Pregnant: Father Wanted

‘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 for breakfast and I’m…’ She stopped. There was absolutely no need for him to know about her condition. ‘I’m hungry,’ she finished hurriedly.

He shot her a glance. ‘You should have said. I’ll find a pasticceria, yes?’

‘Yes.’ Oh, yes. That sounded good.

Within minutes, Ric had turned off the autostrada and Lyssa had time to look at the scenery, the creamy-coloured cows and clusters of terracotta-roofed houses clinging to the sides of hills.

He drove into a small town and parked at the end of a higgledy-piggledy line of cars that made Lyssa smile. It was just so…Italian. There was no other word for it.

CHAPTER TWO

LYSSA stood in front of the sparkling glass cabinets, pondering her choice with as much awe as if she’d been staring at a Michelangelo sculpture or a fresco by Raphael.

The cases were crammed with artistically arranged trays of focaccias, filled panini and bowls of brightly coloured fruit. Finally she settled on a panini piled high with ham, salami, mortadella, fontina and pecorino.

They carried their purchases outside to a tiny table in the shade of a striped awning. After a few mouthfuls, Lyssa sat back with a contented sigh.

‘Better?’ Ric asked.

‘Much. I’m sorry about the delay. I know you probably have a timetable to keep to.’

‘No, not at all. The philosophy of Amalfitori is to be flexible, to fit in with whatever the clients want to do, to create a unique and unforgettable holiday experience for them.

‘Nothing about the tours is “off-the-shelf”. We aim to satisfy our clients’ individual wishes while ensuring total immersion in the life and culture of the area.’

She chuckled. ‘That sounded like a well-practised sales spiel.’

Ric broke into a grin that made his eyes sparkle. One cheek dimpled and Lyssa suppressed another sigh. He really was exceptionally good-looking and if this trip had taken place at another time, in another life…

But there was no point in letting herself think that way. No point at all.

‘I practised it specially for you,’ he said with a wry smile, ‘for the important travel writer I had to make an effort to impress, but you don’t seem very impressed.’

She shrugged. ‘I’ve heard so many of those speeches and read so many brochures, they all sound the same after a while.’

‘So what does impress you about the places you visit, then? It’s important that I know. I need to make sure you don’t leave disappointed.’

‘It’s hard to say.’ She picked at a piece of ham that was falling from the panini. ‘Often it’s the smallest things. You know, if the waiters in a town are unfriendly, or a hotel’s receptionist is helpful—it all influences your opinion. But then, it’s important to remember that other travellers might have a very different experience, so you have to try to remain objective when you write the story.’

He nodded.

‘Of course, bigger things can make a difference too. If, say, you visit a town where there’s a vibrant festival going on and the whole place is buzzing with excitement, and the next day you visit another where the streets are empty and everyone seems to be asleep, you’re going to gain very different impressions of the two towns. But on another day, it might be reversed. You see what I mean?’

‘How long have you been doing this for a living?’

‘Five years, give or take.’

‘No. You don’t look…’

‘Old enough? I know. I’m twenty-six but I look about eighteen, don’t I?’

‘Well—’

‘No, don’t bother.’ She flapped a hand. ‘There’s no correct answer. Actually, I do look older when I’ve had time to prepare… clothes, make-up. But you took me by sur prise this morning.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, don’t apologise. It’s good that you were on time. Makes a good impression.’

Smiling again, he said, ‘Well, that’s a start. I did something right.’

Lyssa nodded, her mouth full, and Ric waited till she’d finished chewing before he spoke again.

‘Do you enjoy being a travel writer?’

‘I love it. It’s the best job in the world.’

‘And have you been to Italy before?’

‘No. Actually this is the first time I’ve been to Europe. Until now all of my jobs have been nearer to home—Asia, New Zealand, the Pacific islands.’

He frowned, a vertical line appearing between his eyebrows. ‘Are you saying you travelled through Asia on your own?’

‘Oh, yes; Asia is—’

‘But anything could have happened to you.’

Indignant, she pulled herself up straighter. ‘I’m tougher than I look. I’m perfectly capable. I can cope with any unforeseen incidents.’

He held up his palms in apology. ‘I interrupted you. Please, go on.’

She studied his face for a moment before, deciding he was genuinely apologetic, she continued. ‘As I was saying, Asia is fantastic, of course, but I’ve been looking forward to Europe for so long. Italy especially, since my family is Italian. I’m fascinated by the history you have all around you here.’

‘Asia has history.’