‘THERE’S SOMEONE HERE to see you. A man...’
Darcey looked up from her desk, surprised that her usually unflappable secretary sounded flustered.
‘He says his name is Salvatore Castellano,’ Sue continued. ‘He has been referred to you by James Forbes and wishes to arrange speech therapy for his daughter.’
‘But James knows that the unit is closing.’ Darcey was puzzled. James Forbes was head of the paediatric cochlear implant programme at the hospital and he had been vociferous in his condemnation of the financial cuts affecting the speech therapy unit.
Sue shrugged. ‘I explained that, but Mr Castellano is insistent that he wants to see you.’ She added in a conspiratorial voice, ‘I think he’s used to getting his own way, and he is demanding to speak to you. He’s very Mediterranean—you know the type... Dark and intense. I know I shouldn’t say this when I’ve been married to Brian for twenty-four years, but he’s hot.’
He was demanding to see her? Darcey’s brows rose, but she had to admit she was intrigued by this man who was responsible for turning Sue into a wilting heap of hormones. Fortunately she had no concerns that he might have the same effect on her. She was off hot men. From now on she would be perfectly happy with lukewarm and safe, perhaps even slightly boring, but definitely not a showman...like her ex-husband.
She glanced out of the window and noticed a sleek black saloon car parked next to her Mini. Her contract with the health authority had been terminated and she did not have to meet this Salvatore Castellano. But what the hell? There was only an empty house waiting for her, and a solitary dinner—if she could be bothered to cook.
‘You’d better show him in.’
Sue stepped back into the corridor and Darcey returned to the task of clearing the drawers in her desk. The filing cabinets had been emptied and all that remained to do was take down the certificates on the wall which gave details of her qualifications: BSc (Hons), MSc in Speech and Language Therapy and an Advanced Clinical Skills Diploma for speech and language therapists to work with the deaf.
It was a pity that being an expert in her field had not been enough to save her job, she thought ruefully. The Inner London health authority’s budget had been drastically cut and she had been made redundant. Losing her job had forced her to think about her future—and acknowledge the necessity of coming to terms with her past. Her decision to take a career break for a couple of months over the summer was primarily so that she could make plans for the private practice she intended to set up. But, more importantly, she was hoping to put her divorce behind her and get over her cheating rat of an ex-husband once and for all.
Her gaze fell on the nameplate on her desk. She had become Darcey Rivers when she had married Marcus and had kept his name after the divorce because she was reluctant to revert back to her maiden name and the notoriety that went with it. It had been painfully humiliating when she had realised that Marcus had married her because he had hoped that joining the famous theatrical Hart family would boost his acting career. Unfortunately she had been so in love with him, so bowled over by his wit and charm and undeniable good looks, that with uncharacteristic impulsiveness she had accepted his proposal four months after they’d met.
Darcey walked over to the window and picked up the potted plant on the sill. She had inherited the Maidenhair Fern two years ago, when she had taken up the post of senior specialist speech and language therapist. It had been half-dead and Sue had offered to throw it out— apparently this type of fern was notoriously difficult to grow successfully. But Darcey liked a challenge, and under her care the plant had thrived and was now a mass of bright green lacy leaves.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll take you home with me,’ she murmured. She had read that plants responded if you talked to them, and her words of encouragement seemed to have worked—although that was strictly between her and the fern. After all, she was a highly educated professional and sensible was her middle name; her family and friends would be astonished if they knew that she talked to plants.
The office door opened again, and she turned her head to see Sue usher a man into the room. Sunlight streamed through the window and danced across his rugged features. Darcey’s first thought was that he was nothing like Marcus. But neither was he lukewarm, and he was definitely not safe. Now she understood what Sue had meant when she had said he was hot!
He looked as though he belonged to another century, when knights on horseback had fought bloody battles and rescued damsels in distress. Startled by the wild excesses of her imagination, Darcey forced herself to study him objectively, but the image of an ancient king still remained in her mind. Perhaps it was the dangerously sexy combination of black jeans and shirt and the well-worn leather jacket that emphasised the width of his shoulders. His height was equally impressive; the top of his head brushed the door frame and she estimated that he must be several inches over six feet tall.
