Invitation to Italian. Tracy Kelleher

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      Her lips sought his and nipped and tasted

      When Sabastiano opened his mouth, Julie didn’t need any encouragement, and they plundered at will.

      Then his mouth stilled against hers. She steadied herself against the vibrations tingling her whole body.

      “Well, that was unexpected, but clearly enjoyable. Why did you stop?”

      “There are rules. Morals,” Sebastiano explained, though obviously with some difficulty on his part.

      “What? Adversaries have morals in this day and age?”

      He looked at her askance. “When it comes to taking advantage of damsels in distress, even adversaries in this day and age have rules.”

      Julie smiled. “Perhaps it’s time to suspend the rules?”

      Dear Reader,

      Autumn has come to Grantham again, and it’s time for school!

      Julie has been chomping at the bit to have her story told. Let me tell you, it wasn’t easy keeping the opinionated obstetrician at bay. But I think you’ll agree that Julie has met her match in suave hospital administrator Sebastiano Fonterra. Was there any doubt that sparks would fly in a class in Italian conversation? They don’t call Italian a romantic language for nothing.

      On a separate note, you’ll see that Julie loves to do needlepoint—a hobby I am addicted to, as well. There is nothing like handwork to clear the mind and relax the body. And in the end, you have something to show for your efforts—though I think my friends and relatives probably have enough pillows by now.

      As always, I love to hear from my readers. Email me at [email protected].

      Tracy Kelleher

      Invitation to Italian

      Tracy Kelleher

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      Tracy sold her first story to a children’s magazine when she was ten years old. Writing was clearly in her blood, though fiction was put on hold while she received degrees from Yale and Cornell, traveled the world, worked in advertising, became a staff reporter and later a magazine editor. She also managed to raise a family. Is it any surprise she escapes to the world of fiction?

      Many thanks to Maria Engst for her expertise

       in Spanish and Dan Shapiro for sharing his

       knowledge about obstetrical care.

      This book is dedicated to two people:

       Bob Bogart, the man to have in a flood.

       I owe you much more than a case of beer.

       And to Anna Ruspa Fedele—

      una professoressa straordinaria.

       Mille grazie.

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY

      CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

      CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

      CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

      CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

      CHAPTER THIRTY

      CHAPTER ONE

      Sunday, 10:00 p.m.

      “I’M HAVING SOME TROUBLE getting a heartbeat,” Julie Antonelli said. Her tone was steady despite the bad news. She looked at the anxious mother in labor who shook her head and turned to her husband who hovered by her shoulder. Too nervous to muster his meager language skills he grimaced in confusion.

      “Espere un minuto.” Julie held up a finger before turning to Maria, one of the delivery nurses. By law, the hospital was required to have a translator, and Maria spoke Spanish fluently.

      “Tell them what I just said and add that this happens sometimes,” Julie said. Maria translated efficiently and without drama.

      The husband nodded stiffly and gripped his wife’s shoulder. She lay back and closed her eyes. The concern was etched in the lines on their faces, but they both breathed a little easier now.

      Julie’s breathing, by contrast, sped up. After six years as a practicing obstetrician, she recognized a potential crisis in the making, and she wasn’t about to let that happen. She already carried around enough guilt.

      Not that guilt was all bad, she liked to tell herself, or, more accurately, to fool herself. Either way it reminded her just how precious life was. She focused on the nurse at her side.

      “Maria, could you explain to Mr. and Mrs. Sanchez that I’m ordering an ultrasound machine brought in? I want to get a better look at the baby.” So far neither a fetal monitor nor a scalp probe on the baby’s cranium had yielded evidence of a heartbeat.

      Maria translated while eyeing the monitors. “Two hundred over one-fifty,” she whispered in English.

      Julie nodded. The patient’s blood pressure was dangerously elevated. Julie leaned toward the patient. “Carlotta, are you a diabetic?”

      “¿Carlotta, es usted diabética?” Maria translated.

      Carlotta shook her head.

      “Have you had regular prenatal checkups, Carlotta?” Julie continued with a kind smile.

      “¿Carlotta, Usted ha tenido chequeos prenatales regularmente?”

      Carlotta shook her head. A contraction gripped her. She reached to squeeze her husband’s hand.

      Julie leaned over and patted her shoulder, watching the monitors for signs of distress.

      Carlotta breathed through her mouth as the pain passed. She wet her lips. “Yo trabajo durante el dia cuando la clinica esta abierta,” she said.

      “I work during the day when the clinic is open,” Maria translated quickly. Carlotta spoke some more. “She says that she couldn’t leave work because she was afraid to lose her job.”

      Julie bit back an oath. “What kind of job does she have?”

      “¿En que trabaja?”

      “Soy la ninera de una familia en Grantham.”

      “She says she’s—” Maria started to translate.

      Julie waved Maria off before the nurse could finish. “That’s okay. Even I get that