A Family Worth Waiting For. Josie Metcalfe

nothing else. She’d be polite and companionable and beat a hasty retreat as soon as was possible. Easy. Simple.

      And if her thoughts turned fanciful, all she need do was picture her mother. Remember her just as she had left her this evening, lying in bed, ravaged by a cruel disease, waiting to die. That should do it.

      Claire arrived at the restaurant only a little late. She hadn’t really known what to expect. She’d assumed it would be something posh and a la carte. So to find a small Italian joint off the beaten track was a pleasant surprise.

      Claire had been unsure what to wear so had decided on a very plain sleeveless linen shift dress with a modest neckline and an even more modest hemline, falling below the knee. She had chosen it because of its simplicity. She hadn’t wanted to wear anything too provocative and give Campbell the wrong idea.

      If she’d known that the moment she’d slipped it over her head the dress went from simple to sexy, she’d never have worn it. It was the colour. A bright fire-engine red, which complemented her olive skin and accentuated the richness of her black hair. The colour naturally drew attention but, once gained, the vision of her in it was one not easy to forget.

      * * *

      Well, she sure knew how to make an entrance, Campbell thought as two waiters nearly collided in their haste to seat her. She did look ravishing, and Campbell understood the effect she was having on them. But the most important thing was that she was here with him, finally. The wait had been worth it.

      A young Latin-looking waiter, the apparent victor between the two, ushered her to the table where Campbell waited. He half rose politely as the waiter pulled her chair out and then spread a starched linen napkin on her lap, lingering a little longer than Campbell felt was appropriate. Victor or not, Campbell was going to break his fingers if he touched Claire again. Anywhere. At all.

      Claire could feel Campbell’s scrutiny as the waiter fussed and took her drink order. She was pleased to be sitting because Campbell in casual mode was a sight to behold. Having seen him in nothing but suits and ties, it was an unexpected pleasure to find him in faded denim jeans and an open-necked polo shirt, which clung to the firm muscles of his arms and chest.

      They regarded each other steadily over a wax-encrusted Chianti bottle complete with flickering candle. Damn! The lingering memory of his devastating kiss swamped her traitorously. Claire could feel her resolve weakening and the internal struggle she had fought with herself from the minute she’d met him seemed less important by candlelight.

      ‘I thought you were going to stand me up,’ he said, the candlelight accentuating the blond highlights in his hair.

      ‘So did I.’ She smiled and he laughed.

      ‘I’m pleased you didn’t.’ He raised his water glass. She raised hers and they clinked them together.

      ‘This place is nice. Kind of quaint. Authentic.’

      ‘It’s my favourite place to eat out. You can keep all those fancy places with their nouvelle cuisine. Me, I like good hearty food and lots of it. Places that serve you up a teaspoon of food in the middle of a huge plate just don’t do it for me. I hope you’re not disappointed.’

      ‘On the contrary.’ She shrugged her slim shoulders, her bob brushing against them. ‘I agree. I can’t bear the pretentiousness of those places.’

      ‘So you’re not one of these women who just nibble when they go on dates?’

      ‘Absolutely not. If you think I’m going to sit here and pick at a garden salad all night, think again. I’m in the mood for lasagne.’

      ‘Your choice in cuisine is matched only by your choice in clothes,’ he complimented her. ‘You look amazing tonight. That dress and the candlelight … wow!’

      Claire blushed and laughed. Their gazes held and locked. The heat between them could have lit a thousand candles.

      The waiter arrived to take their order and Claire released her breath. Campbell ordered lasagne for her and marinara for himself. He also ordered a bottle of red wine, which arrived promptly.

      ‘To the birth centre.’ He raised his glass.

      ‘To breech births,’ she countered.

      ‘To little Davy,’ he agreed, and clinked his glass against hers.

      ‘Thank you for today, Campbell. Your ability and professionalism impressed me. You said you studied in France for a while?’

      ‘Yes. There’s an obstetrician there, Henri Busson, he’s quite well known.’

      ‘Yes, I’ve read some of his papers.’

      ‘He has his own private clinic. Women come from all over Europe to give birth there. He really is the leading expert in alternative birthing practices.’

      ‘Alternative birth?’ Claire shook her head. ‘Is it just me, Campbell, or has the whole world gone completely crazy? Surely things like inductions and Caesareans should be alternative birthing practices? What they call alternative these days is really just natural childbirth. When did it all get so screwed around?’

      ‘I guess when doctors decided to interfere.’

      ‘I’ll drink to that.’ She smiled and swallowed some of the rich, full-bodied wine.

      ‘You’d get along so well with all my sisters.’ His voice was laced with humour.

      ‘All? How many do you have?’

      ‘Four.’

      ‘Wow.’ Claire whistled. ‘Let me guess. You’re the youngest.’

      ‘How did you know that?’

      ‘You’ve obviously been spoilt and indulged. You certainly don’t know how to take no for an answer.’

      ‘Huh,’ he snorted. ‘You couldn’t be further from the truth. More like harangued and henpecked.’

      ‘Yeah, right.’ Claire didn’t believe a word of it.

      ‘Well, maybe a little indulged. But mostly the h-words,’ he answered sheepishly.

      ‘Tell me about your family,’ Claire said as the waiter placed their meals in front of them.

      ‘Well …’ He picked up his fork. ‘My sisters, except for one, are nurses, two of them midwives. The other one’s a GP. My mother is also a retired midwife. She’s English and was a community midwife over there for many years. I think that’s where I get my more modern approach from.’

      ‘And your dad?’

      ‘He died a few years ago. Heart attack.’

      ‘Oh, Campbell.’ Claire reached across and touched his hand. ‘I’m so sorry.’

      Campbell reeled from the look of compassion in her cinnamon eyes. She might be guarded most of the time but, hell, she could certainly be expressive. Something told him she knew a lot about grief. Would she open up to him? Was it worth the risk of seeing the shutters come down when her compassion gave her a whole new appeal?

      ‘What about your family?’

      Campbell felt the cool air against his hand as she abruptly removed hers, like a slap in the face. She returned her concentration to her meal and Campbell regretted having opened his mouth.

      ‘Nothing to tell really. Nowhere near as colourful as your lot. Just Mum and Dad and me. Dad took early retirement a couple of years ago … for medical reasons.’

      Campbell didn’t dare ask about that. From the rigidness of her back he doubted she’d tell him anyway. They ate in silence for a little while, Campbell groping for a way to continue the conversation without her completely freezing him out.

      ‘Have you always lived with them?’

      ‘No. I moved back in a few years ago.’ She placed her knife and fork down on her empty plate. ‘Mmm,