Her heart gave a jolt as she raised her eyes to his face. He was not conventionally handsome like Marcus. Not a pretty boy. He was a man in the most masculine sense: hard-faced, square-jawed, with a strong nose and dark, penetrating eyes beneath heavy brows. His eyes gave away nothing of his thoughts and his mouth was set in an uncompromising line, as if he rarely smiled. His hair was thick and so dark it was almost black, falling to his shoulders. Darcey had a feeling that he cared little about his appearance and had no inclination to visit a barber.
As she stared at him she was aware of a coiling sensation in the pit of her stomach. The feeling was entirely sexual and utterly unexpected. She had felt dead inside since she had discovered that Marcus was sleeping with a glamour model with pneumatic breasts. The lightning bolt of desire that shot through her now was so intense it made her catch her breath. She sensed the power of the stranger’s formidable physique and for the first time in her life acknowledged the fundamental difference between a man and a woman—male strength and feminine weakness.
She suddenly realised that she was holding her breath and released it on a shaky sigh. Somehow she managed to regain her composure and gave Salvatore Castellano a polite smile.
‘Mr Castellano? How can I help you?’
He glanced at the nameplate on her desk and frowned. ‘Are you Darcey Rivers?’
He spoke with a strong accent. Italian, Darcey guessed. There was an arrogance about him that set her on the defensive.
‘Yes, I am,’ she said coolly.
He looked unimpressed. ‘I expected someone older.’
James Forbes had said that Darcey Rivers was an experienced and dedicated senior speech therapist. The description had put into Salvatore’s mind an image of a grey-haired, professional-looking woman, possibly wearing a tweed suit and spectacles. Instead he was faced with a slip of a girl with a heart-shaped face and a sleek bob of conker-brown hair that gleamed like silk in the bright sunlight pouring through the window.
He skimmed his eyes over her petite figure, noting how her fitted suit, reminiscent of the style worn in the 1940s, emphasised her tiny waist and the gentle flare of her hips. Her legs were slender and he guessed she chose to wear three-inch stiletto heels to make her appear taller. Her face was pretty rather than beautiful; her mouth was too wide and her eyes too big for her small features, giving her an elfin quality. Beneath her jacket her blouse was buttoned up to her neck and he briefly wondered if she was as prim as her appearance suggested.
Darcey flushed beneath the stranger’s intent appraisal. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you,’ she said with heavy irony.
‘I am not disappointed, Miss Rivers.’
His voice was deep-timbred, with a sensual huskiness that made the hairs on the back of Darcey’s neck stand on end.
‘I am merely surprised. You seem young to be so highly qualified.’
Darcey knew she looked a good five years less than her age. Perhaps when she reached fifty she would be glad to look younger, but at university and at job interviews she had struggled to be taken seriously. Of course her name had not helped. Once people realised she was a member of the famous Hart family they were surprised that she had not followed her parents onto the stage. At least Salvatore Castellano was unaware of her family connection. But she felt irritated that he had mentioned her youthful appearance.
‘I’m twenty-eight,’ she told him tightly. ‘And Rivers is my married name.’
His expression was inscrutable, ‘My apologies, Mrs Rivers.’
Why on earth had she said that? Darcey asked herself. Intimating that she was married had been a subconscious response to his comment that she looked young. ‘Actually, I prefer Ms Rivers.’
His shuttered expression did not alter, but she had an unsettling feeling that his dark eyes could see inside her head. Sue had gone, and he closed the door with a decisive click and walked across the office.
‘I’m glad we’ve got that settled,’ he murmured drily. ‘Now, perhaps we can sit down and I will explain the reason for my visit?’
His arrogance was infuriating. Twin spots of colour flared on Darcey’s cheeks and she had half a mind to tell him to get lost, but she hesitated when she noticed that he walked with a pronounced limp.
‘A fractured femur—the result of a car accident,’ he said curtly. ‘My leg is held together with a lot of fancy metalwork.’
She was embarrassed that he had caught her staring at him. He made her feel as if she was sixteen again, immature and unsure of herself, lacking the self-confidence that the other members of her family possessed.
