The Surgeon's Miracle / Dr Di Angelo's Baby Bombshell (12 page)

‘It sounds lovely,’ she said with another smile, and ran upstairs to pack, thanking her lucky stars that she’d done the washing the night before and it was dry. She packed her best matching underwear, a nightdress and light dressing gown for the hotel, trousers, her little black dress, flat shoes, heels, pretty tops, and left out her decent black trousers and a pretty jumper for travelling down the next night.

‘Done,’ she said as she went back into the kitchen, and he smiled and held out his arms.

‘Good girl. Now come and give me a hug, and then you can help me make the supper.’

‘Make it?’ she said, leaning back and laughing up at him. ‘It’s pizza and salad!’

‘I told you not to expect too much of my culinary skills,’ he grinned, releasing her and swatting her on the bottom. ‘Come on, open the bag of salad and let’s eat. I’m starving and the pizza’s done.’

S
HE
rushed home after work on Friday, changed quickly into her decent black trousers, her favourite boots which were comfortable enough for sightseeing and decent enough for dinner when they arrived in London, and was ready and waiting when he pulled up at her door.

He came in, kissed her and then hesitated. ‘Um—I lied to you,’ he said softly, his eyes sparkling and an air of suppressed excitement about him. ‘I hope you weren’t fudging when you said you had a valid passport?’

She stared at him, her jaw dropping, and laughed in surprise. ‘Passport?’

‘Come on, we need to get a move-on. It is here, I take it?’

The look of panic on his face was comical, and she laughed again and opened the dresser drawer, waggling it under his nose. ‘Here—all present and correct, valid for four and a half years. How long a trip were you planning?’

He laughed. ‘Sadly only two nights. Come on.’

‘Where are we going?’ she asked, but he just tapped the side of his nose, helped her into her coat, pocketed her passport and put her case in the car while she locked the house.

‘Andrew, where are we going?’ she asked, butterflies having a field day in her stomach now, and he slid behind the wheel, shot her a grin and said,

‘Paris.’

She felt her jaw drop. ‘Paris?’ she squeaked.

He shrugged. ‘Well, when I asked you two weeks ago what you’d be doing over the weekend, that was what you said, and it sounded like a fantasy. So I thought I’d make it come true for you. Except we’re not flying, we’re going on the Eurostar from St Pancras.’

‘That’s fine,’ she said a little weakly. ‘I hate flying.’

They arrived at their hotel shortly before midnight, and when they went into the room, all she could see through the huge windows was the twinkle of a million lights. ‘Oh, Andrew!’ she breathed, crossing to the glass and staring out in awe.

They could see the bridges spanning the Seine, the arches illuminated in a rainbow of colours, and to their left the glittering Eiffel Tower soared skywards, with its flashing beam like a lighthouse sweeping across the night sky.

He slid his arms round her and eased her back against his chest. ‘Enough lights for you?’

‘Oh, yes!’ She turned in his arms, lifting her face to his, and he lowered his head and touched his lips to hers.

‘Good. Do you want anything from room service?’

‘What, after that gorgeous meal on the train? I shouldn’t think so.’

‘Nothing to drink?’

‘No. I’m happy drinking in the view. It’s beautiful. Thank you so much for bringing me here.’

‘My pleasure. It’s lovely to get away.’ He dropped a
kiss on her nose and smiled down at her. ‘Time for bed? We’ve got a long day tomorrow.’

She smiled. ‘Bed sounds lovely,’ she said softly, and going up on tiptoe, she kissed him back.

He hadn’t lied about the long day, he thought as they strolled along the Seine.

Breakfast in a patisserie, followed by sightseeing in the morning, a lunchtime river cruise from the quayside near the foot of the Eiffel Tower, returning them two hours later, then a good stretch to the Musée d’Orsay further along the Rive Gauche, where Libby gazed up, fascinated, at the curved glass roof of the old station building that now housed a fabulous collection of artworks by the Impressionists—sculptures and paintings that Libby showed a surprising knowledge of.

‘I did art history at A level,’ she told him, studying a picture by Manet before strolling on to the next one. And the next. And the next.

She had stamina, he thought with an inward smile as they left the exhibition. They’d walked miles already, and now they walked again, taking the metro to Montmartre and strolling round hand in hand, steeping themselves in more art and architecture and history before heading back to the hotel.

They showered and changed, him into his suit, Libby into her little black dress that did shocking things to his blood pressure, then headed out again.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked yet again, but he just smiled and kept her guessing.

