The Italian Surgeon's Christmas Miracle (3 page)

‘No.’ It was dark and there shouldn’t be anyone knocking at this time of the evening. Amy’s heart rate picked up as she went into the shadowy space of the wide hallway. She had a nasty feeling it was going to be that elderly solicitor who’d been here earlier. Or worse. Maybe it was the police coming to evict them.

Standing on tiptoe, Amy peered through the spy hole. She rubbed at the tiny piece of glass, not believing what she was seeing. She peered harder. And then she opened the door, without putting the safety chain on first.

She knew she was probably gaping like a stranded fish but this was so weird!

‘Mr
Harrington
,’ she gasped. ‘What are you doing here?’

H
E WAS
still angry with her!

Gorgeous looking, unapproachable, important men did not turn up on Amy’s doorstep. Luke Harrington was so far out of her league that this was as disconcerting as it would have been to find a member of the royal family knocking on her door.

However unprofessional and unprecedented it might be, the only explanation Amy could come up with was that Mr Harrington had found out where she lived and had come to yell at her. On top of the worry about her family and yet another fruitless search for a document that represented safety for all of them, this was too much.

Amy almost burst into tears.

Like she had last week, when she had utterly failed to come up to the standards this surgeon expected from his staff.

Had he come to tell her not to bother showing up for work tonight? That he’d persuaded the principal nursing officer that Amy needed to be let go without even serving any notice?

It could be the final straw. Her family might soon have no income, as well as nowhere to live.

But why wasn’t he saying anything?

He was staring at her. As though she had just walked into his operating theatre stark naked or something. As though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing and it was so far from being acceptable he couldn’t decide what to do about it.

He hadn’t expected her to be terrified of him!

Luke recognised her, of course. Sort of. Not that he’d ever seen her out of a uniform that usually included a surgical mask and hat, but those eyes were unique. Dark pools of the variety Luke instinctively avoided ever letting his gaze do more than rake past.

The kind of pools men with lesser control had difficulty not falling into.

He couldn’t drag his gaze away this time, however. Because of the fear he could see there. Real fear. The kind he often saw in the eyes of children when they were facing a necessary but painful procedure.

The kind of expression that made you want to protect them. To comfort them and tell them everything was going to be all right. And what good would that do? Someone had to do the hard yards. To distance themselves enough to be able to do what had to be done to actually
make
everything all right.

Precisely what he’d come here to do. He had gone against his better judgement, having parked across the road just to confirm the opinion of that surveyor’s report, by deciding to front up in person. To tell this Amy Phillips that this situation was not the end of the world. That he’d make sure that she—and the children—would find new accommodation in time for Christmas.

Better
accommodation, dammit!

Luke drew in a deep breath. She’d asked him, quite reasonably, what he was doing there. With an effort, he dragged his gaze away from her eyes. Away from the tumble of dark hair with enough curl in it to make it shine from the dim light of the hallway behind her.

Like a halo.

Away from the way her soft woollen jumper and tight jeans clung to curves that a scrub suit or nurses’ uniform had never revealed. Away from an apron that was smeared with red stains and had what looked like…Good grief, tomato skins glued to it? It was filthy!

Luke let his breath out with a rush that gave his words more force than he might have intended. The words themselves were not what he’d planned to say, either, but a wave of something like outrage was building. Were these disadvantaged children in a not simply substandard but
dirty
house?

‘I’m here because this is
my
house,’ he said.

She certainly hadn’t been expecting that. He could see shock and then bewilderment on her face. The unconscious, small head shake that made the tumble of waves shiver and gleam.

And then her jaw dropped and her eyes—as impossible as that seemed—managed to get even larger. Darker. Lakes instead of pools now.

‘Oh, my God!’ she whispered.
‘Harrington.’

He waited. Curious to know what connection she was making. Maybe she hadn’t expected this, but she was figuring out why it was happening.

‘Harrington village…that was where Uncle Vanni’s wife grew up.’

Uncle
Vanni? Was this woman some kind of blood relative? A cousin? Or, worse, a half-sister, perhaps? The notion was distasteful.

Unacceptable.

‘The owner of this house was your
uncle
?’

