HANNAH HAD BEEN shopping in Palermo for such a long time that Francesco started to think she’d had second thoughts and hopped on a plane back to London.
He could have found out for himself by calling the bodyguard he’d left to watch over her, but resisted each time the urge took him. He’d stopped himself making that call for almost two hours.
Thus, when the bulletproof four-by-four pulled up within the villa’s gates late afternoon, he fully expected Hannah to get out laden with bags and packages, having gone mad on his credit card. Likely, she would have changed into one of her new purchases.
Instead, she clambered her way out and up the steep steps leading to the main entrance of his villa, still dressed in that ugly shapeless dress. All she carried was her handbag and two other bags and, to top it all off, she wore a navy blue scarf over her hair.
She looked a bigger mess than when he’d left her in the boutique.
Even so, his heart accelerated at the sight of her.
Taking a deep breath to slow his raging pulse, then another when the first had zero effect, Francesco opened his front door.
Hannah stood on the step before him. ‘This is your home?’ she asked, her eyes sparkling.
‘Sì.’
‘It’s fabulous.’
It took every ounce of restraint within him not to allow his lips to curve into the smile they so wanted. ‘Thank you.’
He took a step back to admit her. ‘You were a long time.’ Immediately he cursed himself for voicing his concern.
‘The boutique manager—a fabulous woman, by the way—managed to get me into a hairdresser’s.’
‘You’ve had your hair cut?’ He caught a whiff of that particular scent found only in salons, a kind of fragrant chemical odour. It clung to her.
‘Kind of.’ Her face lit up with a hint of mischief. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see—the hairdresser wrapped the scarf round it so it didn’t get wind damaged or anything.’ She did a full three-sixty rotation. ‘I can’t believe this is your home. Do you live here alone?’
‘I have staff, but they live in separate quarters.’
‘It’s amazing. Really. Amazing.’
Francesco’s home was a matter of pride, his sanctuary away from a life filled with hidden dangers. Hannah’s wide-eyed enthusiasm for it filled his chest, making it expand.
‘Who would have guessed being a gangster would pay so well?’ Her grin negated the sting her words induced. ‘I’m just saying.’ She laughed, noticing his unimpressed expression. ‘You’re the one trying to convince me you’re a gangster.’
‘You really don’t believe in beating around the bush, do you?’
Her nose scrunched up a little. ‘Erm...I guess not. I’ve never really thought about it.’
‘It’s very refreshing,’ he surprised himself by admitting.
‘Really? And is that a good thing?’
‘Most refreshing things are good.’
‘In that case...excellent. It’s nice to know there’s something about me you approve of.’ Despite the lightness of her tone, he caught a definite edge to it, an edge he didn’t care for and that made him reach over and grab her wrist.
‘When are you going to learn, Dr Chapman, that my approval should mean nothing to a woman like you?’
‘And when are you going to learn, Signor Calvetti, that I may be a doctor but I am still a human being? I am still a woman.’
He was now certain the edge he had detected was the whiff of reproach.
Surely he should be delighted she was starting to see through the layers to the real man inside. So why did he feel more unsettled than ever?
‘Believe me, Dr Chapman,’ he said, putting deliberate emphasis on her title, ‘I am well aware that beneath your haphazard appearance is a woman.’
A smile flitted over her face, not the beaming spark of joy he was becoming accustomed to but a smile that could almost be described as shy. Bright spots of colour stained her cheeks.
Shoving his hands in his pockets lest they did something stupid like reach out for her again, Francesco inclined his head to the left. ‘If you head in that direction you will go through several living rooms before you reach the indoor pool, which you are welcome to use, although you might prefer the outside one. If you go through the door on the other side of the pool you’ll find the kitchen. If you’re hungry my chef will cook something for you, but I would suggest you keep it light as we will be dining in the casino.’
‘We’re eating out?’
‘Yes. I’ll show you to the room you will be sleeping in whilst you’re here as my guest.’
‘Which is only until tomorrow,’ Hannah stated amiably, biting back the question of whether it would be his room she would be sleeping in, already knowing the answer.
Francesco’s villa was a thing of beauty, a huge white palace cleverly cut into the rocks of the hillside. Walking up the steps to his home, the scent of perfumed flowers and lemons had filled her senses so strongly she would have been happy to simply stand there and enjoy. If she hadn’t been so keen to see Francesco, she would have done.
She’d been aware he possessed great wealth, but even so...
It felt as if she’d slipped through the looking glass and landed in a parallel universe.
She followed him through huge white arches, over brightly coloured tiled flooring, past exotic furniture, and up a winding stone staircase to a long, uneven corridor.
‘Was this once a cave?’ she asked.
He laughed. Francesco actually laughed. It might not have been a great big boom echoing off the high ceilings, more of a low chuckle, but it was a start and it made her heart flip.