‘Don’t act like a timid mouse, darling girl,’ had been her father’s regular refrain. ‘Project yourself to the audience and believe in yourself—because if you don’t how can you expect anyone else to?’
It was all very well for her father, Darcey had often thought. Joshua Hart had earned a reputation as one of the finest Shakespearian actors in a career that had spanned three decades. Charismatic, exciting and unpredictable, he could also be distant with his children when he was focused on an acting role. As well as being an actor he was a brilliant playwright, and three of his plays had been performed in the West End. The one thing Joshua Hart certainly did not lack was self-belief.
‘Acting is in your blood,’ he’d often told Darcey. ‘How could it not be, with the combination of genes you have inherited from your mother and me?’
Her mother, Claudia, was a gifted actress, and Darcey’s brother and her two sisters had all followed their parents into the theatre. She was especially close to her younger sister Mina, and was proud of how she had overcome her disability to become a respected actress.
Only Darcey had chosen a different career path, and Joshua had not hidden his disappointment. Sometimes Darcey felt her father had taken her decision not to uphold the Hart family tradition and train at RADA as a personal affront. He had never been the easiest man to get on with, and in recent years she had sensed a divide between them that she longed to breach.
‘Ms Rivers?’
Salvatore Castellano’s curt voice snapped her back to the present. Without waiting for an invitation he pulled out the chair by her desk and sat down, stretching his injured leg stiffly out in front of him. Darcey decided that she needed to take control of the situation.
‘I’m afraid I can only spare you a few minutes, Mr Castellano,’ she said briskly. ‘I have a busy afternoon.’
His brows rose. ‘You mean you are holding appointments today? James Forbes led me to believe that the speech therapy unit has closed down.’
Flushing, because in actual fact she had nothing planned for the rest of the day, Darcey walked behind her desk and sat down, placing the potted fern in front of her like a barrier. ‘So it has. I’m only here today to clear my office. Once I’ve finished I have...personal things to do.’
What kind of things? Salvatore wondered. Was she going home to her husband? Maybe to spend a lazy summer’s afternoon making love? Glancing at her left hand, he was intrigued to see she was not wearing a wedding ring. He frowned. Ms Darcey Rivers’s private life was of no interest to him. All he was interested in was her professional expertise.
‘I have come to see you, Ms Rivers, because I wish to employ a speech therapist who specialises in working with deaf children, and specifically children who have cochlear implants,’ he said abruptly. ‘My five-year-old daughter had bilateral implants fitted two months ago. Rosa is profoundly deaf. She communicates using sign language but she has no audio-language skills.’
Darcey breathed in the subtle tang of his sandalwood cologne and a quiver of awareness shot through her. She wished now that she had not sat down at her desk, because rather than giving her a sense of authority all she could think was that, close up, Salvatore Castellano was devastatingly sexy.
For heaven’s sake! She gave herself a mental shake and concentrated on what he had told her. ‘Did your daughter have the implants fitted in England?’
‘Yes. James Forbes is her audiologist.’
‘Then James must have explained that although the unit here is closing the speech therapy programme will still continue at the hospital, but on a smaller scale and with fewer therapists—which unfortunately will probably mean a longer waiting list before children can be assessed,’ she said ruefully.
‘James treated Rosa as a private patient. She does not qualify for the post-implant speech therapy programme provided by your National Health Service.’
‘I see,’ Darcey said slowly. ‘In that case, why did James recommend me to you? Even if the speech therapy unit here wasn’t closing, your daughter would not be eligible for me to assess her because I am employed—was employed,’ she amended with a grimace, ‘by the local health authority.’
‘James said that you intend to establish a private practice.’
‘I hope to do so in the future, but my immediate plans are to take a break from work and spend the summer in the South of France. I’m sorry I can’t help you, Mr Castellano, but I can give you the names of several speech therapists who I’m sure would be willing to work with your daughter.’
Nothing on Salvatore Castellano’s chiselled features indicated that he was disappointed by her response, but there was a steely implacability in his voice.
‘James says you are the best in the business.’ He speared Darcey with his penetrating stare. ‘I want the absolute best for my daughter, and I am prepared to pay whatever fee you decide to charge for your expert knowledge.’
She frowned. ‘It’s not about money...’