‘The Eiffel Tower?’ she asked hopefully as they approached it. ‘I was guessing wildly, you know—can you even go up it at night?’

‘I don’t know,’ he lied, the fast-pass tickets burning a hole in his pocket, but as they arrived at the bottom and skipped the queue she laughed crossly and told him off for teasing, and he could see she was excited. They went to the top in the lift, changing at the second floor and soaring right up to level three for the most spectacular view, and then came down, stopping at level two to change lifts again—except instead of changing lifts, he led her to the restaurant.

‘We’re eating here?’ she said, awed, as they were shown to a seat by the window. ‘How on earth did you get a reservation?’

He chuckled. ‘Sleight of hand and very fortuitous luck. They had a group cancellation, apparently. Normally you have to book weeks in advance, even in the off season.’

She tipped her head on one side and searched his eyes. ‘Andrew, how long have you been planning this?’ she asked, and he smiled.

‘Two weeks?’

‘Two weeks? But—that was your mother’s birthday weekend. We weren’t even—well—whatever we’re doing.’

She floundered to a halt, her eyes troubled, and he reached out and took her hand. ‘Seeing each other?’ he suggested softly. ‘Going out?’

‘We weren’t supposed to be,’ she reminded him, looking confused and a little wary, and he smiled again, confused and a little wary himself, but it was too late for that, and if things had been different—but they weren’t, he thought with an inward sigh.

‘I know,’ he murmured. ‘But it sounded as if it was your dream weekend, and so I made some enquiries.’

‘And craftily checked that I had a passport.’

He laughed. ‘Only after I’d booked it. I had a moment of panic that yours might have expired like mine had the time I told you about, or that it wouldn’ t be at your house.’

‘Where else?’ she said, frowning in puzzlement.

‘I don’t know—your parents?’

She shook her head. ‘My father’s dead, and my mother lives in Cork, in Ireland, with her new husband. And apart from that, there’s only my sister Jenny and her husband and daughter in Cumbria.’

He realised he hadn’t known any of that. Well, apart from the fact that she had a sister. Other than her recent revelation about the DMD, she’d shared very little of herself. Part of their unspoken agreement to keep things between them light—except he wasn’t doing too well on that front.

Take this weekend, for instance. He’d squandered a fortune on it without a second thought, just to spoil her because he—

He stopped dead, his thoughts slamming into a brick wall. He what?

He
loved her
?

No.

Yes.

The waiter appeared to take their order, and he put the disturbing thought on the back burner. For now.

It wouldn’t stay there, though. As they strolled back to the hotel after their meal—only two delicious courses because even Libby, with her taste for desserts, had been defeated after the generous lunch on the river—he threaded his fingers through hers and drew her to a halt, turning to stare out over the river. It was cool, and he slid his arm round her, holding her close against his
side as the wind whipped across the water and swirled around them.

‘Happy?’ he asked her, and she nodded, her face alight.

‘Very. That was a fabulous meal, thank you so much,’ she said, snuggling into his side. ‘I hate to think what this is costing you.’

‘It’s irrelevant. It’s just lovely to get right away, and I haven’t had so much fun for years. It’s been wonderful, ’ he admitted, ‘and it’s all because you’re here with me.’

She turned in his arms, lifting her face to his, her eyes luminous in the lamplight. ‘Oh, Andrew…’

He cradled her cheek in his hand, stroking the pad of his thumb against the delicate skin. ‘I think I’m falling in love with you, Libby,’ he confessed softly, and her mouth opened on a soundless O.

She closed it and smiled, reaching up to touch his face, her hand cool against his jaw. ‘I
know
I’m falling in love with you,’ she replied, her voice quiet, sincere.

He swallowed hard, staring into her guileless eyes, suddenly swamped by sadness.

‘Oh, Libby,’ he murmured, tracing her lovely face with his fingertips. ‘This wasn’t meant to happen. It was all supposed to be strictly no strings—that was what I promised you, and now…’

‘Now we’re having a wonderful time together. That’s all. And anyway,’ she said, the shadow returning to her eyes, ‘it may not be the problem you imagine.’

‘How can it not be?’ he asked sadly. ‘I wish—you’ll never know how much—that things could be different, but they aren’t. I can’t give you children, Libby, and I can’t ask you to sacrifice your chances of being a mother for me.’

‘I’m not asking you to. We’ve talked about this. You know how I feel about having children if I’m a carrier.’

‘But we don’t know if you are.’