‘Its original history is a bit of a mystery,’ he said, opening a door at the end of the corridor. ‘This is your room.’
Hannah clamped a hand over her mouth to stop the squeal that wanted to make itself heard. Slowly she drank it all in: the four-poster bed, the vibrant colours, the private balcony overlooking the outdoor pool...
‘Wow,’ she said when she felt capable of speaking without sounding like a giddy schoolgirl. ‘If I didn’t have to get back to work on Monday, I’d be tempted to claim squatters’ rights.’
‘You’re still trusting I will get you back to London in time?’
She rolled her eyes in answer.
‘Let us hope your faith in me is justified.’
‘If I turn out to be wrong then no worries—I’ll get my own flight back.’
‘And what about your passport? You will need that to leave the country.’
‘My passport’s in my bag.’
‘You are sure about that?’ At her puzzled expression, Francesco leaned over and whispered into her ear, ‘A word of advice, Dr Chapman—when in the company of criminals, never leave your bag open with your passport and phone in it.’
With that, he strolled to the door, patting his back pocket for emphasis. ‘Be ready to leave in two hours.’
Hannah watched him close the door before diving into her handbag.
Unbelievable! In the short time she’d been in his home, Francesco had deftly removed her passport and mobile and she hadn’t noticed a thing.
She should be furious. She should be a lot of things. He had her passport—effectively had her trapped in his country—but it was her phone she felt a pang of anxiety over.
She had to give him points for continuing to try to make her see the worst in him, but there was no way in the world he would keep hold of her stuff. She had no doubt that, come the morning, he would return the items to her.
The morning...
Before the morning came the night.
And a shiver zipped up her spine at the thought of what that night could bring.
* * *
Francesco sat on his sprawling sofa catching up on the day’s qualifying event for one of the many motor racing sports he followed, when he heard movement behind the archway dividing the living room from the library.
Sitting upright, he craned his neck to see better.
He caught a flash of blue that vanished before reappearing with a body attached to it. Hannah’s body.
Hannah’s incredible body.
His jaw dropped open.
There she stood, visibly fighting for composure, until she expanded her arms and said, ‘What do you think? Do I still resemble a bag lady?’
A bag lady? He could think of a hundred words to describe her but the adjective that sprang to the forefront of his mind was stunning.
Where the blue dress she had changed into on his plane had been a drab, ill-fitting creation, this soft blue dress was a million miles apart. Silk and Eastern in style with swirling oriental flowers printed onto it, it skimmed her figure like a caress, landing midthigh to show off incredibly shapely legs.
Whatever the hairdresser had been paid could never be enough. The thick mop of straw-like hair had gone. Now Hannah’s hair was twisted into a sleek knot, pinned in with black chopsticks. There was not a millimetre of frizz in sight. If his eyes were not deceiving him, she’d had colour applied to it, turning her multicoloured locks into more of a honey blonde.
She wore make-up, too, her eyes ringed with dark smokiness that highlighted the moreish hazel, her lips a deep cherry-red...
She looked beautiful.
And yet...
He hated it.
She no longer looked like Hannah.
‘No. You no longer resemble a bag lady.’
‘Well, that’s a relief.’ She shuffled into the room on shoes with heels high enough to make her hobble—although not as high as many women liked to wear—and stood before him, her hand outstretched. Her short nails hadn’t been touched, a sight he found strangely reassuring. ‘Can I have my phone back, please?’
‘You can have it back when you leave Sicily.’
‘I’d like it back now.’
‘For what reason?’
‘I’ve told you—I like to keep abreast of what’s going on with my patients.’
‘And what can you do for them here?’
‘Not worry about them. No news is good news.’
‘Then it seems I am doing you a favour.’
‘But how am I going to know if there is no news? Now I’ll worry that bad news has come and I won’t know one way or the other.’
Hiding his irritation, he said, ‘Do all doctors go to such lengths for their patients?’
Her lips pressed together. ‘I have no idea. It’s none of my concern what my colleagues get up to when they’re off duty.’
‘What happened to professional detachment? I thought you doctors were trained to keep your distance?’
A hint of fire flashed in her eyes. ‘Keeping a check on the welfare of my patients is at odds with my professionalism?’
‘I’m just asking the question.’
‘Well, don’t. I will not have my professionalism questioned by you or anyone.’
It was the first time Francesco had heard her sound even remotely riled. He’d clearly hit a nerve.
Studying her carefully, he got to his feet. ‘I think it will do you good to spend one evening away from your phone.’
Hannah opened her mouth to argue but he placed a finger to it. ‘I did not mean to question your professionalism. However, I am not prepared to spend the evening with someone who has only half a mind on what’s going on. Constantly checking your phone is rude.’
Her cheeks heightened with colour, a mutinous expression blazing from her eyes.
