Czytaj książkę: «Resisting The Italian Single Dad»

CHAPTER ONE

THE EXACT SECOND her office clock hit midday, Carly Knight grabbed her laptop bag and the yellow cardboard box jammed with the natural sleeping aids she brought to all her parent talks. She was about to leave her office when the angry blare of a car horn from the road outside had her pause by her office window to watch a taxi driver angrily weave past a silver car that had pulled in on the double yellow line.

The driver’s door slowly opened. A tall, powerfully built man climbed out. He moved to the other side of the car. Wasn’t he worried about getting a parking fine? But then, given the car he was driving, a parking fine would probably be nothing more than pocket change to him.

He came to a stop at the rear door of the car and bowed his head for the briefest of seconds before sending his gaze heavenwards. There was an aloneness, a heaviness of spirit in how he stood stock-still, his feet firmly anchored to the ground, staring upwards. The man’s lips moved briefly in speech as though he was talking to someone.

She needed to leave or she’d be late for her talk, but she couldn’t drag herself away from watching him. She moved closer to the window, placed her palm against the cool glass.

Opening the rear door, he leant into the car for a moment before reappearing with a little girl in his arms.

He kissed her forehead, tenderly smoothed her soft brown curls and attempted to place her down on the footpath. But the little girl, dressed in a yellow jacket and blue pants, and who Carly guessed was about two years of age, refused to let go.

The man shook his head and then began to pace the footpath, the little girl in his arms, glancing all the while down the street. Who was he waiting for?

Carly soon had her answer when a petite, dark-haired woman, holding hands with a similarly dark-haired boy of four or five, rushed towards him. She hugged the man warmly, stroked the little girl’s cheek. They were a beautiful family. Carly’s heart tightened at their intimacy. But then the man attempted to pass the little girl to her mother, but she clung to him, refusing to let go. In the end, he was forced to remove her baby stroller from the boot of his car one-handed, refusing the mother’s offer of help. When he lowered the little girl into the stroller, Carly could hear her cries of protest. Kneeling before the stroller, the man stroked the little girl’s curls, but her leg smacked against his forearm and pushed him away.

The woman said something to him and hugged him again before rushing off with both children.

Fists tightly bunched at his side, the man stared after his family for a long while before turning in the direction of Carly’s building. Carly’s head jerked back at the desolation etched on his face. She stepped back from the window, out of his view, feeling like an intruder on his suffering.

Should she go down and ask him if everything was okay?

The man’s chest rose heavily and when he exhaled, the torment in his eyes disappeared. An aloof, guarded expression took its place. He removed his phone from his pocket, answered a call and strode in the direction of her office block.

Carly frowned. Could this be Mr Lovato? Her client who was supposed to have been here half an hour ago? But why didn’t his wife come in with him?

Locking the office door behind her, she went out onto the stairwell and was on the turn of the stairs when the door to the reception area burst open.

A blur of dark wavy hair, a phone pressed to hard jawbone, an expensive grey suit, the jacket spilling backwards as he climbed the stairs two at a time, raced towards her.

Carly’s heart lurched; it was rather disconcerting to be faced with such male perfection on a Tuesday lunchtime on the concrete stairs of an office block desperately in need of refurbishing.

Light, misty green eyes flicked in her direction as he passed her by.

Turning, she saw that he had already reached the turn in the stairs. ‘Mr Lovato?’

He came to a stop and looked down towards her. Standing still, he was even more devastatingly handsome than when he had been in motion. He considered her through a serious gaze, his mouth shaped like a soft wave, turning ever so slightly downwards at the corners.

He rolled his impressively wide shoulders and gave a nod.

‘I’m Carly Knight, the sleep consultant you made the appointment with. Is everything okay?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

There was a defensiveness to his tone that had Carly wavering. She wanted to ask if she could somehow help in whatever had been troubling him outside, but the proud tilt of his head told her he would not welcome her intrusion.

Instead she climbed the stairs to stand a few steps below him. ‘I’m sorry but I have another appointment that I have to leave for. If you speak to Nina on reception she will schedule another appointment for you.’

He considered her for a moment, the ever so slight tightening of his jaw the only indicator of his unhappiness. ‘I apologise for my lateness. I promise I won’t delay you for more than ten minutes.’

His voice was deep and—okay, so she’d admit it—really sexy. Where was his accent from? His surname, Lovato, was that Italian or Spanish? His smooth tanned skin and dark hair suggested long, sun-kissed Mediterranean days in whitewashed villages with views of a glistening sea.

