The Proud Italian Read online

  Praise for Alison Roberts:

  ‘Readers will be moved by this incredibly sweet story about a family that is created in the most unexpected way.’

  —RT Book Reviews on

  THE HONOURABLE MAVERICK

  ‘I had never read anything by Alison Roberts prior to reading TWINS FOR CHRISTMAS, but after reading this enchanting novella I shall certainly add her name to my auto-buy list!’

  —CataRomance.com on

  TWINS FOR CHRISTMAS

  ‘Ms Roberts produces her usual entertaining blend of medicine and romance in just the right proportion, with a brooding but compelling hero and both leads with secrets to hide.’

  —Mills & Boon® website reader review on

  NURSE, NANNY…BRIDE!

  200 HARLEY STREET

  Welcome to the luxurious premises of the exclusive Hunter Clinic, world renowned in plastic and reconstructive surgery, set right on Harley Street, the centre of elite clinical excellence, in the heart of London’s glittering West End!

  Owned by two very different brothers, Leo and Ethan Hunter, the Hunter Clinic undertakes both cosmetic and reconstructive surgery. Playboy Leo handles the rich and famous clients, enjoying the red carpet glamour of London’s A-list social scene, while brooding ex-army doc Ethan focuses his time on his passion—transforming the lives of injured war heroes and civilian casualties of war.

  Emotion and drama abound against the backdrop of one of Europe’s most glamorous cities, as Leo and Ethan work through their tensions and find women who will change their lives for ever!

  200 HARLEY STREET

  Glamour, intensity, desire—the lives and loves of London’s hottest team of surgeons!

  Continue your sensational eight-book journey with…

  200 HARLEY STREET: THE PROUD ITALIAN by Alison Roberts

  ALISON ROBERTS lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, and has written over sixty Mills & Boon® Medical Romances™.

  As a qualified paramedic she has personal experience of the drama and emotion to be found in the world of medical professionals, and loves to weave stories with this rich background—especially when they can have a happy ending.

  When Alison is not writing you’ll find her indulging her passion for dancing or spending time with her friends (including Molly the dog) and her daughter Becky, who has grown up to become a brilliant artist. She also loves to travel, hates housework, and considers it a triumph when the flowers outnumber the weeds in her garden.

  200 Harley Street: The Proud Italian

  Alison Roberts

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  Dear Reader

  London holds a very special place in my heart. I had my first year of schooling there and I lived in Prince Albert Road, so close to the zoo I could often hear the animals at night. It’s always a treat to revisit London, either in person or through the characters in my stories and this one—Rafael and Abbie’s story—has been a joy.

  I had two passionate people, bound together by their baby daughter but then pushed too far apart by the unbearably tough times they had to go through.

  Do you have a mantra that pops up during tough times? I’ve been known to use “no pain, no gain” or “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”. I’m not so sure about “the end justifies the means” or “you have to break eggs to make an omelette” because the significance of what is lost or broken may not be apparent until it’s too late to realise how important it was.

  All too often, what gets broken is a relationship that couldn’t survive the pain. Repairing that kind of damage to love needs a bit of magic, I think. And what better place to find magic like that than in one of my favourite cities?

  Happy reading

  With love,

  Alison

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Praise

  Excerpt

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  WINNING WAS SUPPOSED to be what mattered.

  And it was. The end justified the means, didn’t it?

  Of course it did. That couldn’t be doubted for a heartbeat in this case. The blanket-wrapped bundle in Abbie de Luca’s arms was the absolute proof of that. The battle had been hard fought and gruelling enough to have almost destroyed her but she had won.

  No. Ella had won. Her precious baby, only just a year old, had fought the killer disease of acute lymphoblastic leukaemia at an age where the greatest challenge should have been learning to sit up and take her first steps. The fact that they were being sent back from the only place in the world that had offered the new and radical treatment so that Ella could continue her recuperation at the Lighthouse Children’s Hospital in London was proof of having won the battle. It meant she was a huge step closer to going home.

  But was the ‘home’ they’d left behind still there?

  For either of them?

  Being escorted off the flight from New York before any other passengers and fast-tracked through customs at Heathrow airport like royalty should be making the triumph of winning all the sweeter.

  So why did Abbie feel as if she was stepping onto a new battlefield? One that was only marginally less significant than the life-and-death struggle that had represented most of the three months she had been away with her tiny daughter.

  ‘There’s an ambulance waiting for you, Mrs de Luca.’ The customs official eyed the wheelchair beside Abbie that the steward from the plane had been pushing. ‘Is this all going with you?’

  ‘No. It’s going back on the next flight.’ Abbie unwrapped Ella just enough to unhook the electrodes from the monitoring equipment. ‘It was only a precaution. We didn’t even need the oxygen.’ They hadn’t needed a medical escort either. One of the rare positive aspects of having a paediatric surgeon for a mother, although the negative side of knowing too much had outweighed that far too many times already.

