The Italian's Pregnant Mistress
‘Antiseptic,’ he murmured as her body temperature rocketed upwards at an alarming rate. ‘Did you know that? Let’s go and find some plaster.’
‘I have some in one of these drawers,’ Francesca mumbled.
‘Leave it to me.’ He began pulling open drawers while she stood, transfixed, staring, heart racing. He found the right drawer eventually and carefully began putting the plaster over the cut. His touch was electrifying.
‘There’s no need for you to do that, Angelo. I’m perfectly capable of putting on a piece of plaster myself.’ Fat lot of good the protest was, she thought, when she was passively allowing him to do what he wanted.
‘Nonsense. All women feel faint at the sight of blood. It’s a well documented fact.’ He looked at her and grinned. ‘Fortunately I’m a man and therefore very good at dealing with situations like this.’
‘That is the most…the most…’
‘Truthful thing you have ever heard spoken?’
‘The most ridiculous nonsense I’ve ever heard in my life.’ The plaster was on but he was still standing right there in front of her, making it very difficult for her to breathe and impossible for her to move, with her back to the counter.
‘You remember I once told you that for a while I toyed with the idea of studying medicine at university…’
‘And you remember that I once replied that thinking about studying medicine didn’t actually qualify you as a doctor?’
‘I always thought that that was a particularly harsh response,’ Angelo said piously, ‘especially considering that I had just successfully diagnosed your stress-induced stomach ulcer as indigestion.’
For a few breathless seconds Francesca didn’t say anything, then she muttered, looking away, ‘I’ll get on and do the cooking, then, if you don’t mind. Thanks for putting on a piece of plaster for me and I don’t mean to have the last word but I could have done it myself.’ She turned away, waiting for him to return to his chair, which he did. She failed to hear his exasperated sigh. ‘Actually,’ she carried on, papering over her chaotic feelings with small talk, ‘the catering course I went on was very good. We didn’t just learn how to cook. We also learnt quite a bit about nutrition and how what we eat affects our health and well-being, and also some basic first aid measures for dealing with the sort of accidents that can happen in a kitchen. You know, cuts, burns, that sort of thing.’ With her back to him, she could gather herself, get some kind of self-control going.
‘Really. Interesting.’ For a moment back then, he’d known that she was his, as dramatically turned on by him as he was by her. It hadn’t lasted.
‘Yes. Yes, it was. Very.’ Prawns were cooked rapidly, dressing was made for the salad to accompany them.
‘And was this the same course that your…boyfriend did?’ Angelo drawled.
‘Jack…no, Jack did another one, different place.’
Another brick wall. He decided to drop the subject. Damned if he was going to let her get away with an endless but safe conversation about the various methods of skinning tomatoes, though.
‘You are making me feel guilty, sitting here, doing nothing.’
‘You could always go for a walk and leave me here to get on with it,’ Francesca suggested. ‘I work better without an audience and you’re right, it’s boring for you just sitting down and watching.’
‘I never said that I was bored. You’re not drinking your wine.’
Francesca stopped what she was doing and took a long swig of the wine. Very expensive indeed. Light, crisp, dry with a nicely smoked flavour. ‘There,’ she said, looking at him. ‘Satisfied?’
‘Not quite yet,’ Angelo murmured, finishing his wine and rising to pour himself another. He would definitely have to get a taxi back to his apartment—if he needed to leave.
‘Don’t worry. The food won’t disappoint but if you guzzle too much of that stuff you won’t be able to appreciate it.’ Back to the safety of the chicken and the olives and the frying. ‘If you’re bored, you can choose some different music to put on. My CDs are all in the rack behind you.’