âDo you not understand that, for all my fine, upstanding talk, I brought you to this secluded corner of my home, knowing full well what the probable outcome would be?â
âNo,â she said baldly. âQuite frankly, I didnât think you were the least bit interested inâ¦â
She ground to a halt, unsure how to phrase her response. If doing it tonight sounded impossibly gauche, making love didnât exactly fit the occasion, either. The way she saw it, you couldnât make love, if you werenât in loveâand heâd made it abundantly clear that love didnât enter the picture.
âYes?â He regarded her quizzically. âNot the least bit interested in what?â
She coughed to hide her embarrassment. âThat,â she said.
He took her brandy glass and placed it alongside his own on the edge of the hearth. âThen let me show you how wrong you were, la mia innamorata. Because that is exactly what I have in mind.â
DANIELLE arrived at LâOspedale di Karina Rossi just after five in the afternoon, and was taken immediately to the room where her father lay. Early May sunlight, bright and crisp as lemons, filtered through the slats of the window blinds and settled on the inert figure in the bed.
The nurse touched her elbow gently. âSi metta a sedere, signorina. Sit, please!â
âThank you.â Without taking her eyes off her father, Danielle sank into the upholstered chair beside the bed. Leather, she noted absently, and comfortable enough to sleep in, which made sense. Visitors to this floor of the hospital didnât drop in briefly with a cheerful card, a bouquet of flowers, or a basket of fruit. They came to keep vigil, all day and all night, if necessary.
âWhen will he wake up?â she asked.
The nurse, a pretty woman in her forties, raised her shoulders in wordless reply. Meaning what, Danielle wondered. That she didnât know the answer? That she didnât understand the question?
âI donât speak much Italian,â Danielle told her. âNon parlo Italiano. Is there someone here who speaks English?â
The nurse nodded, pressed a comforting hand on Danielleâs shoulder, and glided out of the room. Left alone, Danielle became acutely aware of the sounds issuing from the apparatus to which her father was connected. The gentle, even sighs of the ventilator, punctuated by rhythmic blips and beeps from the computer screen above the bed tracking his heart and brain functions. But from the man himself, nothing.
âFather?â she whispered.
She might as well have been talking to the wall. Not by so much as the faintest flicker of an eyelid did he acknowledge her presence. His arms, incongruously tanned against the pristine white sheet, lay at his sides, pierced by intravenous catheters. But his face was the color of parchment, the jut of his nose and thrust of his jaw seeming more pronounced somehow, as though the well-toned flesh of which he was so proud had collapsed on itself and left his skin draped over his bones. If it hadnât been for the steady rise and fall of his chest, he could have been dead.
âSignorina Blake?â Another nurse, older than the first, entered the room on soundless rubber soles. âIs there something you require?â
âThe doctor who operated on my father,â Danielle said. âI need to speak to him.â
âDr. Rossi is not in the hospital today.â
âWhy not? I was told my fatherâs injuries are serious. Critical, in fact.â
âSi. But it is Dr. Rossiâs day to be at home.â
âI donât care what day it is!â Danielle said, fatigue and guilt lending a sharp edge to her voice. News of her fatherâs accident had been waiting for her when she arrived home from vacation. Shocked to realize his accident had occurred almost a week earlier, sheâd wasted no time flying to Italy to be with him. Now that she was here, she wanted answers. âCall him. Tell him I wish to speak to him.â
âI will page his resident.â
âI donât want to speak to his resident. I want to speak to the man who performed the surgery. Iâm not interested in a second-hand account from his assistant.â
âDr. Brunelli is well qualified to address your concerns, signorina,â the nurse insisted. âWe do not disturb Dr. Rossi when he is at home, except in cases of extreme emergency.â
The reverence in her tone suggested the almighty Dr. Rossi lay on a par with God. Curbing her irritation, Danielle said, âAnd my father doesnât fit into that category?â