For a moment, a deep longing for some sunshine and freedom washed through Carly. After a long icy winter, spring in London had proved to be cold and miserable. And it felt as though she hadn’t seen daylight for years thanks to the ongoing task of establishing her fledgling sleep consultancy business, which entailed working late into the night on far too many evenings.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Lovato, I really have to leave for another appointment.’

‘It’s important that I meet with you now.’

Carly attempted to give him a sympathetic smile, but in truth her earlier irritation with Mr Lovato, which had temporarily disappeared in the face of his upset, was quickly reappearing at his insistent tone. Only this morning, he had somehow managed to sweet-talk an appointment with Nina, the office-block receptionist who provided a diary booking service for all the tenants, despite the fact that Carly’s diary was already full for the day. Nina usually guarded the diaries like a Rottweiler on steroids.

When Carly had questioned Nina on why she had given him an appointment, Nina had given her a soppy smile that was alarming in itself and said he had been referred by Dr Segal, a paediatrician who was increasingly referring patients to Carly, and that she hadn’t had the heart to turn him away; that he had sounded so lovely and sincere and such a concerned dad for his daughter who wouldn’t sleep at night. Tough-as-nails Nina had obviously fallen for that deeply accented voice that no doubt had the potential to melt granite.

‘It’s now close to ten minutes past twelve, you’re over half an hour late for your appointment,’ Carly pointed out. From his expensive suit, glistening black leather shoes and a car even her stepfather couldn’t afford, Carly guessed that Mr Lovato was rich. Seriously rich. And no doubt used to getting his own way. But not now. Not with her. She had spent her teenage years being manipulated by a stepfather who had used his wealth to get his own way regardless of the consequences to others. If Mr Lovato was anything like her stepfather he would have no problem in making Carly late for her appointment with a group of other parents, as long as his own needs were met. Money talked for some people and it gave them an inflated sense of entitlement. ‘My receptionist shouldn’t have given you an appointment today. My diary was full. She tried calling you back to make alternative arrangements but you didn’t answer her calls.’

‘I was working from home today—between taking care of my daughter and client calls I never managed to call Nina back.’ He shrugged, gave her a hint of an apologetic smile. ‘When it was time to leave I couldn’t find my daughter’s shoes. And when we were finally on our way I realised that I had left her changing bag in the hallway so I had to turn around. You know how it is when you have children—time seems to disappear into a void of chasing your own shadow.’

Carly cleared her throat, ignoring the nudge of pain in her chest at his not unexpected but incorrect assumption she had children of her own. It was a common assumption many clients made. ‘I don’t have any children of my own but from working with them for the last decade I agree that you have to be very organised around them.’

His gaze narrowed. Carly pressed on, knowing she had to leave for her meeting despite a nagging feeling that she should give Mr Lovato some time. ‘Nina should be able to schedule you in for some time next week, after the bank holiday.’

Moving down the steps towards her, he came to a stop directly in front of her. Carly tilted her head to meet his gaze. He was tall. Very tall. At least six feet four, and over eight inches taller than herself.

He carried himself with a smooth ease, which, combined with his prominent angular features and soul-searching eyes, had the effect of making you forget all that you were thinking, and everything you were about to say.

‘I want us to speak now.’

Carly blinked at the smoothness of his tone, at the bluntness of his words. ‘That’s not possible. I’m giving a talk to a parent group in Kilburn at one. I have to leave now or I’m going to be late.’

His eyes narrowed but did not move from hers for a moment. Carly had to force herself not to look away, hating the heat that was growing on her skin at his nearness, the strange feeling of undoing that was unravelling in her insides.

‘How are you getting there?’

Carly frowned. ‘The underground.’

‘I’ll drive you.’

Carly stared after him as he moved to the reception doors. He held one of the scruffy blue doors in need of a repaint open for her. Carly followed him down. ‘That’s not necessary, Mr Lovato.’

His beguiling mouth curved upwards into a hint of a smile. ‘My name is Maximiliano but you can call me Max. We can talk on the journey there. It’s the least I can do considering my lateness for our meeting. Can I carry your box out to the car for you?’

Irritated, Carly shook her head. ‘No…and I don’t think it’s appropriate you driving me. After all, we have just met.’

