Pregnant: Father Wanted. Claire Baxter

      She’d barely put the phone back on its hook before she’d leapt out of bed and was on her way to the bathroom. With no time to wash her hair, she scraped it back from her face. She’d normally use a hair straightener to counter the natural wave that always reappeared overnight and made her hair unruly at best. Straight hair made her look more sophisticated, even older, but today a pony-tail would have to do.

      Back in the bedroom she pulled jeans and a T-shirt from her case. She’d intended to start off the tour in a smart suit and only revert to her standard travelling gear once they were well away from the city. But that idea went the way of the smart hairdo. Speed won out over style.

      Ric let out an impatient sigh, checked his watch again and leaned back against his Lamborghini Gallardo. His uncle had wanted him to use the minibus but he’d been adamant. It was bad enough having to act as a tour guide without looking the part too.

      Not that there was anything wrong with the minibus his uncle used—for a family man. But he was not a family man and he had no intention of becoming one. Giving up his car was beyond the limit of what he was prepared to do for this woman.

      The hotel door opened and he lifted his head to see a young girl hesitate, look to her left, then right, and go back inside. A pretty girl, she reminded him of his sisters and he wondered how they were getting on at boarding-school. He should contact them; it had been a while.

      He was still watching the entrance when the girl reappeared, this time with the concierge he’d spoken to earlier. After scanning the parked cars, the concierge pointed in Ric’s direction.

      Frowning, he saw the girl nod then head towards him, wheeling a large suitcase behind her.

      ‘Buon giorno,’ she said when she stopped in front of him. ‘Mi chiamo Lyssa Belperio.’

      Ric stared at her.

      This was the important visitor his uncle wanted to impress? This was the woman who was going to kick-start their push to attract Australian tourists?

      Couldn’t be. She was too young. He glanced over her shoulder, half expecting her mother to join them. But no, she seemed to be alone.

      ‘Lyssa Belperio,’ he repeated. ‘The travel writer from Australia?’ he asked in English.

      ‘Yes, that’s me.’ Her broad smile made her look even younger.

      ‘Ric Rossetti.’ He held out his hand and watched her face for any sign of recognition. As expected, there was none. Instead her eyes flickered to the car behind him.

      ‘Um…the paperwork I was given said the tour would be in a minibus.’

      ‘Normally, yes, but I’m afraid it’s unavailable.’ When she gave the car a doubtful look, he said, ‘I hope that’s not a problem?’

      She shrugged. ‘I guess not. But will there be room for my suitcase?’ she asked, peering at the short rear end of the Lamborghini.

      ‘Of course.’ He took the case from her and went to the front of the car. It was a tight fit with his own bag already there, but he managed to squeeze in her case too. He returned to open the passenger door for her.

      She grinned. ‘The engine’s at the back, I hope? It does have one?’

      He smiled back, nodding. ‘Oh, yes, it definitely has one.’

      He’d expected someone…different. Older, sophisticated, stylish. But Lyssa Belperio… well, she was none of those things. As she settled in the low seat, he shook his head. In her pink trainers, jeans and baggy pink T-shirt she looked like one of the many backpackers that thronged the piazzas of Rome.

      Once inside the car he removed the baseball cap he’d worn to avoid being recognised in the street and tossed it into the space behind the two seats. He wouldn’t like to think of either of his sisters travelling overseas alone and unprotected. Sharing a car with a strange man for weeks. What were her parents thinking of?

      It was lucky he would be around to make sure she was safe for the duration of her stay.

      Uncle Alberto’s warning had been unnecessary. Getting involved with someone like Lyssa would be completely alien to him. He dated women who knew the rules of the game, who were not expecting anything beyond a good time.

      Women, not girls.

      Lyssa drank in the sights as Ric manoeuvred the car out of the traffic-clogged streets of Rome. In most cities, she’d have to go to a museum to see the type of history that here people lived with every day.

      Crumbling statues, fountains, ancient monuments and ornate churches. Twenty-first-century traffic passing two-thousand-year-old ruins. History, graffiti, advertising and art mixing together madly.

      And then there were the beautiful people. Sexy Roman women who all seemed to be dressed in the latest designer fashions. Not that she’d know anything about that—she wouldn’t know a Valentino from a Versace and she’d skipped the section in the guide book about shopping. But she could see that they had style, these women.

      She settled back as they left the city behind and took the autostrada south. So much for her chance to see Rome, but she couldn’t complain. She was here to do a job and that was to write about this company’s tours of the Amalfi Coast.

      How could anyone complain about an all-expenses-paid opportunity to see one of the world’s most beautiful stretches of coastline?

      Besides, once she’d finished working she’d have a couple of days in Rome before catching the flight home. It was all good.

      Talking of good, she sneaked a glance at her driver. No tour guide she’d ever met before had looked liked this. Leaning against the flash car in his charcoal suit—designer, she assumed—and white shirt, open at the neck, he’d looked more like a model or a movie star than a driver. Even the baseball cap couldn’t spoil the image.

      As she’d walked up to the car, eyes as dark as espresso coffee had studied her and she hadn’t liked the fluttering that had started up in her stomach in direct response. It had seemed as if he was totally focused on her, and she’d had the oddest feeling that she knew him.

      She didn’t know him, of course. Although…

      She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth. It was ridiculous, but he looked exactly like the fantasy man she’d imagined years ago when she’d first dreamed about travelling to Italy.

      Now that he’d lost the cap she could see his dark hair, short but just long enough to curl, and, combined with the sharp line of his jaw and straight nose, the look caused a quiver of recognition in her stomach.

      She turned to stare out of the window without seeing the cars that whizzed by. It was weird that she remembered her fantasy with such clarity. She’d been with Steve for a couple of years, and there had been boyfriends before him. But talking about the dream with Chloe had probably kept the image alive over the years.

      She jumped as a car horn blasted right next to her window.

      ‘OK?’

      She nodded at Ric, who was expertly darting in and out of lanes of traffic. Convinced now that Italian drivers were obsessed with testing the decibel count of their car horns, she was glad the tour company had insisted on collecting her from Rome. If she’d had to drive south alone, she’d have been a nervous wreck.

      ‘Where are we heading?’

      ‘Salerno. We’ll eat lunch there.’

      ‘Lunch? How long will it take us to get there?’

      ‘Three, maybe three and a half hours.’

      ‘Oh, boy. That long?’ But she was hungry now. That was one thing she’d noticed about being pregnant—the outrageous hunger. Well, that and the tiredness. At least she’d escaped morning sickness. So far, anyway.

      ‘Do you think we could stop somewhere to eat before then? Soon? I didn’t have time