse of a collar and suit. Maybe he’d picked the little boy up from daycare? Perhaps they’d just come from the doctor’s…?
What did it matter? Ainslie told herself as the tube pulled into Earls Court station.
According to her guide it was the descending place for Australians in London—now all she had to do was find a youth hostel. Pushing her way through the slowly moving masses, relieved that her backpack had amazingly still been where she’d left it, Ainslie stood on the platform, taking a deep breath, glad to be out of the stifling crowd.
She could hear her mobile trilling and sat on a little bench, nervous when she saw that it was Angus, her old boss, calling. Wondering what he had to say, she let the call go through to her message bank, grateful she wouldn’t have to come up with an instant answer to any difficult questions he might pose. Clearly Angus
Angus Maitlin might be a famous celebrity doctor—one who appeared regularly in magazines and on television—but he was also a consultant in Accident and Emergency and a wise and shrewd man. Living with him for three months, Ainslie had worked that out quickly, and in the evenings when he had been at home, listening to him as he read a book to one of the kids, half watching the evening news Angus had always made her smile.
‘There’s more to it!’ he’d often say at the end of a report—or, ‘He did it!’ as an emotional plea was read out.
But the memory wasn’t making her smile now, as Ainslie wondered how she could possibly lie and get away with it to this wise, shrewd, and also terribly kind man.
‘Ainslie—it’s Angus. Gemma just told me what happened. I don’t know what to say. Look—I don’t like that you’re out there with no money or references—I hope you’re at a friend’s. If you needed money…we could have sorted something out. I’m working till late, but I’ll ring tomorrow…’
Clearly Angus was finding the situation difficult, because his voice trailed off then, and Ainslie felt tears tumble out of her eyes for the first time since it had happened. Sadly she realised that he believed her to be guilty. She could hear the disappointment in his kind voice.
Well, of course he believed Gemma—she was his wife! A wife who had told her husband that things had been going missing since Ainslie had started. A wife who had told him she had caught the nanny red-handed, having found her ring and necklace in Ainslie’s bedroom drawer. Better that than admitting that it was the nanny who had actually caught her red-handed.
Or rather red-faced, beneath her lover, when Ainslie had brought the children home unexpectedly early.
Slumped against the wall on the busy platform, Ainslie began crying her eyes out—not loud tears, just shivering gulps as she gave in and wept. She’d been counting on her Christmas bonus—had needed the money desperately, thanks to Nick and the mess that was unfolding back home. It was the first time she’d actually cried since she’d picked up her mail two weeks ago and found out that her exboyfriend had, unbeknownst to her, taken out a joint loan while they were together. The deceit had been almost more upsetting than the financial ramifications, and the tears she had held back spilled out now, as she faced the bleakest of Christmases. Not that anyone noticed. Not that anyone even gave her a second glance. Surrounded by people in one of the busiest cities in the world, never had Ainslie felt more alone.
She could hear the baby crying again too, and his loud sobs matched how she felt…
Guido.
The fraught cries snapped Ainslie out of her own introspection, her eyes scanning the platform until she found him.
He wasn’t a baby, more a toddler—eighteen months old, perhaps. He was standing—no, sitting. No, now he was lying on the platform floor and kicking his legs, throwing a spectacular tantrum. His less than impressed father was half kneeling, a laptop and briefcase discarded on the platform beside him, holding his child with one hand as with the other he attempted to open a pushchair with all the skill of someone who’d never opened a pushchair in his life—and certainly not while trying to hold onto a frantic toddler.
And just as the crowd had ignored her tears, so too did they ignore this man’s plight. Heads down, they just hurried past, and either didn’t see or pretended not to notice; everyone was too busy to offer help.
Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, Ainslie walked over. ‘Can I help?’
She watched him stiffen momentarily. His head was almost automatically shaking in refusal, highlighting that this was clearly a man who wasn’t used to accepting help. Then in almost the same instant he let out a reluctant breath and conceded, picking up the little boy and standing to his impressive height.
‘Can you open this pushchair?’
‘Of course.’
‘Please,’ he added as a very late afterthought, as with two easy motions Ainslie did just that.
‘Thank you.’ He dismissed her then, and really she should have turned and gone. But Ainslie knew that an open pushchair was only half the battle. She watched and wondered with vague amusement how he’d manage to get this stiff, angry child into the chair.
With great difficulty he tried to buckle Guido in. Failing on the first effort, he undid his coat, and Ainslie was treated to a glimpse of impressive suit, a shirt unbuttoned at the neck. Even Ainslie could tell that suits and coats as exquisite as the one this man was wearing didn’t often belong to a daddy who spent a lot of time at home.
