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Francesco leapt to his feet. ‘I would.’
The doctor spoke into an intercom and a nurse appeared. ‘Would you take Mr Romanelli to his private room to see his wife?’
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE room was little more than a box, white and clinical. Francesco approached silently. Erin appeared to be sleeping, or possibly they had given her something to make her sleep? As he looked at her lying there she seemed so small and scarily fragile with an intravenous infusion attached to her arm.
Francesco stood at the bedside, his chest tight with the emotions that swelled and grew as he looked at her.
The cover was white, the gown she wore was white and her skin was if possible even whiter, her freckles standing out in stark relief across the bridge of her nose! The only colour was her glorious hair that peeked out beneath the ridiculous cap they had put on her head.
He closed his eyes. His silent prayer was interrupted by the sound of a slurred voice.
‘You look terrible.’
He opened his eyes and saw her looking up at him. ‘I thought you were asleep.’
She shook her head and made a weak flailing gesture, which he correctly interpreted as an effort to catch hold of his hand. Francesco caught her hand between the two of his.
‘They gave me something. I feel a bit drunk … do I sound a bit drunk?’
Francesco smiled into her glazed eyes. ‘A little,’ he admitted.
‘Thought so … Did they tell you?’
He nodded. ‘You’ll be fine,’ he promised.
‘And the baby will be fine?’ She looked at him with total trust that pierced him like a knife. He didn’t deserve her trust–if it hadn’t been for him there would have been no accident.
‘Absolutely,’ he said, hoping with all his heart that he was right.
Erin gave a sigh. ‘Good. Do you know that you have the most incredible … no, better than incredible mouth?’ she slurred. ‘Thank you.’ ‘I like your eyes, too.’
Before she had commented on any other parts of his anatomy two porters and a nurse arrived with a trolley.
They let him walk with them as far as the entrance to the anaesthetic room. She lay with h
er eyes closed, her small hand tightly curled over his.
He bent and kissed her lips before they wheeled her inside, resisting the urge he had to yell at the person who removed her hand from his.
As they closed the door the last thing he heard was a slurred, ‘And great legs, too!’
The first thing Erin became conscious of was voices, male and female; she couldn’t understand what they were saying.
‘Go away,’ she said crankily. ‘My head hurts. I’m thirsty.’ She lifted a hand to protect her eyes from the strong light shining in them. ‘Where am I?’
Someone spoke, Erin heard them say, ‘She’s back with us,’ and there was a click and light filtering through her fingers vanished.
The next thing that Erin was conscious of was fingers, cool on her forehead. They stilled for a moment. She tried to say don’t stop but her vocal chords did not respond. She struggled to open her eyes but gave up—her eyelids felt too heavy, and besides the soothing, cool fingers were stroking again.
‘If anything happened to you … per amor di Dio, I would never have forgiven myself.’ Francesco, his lean face contorted with self-recrimination, looked down at the pale, still-sleeping features of the woman he had married.
The woman he had nearly lost.
His tortured eyes darkened and he tensed expectantly as her eyelashes fluttered against the pallor of her waxen cheek. A sigh escaped him when after a moment they stilled and there was no other sign of returning consciousness.
A nurse materialised quietly at the bottom of the bed.
