Tempted by Her Italian Surgeon (15 page)

‘Oh?' Ivy threw her a smile. There was only so much she could say or do to stop her mum following her well-trodden path. Angela seemed undeterred. ‘I hadn't noticed.'

When they arrived back at the bed Matteo and Richard were discussing something to do with an article in an open newspaper on the table. Matteo looked up as she arrived, helped her settle her mum back in bed, all concern and interest and polite nodding.

He'd been so nice Ivy wanted to give something back, even if it meant sacrificing something for herself. Drawing him to one side, she whispered, ‘Matteo, I know you're probably
thinking about heading off back to London soon, but I wondered—when we've done here, could we go to the pub? Watch the game on TV? What do you think?'

Those dark stubborn eyes glinted. ‘I was going to listen to it on the sports radio on the drive back.'

‘Oh. Well, that's okay, then.' Disappointment rattled through her. She had an insane desire to spend just a few more minutes with him. ‘I feel as if the last two days have been all about me. You've sacrificed your days off to be here, I just thought it would be a way of saying thank you. It's not… I don't want you to get the wrong impression. It's just a pub, maybe some food. The game. I'm not offering any more than that.'

Was it her imagination, or did he look just a little relieved? ‘Well, I would prefer to watch it than listen to it. But what about your work? I thought you had too much to do already?'

She shrugged. ‘So maybe I can take a little time off? Just a couple of hours.'

His eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Whoa. Watch out, Ivy Leigh, you might get into the habit of relaxing. Then what would happen?'

Staring into his eyes, his heated gaze focused on her, she felt relaxed and excited and scared and comfortable all at the same time. This man
was too easy to fall for and she was tumbling deeper and deeper. But she could handle it. She'd laid out the parameters. ‘I can't imagine, Matteo. I just can't imagine.'

‘C
OME ON
, E
NGLAND
! Yes! Yes! Yes! Go!'

So this was the unleashed version of Ivy Leigh? Matteo laughed as she stood, eyes glued to the huge wall-hung TV in the sports pub, body tensed and fists punching the air. ‘God,' he groaned into his pint. ‘This is terrible. Less than an hour ago you did not know a thing about rugby. Now look at you—England's most fervent fan.'

High-fiving the two open-mouthed English supporters at the next table, she beamed. ‘This is fun. We're beating you, Matteo, that's all that matters.'

‘There's time yet.' He shrugged, far more entertained by her reactions than the game.

‘You think? In the history of the Six Nations championship there have been over twenty games between England and Italy, and England have won them all. Your chances are zero, Mr Hero.'

‘Twenty games—how the hell…? Since when did you know that?'

‘The wonders of the internet. You just have to know where to look.' She winked at him. ‘I did my research. You didn't think I'd invite you to watch a game we had the remotest chance of losing, did you?' On-field action caught her attention again, she paused, breathing heavily as her eyes glued themselves to the game. ‘Come on, mate. Pass it. Yes. Yes!'

Thank God for half-time. She sat down, all flushed and hot-cheeked, her chest heaving with excitement. ‘This is brilliant. Why did no one ever tell me that watching sport was such fun?'

He drained his glass and put it back on the table. The fun was in watching her watching the game. ‘It is when you're winning. And I have to say you are very entertaining.'

She patted his arm condescendingly. ‘Poor pet, you're a very sore loser. But still glad you came?'

‘To watch you beat us? No.'
Yes.
But he was confused as all hell now. He should have gone when he'd had a chance, instead of being drawn in by those large green eyes sparkling so coyly at him, offering
no more
than a game of rugby. And despite every brain cell screaming at him to climb into the car and head down the motorway, he'd grabbed the chance for a couple more
hours with her, like a starving man thrown paltry crumbs.

Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips and he was mesmerised by the action, every part of him wanting to taste her. She gave him a smile. ‘I mean, are you glad you came to York? I know it wasn't exactly for your benefit but I hope it hasn't been too bad.'

‘What? Spending my non-hospital hours in a hospital, not sleeping with a ginger cat that purrs like a drill? Sure, it has been the best weekend ever.' He felt a laugh rumbling from his throat. Being here with her, on the other hand… ‘And now we are losing. It is getting better all the time.'