This daddy, Ainslie guessed as Guido’s shrieks trebled, must have spent so much time in the office that his son hardly recognised him. There were no easy motions, no practised ease, as he tried to get the unwilling, resisting arms of the child into the straps of the pushchair.
‘I can manage!’ he growled as she hovered.
But he couldn’t. The angry little bundle continued kicking and thumping.
Just as Ainslie had decided to let him do just that and deal with her own problems, Guido caught them both by surprise…
Staring at his father, his screams stopped for a second, a second that allowed him to draw breath, and Ainslie stood open mouthed as the little boy, very deliberately, very angrily and very directly, spat in the face of his father.
‘Puh!’
It was no accident—he even added sound—and Ainslie’s eyes widened in horror, staring at the shocked expression of the man, who didn’t look as if he’d take too well to being spat on. Then he did the most unexpected thing and grinned; that crabby, exhausted, haughty face was actually breaking into a laugh, and it caught the little boy by surprise, because he relaxed just long enough for the pushchair strap to be clicked into place.
The man stood up and, still grinning, pulled out a very smart navy silk handkerchief and wiped his face.
‘Little gypsy tramp—just like his father!’
Which wasn’t the best of introductions!
‘Oh…’ Ainslie nodded.
The last remnants of his smile were fading, and, after wrapping the child in a blanket, he took off his coat and wrapped that around the little boy too. But even though it was freezing outside, it was way, way too much for a little boy who was boiling up.
Ainslie couldn’t help herself. ‘He has a fever!’
‘So I keep him warm.’
‘No…’ Ainslie shook her head in exasperation. ‘I work with children, and what he needs is to cool down…’ She looked at his bemused expression and knew he didn’t have a clue. ‘He’s very hot.’ When still he didn’t seem to understand, she spoke more loudly, more slowly. ‘He might fit…have a convulsion…’ she explained.
‘I am neither deaf nor stupid! You do not have to speak pigeon English.’
‘Sorry…’ Ainslie blushed.
‘I have just seen a doctor with him, and he has been prescribed some medicine.’ He pulled a rather scruffy bag from his pocket, along with a rolled-up tie. ‘When I get him home I will give it.’
‘But they’re antibiotics—what he needs…’ Oh, what was the point? Turning on her heel, she gave a shrug. The sooner this arrogant know it all got home to his wife the sooner his boiling, ill-mannered baby could get some paracetamol in him and hopefully cool down.
‘He needs what?’
A hand grabbed her arm, and Ainslie felt her throat tighten. He had just sooo done the wrong thing. Only he didn’t let go, and even though she had a jacket on the inappropriate touch burned through the thick material, just a trickle of fear invading. But she was on a busy tube station, Ainslie reminded herself, and turned around to confront him.
‘What is it he needs?’
‘Could you remove your hand?’ Angry green eyes met his, watched as he blinked and stared down at his hand as if it didn’t even belong to him.
‘I am sorry!’ Instantly he let go—his apology absolutely genuine. ‘I am worried about him—and I don’t know what to do.’
‘Get him home…’ Ainslie’s voice was softer. ‘He needs some paracetamol. Once he’s had that he’ll settle…’
‘Paracetamol?’ He checked, and Ainslie nodded.
‘And he needs his mum.’
This time she really was going. This time she knew he wouldn’t grab her. Only he didn’t have to. His voice stilled her as she started walking, his words halting her before she disappeared for ever into the heavy crowd.
‘She died this afternoon.’
CHAPTER TWO
HIS words seared into her. Aghast, she swung around, looked from father to son and back to the father, at the identical blue eyes that stared back at her.
And it was horrible.
That no one knew. That all those strangers had stood on that tube, had tutted at the baby, at the pushchair, had walked past as he’d struggled on the platform—and not a single one knew the misery that was taking place.
There were just a few days until Christmas.
The date didn’t matter—it would have been terrible on any day—but that it was so close to Christmas, that this beautiful little boy would be without his mother, that she would be without him, just made it worse somehow. And it made her own problems pale in comparison.
‘Can you help me?’ His voice was low but there was a thread of urgency.
‘Me?’
‘You said you work with children?’
‘I do, but—’
‘Then you must know how to stop his fever? How to take care of him?’ There was a plea in his rich voice, a tinge of fear, even panic for his son. ‘I don’t know what to do. I do not know children; I do not know what this boy needs…’ He dived out of his own hell just enough to glimpse her confusion, just long enough to interpret it. ‘He is not my son—he is my nephew. There was a car accident. I came from Italy this morning as soon as I hear the news.’