‘Experience has taught me that it is always about money, Ms Rivers.’
His sardonic reply riled her. Perhaps he thought that her decision to set up a private speech therapy practice had been made because she hoped to increase her earnings, as one of her ex-colleagues had suggested. But nothing could be further from the truth. What she wanted was more freedom to implement her own ideas and hopefully enhance hearing-impaired children’s experiences of speech and language therapy. It was something Darcey cared passionately about, but she had a feeling that even if she tried to explain Salvatore Castellano would not understand.
She tried another approach. ‘Obviously I can appreciate that you and Rosa’s mother must be anxious for her to begin speech therapy as soon as possible. All the evidence shows that children with CI have the potential to achieve good communication and language skills if they receive therapy quickly after implantation.’
She hesitated, wondering where the child’s mother was. It was strange that she was not with him. Alarm bells rang inside her head. She’d had past experience of parents who had not been in agreement over the type of help they wanted for their child.
‘Can I assume that your daughter’s mother agrees with your decision to employ a speech therapist?’
‘My wife died when Rosa was a baby.’
Darcey shot him a startled glance, shocked by his revelation but even more so by the complete lack of emotion in his voice. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. Her thoughts turned to his daughter. The little girl had been locked in a silent world for most of her life, and although she must be able to hear now that she had cochlear implants, sound must be a strange and perhaps frightening concept for her. Given that Rosa already had so much to cope with, the fact that she was growing up without her mother was desperately tragic—particularly as her father seemed as unemotional as a lump of granite.
Thoughts of her own mother flooded Darcey’s mind. Six months ago Claudia had been diagnosed with a malignant melanoma. Luckily she had responded well to treatment, but Darcey remembered how devastated she had felt at the idea of losing her mum, and her heart ached for Salvatore Castellano’s motherless little daughter.
She looked across the desk and found him watching her intently. From a distance his eyes had looked black, but now she saw that they were very dark brown, framed by thick black lashes. She wondered if his eyes became warmer when he smiled. Did he ever smile? Her gaze strayed to the stern line of his mouth. Would his lips soften if he kissed her? No doubt the dark stubble shading his jaw would graze her skin...
Snatching a sharp breath, she said quickly, ‘I would like to help your daughter, Mr Castellano, but as I explained I will be out of the country for the next few months.’
‘You are going to the French Riviera, I believe you said?’
‘Yes. My family own a villa at Le Lavandou which I intend to use as a base. But I thought I might tour along the coast, maybe even drive into Italy.’
He gave her a speculative look. ‘You speak as if you are going alone. Why isn’t your husband going with you?’
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him it was none of his damned business, but something in his expression made her drop her eyes from his piercing gaze.
‘As a matter of fact I’m divorced,’ she said stiffly.
‘And there is no one else in your life? No boyfriend who is going to France with you?’
‘I really don’t see—’
‘Because if that is the case,’ he interrupted her, ‘then there is no reason why you cannot spend the summer in Sicily and give my daughter the help she desperately needs. You mentioned you would like to visit Italy,’ he reminded her. ‘Sicily is the most beautiful part of Italy—although I admit I might be a little biased.’
The corners of his mouth lifted. It was not exactly a smile, but the hint that he wasn’t completely made of ice, and even had a sense of humour, distracted Darcey’s thought process.
‘You’re Sicilian?’
‘To the depths of my soul.’
His accent was suddenly very strong. For the first time since he had walked into her office Darcey heard emotion in his voice, fierce pride in his heritage. ‘I live in a castle that was built in the thirteenth century by one of my ancestors. Torre d’Aquila has been renovated and has all the facilities of a twenty-first-century home,’ he said, mistaking her doubtful expression. ‘You will be very comfortable. There is a private pool and the beach is nearby.’
She held up her hand. ‘Mr Castellano, I’m sure your castle is lovely, but I haven’t agreed to go to Sicily. For one thing I don’t speak Italian, and I wouldn’t be able to help Rosa learn her native language.’
‘I have decided for several reasons that it will be better for her to learn English. My wife was half-English. Adriana died before Rosa was diagnosed as being profoundly deaf. I would like Rosa to learn her mother’s language, and James Forbes thinks that now she can hear with the cochlear implants she might also be able to learn to speak Italian.’
