The Italian's Love-Child Read Free Page B

endured.
    ‘I thought you were going to make a phone call, Luca,’ she pouted.
    Did she spend her whole life pouting? he wondered with a faint air of irritation.
    ‘I was distracted,’ he drawled. ‘But thank you for reminding me.’
    It hadn’t been what she had meant to happen at all, and the blonde’s mouth fell open in protest, but Luca had gone, pulling his mobile phone out of his pocket, and he went to stand outside, for privacy and for a better signal.
    And better to watch the shadowy figure of Eve Peters as she walked down the path with the moonlit water dappling in the soft night air behind her.

CHAPTER TWO
    E VE knew that people thought that working in television was glamorous, but people were wrong. Waking up at three-thirty had never been easy and the following morning was no exception, made worse by a foul, chill wind blowing in, which had the kind of drizzle which could turn the straightest hair into a frizzy cloud.
    On automatic pilot, she showered and drank strong black coffee, and when the car arrived to collect her to take her to the studio she sat in the back with the newspapers as usual, only for once it was hard to concentrate on the day’s news.
    The truth was that she had had a disturbed night and that it had been disturbed by Luca Cardelli. He had burst into her dreams like a bright, dazzling meteorite, his brilliant black eyes mocking her and tantalising her and making her feel that she had missed an opportunity by leaving the party early.
    But dreams were curious and capricious things, and unlike life you had no control over them. All he had done was to awake something in her subconscious, some forgotten teenage longing which had never quite gone away.
    And dreams were soon forgotten. They weren’t real. Neither was the ridiculous fluttery feeling she felt at the base of her stomach when she thought of him and there was a simple solution to that . She triedher best not to think of him but he stubbornly stayed on her mind.
    She wished now that she had asked Michael how long he was here for—but surely it would be a flying visit? His life wasn’t here, was it? His life was in Italy—a different, unknown life in a country as foreign to her as he was.
    That morning’s show contained the usual mix of items, including a dog which was supposedly able to howl in time to the national anthem. Unfortunately, the animal refused to perform to order—the poor thing cowered and was terrified and then was sick in a corner of the studio. Johnny, her co-host, threw a complete wobbly afterwards, and Eve was relieved to get away after the post-show breakdown.
    The car dropped her off just after eleven and she closed the door of her tiny cottage with a sigh of relief. She went upstairs, wiped off all her heavy studio make-up, stripped off her clothes and took a long, hot shower, blasted her hair dry and knotted it into one thick plait.
    Feeling something close to human again, she put on a pair of black jeans and a charcoal-grey sweater, aware that she would have grubby little fingers crawling all over her, then set off for Michael and Lizzy’s, stopping off on the way to buy a colouring book and some crayons for Kesi.
    She rang the bell and Lizzy answered it, a look of repressed excitement on her face, as though the party were just about to happen, rather than having taken place the night before.
    ‘Eve! You look gorgeous!’
    ‘No, I don’t. No make-up and slouchy old jeans.’
    ‘Well, you looked pretty amazing on the box this morning!’
    ‘Ah, but that’s the magic of the make-up artist. Did you see the sick dog?’
    ‘ Did I? Michael recorded it for me. Poor thing! Come on up. He’s taken Kesi out, but he shouldn’t be too long.’
    ‘And how is my gorgeous little god-daughter?’ asked Eve as they walked into the bright, first-floor sitting room. ‘I thought—’ But what she had been thinking flew completely out of her mind, for sprawled on one of the long sofas, reading a newspaper, was