‘I know, but if I
am
a carrier, then I won’t have children, not with all the risks, so the fact that you can’t have them might not be an issue,’ she said, tilting her head back again so she could meet his eyes. ‘We’d both be in the same position, so we could let our relationship take its course.’

He frowned down at her, stunned at the implications of her words. ‘But you wouldn’t be in the same position as me,’ he argued. ‘You could still have children, Libby. IVF’s not that risky.’

‘I know, but it isn’t risk free, and if I was with someone who desperately wanted children and could otherwise have had them, I might go for it for their sake—but I’m not. I’m with someone who can’t have them, and so I wouldn’t have to make that painful choice and potentially live with the consequences of it every day of my child’s life.’

He felt hope swell in his chest, and crushed it ruthlessly. He wouldn’t let himself think about it, wish a carrier status on her so that he didn’t have to lose her. And he still wasn’t convinced that, years down the line, she wouldn’t regret her decision if she chose to be with him and pass up on the chance to be a mother.

‘Get the test results and then we’ll talk about it again,’ he said, stopping his mind from getting carried away with planning the future—a future with Libby in it.

He let her go, slipping his hand down her arm and taking her chilly hand. It was too cold to stand and talk,
and anyway he wanted to take her to bed and hold her, to tell her without words how he felt for her.

‘Come on, you’re freezing,’ he said gently. ‘Let’s go back to the hotel.’

He was sleeping, sprawled on his front across the bed, one bare, hair-strewn leg sticking out of the duvet, his head turned towards her.

He loved her—or so he said, but she wasn’t sure.

Libby sat on the chair by the window watching him sleep, happy to let him rest so she could think through his reaction to their conversation.

He hadn’t seemed convinced about her electing not to have children if she was a carrier, or her suggestion that if she was they could let their relationship take its course. Rather, he’d seemed almost—wary. He’d brought her back to the hotel and made love to her with aching tenderness, but she’d felt there was a part of himself he was holding back. A part he always held back.

Habit? Because, of course, he’d spent years denying himself a meaningful, long-term relationship on the grounds that he wouldn’t let it go anywhere—or so he said. But what if that was just an excuse? What if he just didn’t want to get married, and used it as a justifiable reason to avoid a permanent entanglement?

She had no idea. They hardly knew each other, even though they’d worked in the same unit for months. And they’d been together now for just two weeks. Two ecstatic, delirious, blissful weeks.

Weeks in which she’d fallen in love with him, and he, apparently, with her. Or had he? Had he really?

Restless, she got to her feet and padded softly over
to the dresser unit to search for a magazine. Not that she could read it if it was in French. She was far from fluent, her schoolgirl French all but forgotten, but she could look at the pictures.

She drew a blank on the magazine front, but found a selection of tourist information leaflets, and flicked through them. Some were in several languages, including English, and she studied them while she waited for him to wake up.

Notre Dame, she thought. That looked interesting. Or perhaps the Louvre—

‘Planning the day?’

She looked up, startled, and smiled at him. ‘I didn’t realise you were awake. I was just killing time.’

‘You should have woken me.’ He threw back the bedclothes and walked over to her, bending to brush his lips against her cheek. ‘I need the bathroom. You could call room service and get breakfast sent up, and we can plan our day over a jug of coffee and a pile of hot, buttery croissants.’

‘Consider it done,’ she said with a smile, and put her doubts out of her mind.

They got back to Audley at eleven that night, exhausted, and went straight to her house to feed the cat.

‘Oh, Kitty, did you miss me?’ she asked, scooping her up, but Kitty’s only interest was food, as usual, and Libby just rolled her eyes, put her down and fed her. ‘Do you want a drink?’ she asked Andrew, but he shook his head.

‘No, I need to get home,’ he said, disappointing her. ‘I’ve got things to do before tomorrow, and I ought to check my messages and give Will a ring before I go to bed, and I’ve got a long day. We’re on duty overnight
tomorrow and it could be a bit hectic, and if I stay—well, you know what’ll happen,’ he said ruefully, hugging her. ‘But I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll have coffee, or lunch, or something, anyway.’

She nodded, hugging him back. ‘Thank you so much for this weekend,’ she said, loath to let it end, knowing he was right and that he had to get some sleep before the busy week ahead. So did she, but somehow when she was in his arms that didn’t seem to matter. ‘Go on, go home while I’ll still let you,’ she told him, and, kissing him lightly on the lips, she eased out of his arms and opened the door. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

He kissed her again, then slid behind the wheel and drove away. She watched his lights disappear, then closed the door and went to find the cat and check her phone for messages.