Darcey nodded. ‘I have met children with CI who are bilingual, but obviously it is important to concentrate on teaching Rosa one language to start with. I’m sure James has explained that, even though your daughter is now able to hear sound, developing language skills can be a slow process. She will need support and patience from her family as well as extensive speech therapy.’
‘She is able to communicate using British sign language, which James tells me you are competent in.’ Salvatore leaned across the desk and trapped Darcey’s gaze. ‘James spoke highly of your professionalism and skill, but more importantly, he said that you have a special empathy with deaf children.’
‘My sister lost eighty percent of her hearing after she had meningitis when she was a child,’ she explained. ‘It was seeing how Mina struggled at first to cope with her deafness that made me decide that I wanted to work with hearing-impaired children.’
Salvatore heard the emotion in Darcey’s voice and sensed she was softening. Determined to seize his advantage, he took his wallet from his jacket and pulled out a photograph of his daughter.
‘Rosa is a shy child who, as a result of her disability, finds it hard to connect with people. I hope that the gift of language will help her self-confidence. I believe you can give her that gift, Darcey. James Forbes is confident that you are the best person to teach my daughter to speak.’
Oh, heavens! The way he said her name, in his gravelly, sexy accent, sent a little shiver down Darcey’s spine. His dark eyes were mesmerising and his words tugged on her emotions. He was right, she thought. Language was a gift, but most people took the ability to hear and speak for granted. Darcey remembered how Mina had once confided that when she had lost her hearing she had felt lonely and isolated.
She studied the photo of a startlingly pretty little girl with a mass of dark curls framing a delicate face. Of course nothing in the photo revealed Rosa’s deafness. Only when she looked closely did Darcey notice that there was no sparkle in the child’s eyes but a sense of loneliness that was heart-wrenching.
It wouldn’t hurt to see the child and make an assessment of her needs, Darcey mused. She could hand the case over to one of her colleagues who had also been made redundant and might be interested in working with Rosa.
Unbeknown to Darcey, her indecision was reflected in her eyes. She had beautiful eyes, Salvatore noticed. They were an unusual light green colour—the exact shade of the peridot pendant she was wearing suspended on a chain around her throat. He was surprised by the flicker of interest he felt. It was a long time since he had been intrigued by a woman. The delicate fragrance of her perfume—a sensual musk of jasmine and old-fashioned roses—teased his senses, and his eyes were drawn to the scattering of golden freckles on her nose and cheeks.
His mouth firmed as he reminded himself of the reason for his visit. His daughter needed the help of a speech therapist and Ms Rivers came with the highest recommendations. The fact that she was attractive was immaterial. There was no likelihood he would find her a distraction. During his lonely childhood he had learned to impose iron control over his feelings, and the loss of parts of his memory four years ago had only furthered his sense of emotional detachment.
‘All I am asking at this stage is for you to visit my house in London to meet Rosa,’ he said. ‘We can take things from there.’
Darcey chewed her bottom lip. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to help your daughter, Mr Castellano—’
‘Good,’ he cut her off mid-sentence. ‘I think the best thing would be for you to come and meet her now.’ He got to his feet and towered over her, so that Darcey had to tilt her head to look at him. ‘Can you postpone whatever plans you had for this afternoon?’
She wondered if he recognised the word no. He was like a steamroller, flattening any opposition to what he wanted, she thought ruefully. But she could not help but be impressed by his single-minded determination to help his daughter.
‘I...I guess so.’ Her cheeks grew pink as she recalled her white lie that she would be busy later. ‘But I’m packed and ready to leave for France on Friday, so I don’t really see the point.’
His dark eyes trapped her gaze. ‘You would not say that if you were my daughter. Sadly, Rosa cannot say anything. She is unable to voice her thoughts, her hopes...her fears.’
He was deliberately playing on her emotions, Darcey recognised. But his ploy had worked.
She threw up her hands in surrender. ‘All right, I’ll come and meet your daughter. I’ll assess the level of speech therapy she needs and then, if you wish, I will hand her case over to one of my colleagues. But I have to warn you, Mr Castellano, there is no chance I will go to Sicily with you.’