To this he let out an amused exhalation before saying, ‘I’m a seriously sleep-deprived father. I can assure you that you have nothing to fear from me.’ He looked towards reception where Nina was staring in their direction and added in a teasing tone, ‘Nina, I’m driving Ms Knight to her appointment in Kilburn. Should anything happen to her you have my address and telephone number, which you can pass onto the police.’

Unbelievably, Nina giggled at this. Carly eyed her with exasperation but Nina was too busy ogling their visitor to catch her annoyance.

‘I really don’t think—’

Before she could add anything else, Max interrupted her, his voice low, the intensity of his proud gaze flipping her stomach. ‘I urgently need your help, Ms Knight…as does my daughter.’

Carly Knight’s cornflower-blue eyes disappeared in a slow blink behind her long and lush eyelashes as she considered his words.

Max wanted to walk away. He hated asking for help. It wasn’t in his nature. He found it degrading—a sign of weakness. He valued his privacy, disliked having to expose himself and his family to the scrutiny of an outsider. From a young age he had understood the importance of self-reliance. His mother, a strict disciplinarian, had constantly told him that to be dependent on others made you weak. And growing up in a tough suburban neighbourhood of Rome, he had quickly learned that to survive he had to be strong, resilient and, most important of all, never show weakness.

Carly Knight was not what he had expected. When he had reluctantly called the number his paediatrician had given him, he had imagined meeting an older woman, a grandmother perhaps, with sensible hair and sensible shoes to match her sensible personality. A woman with years of experience dealing with strong-willed toddlers hell-bent on testing their parents.

He hadn’t expected a woman who hadn’t experienced first-hand the exhausting reality of parenting. He hadn’t expected sparkling white trainers under ankle-length faded blue jeans, a white blouse covered in red stars. He hadn’t expected tumbling blonde hair or creamy skin so smooth he wanted to touch his thumb against her high cheekbones. He hadn’t expected the attitude that said he was an inconvenience in her life.

He wanted to walk away; to tell her he didn’t want her help after all. But that would be a lie. He did need her help. And so did Isabella, his beautiful, inspiring, contrary-as-a-hungry-goat daughter. They could not go on as they were. As much as he hated to admit it, they were both miserable. He clenched his jaw as the constant slow burn of guilt for failing his family intensified under Carly Knight’s critical gaze.

Her brow wrinkled but then something softened in her eyes. She let out a deep breath. ‘Okay, I’ll take the lift.’

Torn between the relief that she had said yes and the deep wish that he had never needed to ask for her help in the first place, he took hold of her box, which she released reluctantly, and guided her out to his car.

She had resisted even taking a lift from him. How on earth was she going to respond when she learnt of everything he wanted from her?

Outside she folded her arms and stared pointedly at the double yellow line his car was parked on. He opened the passenger door for her, and nodded down towards the box. ‘Do I smell lavender?’

‘As part of bedtime routines, I recommend to parents that they use aromatherapy creams and oils in baths and in massaging their children—lavender and camomile being just some they can use. I take samples along to my talks to give to parents.’

He placed the box in the rear seat of his car, beside Isabella’s car seat, sure that Isabella would never tolerate him massaging her. Thankfully.

When she got into the car, Carly’s gaze flicked over the leather and walnut interior, her head twisting to take in the rear seat. ‘This must be the cleanest family car I’ve ever seen. Most of my clients’ cars are covered in toys and crumbs and empty wrappers.’

‘I’m away with work a lot. My daughter isn’t in my car that often.’

She frowned at that. Max punched the buttons of his satnav, wondering not for the first time if he had done the right thing. Was Carly Knight about to judge him, to confirm that, yes, he was an inadequate father? Knowing your inadequacy was one thing, allowing someone else to see it, exposing yourself to their criticism, was another matter.

Carly gave him the address of her appointment and he pulled away from the kerb, following the instructions of the satnav voice.

Beside him Carly asked with a hint of surprised amusement in her voice, ‘Is your satnav speaking in Italian?’

‘Yes… I like some reminders of home.’

Her bee-stung mouth carved upwards into a light smile. ‘I wondered if you were Spanish or Italian.’

Despite himself he smiled and faked indignation. ‘How could you confuse the two? I’m Italian and very proud to be.’

‘So why are you in cold and damp London? Why not the Amalfi coast or somewhere as gorgeous as that?’

‘I like London, the opportunities here. I’ve a home in Italy too—on Lake Como—but my work commitments mean I rarely get to visit there.’