  Ella stirred in her arms but didn’t wake. Abbie took a moment to check the connections of the central line the baby still had under her collarbone and made sure the syringe driver attached to the tubing hadn’t run out of the drugs that were still a necessary part of treatment. Then she tucked it securely back into the folds of blanket and gave Ella a kiss on the few stray wisps of hair she had somehow retained.

  As Ella relaxed back into sleep a tiny hand came up to touch her mother’s cheek, as if she was reassuring herself that she was safe. She was probably smiling, Abbie thought, watching the crinkle deepen around the tightly closed eyes. Shame nobody could see it because of the mask needed to protect the baby from airborne infections.

  The gesture had been enough to melt hearts around her anyway.

  ‘Aww…’ The burly customs official was smiling. ‘What a wee pet.’

  Adorable…’ The steward was blinking hard. ‘I’m so happy she’s going to be all right now, Abbie.’

  ‘Thanks, Damien.’ Abbie had to swallow the big lump in her own throat. Happy didn’t touch the sides of how she felt about her daughter’s new prognosis. ‘And thanks so much for taking such good care of us on the flight.’

  ‘It was a privilege. Have you got someone meeting you now?’

  Abbie nodded. ‘The ambulance is here. They’re taking us to the Lighthouse. That’s the children’s hospital I work at.’

  But the steward was shaking his head. Frowning. ‘No… I meant… You know…’

  Abbie did kn
ow. He meant someone with a personal attachment. Like Ella’s father?

  ‘Maybe. It was a bit of a last-minute rush and we weren’t sure we’d get onto this flight. The New York team obviously managed to arrange the transfer but I’m not sure who else knows about it.’

  She’d tried to ring Rafael but his phone had gone to his message service. Mr de Luca was in surgery all day, she’d been informed. Could they take a message? No, Abbie had responded. She’d be seeing him soon enough.

  Or maybe that should be too soon? She’d walked out on her marriage to fight this battle. Maybe that was why success wasn’t tasting as sweet as it should.

  Maybe the price had been too high.

  ‘Abbie…’ The man who’d been allowed into this private area of the customs hall and was now striding towards them wasn’t an airport official.

  ‘Oh, my…’ Damien clearly appreciated the attributes of the tall, sexy newcomer. ‘Is that Ella’s daddy?’

  ‘No.’ Abbie shook her head, bemused. ‘He’s more like my boss.’ And clearly a commanding enough presence, even out of a medical environment, to have had rules broken for him.

  The steward was grinning as he started to manoeuvre the wheelchair out of the way. ‘Tough job,’ he murmured, ‘but I guess someone’s gotta do it.’

  Abbie felt her lips curve as she raised her voice. ‘Ethan…what on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘I happened to field a call to Rafael about your arrival time and the ambulance transfer. He’s caught up in Theatre so I thought I’d come for the ride and make sure you had a welcoming committee.’

  And who could be more appropriate than one of the Hunter brothers, the owners of the prestigious London plastic-and-reconstructive-surgery clinic that employed both of Ella’s parents as specialist paediatric surgeons. The clinic that had made it financially possible for Ella to go to the States and undertake the risky, experimental treatment that had been her only hope of a cure.

  ‘Does…does Rafael know we’ve come home?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Ethan’s gaze gave nothing away. ‘The case he’s operating on today is putting him under considerable pressure. I…didn’t want to distract him.’ The hint of a smile was sympathetic. ‘I’ll let him know the moment he comes out, I promise.’

  Abbie simply nodded. There was a subtext here. That Rafael would need prior warning before seeing her again? Hearing her voice, even, given that their minimal communication of late had been via text and email? That, without some kind of intermediary, his Italian pride might be enough for him to refuse to see her at all? Maybe their first meeting would involve a solicitor and official documents outlining shared custody agreements for their child. How sad would that be?

  ‘You’re good to go.’ The customs official stamped their passports and nodded towards someone near the door. ‘Mr Hunter shouldn’t really be in here. They’ll show you out to where the ambulance crew is waiting. Your luggage will be sent by taxi as soon as it’s offloaded.’

  Ethan picked up the cabin bag by Abbie’s feet but his gaze rested on the bundle in her arms. ‘You okay? Would you rather I carried Ella?’

  Abbie shook her head. ‘I’m good.’

  She wasn’t about to hand her baby to someone else to carry, despite her precious burden feeling heavier by the minute. She was exhausted, that was all. These last few months had taken their toll, physically as well as emotionally, but she couldn’t afford to stop being strong.

  Not when she was stepping onto a new battlefield.

  At least she had an ally. Given what Abbie had heard about his heroic stint in Afghanistan, it was probably overkill in any protection stakes, but there was also the history of the bad blood between the Hunter brothers. If she and Rafael did need an intermediary, someone who was experienced in negotiating the kind of tension that represented the dark side of a loving relationship was ideal.

  Not that Ethan gave much away. The slight limp he walked with, which was a legacy of his army days, attracted more than casual stares as they walked to where the ambulance was parked, but he gave no sign of being aware of the curiosity.

  And when they were tucked up in the back of the ambulance, on the M4 and heading into the city, he gave no hint that Abbie might be facing any escalating complications in her life.

