LUCA FROWNED. HE’D caught a glimpse of her. As per usual, no matter how stealthily Fran passed, he always knew when she was near. It was a sixth sense he’d grown all too aware of.
He glanced up at the clock. It was past seven. A lovely evening. Well after rehab hours. The residents were all back in their villas, Pia was tucked up with the dogs, watching a film, and here he was hunkered over a pile of papers, brow furrowed, one hand ramming his hair away from his forehead, the other spread wide against the mahogany sheen of the large desk he commanded. Taut. Ready for action. Poised like a reluctant but honorable admiral, helming a ship when duty called.
“Fran!”
He called out her name before he thought better of it. Unlike Francesca, who, true to her word, had maintained an entirely professional demeanor in the weeks following their talk, Luca had behaved like a bear with a sore head.
A golden halo of hair appeared, then her bright eyes peeped around the edge of his door frame like a curious kitten—tempted, but not quite brave enough to enter the lion’s lair.
Luca gazed at her for a moment, just enjoying the chance to drink her in. Those blue eyes of hers were skidding around his office as if trying to memorize it. Or maybe that was just him hoping. It wouldn’t be long now before she left.
Her loose blond curls rested atop the soft slope of her bare shoulders. The tiny string straps of her sundress reminded him of...too much.
He pushed the pile of papers away, against his better judgment, and rose. “Fancy a walk? I could do with some fresh air.”
She shot him a wary look, then nodded. Reluctantly.
They strolled for a few minutes in a surprisingly comfortable silence. Strands of music, television and laughter ribboned out from the villas along with wafts of home-cooked food.
Fran broke the silence. “That smells good.”
“My mother used to call the scents up here ‘the real Italy.’” Luca laughed softly at the memory.
“In my house that was store-bought macaroni and cheese!” Fran huffed out a laugh that was utterly bereft of joy.
Her response to his throwaway comment was a stark reminder to Luca that he did have blessings to count. Proper childhood memories. Family, laughter, love and joy.
“So what were they? Those scents of the real Italy?” Fran asked.
“Oh, let’s see...” He stopped and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the memories comes to him. “Torn basil leaves. The ripest of tomatoes. Freshly baked focaccia. Dio, the bread alone was enough to bring you to your knees. Signora Levazzo!” The memory came to him vividly. “Signora Levazzo’s focaccia was the envy of all the villagers. She had a secret weapon.”
“Which was...?” Fran asked.
“Her son’s olive oil. He had a set of olive trees he always used. Slightly more peppery than anyone else’s. No one knows how he did it, but—oh!” He pressed his fingers to his lips and kissed them. “Delicioso!”
“Sounds lovely.”
He didn’t miss the hint of wistfulness in her voice. Or the pang in his heart that she hadn’t enjoyed those simple but so-perfect pleasures in her own childhood. From the smattering of comments he’d pieced together, she hadn’t had much of a childhood at all.
“They were unforgettable summers.” Luca looked up to the sky, unsuccessfully fighting the rush of bitterness sweeping in to darken the fond memories. “And to think I told them to sell it all.”
“Who? Your family?” Fran’s brow crinkled.
He nodded. “We spent all our summers here. Well...” He held up his index finger. “Everyone but me once I’d turned eighteen.”
“What happened then?” Fran asked, her eyes following the line of his hand as he indicated that they should follow a path leading to the outer wall of the village.
“The usual things that happen to an eighteen-year-old male. Girls. Motorcycles. University. Medicine.”
Fran laughed, taking a quick, shy glimpse up toward him. “I don’t think most eighteen-year-old males are drawn to medicine.”
“Well...I always like to be different.”
“You definitely are that,” Fran said, almost swallowing the words even as she did. “And it was plastics you went into?”
“Reconstructive surgery,” he corrected, then amended his brusque answer. “I did plastics to feed my taste for the high life. Reconstructive surgery to feed my soul.”
Fran shot him a questioning glance.
“I did a lot of pro bono cases back then. Cleft palates. Children who’d been disfigured in accidents. That sort of thing.”
He felt Fran’s eyes travel to his scar and turned away. He’d never remove his scar. Not after what he’d done.
Abruptly Fran stopped and knelt, plucking at a few tiny flowers. She held them up when he asked if she was making a posy.
“Daisy chain,” she explained, turning her focus to joining the flowers together. “It’s fun. You should try it.”
“I don’t do fun,” Luca shot back.
* * *
“I know.” Fran pressed her heels into the ground and rose to her full height. “That’s why I said it.”
Luca turned away to face the setting sun.
He shouldn’t have to live like this, she thought. All stoic, full of to-do lists and health-and-safety warnings. He was a kind, generous man who—when he dared to let the mask drop—was doing his best to stay afloat and do well by his niece. And failing at both because he insisted upon doing it alone.
She placed the finished daisy chain atop her head, then reached out to grab his hand before he strode off beyond her reach. His heart might not be free to love her, but he didn’t have to do this alone.
“Talk to me.”
A groan of frustration tightened Luca’s throat around his Adam’s apple. If he hadn’t squeezed her fingers as he made the animalistic cry, she would have left immediately. But when his fingers curled around hers and pressed into the back of her palm, she knew it was his way of doing the best he could—the only way he knew how.
“C’mon...” She tried again. “Fair is fair. You got my life story on my first day here.”
When she sent him a playful wink she received a taut grimace in place of the smile she’d hoped to see.
“I was looking after my niece. Ensuring you weren’t some lunatic Bea had sent my way.”
Fran clucked her tongue. “First of all, Bea would never do that. And, second of all, I think you know I’ve encountered enough crazy in my life for you to feel safe in the knowledge I will pass no judgment when I hear your story.”
Was that...? Had he just...? Was that the hint of a smile? No. He gave a shake of his head.
Frustration tightened in her chest. What would it take to get this man to trust her?
“Listen. Of all the people up here in this incredible, wonderful center of healing you’ve created, you seem to be the only one not getting any better.”
She ignored his sharp look and continued.
“I’m probably the only one here who knows exactly what it’s like to butt heads with their own destiny. My dad’s due any day now and I’m already quaking in my boots. Please...” She gave his hand a tight squeeze. “Just lay your cards on the table and see what happens.”
A rancorous laugh unfurled from deep within him. “Oh, chiara. If only you knew how apt your choice of words was...”
“Well, I would know if you told me.” Despite all her efforts to rein in her emotions, she couldn’t help giving the ground a good stamp with her foot.
Luca arced an eyebrow at her. “It’s not a very nice story.”
“Nor is mine. It’s not like I’m made of glass, Luca. I’m flesh and blood. Just like you.”
Luca’s lips remained firmly clamped shut.
“You’ve already had my body!” she finally cried out in sheer frustration. “What do you want? Blood?”