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Her Passionate Italian: The Passion Bargain / A Sicilian Husband / The Italian's Marriage Bargain

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Год написания книги
2019
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Did that hurt? A little, she confessed. But—as Angelo said—persistence could often win in the end. ‘Maybe he will relent and come to our wedding.’

And maybe he would, she thought hopefully as she shut up the apartment and stepped back out into the sunlit street.

However disappointed she was with her great-uncle, she had never regretted coming to Rome. Her Italian was fluent, her knowledge of the city’s history something she’d drenched herself in from the time she had been able to read. She loved her job, loved her life and she loved—loved Angelo.

The ride down the Corso was a mad, bad bustle this time around. Francesca skimmed deftly between tight lines of traffic. The afternoon was a long one. The city was beginning to throb with people now the tourist season was in full flow—not that it eased by a huge amount at any time of the year. By the time she arrived back at the apartment she was so tired all she wanted to do was dive beneath the shower then put up her aching feet.

The first thing she noticed was the tidied apartment, the next was Sonya, curled up on the sofa wrapped in her bathrobe, looking very defiant.

‘Before you start, it was the toothache,’ she jumped in before Francesca could say anything. ‘It flared up after I spoke to you this morning and I just had to find a dentist to do something about it.’

‘Makes house-calls, does he?’ Francesca didn’t believe her. It took only a flick of her eyes to the empty coffee-table for Sonya to know what she meant.

‘Of course not,’ she snapped then winced, pushing a hand up to cover the side of her face. ‘God, it’s hurting more now that the anaesthetic’s worn off than it did before I let him touch it!’ she groaned.

‘Who touched it?’

‘The dentist, you sarcastic witch,’ Sonya sliced. Then she sighed when she realised she wasn’t about to get any sympathy, her gentian-blue eyes moving over Francesca’s clothes. ‘Sorry I spoilt your day off,’ she mumbled contritely.

‘You meant to do that a whole lot earlier this morning,’ she drawled.

‘Mm.’ Sonya didn’t even bother to deny it; her fingertips were now carefully testing the slight puffiness Francesca could see at her jaw.

‘You look grotty,’ she observed, yielding slightly. ‘How bad is it?’

‘Really bad.’ Tears even swam into her eyes. ‘He drilled it then dressed it with—something.’ She dismissed that something with a flick of her hand. ‘I’m to go back next week—ouch.’ She winced again. ‘I also got the full lecture on the cause and effect of neglect.’

Francesca couldn’t help but smile at the last dry comment. Sonya didn’t like lectures especially when she had no defence. ‘Did you punch him?’ she asked.

‘Not likely! He had me pinned down with all these contraptions sticking out of my mouth and was holding a drill in his hand at the time.’

‘Poor you,’ she commiserated.

‘Mm.’ Sonya was in complete sympathy with that comment. ‘Did you get your dress?’ she then thought to enquire.

‘Mm,’ Francesca mimicked. ‘Did you get your intriguing new man to hold your hand while you sat in the dentist’s chair?’

Sonya looked up then quickly away again, a definite flush mounting her delicately pale cheeks. ‘Don’t ask because I’m not going to tell you,’ she muttered.

‘So he is married,’ Francesca concluded.

‘Who told you that?’ Sonya was shocked.

‘Bianca,’ she supplied. ‘Who seems to know a whole lot more than I do about your love-life.’

That still hurt, and she turned away to walk towards her bedroom.

‘I’m sorry, Francesca, but I can’t talk about him!’ she threw after her. ‘It’s—complicated,’ she added awkwardly. ‘And Bianca only knows the bit she gleaned out of me when she caught me rowing with him on the phone in the office the other day. ‘

‘So he is married?’ She turned to look at her.

Sonya looked down and stubbornly closed her mouth.

The urge to tell her what a fool she was being leapt to the edge of her tongue—then was stopped when she remembered the ‘you sound like my mother’ stab from this morning. So she changed her mind about saying anything at all and turned back to her bedroom.

‘I’m going to change,’ she said. ‘I’m meeting Angelo in a hour—’

‘No, you’re not.’

Once again she stopped and swung round. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘He rang here—a few minutes ago—to say he’s still in Milan and won’t be coming back until tomorrow.’ For some reason relaying all of that also poured hot colour into her cheeks.

Francesca’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Have you two been fighting again?’

‘No,’ Sonya denied.

‘Then why the guilty face?’

‘OK, so we fought a little bit,’ Sonya snapped. ‘Stop getting at me, Francesca! I can’t help it if—’

‘So, why didn’t he call me on my mobile to tell me this?’ Francesca cut in. She was not going to let Sonya start one of her character-assassination jobs on Angelo again. One a day of those was enough.

‘He said you weren’t answering.’

Francesca glanced at her bag then went to recover it. The moment she fished inside the uniform brown leather satchel she knew why he couldn’t reach her. In her rush that lunchtime she must have left the phone in her tote bag.

‘Idiot,’ she muttered and went into the bedroom to get it so she could return his call—only to find Sonya had followed her and was standing in the doorway, wearing the oddest expression on her face. Francesca couldn’t quite read it—anxiety, pleading? Or was it pain from the tooth?

‘Are you feeling all right, cara?’ she probed gently. ‘You look terribly flushed.’ She put a cool palm against Sonya’s cheek and was surprised just how hot she felt. ‘At the risk of being accused of mothering you, would you like me to tuck you into bed and bring you a nice hot chocolate drink?’

The tears arrived then, turning gentian-blue into midnight pools in a face that was so classically beautiful it was no wonder she’d been screen tested by a film director once. ‘Don’t be nice to me, Francesca,’ she murmured.

‘I love you,’ she smiled, moving her fingers into the straight, glossy pelt of her friend’s long, flaxen hair. ‘Why shouldn’t I be nice?’

‘Because I don’t deserve it.’ Sonya stepped away from her so she could use the sleeve of her bathrobe to wipe her eyes with. ‘I use your friendship dreadfully.’

‘Only because I let you.’

‘Yes…’ Sonya agreed and looked momentarily devastated. The phone went then, breaking the moment. Sonya went into the sitting room to answer it and a few seconds later was calling Francesca to come to the phone.

’Ciao, mi amore.’ It was Angelo, his voice sounding weary and flat. ‘You don’t answer your cellphone because you don’t want to speak to me and I cannot blame you.’

‘I didn’t have my phone with me so I couldn’t answer it, you sweet idiot,’ she chided, her eyes flickering sideways to watch Sonya disappearing into her bedroom. The moment the door shut behind her Francesca lowered her voice into soft, loving tones. ‘I’m sorry you’re stuck in Milan.’

‘So am I,’ he agreed. ‘I am about to get ready to take dinner with some business colleagues when I should be on my way to share a romantic dinner with you. Ah, misero,’ he declared feelingly.

‘Poor caro,’ she commiserated.
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