‘I’ve never been but I would love to one day.’ She gave her head a small shake and, sitting more upright in her seat, she clasped her hands together. ‘Okay, tell me how I can help you and why it was so urgent that we talk today?’

Her voice had returned to its formal professionalism. Max waited for a break in the traffic to turn right out of Rowan Road, fighting the reluctance to confess the problems in his family. Eventually he forced himself to admit, ‘My daughter Isabella is twenty-two months old. She’s a terrible sleeper. The worst in the world. I thought as she got older it would improve but in recent months it has only worsened.’

Carly twisted in her seat and he glanced over to find her studying him carefully. ‘What do you mean by a terrible sleeper?’

Her tone held a hint of censure, as though she didn’t quite believe him. Frustration tightened in his chest. ‘She won’t go to sleep—it can take hours and has tried the patience of even the most chilled-out nannies that I’ve managed to employ. She wakes frequently at night and refuses to go back to sleep. It’s causing havoc. She’s tired and irritable during the day and my job is very demanding—her sleeplessness is killing my concentration. I can’t retain nannies. They all walk out eventually. My neighbours have a boy of a similar age who’s been sleeping through the night since he was five months old.’

‘No two children are the same. Don’t compare Isabella to other children—on this or anything else. Trust me, it’s the quickest route to insanity for any parent. Studies vary in their results but some say that fewer than half of all children settle quickly at night and sleep through. Isabella is in the majority by waking.’

Max shook his head, picturing Isabella’s brown eyes sparking with anger last night as she stood beside her bed and shook her head each time he told her it was time to go to sleep. ‘È ora di andare a letto, Isabella.’

His daughter’s word count was slowly increasing but her favourite word continued to be a defiant, ‘No.’ And last night she had used it time and time again, her chestnut curls bouncing about her face as she dramatically shook her head.

He had been so tempted to crawl into bed beside her, to hold her in his arms, sniff her sweet baby scent, listen to her soft breaths when she eventually fell asleep. But to do so would be to do Isabella a disservice. She needed to learn to go to sleep on her own, learn to be independent of him.

He rolled his eyes. ‘I bet she’s an outlier though; I bet she’s in the top one per cent for waking at night. My daughter doesn’t do anything by halves.’

She smiled at that. He felt a surprising pleasure that she got his attempt at humour. ‘Waking at night is normal. Children wake for a variety of reasons: shorter sleep cycles, hunger, being too hot or cold, their room being too bright, or the need for comfort and assurance. I find that unrealistic expectations cause parents the most stress. How does Isabella’s mother feel about her sleeping?’

Max cursed under his breath at a car that swerved into his lane on the Hammersmith flyover without indicating. The tight fist of guilt that was his constant companion these days squeezed even fiercer. Would talking about Marta ever get easier? Would the guilt of her death—how they had fought in the hours before—ever grow less horrific? ‘Isabella’s mother, Marta, died in a car crash when Isabella was three months old.’

‘I thought…’ She glanced in his direction, confusion clouding her eyes. ‘I saw you from my office window earlier…’

Now he understood her confusion. ‘My wife’s friend Vittoria agreed to take Isabella this afternoon so that I could meet with you.’

He waited in the silence that followed for her response to hearing of Marta’s death. Most people responded with panic, a keen urge to change the subject or preferably, if circumstances allowed it, to find an excuse to get away.

‘I’m very sorry to hear about your wife. It must have been a very difficult time for you.’

Her softly spoken words sounded heartfelt. He glanced in her direction and swiftly away again, not able to handle the compassion in her eyes.

‘Do you have other children?’

‘No, just Isabella.’

‘Have you family or friends nearby, who support you?’

‘I have some friends, like Vittoria…but they have their own families to look after.’ Max paused, pride and guilt causing him to add more fiercely, ‘Anyway, we don’t need support.’

‘It can’t be easy coping on your own since Marta died.’

He didn’t answer for a while, focusing his attention on merging with the traffic on the Westway, but also thrown by all her questions, what she was saying…how easily she said Marta’s name. Most people skirted around ever having to mention Marta’s name, as though it was taboo to say it out loud. He swallowed against a tightening in his throat, suddenly feeling bone tired. At work he deliberately kept a professional distance from those who worked for him. The few friends he had in London, friends that in truth had been Marta’s friends and had probably stayed in his life out of duty and respect to Marta, had stopped asking him about how he was managing a long time ago. In the early months after Marta had died, he had made it clear it wasn’t up for discussion.

