The Sicilian's Scandalous Secret

Santo scrunched the flimsy plastic cup in his hand and dropped it into the bin.

The smell of antiseptic reminded him of the night his father had died and just for a moment he was tempted to turn on his heel and walk right out again.

And then he thought of Fia, keeping vigil over her grandfather, hour after hour. His anger was still running hot. He was furious with her. But he couldn’t accuse her of not showing loyalty to her family. And he couldn’t leave her alone in this place.

Cursing softly, Santo strode back towards the coronary care unit that brought back nothing but bad memories.

She was sitting by the bed, her hair a livid streak of fire against her ashen skin. Those green eyes were fixed on the old man as if by sheer willpower and focus she might somehow transmit some of her youth and energy to him.

He’d never seen a lonelier figure in his life.

Or perhaps he had, he thought grimly, remembering the first time he’d seen her in his boathouse. Some people automatically sought human company when they were upset. Fia had taught herself to survive alone.

He compared that to his own big, noisy family. He knew from experience that had it been a Ferrara lying in the hospital bed the room would have been bulging with concerned relatives, not just his brother and sister but numerous aunts, uncles and cousins all clucking and fussing.

‘How’s he doing?’

‘They gave him a sedative and some other stuff. I don’t know what. They say the first twenty-four hours are crucial.’ Her slim fingers were curled around her grandfather’s. ‘If he wakes up now he’ll be angry that I’m holding his hand. He’s not great at the physical stuff. Never has been.’

Santo realised that this woman’s whole life revolved around

the man currently lying in the bed and the child fast asleep in his car.

‘When did you last eat?’ It was the automatic Ferrara response to all moments of crisis and he almost laughed at himself for being so predictable.

‘I’m not hungry.’ Her voice was husky and she didn’t shift her gaze from her grandfather. ‘In a minute I’ll go and check on Luca.’

‘I just checked him. He hasn’t stirred. He and Luigi are both asleep.’

‘I’ll bring him in here and tuck him up on the chair. Then you can go home. Gina will come and I need to call Ben and ask him to cover tomorrow.’

Santo felt an irrational surge of anger. ‘He doesn’t need to. I’ve already sorted that out. My team will take over running the Beach Shack for the time being.’

Her spine tensed. ‘You’re taking advantage of this situation to take over my business?’

Santo held on to his own temper. ‘You need to stop thinking like a Baracchi. This is not about revenge. I’m not taking over your business, just making sure you still have one to come home to. I assumed you didn’t want to leave your grandfather’s bedside to cook calamari for a bunch of strangers.’

Her cheeks were pale. ‘I’m sorry.’ Her gaze skated back to her grandfather. ‘I am grateful to you. I just assumed—’

‘Well, stop assuming.’ Her fragility unsettled him. And it wasn’t the only thing that unsettled him. The response of his body was equally disturbing. His feelings were entirely inappropriate for the surroundings. ‘You can do no more here tonight. Your grandfather is going to sleep and it’s not going to help anyone if you collapse. We’re leaving now. I’ve told the staff to call me if there is any change.’

‘I can’t leave. It’s too far to get back here again if something happens.’

‘My apartment is only ten minutes from here. If something happens, I’ll drive you. If we leave now you can still get some rest and my son can wake up in a proper bed.’ He’d been trying not to think about that side of things, putting his own emotions on hold in order to maintain the delicate balance of a situation that could only be described as difficult.

Perhaps it was the logic of his argument. Perhaps it was the words ‘my son’. Either way, she ceased arguing and allowed him to lead her away from the bedside to the car.

Ten minutes later Luca was tucked up in the centre of an enormous double bed in one of his spare bedrooms.

Santo watched as she spread pillows on the floor next to the bed. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Sometimes he rolls. I don’t want him to fall onto the tiled floor,’ she muttered. ‘Do you have a baby alarm?’

‘No. Leave the door open a crack. Then we’ll hear him if he wakes.’ Santo strode out of the room and she followed, her eyes tracing every detail of his apartment.

‘Do you live alone?’

‘You think I’m hiding women under the sofa?’