Another tiny head shake. ‘Not really. He’s…he was my mother’s cousin. Or second cousin. A distant relative, really, but they grew up in the same village in Italy.’

She made a soft sound of inexpressible sadness. ‘Everybody called him Uncle. He…You…’

Lakes were becoming pools again and Luke found himself transfixed, watching Amy Phillips focus.

‘There was a story that Caroline came from an enormously wealthy family. They lived in some vast manor house. We never knew her surname but villages used to get named after the manor houses, didn’t they? Harrington village. Harrington Manor.’ Amy’s chest rose as she took a steadying breath. ‘You’re a Harrington,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s your family?’

Still, Luke remained silent, letting her join the dots herself. She ran her tongue over her lips as though they had become suddenly dry. It might be rude to stare, but Luke couldn’t look away for the life of him.

‘Of course it is,’ Amy continued. ‘You’re a Harrington. We were told that the property would probably go to one of Uncle Vanni’s wife’s relatives if a more recent will couldn’t be found.’

‘It did.’ Luke finally spoke. ‘It came to me.’

‘So you’re a nephew or something?’

‘I’m Giovanni Moretti’s son.’

‘No.’ Amy released her breath in what sounded almost like a sigh of relief. ‘There’s been a mistake. Uncle Vanni’s son is dead. He was killed in a terrible car accident. The same accident that killed his mother.’

‘Amy?’ A small voice was calling from inside the house. ‘Can I hang my streamers on the tree?’

‘Soon, hon. Put your dressing-gown and slippers on, though. It’s freezing in there. I haven’t had time to light that fire.’

It
was
freezing. Why hadn’t Luke noticed the goose-bumps on Amy’s forearms where the sleeves of the jumper had been pushed up? Or the way she was wrapping her arms around herself now? And she was shivering.

It was all very well for him. Luke had his full-length, black cashmere coat over his suit, a warm scarf around his neck and soft, fur-lined leather gloves on his hands.

Not only was this Amy Phillips cold, she was letting icy air into a house that had children living in it.

‘May I come in?’ The request was reluctant but he didn’t have to go any further than the front entranceway, did he? ‘I would like to talk to you.’

But Amy was clearly more reluctant than he was. She actually had the nerve to start shutting the door on him.

‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ she said. ‘There
is
another will and we’ll find it. Soon. You can’t turn Uncle Vanni’s children out into the streets. I won’t let you.’

Luke caught the door just before it closed. He put his foot in the gap as insurance. He wasn’t going to leave until he’d sorted this out. Imagine what people would think if this was the story that reached the hospital grapevine—that a paediatric surgeon had arrived in person to try and turn children out to live in cardboard boxes under a bridge somewhere.

To freeze to death in the coldest December anyone could remember. Too cold even to snow, which was disappointing everyone who was hoping for a white Christmas this year.

‘What was his name?’ he demanded.

‘Uncle Vanni’s son? His name was Luca.’

The word was said with an Italian pronunciation. It echoed. Touching some long-buried memory.

Luca…

How old had he been? Three? Old enough to remember his mother’s voice?

Luca…

Amy was staring again. Realising the implication. Luke was simply the anglicised version of the name. He was telling the truth, but she wasn’t about to accept it because it wasn’t something she wanted to hear. Would showing her that long-faded scar that ran from his left temple to his hairline make any difference? Ironic that he should find himself in the position of
wanting
to prove he was Giovanni’s son.

‘Zietta Amy! Vieni! Rapidimente!’

The language made Luke flinch but, as always, it was more intelligible that he was comfortable with. Mind you, that kind of verbal alarm would transcend any language barriers.

‘Che cosa succede?’
Amy turned in alarm.
‘Vengo!’

She was going to see why she was being summoned so urgently. Luke found himself standing alone on the doorstep as Amy ran after a small boy with curly, dark hair. Down the hallway and through a door that seemed to have a wisp of smoke coming through it.

And then he could smell it. Something was burning! A fire had started in a house full of children.

With a strangled oath, Luke stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind him.

Amy stomped on the flaming remains of the paper streamer that had been inadvertently draped over the small heater, slipping through the grille to touch the bars.

‘I was just showing it to Summer,’ Chantelle wailed. ‘I’m sorry, Amy.’

