“You could say that.” She gestured towards her daughter, so that Lauren found herself looking at Raf and Cara once more. She really didn’t need to see Rafaello Montebello as a doting uncle to flesh out the image she already had of him.
“How old is she?”
“One – going on twenty one,” she joked. “Full of attitude and confidence.”
“And I bet you wouldn’t have it any other way?”
“Nope.” There was something about Alessia that relaxed Lauren. She found herself wishing she could simply put aside all her hang ups and rules and acquiesce to the multiple invitations she’d had – and agree to stay. But the temptation was a warning and she heeded it.
“You’ll let me know if Yaya needs me?”
Alessia frowned for a moment at the sudden break in their pleasant conversation, but then nodded. “Of course.”
“She shouldn’t over-tire herself.”
“I know,” Alessia nodded. “But she’s so happy to see them all.”
“Yes,” Lauren sighed. “I gather the family has been trying not to overwhelm her.”
“You can see why,” Alessia laughed softly. “So many grandsons, and Yaya determined to know everything about each of them.”
The obvious love in the room pulled apart some vital part of Lauren’s DNA. She cleared her throat and smiled tightly. “I think at this stage it’s important for her to see as much of her family as possible. I don’t feel that the risks outweigh the benefits.”
Alessia’s eyes lingered on Lauren’s face. “You think she’s going to die?”
Lauren turned to face Alessia. “Isn’t that why you hired me?”
Alessia’s smile was bitter-sweet. “It’s a precaution. I like to cover all my bases. But no, Lauren. I still have hope. Yaya is a fighter, and I don’t think she’s done with this life yet.”
Lauren’s heart shifted in surprise. Hope was an almost foreign concept to her. She’d seen far too much of life to leave room for wishful thinking, but she found the other woman’s perspective refreshing enough to not point out her own scepticism.
“I hope you’re right.” She smiled stiffly. “Excuse me.”
He watched her through the glass windows as lunch swirled around him. Happy conversation – except for Gabe who sat like a vortex of pain and grumpiness in the corner – with laughter and relief. Because for a moment, things felt almost like normal. Yaya at the head of the table was quieter than usual, watchful, tired, but so happy, so radiant, that he felt like maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay. After all, they had the best healthcare money could buy – a team of nurses assembled from a private clinic in Switzerland and a stroke expert managing her recovery. But there was also Lauren.
Lauren who specialised in death. Lauren who dealt with terminal patients. Lauren whose job was to ease someone’s passing. Lauren with her distracting curves and icy blonde hair, full pink lips and wide blue eyes. Lauren who watched him even when he knew she didn’t want to. Lauren whose eyes clung to him like she was drowning and he was the only one who could save her. Lauren who’d run away from him time and again. Lauren who’d become an unbearable distraction to him at a time when he wanted, more than anything, to focus on Yaya.
So? Couldn’t he do both?
Besides, right now, Yaya was surrounded by everyone she loved in this world. She wouldn’t notice if he disappeared for a few minutes.
Standing, he grabbed his wine glass and a spare, half-filling it with the Montepulciano grown on the property before making his way from the room. He slipped through the glass sliders onto the terrace, striding towards Lauren before she could realise he was approaching. It gave him the advantage – and a chance to observe her more closely. She was, as she’d said she would be, reading, but drawing closer he saw the book was a Jane Austen novel and that surprised him. He wouldn’t have thought her a romance fan. When he was almost at her side she blinked, lifting her gaze, her expression showing displeasure and then locking into a mask of tight containment – a mask he’d seen each time they’d spoken and always felt an answering temptation to remove.
“Wine?”
She eyed the glass mistrustfully then shook her head. “I don’t drink while I’m working.”
“You said you’re always working. So you don’t drink?”
She shook her head. “I – sometimes.”
He put the glass down onto the table beside her. “Would you like something else? A tea? Mineral water?”
“I’m fine.” The words were impatient and dismissive. He ignored her tone, taking a relaxed-seeming seat on the lounger beside her, stretching out with his hands clasped behind his head. “Alessia already offered.”
“Ah. That was over an hour ago.”
She frowned. “How do you know?”