Hot Single Docs: Waiting For You: St Piran's: Prince on the Children's Ward. Carol Marinelli
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residence in dreamland. Right from the day he’d stepped out of his armoured car, the sun gleaming off his glossy dark hair, she’d carried on dreaming. At twenty, Alessandro Cavalieri had been insanely handsome, but what had really drawn her had been his charm. Used to being on the receiving end of nothing but verbal abuse from her brothers and their friends, his charisma had been fascinating and compelling. Instead of treating her as a tomboy, he’d treated her as a woman. She’d never stood a chance.
She’d dreamed her way through countless lessons, concocting scenarios where Alessandro ignored all the beautiful girls who threw themselves at him because he couldn’t look at anyone but her. The reality had been so far removed from the fantasy that the inevitable crash between the two had been catastrophic.
Reminding herself of that fact settled the nerves in her stomach. True, he was even more spectacular to look at now, but she was no longer a dreamy, romantic teenager. Neither was she interested in a relationship with a man whose only commitment was to his own ego. She was past the age when a handsome face was the only thing she noticed.
Relieved to have rationalised the situation, Tasha started to relax. ‘The view of the beach is good. The surfing here is some of the best in Cornwall and it’s never busy because of the rocks. You have to know what you’re doing.’
‘Josh told me you all used to spend hours surfing here when you were kids.’
‘It used to drive our mother out of her mind with worry.’ She rested her head against the glass. ‘It’s been so long since I surfed.’
‘That surprises me. I can’t imagine you working in a city.’
‘That’s where the job was.’ Was. Tasha felt a ripple of panic but masked it quickly. ‘Anyway, it feels good to be home. Familiar.’
‘There’s a private path from the terrace that leads straight down onto the beach. It’s the reason I bought this property. You can surf from the front door. Did you bring your wetsuit?’
‘Of course.’ Tasha thought about the suitcases in her car. She was like a snail, she thought, carrying her world around on her back. And what was she doing, talking surfing with him? The point of this wasn’t to be intimate or cosy. Deciding that it was never too soon to start inflicting a little extra pain, she gave a sympathetic smile. ‘Shame you can’t join me.’
‘Thanks for the reminder.’ The irritation in Alessandro’s voice confirmed that her arrow had found its target.
‘At least I’ll be able to get out there and surf, and I’ll give you a report,’ Tasha said kindly, feeling a flash of satisfaction as she saw his jaw tighten. Oh, boy, are you going to suffer. She was about to twist the knife again when he shifted position and she saw pain flicker in his eyes. His naturally olive skin was several shades paler than usual and she could see the strain in his face. The physician in her at war with the woman, Tasha strolled over to him. ‘Moving you from the hospital to here must have been a painful experience.’
‘It was fine.’
He hadn’t uttered a word of complaint but she knew that he must have been in agonising pain. ‘I’ll try and help you find a comfortable position.’
‘I’m perfectly comfortable. And I don’t need your help.’
‘That’s why you’re paying me, remember? To help you. You need a nurse to look after you.’
‘I needed a nurse because they wouldn’t discharge me from hospital without one. Not for any other reason.’ Jaw clenched, Alessandro manoeuvred himself onto the sofa, the pain involved leaving him white-faced. The muscles of his shoulders bunched as he took his weight on the crutches. ‘I don’t need to be looked after.’
Tasha found herself looking at those muscles. Pumped up. Sleek and hard. She frowned. So what? It took more than muscles to make a real man. ‘So if you don’t need to be looked after, what am I expected to do? File my nails?’
‘You can do whatever you like. Read a book. Watch TV. Surf—although if that’s how you spend your day, I’d rather you didn’t tell me about it.’ He dropped the crutches onto the floor with a clatter that said as much about his mood as the black frown on his face. ‘Do whatever you like. Consider it an all-expenses-paid holiday.’
But she wouldn’t choose to take a holiday with him, would she?
Ten years had done nothing but add to his physical attractions, she thought irritably. It was all very well reminding herself that looks didn’t count, but everything about him was unapologetically masculine and being alone with him made her feel jittery. Which was ridiculous, she told herself, given that he could barely walk. He was hardly going to leap on her, was he? Anyway, he’d made it clear years before that he didn’t find her attractive.
Reminded of the ‘flat-chested’ comment by her brother, it was all she could do to stop herself thrusting her chest forward. ‘Now that I’m here, you might as well at least let me fetch you a drink.’
‘Thanks. A drink would be good.’ The tension
in his voice reflected the pain he was fighting. ‘Whisky is in the cupboard in the kitchen and you’ll find glasses on the top shelf. Join me. We’ll have drinks on the terrace if I can get myself there.’
Drinks on the terrace?
Tasha felt a flash of alarm. No way. Lounging on the deck, watching the sun go down over golden sand was far too intimate a scenario. That wasn’t what she had in mind at all. This was about inflicting pain, not taking pleasure. Not that she thought she was in any danger of falling for him again, but as a scientist reviewing the evidence she had to concede that it had happened before.
‘A drink sounds like a good idea, but forget the terrace. You only just sat down, and if you keep moving you’ll just make the pain worse.’ Whisky, she thought, laced with arsenic or something equally poisonous. Or maybe just whisky along with the powerful painkiller and antibiotics he’d been prescribed. It would knock him unconscious and then she wouldn’t need to worry about falling for his dangerous charm.
Not that he seemed charming right now. Pain had made him irritable and moody and he leaned his head back against the sofa, jaw clenched, eyes closed. ‘I’ll have it straight. No water. No ice.’
In other words, nothing to dilute the effects of the alcohol.
Tasha walked into the kitchen, knowing that every movement she made was being followed by those fierce black eyes. She remembered him telling her that his ancestors had been warriors, descendents of the Romans who had once colonised the Mediterranean island of San Savarre that was his home. It was all too easy to imagine Alessandro Cavalieri in warrior mode.
Irritated with herself, shrugging off those thoughts, she opened cupboards until she found whisky. Closing her hand around the bottle, she hesitated. It would be really bad for him to drink with the tablets, but Alessandro didn’t seem to care. Clearly he was seeking oblivion. He’d drink whisky and to hell with the consequences. In fact, he’d probably enjoy the experience of alcohol and painkillers. Tasha put the bottle back. She wasn’t here to do what he wanted. She wasn’t here to make his life comfortable. It was already comfortable enough.
She glanced around her. The kitchen was like something from an upmarket show home. Light poured through a glass atrium and reflected off shiny black granite work surfaces. It was smooth and streamlined, designed for practicality as well as show.
‘I could almost want to cook in a place like this,’ Tasha muttered, yanking open the door of the tall American fridge and staring at the contents. ‘Nothing but champagne and beer—typical man. What about food?’ Exploring the lower shelves, she found some mouldy cheese and a dead lettuce, which she removed and dropped in the bin. ‘Good job I went to the supermarket.’
While the ambulance crew had been preparing Alessandro for the transfer home, she’d taken herself into St Piran on a shopping trip for provisions. She’d spent several hours carefully selecting items to help her with her plan, thinking carefully about what would