‘I will make a deal with you,’ he continued silkily. ‘You say you want to experience all the world has to offer, yet it will be a half-hearted experience if you are preoccupied with worrying about your patients. If you prove that you can let your hair down and enjoy the experience of what the casino has to offer, I will give you your phone back when we return to the villa.’
For the first time since she’d met him, Hannah wanted to slap Francesco. Okay, keep her passport until it was time to leave—that didn’t bother her. She knew she would get it back. She knew she would get her phone back eventually, too, but she needed it now. She needed to keep the roots the mobile gave her to the ward.
And how dared he imply that she had no detachment? She had it. But she refused to lose her empathy. Her patients were her guiding motive in life. Never would she allow one of her young charges to be on the receiving end of a doctor who had lost basic humanity. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She’d been at the other end and, while it hadn’t made the pain of what she went through any worse, a little compassion would have helped endure it that little bit better.
Eventually she took a deep breath and bestowed Francesco with her first fake smile. ‘Fine. But if you want me to let my hair down and enjoy myself it’s only fair you do the same, too. After all,’ she added airily, ‘I would say that, of the two of us, you’re the greater workaholic. At least I take weekends off.’
* * *
Calvetti’s casino was a titanic building, baroque in heritage, set over four levels in the heart of Palermo. Hannah followed Francesco up the first sweeping staircase and into an enormous room filled with gambling tables and slot machines as far as the eye could see. It was like stepping into a tasteful version of Vegas.
Flanked by his minders, they continued up the next set of stairs to the third floor. There, a group of men in black parted to admit them into a room that seemed virtually identical to the second floor. It took a few moments for her to realise what the subtle differences were. The lower level was filled with ordinary punters. The third floor, which had around a quarter of the number of customers, was evidently the domain of the filthy rich.
Sticking closely to Francesco, Hannah drank everything in: the gold trimming on all the tables, the beautiful fragrant women, the men in tuxedos—which, she noted, none filled as well as Francesco, who looked even more broodingly gorgeous than usual in his. After a host of conversations, Francesco slipped an arm around her waist and drew her through a set of double doors and into the restaurant.
And what a restaurant it was, somehow managing to be both opulent and elegant.
‘Are the customers on the second floor allowed to dine in here?’ she asked once they’d been seated by a fawning maître d’ at a corner table.
‘They have their own restaurant,’ he said, opening his leather-bound menu.
‘But are they allowed to eat in here?’
‘The third floor is for private members only. Anyone can join, providing they can pay the fifty thousand euro joining fee and the ten thousand annual membership.’
She blinked in shock. ‘People pay that?’
‘People pay for exclusivity—the waiting list is longer than the actual membership list.’
‘That’s mind-blowing. I feel like a gatecrasher.’
She only realised he’d been avoiding her stare when he raised his eyes to look at her.
‘You are with me.’
The possessive authority of his simple statement set her pulse racing, and in that moment she forgot all about being mad at him for refusing to hand back her phone.
‘So what do you recommend from the menu?’ she asked when she was certain her tongue hadn’t rooted to the roof of her mouth.
‘All of it.’
She laughed, a noise that sounded more nervous than merry.
A waiter came over to them. ‘Posso portarti le bevande?’
Francesco spoke rapidly back to him.
‘He wanted our drink order,’ he explained once the waiter had bustled off. ‘I’ve ordered us a bottle of Shiraz.’
‘Is that a wine?’
‘Yes. The Shiraz we sell here is of the highest quality.’
‘I don’t drink wine. I’ll have a cola instead.’
A shrewdness came into his eyes. ‘Have you ever drunk wine?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever drunk alcohol?’
‘I had a few sips of champagne at Mel’s hen do.’ Suddenly it occurred to her that Melanie’s hen party had been just twenty-four hours ago.
Where had the time gone?
It felt as if she’d experienced a whole different life in that short space of time.
‘And that was your first taste of alcohol?’
She stared at him, nodding slowly, her mind racing. After all, wasn’t the whole point of her being in Sicily with Francesco to begin her exploration of life? ‘Maybe I should have a glass of the Shiraz.’
He nodded his approval. ‘But only a small glass. Your body has not acquired a tolerance for alcohol.’
‘My body hasn’t acquired a tolerance for anything.’
The waiter returned with their wine and a jug of water before Francesco could ask what she meant by that comment.
The more time he spent with Hannah, the more intriguing he found her. Nothing seemed to faze her, except having her professionalism cast into doubt. And having her phone taken away.
He watched as she studied the menu, her brow furrowed in concentration. ‘Are mussels nice?’ she asked.
‘They’re delicious.’
She beamed. ‘I’ll have those, then.’
A platter of antipasto was brought out for them to nibble on while they waited for their meals to be cooked.
‘Is this like ham?’ she asked, holding up a slice of prosciutto.
