Page 226 of Modern Romance November 2024 5-8

‘I had to tell them you were ill,’ he continued. ‘I do not think they are convinced I have been looking after you well, so if you do speak to them, make sure to tell them my skills as a nurse are as exceptional as my skills in business. And please, assure your grandmother that I have not locked you in a basement.’ His left eyebrow rose then wriggled. ‘Does she breathe fire?’

Not waiting for an answer, he strode out of the room leaving Victoria staring at his retreating figure with the terrifying sensation that she’d caught a secondary virus.

It took more effort to use her hands than she’d have believed possible but somehow Victoria managed to post on the Cusack family messaging group, assuring them she was over the worst of her illness. Marcello must have laid her illness on thick to get them worried. She’d once woken with the most horrendous period cramps, so bad she’d been unable to haul herself out of bed for school, and no one had noticed her failure to make it down to breakfast. The first her parents knew she was still in bed had been via an alert from the school telling them she’d failed to arrive there. Her mum had called the house to see why Victoria hadn’t gone to school, then told her to take some painkillers. She hadn’t deemed period cramps worthy of popping home in her lunch break to check on her fourth youngest daughter.

Looking back, Victoria understood her mother’s blasé attitude—she’d been through it already with the three older girls—but for Victoria, frightened and in pain, her indifference had hurt.

Grandma Brigit immediately responded to her message, and demanded proof it was Victoria who’d written it and not ‘that man’, which brought the kernel of a smile to her face. Knowing she would otherwise be bombarded with demands of proof in perpetuity, she took a selfie of her face on the pillow and winced at the image taken. Not having the energy to retake it, she pressed send and then used the last of her reserves to delete the image from her files.

She didn’t even have the energy to stop herself from thinking about Marcello.

As sleep wound its tentacles back around her, she soothed herself that the swell of feelings for him had been simple gratitude for the simple fact that he’d been her saviour. He’d stepped up when she’d needed him—the first time she’d ever needed him—and got her through the worst illness of her life. That it had felt more than heartfelt gratitude was a mirage caused by her defences being low and her frazzled mind playing tricks on her.

She was sinking back into sleep when the man whose face was lodged behind her closed eyes returned to the room.

Her heart kicked before her eyes opened.

‘I bring soup,’ he said proudly. He placed a tray on the table by the armchair at the side of the bed, then sat on the edge of the bed beside her. ‘You are going to try and eat?’

The look in his eyes...had they always been such a clear shade of blue?...told her that this was a question with only one possible answer. Marcello was determined she should have some sustenance.

See, she assured herself. This was why her heart was racing: a manifestation of her gratitude.

She remembered how her heart had skipped all those many months ago. She hadn’t recognised the number flashing on her ringing phone and had braced herself for a scam call. When Marcello had announced himself and then announced why he was calling, her heart had skipped and then raced so hard she’d taken an age to respond. So long had her silence gone on that he’d assumed she wasn’t interested and increased the salary offer he’d just made by fifty thousand dollars. He didn’t know she’d been too gobsmacked to answer.

She’d remembered him—ofcourseshe’d remembered him—but it had never occurred to her that he’d remembered her too. That this business titan had remembered her, remembered because he’dseensomething in her, and gone out of his way to track down her personal number and offer her a job...

For the woman who’d grown up lost in the midst of siblings who all shone brighter than her...

She still didn’t know which had meant the most to her, the remembering or the job offer, but, as demanding a boss as Marcello could be, she’d never forgotten how that one call had made her feel. Seen. Special. Things she’d never felt before.

And now, on top of all the care he’d given her, he’d made her soup.

She’d never gone so long without eating before and though she wasn’t hungry, she knew she should at least try.

For the first time since she’d fallen ill, she was entirely aware of the muscular strength of Marcello’s arm when he slid it beneath her, and wholly aware of the warmth of his hard body when he helped her sit up by resting her against him. Still holding her securely, he leaned over to grab some pillows. In an instant, her senses filled with the scent of faded cologne and warm skin.

She didn’t know relief could feel like dejection when, finally satisfied that she was suitably propped up and unlikely to flop back down, he moved away from her. She didn’t know, either, if she was imagining how quickly he released his hold on her and got off the bed, or if she was imagining that he spent a long time at the tray before carrying a large steaming mug to her. She didn’t know, either, if it was the heat of the mug or the heat of his fingers making sure her hands were wrapped securely around the mug that sent warm sensation through her hands and into her bloodstream.

‘You must eat all of it—I made it myself,’ he said lightly.

She cleared her throat and tried to convince herself that her racing pulses were due to the virus. ‘Really?’

‘Sì.I have put it in a mug for you so you will find it easier to manage than with a bowl and spoon.’ The smile that contained equal dollops of mischief and sexiness flashed at her. ‘It would have been ready sooner but I could not find a tin opener.’

Marcello could hardly credit the strength of his relief to see a real smile form on Victoria’s pale face at this, and see amusement spark in her eyes.

For the first time he allowed himself to admit that there had been moments during the long night when he’d feared he would never see her smile again. It had been the longest, most frightening night he’d experienced in eleven years.

Moving the armchair to within a foot of the bed so he was close to hand if she needed him, he parked himself on it and was filled with even more relief when she sipped her way through all the soup. By the time he took the empty mug from her, a hint of her old colour had returned to her cheeks. He didn’t kid himself that she was magically better but these little things meant she’d taken the first steps on her road to recovery. They meant that, tonight, he could sleep with his eyes and ears closed.

‘You have called your family?’ he asked.

She shook her head tiredly. ‘I messaged the family group.’

‘Good. Put their minds at rest.’ He’d only answered her phone becauseMamhad flashed on the screen when it rang. His own mother kept calling too, as he’d stupidly let slip that he’d gained a house guest who’d fallen ill. She seemed as unconvinced as the Cusacks that he was taking proper care of Victoria. ‘They have been calling every hour—they are worried about you.’

Her smile was as tired as her head shake. ‘You must have told them I was dying.’

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