The Royal House of Niroli Collection. Кейт Хьюит
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sank back in her seat, her thoughts flying off in all directions.
‘I mean it, Amelia,’ he said, flicking a quick glance her way. ‘I’m only here for a short time. I want this time we have together to be about us, not some myth about me being a long-lost prince.’
‘But you are the prince,’ she said softly. ‘I just know you are.’
‘Maybe, but princes can still be attracted to beautiful women, can’t they?’ he said.
She felt her heart give a painful contraction. ‘Yes, they can, but it would be unwise to do so with a woman from a background such as mine.’
‘I have no problem with your background,’ he said. ‘In fact I think it’s one of the most enchanting things about you.’
She frowned at him. ‘But my father is solely responsible for what happened to you! How can you even think of a relationship with me?’
One of his hands left the steering wheel to capture one of hers. She held her breath as he brought her hand up to his mouth, her stomach turning inside out when he placed his lips to her fingers in a soft-as-air kiss. ‘That’s why,’ he said, and, keeping her hand in his, brought it to rest on the top of his thigh.
Amelia thought her father’s cottage looked even tawdrier in the fading light of the evening as Alex parked his car under the trees a little while later. There was an unmistakable irony in its stark contrast from the castle they had visited a few hours earlier. It seemed to drive home all the more forcefully the inherent differences between their backgrounds. Even without the spectre of his royal status, Alex’s childhood had still been leagues away from hers. She had never known the comfort of a well-tended home and reliable income to provide the standard of living he more or less had taken for granted. She felt sure he had never come home from school or university to a sink full of unwashed dishes, and dust like carpet on the floor.
She felt the shame rush through her as soon as Alex came up behind her when she opened the front door, imagining how he too would be making his own comparisons.
Her father looked up from his slumped position at the table, his bleary-eyed gaze widening when it encountered the tall figure carrying a doctor’s bag who had followed Amelia inside.
‘Papà, this is Dr Alex Hunter,’ she said in a subdued tone.
Alex saw the older man’s struggle to get to his feet and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘No, please don’t get up.’ He offered his hand. ‘How do you do, Signor Vialli?’
Amelia could see the mortal fear on her father’s already too-pale face. He choked back a hacking cough and gave Alex’s outstretched hand a feeble shake, mumbling something inaudible in return.
‘Your daughter tells me you’ve not been well,’ Alex said, pulling out a chair and sitting beside him.
‘I’m dying,’ Aldo Vialli said. ‘It’s what I deserve.’
‘There’s no need to suffer unnecessarily,’ Alex said. ‘There are things we can do to help you through the difficult stages.’
‘Papà, I’ve talked to Alex about what happened,’ Amelia said.
Her father’s eyes glazed with pain as another bout of coughing took over his emaciated form. She saw the sympathetic wince Alex tried to disguise, and she felt as if her heart had swelled to twice its size.
‘Do you feel up to answering some questions for him?’ she asked.
Her father looked at her. ‘The birthmark?’ he croaked.
Amelia nodded gravely. ‘He had one but had it removed. It was as you described.’
Tears began to shine in Aldo Vialli’s eyes as he faced Alex. ‘I was supposed to kill you… I could not do it…’
‘Thank you,’ Alex said with gracious sincerity.
Her father blinked back the tears. ‘I never intended to get so involved, not in that way. I had to think of an alternative… It was never my intention to bring such suffering on you or your family. But what is done is done, and cannot be undone.’
‘I understand,’ Alex said, wondering if he really did. He was feeling more than a little shell-shocked as he faced the man supposedly responsible for the bizarre circumstances that had led to his adoption. None of it seemed real. It was the stuff of Hollywood thrillers, not normal life. How could it be true? Sure, he’d been adopted at the age of two, but that didn’t mean he was the king’s grandson. There could be thousands of men his age who could just as easily fit the bill.
‘You are so like your father,’ Aldo choked out. ‘It is my fault that you have not had the chance to meet him in person.’
‘Nothing’s been established as yet,’ Alex said. ‘There are legal channels that need to be investigated first. I know it all seems to fit, but what if I’m not who you think I am?’
‘There is no doubt in my mind,’ Aldo said. ‘You had the birthmark that, if nothing else, brands you as Alessandro Fierezza.’
‘Look, to make things a little clearer in my head I’d like to know a few more details, if you feel up to telling me?’ Alex said.
‘Of…course,’ Aldo said in between another hacking cough. ‘I will tell you.’
Amelia sat in silence as her father relayed the events of thirty-four years ago, the picture he painted so painful to hear, she had trouble keeping her emotions at bay.
It was clear to Amelia after his confession that her father was exhausted. His skin had taken on a clammy sheen and his eyes had flickered once too often with increasing pain. His breathing was laboured and when he turned to spit some mucus into his old rag her stomach clenched at the sight of how bright the blood was.
‘Papà, would you like Alex to look at you now?’ she asked. ‘He might be able to do something to ease your suffering.’
After another bout of gut-wrenching coughs, Alex exchanged a glance with Amelia before he bent to his bag on the floor and retrieved his stethoscope.
‘Amelia, help take off your father’s shirt so I can examine his chest,’ he directed.
Once the shirt was removed Alex looked at the degree of chest expansion as Aldo took in a few breaths and then percussed the chest and listened with his stethoscope.
‘You have a very large pleural effusion on the right side of your chest, Signor Vialli. That is making it hard for you to breathe, and may be precipitating a lot of the coughing. I may be able to at least temporarily relieve some of your symptoms by draining off the fluid with a needle,’ he said.
‘I am not going to go to the hospital. I will die here in my house, not in some institution, where everyone will know who I am, what I have done,’ Aldo said.
‘Signor Vialli—’ Alex’s voice deepened with professional authority ‘—performing a pleural drainage here would be too risky. For one thing there’s the risk of infection, and secondly there’s the possibility of me pricking the lung and causing a pneumothorax—puncturing the lung, I mean. If that were to happen, you could be worse off. We could go to the hospital now and do it without anyone but the night staff knowing about it. The procedure is relatively simple and will give you a few weeks’ relief.’
‘Papà, surely it’s worth letting Alex try to help you,’ Amelia pleaded.
Aldo let out a broken sigh. ‘Very well…I will have the procedure done…but I do not want to stay in hospital.’
‘That shouldn’t be necessary if all goes well,’ Alex said and helped the ill man from the chair, taking most of his weight on his arm.
Amelia sent him a grateful glance as they made their way out to Alex’s car, her father’s coughing increasing with every shuffling step he took.
The drive down to the