‘I hope it does, for your sake. Although I'm not sure I want to give up that win—so you'll have to find something else to make you smile.'

He let that thought hover for a while, not wanting to admit the way he was feeling so conflicted about how much she made him smile. ‘It's too late, Ivy. The weekend is doomed.'

‘Oh, poor sweetheart. Things can only get better. So, tell me, when did you come to live in England, and why?'

He did a quick mental calculation. ‘It was about six years ago. I wanted to work with Dave Marshall, he has such a great international reputation—the very best and cutting-edge work
in our field—so when we met at a conference in Milan and he invited me to join his team, I jumped at the chance. I haven't looked back.'

‘And you already spoke English? I'm impressed.'

‘I was pretty rusty. We had learnt it at school from a young age, but even so I was pretty terrible when I first got here. It has been a steep learning curve.'

‘I'll bet. Where did you train to be a doctor?'

So she wanted his life history, which was fine by him. He could give her a short version and veer away from anything that might make her ask deeper questions. ‘In Florence. Then I went to Milan to specialise, they have a great renal unit there.'

She took another drink of wine. ‘You said you don't go home. Why not?'

Straight to the point. Now he wished he hadn't encouraged her to be like this. ‘I see you have taken notice of your lawyer training, you have…how do you say it? Cut to the chase. You can do it to me but not for yourself.'

‘That, my boy, is called self-preservation.' She twiddled with the stem of the glass then focused her gaze at him again, which made him hot under the collar. ‘Now answer my question. Why don't you go home?'

‘I'm too busy. Work takes up my time. And there's not a lot there for me.'

‘What, a whole load of siblings and parents? That's a lot of reasons to go home.'

Not enough. ‘Some of them come here. I see them. Liliana, my little sister with the renal problems, lived with me for a year in London. You can imagine how much fun that was. She is years younger and about five times the trouble of all the others put together.'

‘But you love her, I can tell.' Ivy smiled again. It was sweet and soft and real and for a moment he wanted to do nothing but stare at that mouth.

‘Of course I love her.' And now he had time to think about it, he did miss the closeness they'd all had, growing up. But betrayal had blown a hole into that that could never be healed. He'd purposely left them all to their lives and chosen disconnectedness. That way he would remain intact, heart and soul. To go home would be to have a constant reminder of what had happened.

But, of course, Ivy did not need to know any of this. Why go deep when this was not that sort of relationship?

This was a weekend for her to be with her family, not for him to get intense about his. Or intense about anything, for that matter, or to lose himself at the whim of emotions that he knew never lasted.

Ivy ran a hand across her blonde hair and fluffed it up nonchalantly. She didn't seem to care that it stuck up in tufts. She had stopped hiding her limp. She was cheering like a madwoman. He was seeing a very different Ivy from the one at work. She was letting her guard down; was that a good sign, or a dangerous one? He had a bad feeling it was the latter. And all he knew was that she was in his head and he couldn't get her out of it.

‘Don't you miss it all, though, Matteo? Your family. The sunshine. Decent food. Blue sky. All that wine. Amazing architecture. Art…? Nah, there's nothing there at all for you, is there? God, I'd love to live in Italy.'

‘You have a very touristy image of my home.' Which was indeed all the things she'd mentioned but with a large dose of reality. And feuding families. And hurt. ‘But now you come to mention it, I guess it does have a few things going for it. Decent coffee, for a start. Although you do have some pretty amazing architecture here too. The Minster is stunning, with its stained glass, and the intricate carving and the history.'

‘Yeah, right. Just not marble enough?' After she'd signalled to a glass collector and given a repeat order for beer and wine she turned back to him. ‘What do your parents do?'

He shrugged. ‘So clichéd. A small taverna. My
mum's the…I suppose you'd call it the maitre d'. She makes it work, ruling with a fist of iron. My dad is the chef. We all did our time there, growing up, in the kitchen, waiting tables.'

She eyed him suspiciously, eyes narrowing. ‘What's the problem with your dad?'

