Sold to the Surgeon (12 page)

As Greg came over and joined them, he noticed Abigail looking upwards. “It's a rare thing to see one,” he remarked, referring to the cicadas, “and even if you do it's a disappointment. They make an exciting sound, but they're very ordinary to look at.”

Abigail glanced at him. His bare arm was resting against hers, and instinctively she edged a little closer to Rupert; at the same time thinking how well Greg blended in with the brilliant colours of the Italian landscape. With his tanned skin, and jet black-hair, he looked completely at home. But then, she reminded herself, he was at home in a way, because he was half Italian.

She turned to Rupert. “Where is Penelope?” she asked. “Is she out with her parents?”

For a brief moment he looked strangely elusive, then he laughed. “She's resting. I'm afraid we had rather a late night last night.”

“Oh?” Abigail deliberately put the question mark in the exclamation. She wasn't used to Rupert looking that way, if it had been anyone else she would have called it distinctly shifty.

He laughed again, faintly uneasily, or so it seemed to her ears. “You've no idea how persuasive Penelope can be. She insisted we drove for miles to some restaurant she knew!”

“I have a very good idea—you forget I work with her,” observed Abigail drily.

While she had been awaiting the arrival of Greg, Penelope had obviously been making full use of Rupert's company. He would be no match for Penelope's wiles if she put her mind to it. But relationships must be based on trust, she reminded herself, and she trusted Rupert, so she gave him an affectionate smile and squeezed his arm.

“Let's get my luggage,” she said, starting back towards the car.

Greg was already there, heaving the mounds of luggage out of the small boot. I hope Penelope transfers her attention to you, thought Abigail, watching his tall muscular frame as he held a suitcase with ease under each arm. Although even as the thought passed through her head, she knew that Greg was not the type of man to be manipulated by anyone, man or woman! Rather the reverse; he always seemed to be doing the manipulating.

“Come on,” said Greg over his shoulder. “Rupert, you can bring the rest. Just time to get unpacked before lunch.” This last remark was addressed to Abigail.

She followed Greg's tall figure into the cool interior of the villa. Inside everything was light and airy; the walls were whitewashed and the floors covered in red polished tiles. Large terracotta urns with trailing green ferns spilling out of them were the only decoration, apart from the occasional tapestry hung on the stark whiteness of the walls. It was utter simplicity, and yet gave a feeling of opulence. As she followed his figure up a winding staircase, Abigail wondered whether Greg had decided on the decor, or whether he had hired someone to do it for him.

Almost as if he had read her thoughts, he said, “Do you like it? I decorated it myself.”

“It's lovely,” said Abigail, smiling, “absolutely perfect.”

“High praise indeed,” replied Greg, raising one dark eyebrow. “At last I've done something that pleases you! Lunch is at one o'clock sharp,” he added, dumping her bags in the middle of the bedroom, “down on the patio.”

The vine-covered patio, where the assembled company sat down to lunch, was on the other side of the house, and had a differently angled view of the magnificent lake. Abigail wondered how many maids there were, as two different girls served them with lunch, which was an enormous affair, washed down with plenty of wine and mineral water.

The Orchards sat at the far end of the table, and after briefly acknowledging Abigail largely ignored her presence. Penelope waved gaily, then also appeared to forget she existed. But Abigail liked Greg's mother. She was a vivacious, friendly woman, obviously in her element with a large family at the meal table.

“She's more Italian than the Italians who live here,” grumbled Greg's father affectionately, looking at his wife.

“That's because she spends most of the time in America,” said Greg with a grin.

“Now that you've bought the land as well as the villa,” replied his father, “I can see I shall be forced to spend much more of my time here.”

“Come on,” said Greg, teasing his father, “don't pretend you don't like it. I know you love Italy just as much, if not more, than Mother.”

Abigail looked at Greg; his father's words had slowly sunk in. “Bought the land?” she queried. “But I thought that was why Rupert came out here.”

“Oh, he did,” said Greg blandly, “but it came on to the market a little sooner than expected. However, I shall still need some help with tying up the legal side.”

Abigail looked at him suspiciously. She had her doubts. Did he really need Rupert to help with the legal side of things? Personally, she thought Greg seemed more than capable of sorting out anything for himself.

