The Valtieri Baby. Caroline Anderson

slight the risk.

      She left the city streets behind, heading out of Firenze, and after a few minutes she turned her head and flashed him a smile. ‘Better now?’

      They were on the A1 heading south past Siena towards the Montalcino area where both his family and hers had lived for generations.

      Home, he thought with a sigh of relief.

      ‘Much better,’ he said, and resting his head back on the seat, he closed his eyes and drifted off.

      He was asleep.

      Good. He’d lost a lot of blood, and he’d be exhausted. She didn’t suppose he’d slept much last night, what with the pain and awkwardness of his injuries, and anyway, it was easier for her if he wasn’t watching her while she drove, because his presence, familiar as it was, always scrambled her brains.

      Even when he was fast asleep she was ludicrously conscious of him, deeply, desperately aware of every breath, every sigh, every slight shift of his solid, muscular body.

      She knew every inch of it. Loved every inch of it. Always had, always would.

      Fruitlessly, of course. The one time she’d felt there was any hope for them it had been snatched away abruptly and without warning, and left her heart in tatters. Anyone with any sense would walk away from him, tell him to go to hell and find his own solution, but Anita couldn’t do that.

      She couldn’t walk away from him. Goodness knows she’d tried a hundred times, but her heart kept drawing her back because deep down she believed that he loved her, whatever he might say to the contrary.

      And one day…

      She gave a soft, sad huff of laughter. One day nothing. She was stupid, deluded, desperate.

      ‘Hey.’

      She turned her head and met his eyes briefly, then dragged hers back to the road.

      ‘How are you?’ she asked. ‘Good sleep?’

      ‘I’m just resting.’

      ‘You were snoring.’

      ‘I don’t snore.’

      ‘You do.’ He did. Not loudly, not much, just a soft sound that was curiously comforting beside her. As it had been, for those few blissful weeks five years ago.

      ‘Why did you laugh?’

      ‘Laugh?’ She hadn’t—

      ‘Yes, laugh. If you can call it that. You didn’t look exactly amused.’

      Ah. That laugh, the one that wasn’t. The laugh because against all the odds she could still manage to believe he loved her.

      ‘I was thinking about my meeting yesterday,’ she lied. ‘The bride thought we could wrap it all up in an hour. She was miffed when I left.’

      ‘Is that where you were when I rang you?’

      She nodded, biting her lip at the little rush of guilt, and he tilted his head and frowned.

      ‘Anita? It wasn’t your fault. I knew you were in a meeting.’

      ‘I should have been out by then. I could have answered it—should have answered it.’

      ‘I wouldn’t have answered you if I’d been with a client.’

      Of course not. She knew that, but it didn’t make any difference, and if he’d died—

      His hand closed over hers, squeezing gently. ‘Hey, I’m all right,’ he said softly. ‘I was fine, and the ambulance came really quickly, because she’d already called it.’

      ‘Well, good. I don’t suppose there was a lot of time to waste, and what if she hadn’t called it? What if you’d passed out?’

      He dropped his hand again. ‘It was fine, the bleeding was all under control,’ he lied. ‘And I’m all right, you can see that. Now I just have to get better. I wonder if they’ve found her yet.’

      ‘Will she go to prison for it?’

      He laughed a little grimly. ‘What, for hitting me with her handbag? No. She didn’t mean to do this, Anita.’

      ‘You’re very forgiving.’

      ‘No, I’m not. I’m thoroughly peed off because I shouldn’t even have been here, I should have been on holiday and the only reason I wasn’t was because of her. I’m just a realist and anyway, it’s not really me she’s angry with, it’s Marco. It’s just profoundly irritating.’

      Irritating? She nearly laughed. ‘So, have you warned him? Your client? She might go after him.’

      ‘Don’t worry, he’s out of the country now. He was leaving yesterday straight after our meeting, but anyway he has very good security.’

      ‘Maybe you should move to somewhere more secure. Your apartment isn’t exactly impenetrable. OK, she might be just a bit of a nutter, but what if it was someone really serious, with a real grudge?’

      He shrugged, contemplating the idea not for the first time, but he loved it where he was, overlooking the rooftops. He had a fabulous view and he was loath to lose it. Sometimes he sat out on his little roof terrace and imagined that the rolling hills there in the distance were home.

      They weren’t, he knew that, but sometimes he just had a yearning to be back there, and those distant hills made him feel closer. The idea of moving to some gated community or apartment complex with hefty security and nothing to look at through the windows but carefully manicured grounds brought him out in hives.

      ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, knowing full well he wouldn’t, and he closed his eyes and listened to the rhythmic swish of the windscreen wipers as she drove him home.

      He was asleep when she turned onto the long gravel drive that led to her villa.

      It had once been the main dwelling on her family’s farm, long superseded by a much larger villa, and she loved it. It was small and unpretentious, but it was hers, it had stunning views, and it was perfect for Gio’s recovery because it was single storey and so he wouldn’t have to struggle with stairs.

      Her headlights raked the front of the villa, and she drew up outside and opened the door quietly, easing out of the car without disturbing him. She’d put the radio on quietly while he slept, and she left it on while she went in and turned up the heating.

      It wasn’t cold, exactly, but it was cheerless even though the rain had stopped now, and she pulled sheets out of the linen cupboard and quickly made up her spare bed for him. It was a good room, the view from the bed stretching miles into the distance, and on the top of the hill on the horizon was the Palazzo Valtieri, home to his family for hundreds of years.

      The lights were off now, the palazzo deserted, but normally she could see it in the dark. It was quite distinctive, and at night the lights could be seen for miles. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d lain there in her bedroom next to this one and stared at them, wondering if he was there, if he was awake, if he was looking for the lights of her villa.

      Probably not. Why would he? He didn’t feel the same about her, he’d made that perfectly clear five years ago when he’d ended their relationship without warning. And anyway, most of the time he was in Firenze, where he lived and worked.

      But still she looked, and wondered, and yearned.

      ‘Stop it!’ she muttered, and made the bed. Torturing herself with memories was pointless—as pointless as staring at the palazzo on the hill like a love-struck teenager night after night.

      But she felt like a love-struck teenager, even after all this time. Nothing had changed—except now she didn’t have to imagine what it felt like to lie in his arms, because she knew.

      She tugged the quilt straight, turned it back so he could get in, and went outside, switching