200 Harley Street: The Proud Italian. Alison Roberts
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must hate him for making her go through all that alone.
She hadn’t seen him yet. She was looking through the window of the room. Watching to make sure Ella was asleep, perhaps, so that she could go and take enough of a break to have a meal?
She’d lost weight.
The shapely curves of her body that had first caught his eye when they’d started working together at the Lighthouse had all but disappeared. Her jeans looked too big for her legs and even from this distance he could see how prominent her collarbones were above the scooped neck of her sweater. Even the thick tresses of her glorious, honey-blond hair looked as if they’d lost volume by the way they were lying in a subdued and limp ponytail against the top of her spine.
A spine that looked a little less straight than he remembered in the strong, independent woman he’d fallen in love with and married.
How hard had this all been?
Rafael could feel his heart breaking. His every instinct was to rush forward and gather Abbie into his arms. To hold her against his heart and whisper promises. That everything would be all right. That he would always love her. That he would never allow life to be so hard for her again.
But how could he? The distance between them couldn’t be resolved simply by him walking close enough to put his arms around her, and what if she pushed him away? His pride was already in tatters. Had been ever since she’d walked out on him. And, besides, there was only one of those promises that he could make with any certainty.
That he would always love her.
Would that be enough?
Maybe he was about to find out.
He never felt this nervous pushing open the doors to enter Theatre, even when he knew that the challenge was going to be huge.
His mouth never felt this dry.
It was hard to make his voice work. So hard that only a single word came out.
‘Abbie…’
‘ABBIE…’
She knew it was Rafael well before she turned to face him. It had always been unique, the way he said her name. It wasn’t just the Italian accent or the smooth, deep voice. It was the subtle note of…wonder, almost. Or reverence? As if she was the most wonderful woman on earth and that made her name special, too.
Unique. One of a kind. Like Rafe.
Abbie braced herself, as she turned, for the first sight of her husband in what suddenly seemed a vast amount of time.
Three months.
But, at this moment, it felt like three years.
What would she see in his face? The joy of knowing she’d brought his daughter back to him? Anger that had burned away to leave a residue of resentment?
Echoes of the unbearable pain she’d seen before she’d turned her back and defiantly taken Ella away from him?
When she had turned and found herself facing Rafael with only a few feet between them, Abbie had to brace herself all over again.
How could she have forgotten the effect this man had on her? It was so much more than purely physical. More than emotional, even. It was a visceral thing. She was facing the part of her own being that had been torn free.
It stole her breath away. Made her heart stammer and trip.
‘Rafe…’
Abbie tried to smile but it wasn’t going to happen. Her lips simply wouldn’t co-operate. She could only stare, drinking in this first glimpse, anxiously scanning his body and face to try and collect her impressions.
Dear Lord, but he looked so tired. As though he hadn’t slept well for weeks. As though he hadn’t even shaved for more than a day or two. He hadn’t had a haircut for a while either, and… Had he just come straight from his stint in Theatre? Black curls were flattened in places and still looked damp with sweat. Were his scrubs a size larger than he usually wore or had he lost weight?
Yes. He looked exhausted. And wary but not angry.
He looked…
Wonderful.
Tall and commanding and every bit as gorgeous as the first time she had laid eyes on him. Despite everything, Abbie could feel a curl of sensation deep in her abdomen as her body responded to being this close to him, but this overwhelming awareness wasn’t anything as simple as physical attraction.
They knew each other so well. On so many levels. They made up two halves of a whole.
They loved each other.
At least, they had.
If only Rafael would smile. Or step closer. Hold his arms open so that she could fall into an embrace that would magically erase the pain they’d caused each other and make everything all right again.
But he wasn’t moving. He seemed to be staring back at her with a mirror image of her intense scrutiny of him.
‘How are you, Abbie?’
‘I’m…’ The word ‘fine’ tried to form on her lips but it wasn’t true. Abbie didn’t feel fine at all. She felt overwhelmed and unsure. ‘I’m…okay. A bit tired. It’s been a big day.’
A big twelve weeks.
A traumatic journey that she’d had to take alone. Abbie swallowed hard as she felt the hurt coalesce into the shape of the painful rock inside her chest that she’d lived with for so long now. ‘And you? How are you, Rafe?’
‘I’m…also okay… I think.’ The familiar gesture as Rafael raked his hair with his fingers made the rock shift a little and sent a painful shaft through Abbie’s heart. He was as overwhelmed as she was with this reunion. Unsure of what to say. Or do. ‘I…wasn’t expecting this. It’s…’
‘Sudden, I know.’ This was weird. To feel the hurt this man had caused her and yet to feel so much compassion for him at the same time. ‘I would have let you know sooner but it…just happened.’
He didn’t believe her and Abbie could understand that. The possibility of sending Ella back to her home town to continue her recuperation had only been talked about in the last few days. She was still fragile. How much organisation had been needed to send a sick baby to another country?
‘They only started to make enquiries first thing this morning. And things just fell into place. There was space available on a flight and a bed here at the Lighthouse and they didn’t have to arrange a medical escort. And…when her results came through later, looking so good, Dr Goldstein just looked at me and smiled and he said…he said, “How ‘bout it, Mom? Would you like to go home today?” And…’
And Abbie’s voice was shaking now. Could she tell him that the first thing she’d thought at that point had been how badly she’d wanted to see him again? That the picture in her head of Rafael holding his baby daughter again and seeing how much better she looked had filled her heart with so much longing that it had felt like it might burst?
No. She couldn’t tell him because he had started speaking himself. She had to stop saying anything. Rafael had to repeat his question.
‘What results? What were the tests?’
Did it matter? This was a doctor talking, not a father. Was he still that distant? This was what had caused their separation in the first place, wasn’t it? The way he could remove himself from the emotional involvement of being a parent. To step back and see the bigger picture through a professional lens. To decide that the quality of what would be a very short life was more important than the desperation to keep your own child alive as long as