“As we shall conclude the business side of things much sooner than expected,” he continued smoothly, ignoring her questioning gaze, “we shall all be free to enjoy our holiday. I understand Rupert has already completed Sir Jason's transactions satisfactorily.”

Abigail glanced at Rupert, seated at the far end of the table; but he was deeply involved in an animated conversation with Penelope and her father, and for all the notice he had taken of Abigail during the meal, she might just as well have not been there. It's not his fault, though, thought Abigail loyally. Greg's mother had arranged the seating, and Rupert had been placed away from her with the Orchards.

She looked back at Greg, to find his dark eyes surveying her with an implacable expression. She was certain he knew what she was thinking, that Rupert was paying more attention to Penelope than he was to her, his fiancée.

“Rupert has become very friendly with the Orchards,” he observed to her chagrin, adding in a low voice meant for her ears only, “You don't mind, do you?”

She felt her cheeks colouring, and was angry with herself for giving her feelings away so easily. “Of course not,” she answered primly. “Why should I?”

Greg's mouth twisted into a grin. “Naturally, I assumed you would be interested in Rupert's affairs,” he said casually.

“Of course I am,” replied Abigail, equally casually, even though her nerves felt raw-edged at his deliberate play on words. “But there are affairs, and affairs!” Fixing a noncommittal blank expression on her face, she sipped her wine, although how she forced herself to swallow it she didn't know. There was an uncomfortable lump at the back of her throat, which was threatening to choke her.

She was thankful when the meal had finished and she could get away from Greg's subtle needling. Everyone retired to their rooms for a siesta. It was even hotter by now, and Abigail stripped down to her brief underwear and flung herself on the bed. The windows of her balcony were wide open, and a faint refreshing breeze blew in from the lake. It seemed a long time ago that Greg had picked her up at the cottage that morning, and as for the ENT ward—well, that might as well be in another lifetime. She smiled sleepily, wondering what Sue Parkins would say if she knew Staff Nurse Pointer was in Italy with the Orchards and their new consultant, Mr. Lincoln! Then the effects of the food and the strong red wine, plus the constant whirring of cicadas, took their toll, lulling her to sleep along with the rest of the household.

A discreet tap on her door awakened her. “Abigail.” It was Greg's voice, “Abigail, are you awake?”

Hastily Abigail struggled to a sitting position; how long had she been asleep? The sun was still shining brilliantly across the faintly rippling waters of the lake, and the ever-present cicadas were still chirruping as busily as ever.

Greg repeated her name. “Abigail?”

“Yes, just a moment.” Hastily she snatched at her cotton house-robe which was lying across the top of the bed, and flung it on. Then padding across to the door in her bare feet, she cautiously opened it a crack and peered out. “What do you want?”

He laughed. “Aren't you going to invite me in?” Slipping his hand through the open crack, he teasingly ruffled her hair, still tousled from sleep. “You look half asleep.”

“I would still have been asleep if you hadn't woken me,” she confessed awkwardly, feeling unsure of his teasing, and distinctly at a disadvantage in her half-dressed state. It had been one thing dealing with Greg in the familiar environment of the hospital, but now in this place, in his villa, she was on strange unfamiliar ground.

“Well, can I come in?” he asked again, “or are you afraid of being alone with me?”

“Of course not,” she countered defensively, swinging the bedroom door wide open just to show him she meant what she said.

“Oh, I was thinking that perhaps you might be.” His voice was teasing, and his eyes sparkling with wicked humour at her expense.

Abigail pulled the flimsy cotton robe tightly around her and tied the belt securely. Trying to appear unselfconscious, although her legs felt about as mobile as wooden stilts, she walked across to the balcony, and leaning on the balustrade, pretended to look at the view across the lake. In reality, however, the panorama swam in a misty haze, as all she could think of was that Greg was much too close.

He had joined her on the balcony, his arm lazily encircling her waist; she tried not to breathe in the heady smell of his skin with its distinctive musky perfume of aftershave.

“Where's Rupert?” she asked, adroitly side-stepping out of reach of his encircling arm.

She wasn't looking at him, but she heard his breath expelled in a long-drawn-out sigh as he replied, “Ah yes—Rupert.”