‘Not really. Try some.’
She popped it into her mouth and chewed, then nodded her approval. Swallowing, she reached for a roasted pepper.
‘Try some wine,’ he commanded.
‘Do I sniff it first?’
‘If you want.’ He smothered a laugh when she practically dunked her nose into the glass.
She took the tiniest of sips. ‘Oh, wow. That’s really nice.’
‘Have you really never drunk wine before?’
‘I really haven’t.’ She popped a plump green olive into her mouth.
‘Why not?’
Her nose scrunched. ‘My parents aren’t drinkers so we never had alcohol in the house. By the time I was old enough to get into experimenting I was focused on my studies. I wasn’t prepared to let anything derail my dream of being a doctor. It was easier to just say no.’
‘How old were you when you decided to be a doctor?’
‘Twelve.’
‘That’s a young age to make a life-defining choice.’
‘Most twelve-year-olds have dreams of what they want to do when they grow up.’
‘Agreed, but most change their mind.’
‘What did you want to be when you were twelve?’
‘A racing bike rider.’
‘I can see you doing that,’ she admitted. ‘So what stopped you? Or did you just change your mind?’
‘It was only ever a pipe dream,’ he said with a dismissive shrug. ‘I was Salvatore Calvetti’s only child. I was groomed from birth to take over his empire.’
‘And how’s that going?’
Francesco fixed hard eyes on her. ‘I always knew I would build my own empire. I am interested to know, though, what drew you to medicine in the first place—was it the death of your sister?’
A brief hesitation. ‘Yes.’
‘She was called Beth?’
Another hesitation followed by a nod. When Hannah reached for her glass of water he saw a slight tremor in her hand. She took a long drink before meeting his eyes.
‘Beth contracted meningitis when we were twelve. They said it was flu. They didn’t get the diagnosis right until it was too late. She was dead within a day.’
She laid the bare facts out to him in a matter-of-fact manner, but there was something in the way she held her poise that sent a pang straight into his heart.
‘So you decided to be a doctor so you could save children like Beth?’
‘That’s a rather simplistic way of looking at it, but yes. I remember walking through the main ward and going past cubicles and private rooms full of ill children and their terrified families, and I was just full of so much... Oh, I was full up of every emotion you could imagine. Why her? Why not me too? Meningitis is so contagious....’ She took a deep breath. ‘I know you must think it stupid and weak, but when Beth died the only thing that kept me going was the knowledge that one day I would be in a position to heal as many of those children as I could.’
Francesco expelled a breath, the pang in his heart tightening. ‘I don’t think it’s weak or stupid.’
Hannah took another sip of her water. The tremor in her hand had worsened and he suddenly experienced the strangest compulsion to reach over and squeeze it.
‘My mother was hospitalised a number of times—drug overdoses,’ he surprised himself by saying. ‘It was only the dedication of the doctors and nurses that saved her. When she died it was because she overdosed on a weekend when she was alone.’
He still lived with the guilt. On an intellectual level he knew it was misplaced. He’d been fifteen years old, not yet a man. But he’d known how vulnerable his mother was and yet still he and his father had left her alone for the weekend, taking a visit to the Mastrangelo estate without her.
It had ostensibly been for business, his father and Pietro Mastrangelo close friends as well as associates. At least, they had been close friends then, before the friendship between the Calvettis and Mastrangelos had twisted into antipathy. Back then, though, Francesco had been incredibly proud that his father had wanted him to accompany him, had left with barely a second thought for his mother.
While Francesco and Salvatore had spent the Saturday evening eating good food, drinking good wine and playing cards with Pietro and his eldest son, Luca, Elisabetta Calvetti had overdosed in her bed.
To think of his mother dying while he, her son, had been basking in pride because the monster who fed her the drugs had been treating him like a man.... To think that bastard’s approval ever meant anything to him made his stomach roil violently and his nails dig deep into his palms.
His mother had been the kindest, most gentle soul he had ever known. Her death had ripped his own soul in half. His vengeance might be two decades too late, but he would have it. Whatever it took, he would avenge her death and throw the carcass of his father’s reputation into the ashes.
‘I have nothing but the utmost respect for medical professionals,’ he said slowly, unfurling the fists his hands had balled into, unsure why he was confiding such personal matters with her. ‘When I look at you, Dr Chapman, I see a woman filled with compassion, decency, and integrity. The world I inhabit is driven by money, power, and greed.’
‘You have integrity,’ she contradicted. ‘A whole heap of it.’
‘On that we will have to disagree.’ He nodded towards the waiter heading cautiously towards them. ‘It looks as if our main courses are ready. I suggest we move on from this discussion or both our meals will be spoiled.’
She flashed him a smile of such gratitude his entire chest compressed tightly enough that for a moment he feared his lungs would cease to work.