Cristiano came into the room from outside.
“Snack time?” he asked, studying her and Dante. He sat in the chair near her.
“Mid-morning feed.” She gazed down at her sleeping baby. “I’ll put him in the stroller and go when he wakes up. I still have to follow up on some work I was doing. I appreciate your letting me use your computer. We’ll stay out of your way.”
She rose and carefully placed the baby in the carrier, covering him lightly with a soft blanket.
“You’re not in the way. Finish your work, then stay for lunch.”
Cristiano knew he was grasping at straws, but he wanted her to stay. He wanted to talk to her, watch her laugh. Her skin was flushed slightly and looked soft and warm. Her hair curled around her cheeks, down her back. The sweater showed off the feminine body that awakened a need in his he’d thought long gone. When she was nearby, he had to fight the urge to find out more about her, see what she liked and didn’t like.
And fight not to kiss her.
When he realized his thoughts had stayed on that point, he quickly looked away.
“You know that fire scared me. What if something happens to me? Who will take care of Dante?” she asked, covering the baby with a light blanket.
Cristiano’s mother had died when he was a small boy. He remembered her smile, the fragrance she wore. The almost tangible love she’d given. No one got fully used to losing a parent. Had his father felt the same as Mariella? Worried about his children should something happen to him? Yet it wasn’t the same. His father’s sister lived in Monta Correnti, for most of his childhood Cristiano’s grandfather had lived in this cottage with the rest of the family. There had always been family around. But one never got over the loss of his mother.
“My mother’s dead, too,” he said slowly.
“But not your father?”
“No, he’s doing well.” He guessed he was. Surely someone would have told him if he weren’t. Not that he’d been very receptive to overtures from his family since he’d taken up residency in the cottage. His bossy sister had made sure he knew her thoughts on that from the messages she left.
The flashbacks happened without warning. He couldn’t be around people who knew him for long—they’d see how messed up he was and cosset him so much he’d never get his life back. He had to beat this thing.
Mariella gazed at him as if expecting him to say more. He stared at her for a moment, wondering if he was finally moving on. He had handled the cottage fire. He had not had a nightmare since that night. He drew a breath, smelling the sweet scent of Mariella. It brought a yearning that grew in strength every time he was with her. Yet he could not fall for this woman.
“Are you the oldest child?”
“Yes, Isabella is a close second, incredibly bossy. Our mother died when I was a child. She took on the household work, and tried to keep us in line.” For a moment he remembered some of the happy days they’d spent at the cottage, playing at the lake, just being with family. Life had thrown curves he’d never expected when he had been a child.
“Do your brother and sister still live close by?”
“Isabella still lives in Monta Correnti, along with Valentino,” he said, smiling at the thought of his family.
“So you get to see them a lot. Must be nice. I was an only child.”
He didn’t reply. He had not seen them since they had visited him in the hospital after the bombing. His hospital stay had been lengthy and he’d missed his brother’s wedding, and his cousin Lizzie’s. Since his release from hospital Isabella called every so often trying to get him to go to family events. Mostly he let the answering machine take her call.
A lot had happened in his family over the recent months, including the startling revelation that his father had two older children by a first marriage. Cristiano still wasn’t sure what to think about that. He had not met the two men—twins who had been raised in America. It was odd to think they shared the same father.
So far he’d found excuses that didn’t raise undue suspicions. He was running out of time, however. How long could he keep his problem from his family? He wanted it to go away, wanted life back the way it had been.
He had loved this place as a child. It had been the first spot he’d thought of when wanting to retreat. His family was busy, fortunately. No one spent much time here anymore. Hiding hadn’t changed a thing. Maybe he should open curtains. He was not in a tight subway tunnel, but had a view of endless miles.
“This is a terrific room. Do you use the fireplace when it gets cold?” she asked as she headed for the kitchen.
“Of course. It’s the primary source of heat,” he said, nodding toward the large wood-burning fireplace along an outside wall. He remembered rainy days in the fall when he and his brother Valentino would spend hours in front of the fire, trucks and cars zooming around. He hadn’t seen his brother in months; he realized suddenly how much he missed him.
Cristiano followed her into the kitchen. She sat at the table and began checking her account. He crossed to the sink and leaned on the edge of the counter looking out the window over it. The view out back was opposite to the lake, to the rolling tree-covered hills that rose so high, offering peace and serenity. Dots of color presaged the coming of winter. Five months ago he had been working in Rome,
settled with his life, his friends. Now he was practically a hermit, his closest friend dead, his job on hold.
But the hills didn’t care. They remained the same year in and year out. Steadfast, secure, unchanging. It gave a longer perspective than short-time occurrence. Would he recover fully? Or was it time to begin to think of another way to earn a living? Would he return to Rome and the life he’d so enjoyed, or remain a virtual recluse cut off from friends and family?
“That was easy,” she said a few moments later.
He looked over.
“Hardly any mail. I did send a note to two clients telling them I might be another day or two getting back in touch. Tomorrow I’ll see about getting another laptop. Maybe in a shop in Monta Correnti.”
“You are dedicated. I thought you were on vacation.”
She looked at him. “I am, but I don’t consider myself any more dedicated than you going into a burning building to save lives when you’re recovering from injuries. You know I’ll be forever grateful. Keep that in your heart. Now, do you have a printer?”
“Not here, why?”
“I wanted to print out a picture of Ariana. I found one I could use. The one I brought with me burned in the fire.”
“Sorry. There’s an Internet café in Monta Correnti, near the church on the plaza. They’d have a printer.”
She shut down the computer and closed the top. “I’ll go there, then. Thanks for the use of your computer today.” She leaned back in the chair and looked at him. “So tell me, how did you get into firefighting? I think that’s one of the most dangerous lines of work anywhere—pitting your life against a raging fire,” she said.
“I like making a difference.” A ready answer. It didn’t explore the variety of reasons he chose fighting fires as compared to police work or mountain rescue. But all were similar kinds of jobs—first responders, never knowing what would await them. Challenges to be surmounted. Never boring.
She smiled, her eyes sparkling silver. Her hair shone in the sunshine pouring in through the side window.
Cristiano had a stronger urge to reach out and twirl some of those tresses around his fingers, feeling the silky softness, the heat from each warm strand. Those desires rose each time he saw her.
“Did