  He and Rafael were friends but they were men. Had they shared anything more personal in the time she’d been away? A late-night card game and plenty of whisky, perhaps, along with commiseration over their disastrous love lives? Maybe Ethan had reminded Rafael that the odds had been stacked against his marriage succeeding anyway. Sure, they’d been very much in love with each other but they’d barely had time to get to know each other properly, had they? They may have chosen to get married themselves but others would no doubt have viewed it as a shotgun wedding when they’d known that a baby was already on the way.

  That baby was still asleep, bless her, now safely cocooned in the baby seat strapped onto the stretcher. Ella and Ethan sat facing her, the ambulance crew happy to sit up front, chatting, knowing that their transfer patient had a privileged level of medical supervision in the back.

  The traffic slowed as they joined the flow on the Great West Road. A perfect opportunity to test the water, Abbie thought, but…good grief…she felt ridiculously nervous about it. She knew she couldn’t just dive straight in with what was foremost on her mind but, to her dismay, her voice still came out unmistakably shaky.

  ‘H-how are things going at the clinic?’

  ‘Good. Very busy. You would have seen some of the publicity over our latest charity case?’

  ‘Ah…no… Sorry, I’m a bit out of touch. I haven’t seen much news for ages. Is it a paediatric case?’

  ‘Yes. A ten-year-old Afghan girl—Anoosheh—who was noticed when her orphanage was evacuated. She got abandoned on the doorstep as a toddler when her disease became more extreme. Now she’s got a neurofibromatosis that’s the size of a melon and has disfigured half her face to the extent that she was being used as a servant and kept well hidden from any prospective adoptive parents that visited the orphanage. Not only that, she’s probably lost the sight in one eye and is gradually losing patent airways.’

  ‘ Oh…poor thing.’

  ‘Today’s surgery won’t be the last but hopefully the result will be enough to show people that there’s a little girl in there who just needs to be loved. There’s huge media interest and there’s been some offers of adoptive homes in the UK already. I imagine there’s a pack of reporters waiting to pounce on Rafael as soon as he’s out of Theatre. I’ll try and head them off but it’s just as well he can cope with that kind of pressure while he’s operating.’

  ‘Yes…he’s good at that.’

  Because he could detach himself from his own emotional involvement and see the bigger picture?

  The way he had even when he’d been dealing with the trauma of his own daughter’s prognosis?

  Abbie’s heart was thumping in her chest. She took a deep breath. ‘So he’s…um…okay, then?’

  ‘Seems to be.’ There was a short silence, as though Ethan was debating whether to say anything more, and then he slid a brief, sideways glance at Abbie. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone try to bury themselves in their work so effectively before. He’s taken on every difficult case he could possibly squeeze into his schedule. And then some. I’ve barely seen him.’

  Oh…no confessions of heartbreak over a card session, then. No admitting that he might have made a terrible mistake by issuing the ultimatum that if Abbie insisted on taking Ella to the States then their marriage was over.

  But the argument he’d felt so passionately justified in upholding had been that their daughter’s quality of life outweighed its quantity. That they didn’t have the right to put her through so much extra suffering when the chances of success were so small.

  Surely the fact that it had worked was enough to justify her decision to go? Wouldn’t Rafael be so thrilled to have the prospect of Ella’s long-term survival
that that ultimatum was now irrelevant?

  Maybe. But there was more to it, wasn’t there? He was her husband and a proud man. How much damage to their relationship had she done by refusing to respect his opinion and openly defying him?

  And worse than that—much worse—she’d taken a sick baby away from her adoring father. She’d seen the pain in Rafael’s eyes as she’d walked away with their daughter in her arms. He hadn’t expected to see her alive again. How painful would that have been? He had every right to hate her for that.

  Abbie had had Ella in her arms and she’d still cried all the way to New York.

  So Rafael had shut himself away. She’d guessed that by how distant he’d sounded when she’d tried to call him. By how impersonal his email correspondence had rapidly become. He’d buried himself in his work to the extent that when Abbie had reached out in the darkest days, so far away and so lonely and so desperate for support, the response she’d received had seemed cold and clinical. As if his emotional involvement with both herself and Ella was a thing of the past.

  Was it all over?

  It wouldn’t be fair to try and get any further clues from Ethan.

  It was Rafael that Abbie needed to talk to.

  Needed to see. The longing was getting stronger by the minute, as if her body realised that the distance between them was closing rapidly. She still loved her husband. Yes, they had pushed each other away and there was a lot to forgive on both sides, but the love was still there. It always would be.

  Rafael would welcome Ella back into his life, she had no doubt at all about that. But would she be welcome?

  The prospect of the rift between them never healing was terrifying.

  With a huge effort, Abbie tried to find some inner strength. To feel positive. She even managed to find a smile to offer Ethan.

  ‘So what else is happening? Have Leo and Lizzie set a date for the wedding yet?’

  ‘Yes. It’s going to be the last Saturday in April.’

  ‘What? Good grief…that’s only a couple of weeks away.’