‘What do you mean?' But he was aware that he had become tense and tried to loosen his shoulders.

‘Your voice changed, you paused. Your eyes narrowed. Your shoulders are trying to break for freedom. You're not the only one who can ace elementary psychology. You have father issues.'

No, he'd solved them years ago and never looked back. ‘He's not worth wasting your time over. None of it is. Live in the now, Ivy. Oh, look, the game's beginning again.'

Her eyes flicked to the TV screen and back to him again. ‘Sod the game.'

Forcing a smile he shook his head. ‘Ivy, Ivy, you are too…what is the word?…fickle. I thought you were the world's biggest rugby convert?'

‘Not when there are more interesting things to talk about.'

Thankfully the waiter brought their drinks, buying Matteo some time. He took a long drink and tried to watch the game. But he'd underestimated her. She nudged him. ‘Your dad?'

‘
Trust me, my past is not interesting.'

‘It is to me.'

That was an admission. Her eyes clashed with his and he saw the moment she also realised the enormity of what she had just said.

What the hell was happening here he didn't know. Because he was as shocked as she was. Right when part of him was keeping that door slammed closed there was a part of him that wanted to talk. That wanted out-and-out openness. It wasn't that he had made a solemn vow never to talk about it, he just hadn't ever wanted to expose so much of his damaged past.

This was neither the right time nor the right place. ‘You need to focus on yourself. On healing things with your mum, on how you're going to do your job next week. And the fact we just scored a try while you weren't paying attention. Now we are drawing. England are on the run.'

She looked at him for a long time. Long enough for Italy to miss the conversion. For them to stay just behind their opponents.

Nothing was said. She didn't push. She didn't nag him, she let him off. Which was the sweetest thing she could do right then, when he didn't want his past interfering with this moment. It seemed she knew when to ask, when to stop. She knew every damned button he had and pressed them all. Too much.

Something shifted in his chest, something
momentous. Something real. Something he hadn't been looking for and didn't know if he wanted. In fact, something that scared the hell out of him because he'd felt similar things before and it had ended horribly. He didn't want anything close to that happening again. He needed to get away from here. From her.

He sat back in his seat, putting distance between himself and the woman who he knew was taking up more of his heart and his head than she should. But Ivy didn't seem to notice, fixed her eyes on the game.

She wasn't quiet for long.

‘Come on, boys. Come on. That's it. Pass it out. To the left. Yes!
Yes!
We won! You beauty!' She jumped up, turned, squeezed his cheeks between her thumb and forefinger and kissed him on the lips, hard and fast. And another. ‘Beat that, Matteo.'

For a second he stilled. He didn't want to touch her.

Could not. Would not.

Who was he kidding? No matter what he thought, his body was hell-bent on betraying him at every turn. He wanted her.

It was a normal, natural attraction. It didn't have to mean more than that. It didn't have to be dangerous. He was worrying over nothing. He'd had sex many times with many women and he'd
made sure he'd got out with his heart unscathed. He could do that with Ivy, couldn't he?

He was through thinking about it, he was getting as bad as she was.

‘Oh, no, you don't get away that easily.' Yanking her towards him amongst the cheering supporters who had all left their seats, he gripped her waist. Planted another kiss on her lips. Then another. My God, she tasted divine. Heat shimmied through him, heat and need. Hot and hungry.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss with equal hunger. Her body pressed against his, curling into him. When she wriggled her hips against his erection he felt her sigh. With a dirty smile she pulled away but kept a grip on his arm, her words forced out. ‘Sod the game. Sod everything. Matteo, do you have to go home tonight?'

* * *

‘Typical northern weather.' For an early evening the sky was dark. Heavy clouds loomed overhead, threatening a downpour. Ivy's hands were shaking as she stepped out into the thick raindrops that began to fall. This was so out of her comfort zone. She didn't do this. She didn't straight up ask a man to come back to her place. She didn't have wanton sex. She never made a move, first or otherwise. Her heart jittered as
she quickened her pace, more out of a desire not to lose her nerve than anything else. ‘Come on, we'll have to hurry or we'll get soaked.'