‘It was a stupid streamer, anyway.’ Fourteen-year-old Robert was reacting to his fright by retreating into teenage surliness. ‘Girls are
so
dumb!’

‘I’m not dumb,’ Chantelle sobbed, ‘Am I, Amy?’

‘No.’ But Amy was more worried about the smoky air and how it could affect Summer’s breathing. It was hard enough for her poor, malformed heart to get oxygen into her blood without having smoke added to the mix. Amy reached for the regulator on the cylinder.

‘I’m going to turn up the flow for a bit, darling,’ she told Summer. ‘It might tickle your nose.’

Summer nodded. The alarm in her face had begun to fade as soon as Amy was in the room and she was now watching with interest as Marco stirred scraps of charred paper with his foot to draw shapes on the flagstones.

‘Don’t do that,’ Amy chided. ‘It’s enough of a mess in here as it is. Could one of you please find the dustpan and brush in the scullery and we’ll clean it up.’ She looked up from adjusting the regulator to see how many of the children were in the kitchen and who would be first to respond to the request.

And then she froze.

Luke Harrington was standing in the doorway. Staring again. Silently. Looking absolutely…appalled.

And no wonder! It was all too easy to follow his line of vision and see things from his perspective. Amy could feel a hot flush of mortification bloom. If he hadn’t already considered her to be incompetent after that disaster in the ward the other day, she was offering ample proof right now.

The kitchen was in utter chaos.

Robert and Andrew had still not begun their allocated task of dishwashing. Pots and plates smeared with tomato sauce and festooned with strings of spaghetti littered the bench. Bowls with spoons and puddles of melted ice cream had been pushed to one end of the table. The other end was crowded with ripped-up magazines, scissors, rolls of sticky tape and a pot of glue that had spilt, making a larger puddle that was now congealing around shreds of discarded paper.

The doors of the hutch dresser were open and it had been Amy who had created the piles of recipe books, ancient domestic paperwork, long out-of-date telephone directories and any number of other random finds including a set of ruined paintbrushes and several half-empty tins of varnish.

The room was hot and steamy and it smelt of cooking and smoke. It was dingy because one of the bare light bulbs that hung from the high ceiling was burnt out and Amy hadn’t had a chance to haul in the ladder so she could replace it. The walls were covered with examples of children’s artwork but most of the pictures hung at drunken angles because the tape was rendered useless when it became damp.

And there were children everywhere in various stages of undress. Chantelle had pyjamas on but, instead of a dressing-gown, she had pulled on a vast woollen jersey that had been a favourite of Uncle Vanni’s. It hung down to her knees and her hands were hidden somewhere within the sleeves.

Twelve-year-old Kyra had a woollen beanie on her head, ug boots on her feet and a flannelette nightgown between the accessories. Standing together, the girls were the picture of children who looked like they had no one who cared about them.

The twins seemed oblivious to their visitor and marched about importantly. Marco had the dustpan and Angelo the hearthbrush, but they couldn’t decide how to co-ordinate their efforts and were finding the task highly amusing.

Eleven-year-old Andrew was beside Robert. He elbowed the older boy, who obligingly scowled at Luke.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded, flushing as his voice cracked. ‘And what are you doing here?’

Amy caught her breath. This was actually rather stunning. Robert had been passed from foster-home to foster-home in his short life, becoming progressively more ‘difficult’ and setting up a vicious cycle where the things that children needed most—an accepting, secure,
loving
environment that had boundaries—were getting further and further from his reach.

He’d come to the Phillips household six months ago, which was already a record for him, taken in as Marcella’s way of coping with her grief at losing her beloved cousin and a signal that she intended to carry on what had become a passion for Vanni. Caring for ‘lost’ children. Being told that ‘a man of the house’ was needed had been startling for the teenaged Robert.

Right now—standing up to this stranger in their kitchen—it was possible he was reaching out to accept that position of responsibility. That he felt safe enough himself to feel the need to protect his ‘family’.

Amy still hadn’t let out her breath. Imagine if he learned why Luke was really here? That he had inherited this house and was planning to kick them all out? That the children might be separated and Robert could find himself back in a home where no one was prepared to accept him, let alone make him the man of the house.