Heard the news. Ainslie opened her mouth to correct him, and then stopped herself—working with people who were usually under three feet tall gave her a tendency to do that! His story certainly explained his visible exhaustion. Dressed in a suit, juggling a laptop and a briefcase along with the stroller, he must have literally left in the middle of whatever it was he was doing and stepped onto a plane.
‘Where’s his father?’ The platform was full—again they were being pushed closer. Only this time they were together, sharing this appalling conversation.
Her eyes closed for a second as he answered, ‘He died instantly.’
When Ainslie opened them again, he was waiting for her, strong but desperate. His eyes held hers.
‘Can you tell me what he needs…help me with him?’
You don’t read out a list of questions when you witness someone drowning.
You don’t ask their name or age, or if they’re worthy of saving. You don’t ring for references or ask for a police check—instead you do what you can.
‘Yes,’ she said simply, because to Ainslie it was just impossible to even think of walking away, of not helping someone who so clearly needed it.
‘His home is close by—there is a pharmacy on the way.’
The platform was packed now. Another tube was pulling in and spewing out its contents. People walked fast as they left the platform, and the station was a blizzard of people, rushing to get home or to go out, stopping to buy their paper, chatting into their phones, arranging dates, parties, meetings—getting on with living.
Getting on with life.
A blast of icy December air hit them as they stepped out onto the busy street. It was the strangest walk; he took her backpack and Ainslie pushed the stroller. Christmas was everywhere—the shops ablaze with decorations, people tipsy from pre-dinner drinks heading for a work party—and it just seemed to magnify his loss. Even the chemist was full of cheery, piped music, chiming Christmas songs, and lazy shoppers were grabbing easy gifts as they stopped to buy Guido’s paracetamol.
‘Should we get nappies, wipes…or do you have plenty?’
‘I haven’t been to the house since I arrived—I have no idea what my sister would have. We’d better get them—get whatever you think he might need.’
So she did—put whatever she thought might be needed into a basket and stood trying to hush the little boy as his uncle paid, watching the checkout assistant chatting happily away to her colleague, briefly asking the man if he had had a good day, not noticing that he didn’t respond, his face a quilt of muscles as he handed over his credit card.
‘I don’t know your name.’ It was the first thing she said as he made his way back to them.
‘Elijah…’ He gave a tight smile. ‘Elijah Vanaldi. And you?’
‘Ainslie Farrell.’
And that was all they said. They walked along in silence till they came to a quieter street and stopped outside a vast four-storey residence.
But somehow, for now, it was enough.
It was surreal—Elijah working out keys as she stared at the wreath on the door, stepping into someone’s house, someone’s life, someone you didn’t even know, and being entrusted to take care of their most treasured possession. And though it was a beautiful towering white stucco home, as she stepped in, walked along polished floorboards and glimpsed the vast lounge, though her eyes took in the high ceilings and vast windows and expensive furnishings, they didn’t merit a mention. The only thing Ainslie could really notice was the collection of shoes and coats in the hall, the scent of pine in the air from the Christmas tree, and the half-cup of cold tea on the granite bench when she walked into the luxury kitchen. Sadness engulfed her when she saw the simple shopping list on the fridge and the breakfast dishes piled by the sink.
Elijah undressed an exhausted Guido.
‘Has he had dinner?’
‘He had some biscuits, he doesn’t seem very hungry.’ Elijah held his hand to his forehead. ‘He still feels hot. Should I bathe him?’
‘I wouldn’t worry about it tonight. Let’s just get him changed for bed and give him his medicine.’ As she wandered upstairs to find pyjamas for Guido, Ainslie could tell that this elegant house with its lavish furniture and expensive fittings was first and foremost a home—a home with a book by the unmade bed, and hair staighteners still plugged in. In the bathroom a tap drizzled, and piles of damp towels and knickers littered the floor, reminding Ainslie that this was a family home that had been left with every intention of coming back.
‘She rang me last week to say she was giving in and finally going to get a housekeeper…’ His voice behind her made Ainslie jump, and she felt the sting of tears behind her eyes as he walked over and turned off the tap. ‘She was never very good at tidying up.’
‘Mess doesn’t matter.’
‘She’d die if she knew we’d seen it like this…’ Elijah halted, grimacing at his own words. ‘You always had to ring Maria to warn her you coming over—she hated it when people dropped in. She’d hate that she didn’t do one of her infamous quick tidies—she’d be embarrassed at someone seeing the place like this.’