The sound of his footsteps retreated back across the floor of her room towards the door, and she turned; unaware of the lovely picture she made, framed on the rf4edxbalcony against the sunlit blue of the lake.

“I came to tell you we're going out,” he said quietly. “Penelope is impatient to go, and she and Rupert are waiting in the courtyard. Do you want to come, or shall I tell them to go on?”

“Oh no, of course I want to come,” said Abigail quickly. “Tell them I'll be five minutes.” She ran quickly across the room to close the door behind him. “I won't keep them waiting,” she promised.

“I'll tell them,” said Greg, disappearing along the corridor that led to the stairs.

Quickly splashing cold water on her face to freshen herself, Abigail took the coolest dress she could find from her wardrobe—a dark blue cheesecloth dress, loosely tied at the waist with a rope belt. She literally flung it on, then dragged a brush through her hair, not even bothering to stop and look in the mirror, just remembering to grab a pair of sunglasses as she was leaving the room.

She flew headlong down the stairs and arrived breathless in the sun-filled courtyard, only to find it empty. No sign of anyone, and only one car, Greg's, standing in the shade cast by the pines. Abigail skidded to an abrupt halt, looking around the deserted courtyard in puzzlement. Surely they couldn't have got tired of waiting? She had said five minutes, and in fact was sure she'd been even less.

Slowly she paced the uneven cobbles towards the shade by the wall, trying to contain her bitter disappointment that they hadn't waited. Then suddenly she saw Greg, standing at the far end of the wall, in a dense patch of shade. He turned at the sound of her soft footsteps on the cobbles.

“Penelope wanted to go shopping in Perugia,” he said, indicating the empty courtyard. “I couldn't face it, so Rupert very kindly offered to take her.”

“But what about me?” demanded Abigail, suddenly feeling angry. “I might have wanted to go shopping, did you think of that?”

“Rupert said you
hated
shopping,” he replied, raising his eyebrows at her indignation. “I thought as your fiancé, he ought to have an accurate idea of what you did or didn't like.”

Abigail pursed her lips, unable to reply to the overt dig, knowing it was probably true that Rupert had said that. After all, she was always telling him she hated shopping. “What's so special about the shops in Perugia?” she asked at last, biting back the temptation to snap his head off with great difficulty.

“Nothing,” said Greg, smiling as he came to join her. “There's a large department store, not large by our standards, just by local standards. Apparently there's nothing Penelope likes better than to meander around foreign shops.” Courteously he opened the car door for her to get in. “I've arranged to meet them in Assisi tonight for a drink, I thought you'd prefer the sights of Assisi to a shopping expedition; I'm sorry I was wrong.”

Abigail felt foolish, it was all so reasonable, and of course she would much prefer to see Assisi rather than look at shops. What was she making a fuss about?

“Do Rupert and Penelope know where to meet us?” she asked.

“Of course,” replied Greg. “Penelope and Rupert know the bar well. It was Penelope's choice, as a matter of fact. She's been often with Rupert.”

Abigail glanced at him quickly, as he motioned her into the car. She knew, of course, that Penelope and Rupert had been thrown together, but the way Greg had said “often” caused a jagged barb of doubt to strike suddenly at her heart. She had never seriously doubted Rupert before, indeed she'd never had any cause to. He had always been so reliable; it was always Rupert who had been the strong one, comforting her whenever doubts had assailed her. But now, suddenly, he no longer seemed the firm anchor of strength she had come to rely on. Although she told herself she was being quite ridiculous to read so much into one little word.

Greg swung the car round the courtyard, its tyres shrieking in protesting squeals on the shiny cobbles, and then they were off, down the steep hillside leading from the villa to the road running along the side of the lake. Abigail's thoughts were chaotic, all her long-submerged worries suddenly surfaced; her own attitude to Greg, who managed to infuriate her most of the time, and yet at the same time remain so maddeningly attractive. And now the worry that Rupert might have become infatuated with Penelope. She sighed, not knowing what to make of it, and suddenly wished she was back in the familiar routine of the ENT ward, rescuing Sue Parkins from some disaster. At least there everything was clearcut, the course of action needed was always obvious…but here, that was another matter!