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‘You have a fever,’ he reprimanded sternly.
‘You must make sure that your girlfriend drinks plenty,’ said the doctor. ‘And takes regular analgesia. It’s a nasty dose of flu which is doing the rounds, but she should be better in a few days.’
Angie wanted to protest that she wasn’t his girlfriend, but now someone had started a steam train chugging inside her head. Weakly, she lifted her head from the pillow. ‘I can’t stay here for ah-ah-shoo…’
‘Rest,’ said the doctor severely.
‘Oh, I’ll make sure she rests,’ said Riccardo grimly.
And in truth, it was bliss—almost worth being ill for. Because Angie had never been cosseted like this before. Even when she was younger, it was Sally, her younger sister, who was always fussed over. Sally who had undisputedly been Daddy’s girl and so devastated by his death that she had demanded the focus of attention from their grieving mother. And Angie who had always helped provide comfort for both of them. Reliable Angie who just got on with things and never complained.
For two whole nights and two long days, she drifted in and out of a sweat-filled sleep. Once—very blurrily—to find Riccardo with his sleeves rolled up, sponging down her naked body with tepid water. Feeble hands fluttered up in a half-hearted attempt to cover her modesty, but he removed them from her burning breasts with a grim-looking expression on his face.
He wondered what she would say if she realised that last night she had deliriously been clinging to him and begging him not to leave her. And it had taken every bit of will power he possessed to cover her up with the thin cotton sheet instead of climbing in and taking her shivering body into his arms, as she had been demanding.
But on the third day, Angie awoke to the smell of coffee and the sensation of someone having removed the cotton wool which had been padded inside her head. Blinking furiously, she looked around her in disbelief—her rapidly clearly mind taking in the colossal proportions of the bedroom she was in with something approaching disbelief.
She was in Riccardo’s bedroom! Lying in his bed. Alone.
She looked around. All the furniture was very old and gleamed like silk and on the walls hung exquisite Tuscan landscapes. A vase of pure white roses drifted out a subtle scent and giant windows overlooked the verdant sweep of Green Park. Against her skin, she could feel the buttery caress of some soft material and, lifting up the sheet, she saw that she was wearing some sleek sort of nightgown—its eau-de-nil silk falling demurely to her ankles. Where had that come from?
Her legs felt so weak that getting out of bed took a little time, but after a few seconds she felt steady enough to move and made her way into the en-suite bathroom with the certainty of someone who had been there before, though not quite remembering when. Staring at herself in the mirror, she resigned herself for a shock—and a shock it certainly was.
Her hair was all over the place and her cheeks looked quite hollow—she must have lost at least five pounds. But the colour was beginning to return to her cheeks and her eyes looked surprisingly bright. Finding an unused toothbrush and some soap, she freshened up—using one of Riccardo’s brushes to try to create some kind of order out of her ruffled hair.
Back in the bedroom she could hear the sound of a radio and activity in another part of the apartment and she went to find the source of it. And there—in a streamlined kitchen, looking remarkably proficient—was Riccardo busying himself with a coffee pot. He was in a pair of dark trousers and a silk shirt, his feet were bare and his black hair was not yet dry from the shower.
He must have heard her enter because he turned round and looked at her, his eyes running over her assessingly and, stupidly, Angie found herself blushing. It wasn’t so
much because she felt undressed—he’d seen her wearing a lot less than this. It was just that in a way this felt more intimate than anything which had gone before. But it isn’t, she reminded herself fiercely. It’s simply masquerading as intimacy.
‘You’re looking better,’ he murmured approvingly. ‘Much better.’
‘I feel much better. Riccardo—’ She wrapped her hands around her arms. ‘What’s been happening?’
‘You’ve been ill,’ he said softly. ‘That’s all.’
‘Then you’ve been…been…’
‘Not now. Sit down. Please.’ Waving aside her stumbled words, he pointed to a squashy black leather chair which was littered with cushions, and she sat down on it gratefully, her legs still weaker than she realised.
‘Coffee?’ he questioned.
She wondered if it occurred to him that their positions were suddenly reversed; that he was looking after her. Don’t get used to it, she thought. ‘Please.’
‘And something to eat, I imagine? You must be hungry?’
‘Starving.’
‘Eggs okay?’
‘Eggs would be perfect.’
He found himself humming as he melted butter in a pan and ten minutes later they were sitting side by side at his breakfast bar, eating scrambled eggs and raisin bread and drinking strong, dark coffee.
In between mouthfuls, Angie savoured the moment, even though she knew that it would be heartbreaking to relive it afterwards. They’d never done this kind of closeness before—though pretty much every other kind. And behind all the recent storms in their working relationship the bottom line was that they had always been a team. At least this way they would part on the good terms which their long partnership deserved.
‘Thank you, Riccardo,’ she said quietly. ‘For looking after me so superbly.’