He saw a gap in the traffic open up in front of him and he pressed on the accelerator. He needed to get back to the office and he was keen to get this conversation over and done with. He wanted Carly Knight to show him how to get Isabella to sleep, not ask all these questions. ‘I grew up in a one-parent household, my mother raised me single-handedly. It’s a fact of life for a lot of people.’

‘Yes, but it’s not the future you had envisioned, and losing that must be very hard.’

He wanted to thump the steering wheel hard with the palm of his hand. Carly’s words were resonating deep inside him. He didn’t just miss Marta, he missed the future they had mapped out together, he missed the support of co-parenting, he missed having someone to talk to. All selfish things that only added to his guilt that Marta had died so young, that she would never see Isabella grow up. Marta would despair over just how out of sync he and Isabella were—their relationship was more often than not a battle of wills, and at the moment Isabella was winning. Of course he adored his daughter but he worried deeply about how dependent she was on him, which only seemed to be worsening in recent months, given her tendency to cling to him and her refusal to be cared for by others. How would she cope if anything ever happened to him?

‘Isabella’s nanny walked out yesterday. Dr Segal referred me to you this morning when I took Isabella to see her. She said you have helped some of her other patients.’

‘Your nanny walked out on you because of Isabella’s sleeping?’

‘Yes.’ He glanced over and saw that she had an eyebrow raised, not buying it. He shifted in his seat, gripped the steering wheel tighter. ‘The fact that I’m away a lot of the time is probably a factor too.’

‘How often are you away?’

‘Two…sometimes three nights a week. When she was younger I took Isabella with me but the travel was too much for her.’

‘She’s probably missing you a lot—and the fact that you are coming and going means she has no consistency, which will have an impact on her ability to sleep.’

Her voice was calm, matter-of-fact, which annoyed him as much as what she had to say. ‘It’s the nature of my work… I don’t have a choice.’

‘I’ve never come across a situation that doesn’t have alternative choices, or solutions. What is it that you do?’

Maybe she should try living his life some time. In architecture, you were only as good as your last design and winning bids was a never-ending cycle of late nights and client meetings. ‘I’m an architect and property developer—my main office is here in London with other offices in Milan and Shanghai. My clients are worldwide, as are my properties.’

‘My guess is Isabella needs more stability and routine to sleep better at night.’

Reluctantly he nodded. She was right. And he needed Carly’s help in establishing that routine. It was time he started broaching his plans with her. ‘I have to leave for my second home on Lake Como later this week. My in-laws live there, and my father-in-law is celebrating his sixtieth birthday on Friday evening, and on Sunday my brother-in-law, Tomaso, is marrying. I have no choice but to go—Isabella is a flower girl at the wedding. I’ve no idea how she will behave. I need her to sleep in the nights before—that way hopefully she might not throw a tantrum, which she’s prone to do at the moment.’

Along Harrow Road they came to a stop while the driver of a concrete mixer ahead in the road tried to manoeuvre into a narrow construction site entrance. He turned to her and asked, ‘Will you work for me for the rest of this week, come to Lake Como this weekend, to help me in getting Isabella to sleep? I’ll pay you generously.’

Carly looked at him and then turned to stare at a nearby billboard advertising happiness via a deodorant, trying to contain her irritation. He was a client, clearly in need. But seriously! She turned back to him, cursing once again that he was so distractingly handsome, and tried to keep her voice calm. ‘I’m a sleep consultant, Mr Lovato, not a nanny.’

‘I know that.’

She forced herself to hold his gaze, even though his misty green eyes did something peculiar to her heartbeat. ‘Do you?’ She waited a pause before adding dryly, ‘I’m busy with other clients all of this week and have my own plans for the weekend.’

‘Nina told me earlier that you were on annual leave Friday—can’t you at least come to Lake Como with us?’

Nina! What had got into her this morning? ‘No—I’ve rented a cottage in Devon; I like to surf. I’ve been planning this trip since the New Year.’ Why was she telling him this? Why did she feel she had to justify saying no to him?

‘I’ll pay for you to rebook.’

‘I don’t provide the type of service you are looking for. Yes, I visit clients’ homes but I don’t stay overnight or get involved in childcare. I provide a bespoke plan that parents follow over a period of months. Isabella is not going to be sleeping through the night any time soon—it doesn’t work that way. My approach to your child sleeping contentedly takes time, patience and consistency.’