The Right Choice
Author
Catherine George
Reads
16,0K
Chapters
12
Chapter 1
TAKE-OFF, the pilot explained with regret over the intercom, would be a little delayed. The plane bound for Pisa, full except for one aisle-seat halfway down the aircraft, rippled with a frisson of audible nerves from some of the passengers, and smart flight attendants circulated quickly to give reassurances. The delay was due to nothing more alarming than the late .arrival of a passenger.
Georgia leaned across the man sandwiched between herself and her sister. ‘And here he comes!’ Charlotte, half-asleep from the tranquillisers she’d taken, eyed the commotion glumly from her windowseat as a tall, dark-haired man was installed with ceremony across the aisle from Georgia. Two of the female staff helped eagerly as he stowed his hand luggage away, and Georgia stifled a giggle as she listened to the voluble exchange in Italian.
‘What’s up?’ said Tom in an undertone.
She leaned close to whisper in his ear. ‘They’re apologising for the accommodation. No room in first class. Shame!’
Tom relayed the news to his wife, but a wan smile was Charlotte’s only response. Georgia knew that by this stage her sister wanted nothing more than to run from the plane and catch the next train home. The engines began to roar at last, the attendants moved to their places, Tom Hannay took his wife’s icy hand and seconds later they were airborne.
Georgia sat back in her seat as the plane climbed above the clouds, unafflicted by the nerves her sister suffered. She turned to smile at Tom, relieved to see Charlotte’s eyelids drooping. The pills were taking effect, and in minutes, as Georgia knew from experience, her sister would be fast asleep. Once the seatbelt light was off, the late arrival got to his feet and folded an expensive suede jacket into the overhead compartment. As he did so a slim leather wallet plummeted from it into Georgia’s lap. She waited until he’d disposed his long legs to his satisfaction, then leaned across and handed back his property.
Gleaming blue eyes met hers with open admiration. ‘Graziel’ he said, smiling, in the deep, gravel-toned accents that Georgia had met often during her dealings with the Italian male. ‘It fell from my jacket—I trust you are not hurt?’
‘Not at all,’ she said coolly.
‘I regret I was late,’ he went on, undeterred. ‘Does the delay cause you inconvenience?’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ she assured him, conscious that Tom was listening with amusement.
‘You travel to Pisa only? Or do you go on to Florence?’
Georgia took the flight magazine from its pouch, hoping he’d take the hint. ‘To Florence.’
‘This is your first visit there?’ said the Italian, settling back comfortably in his seat, so obviously prepared to chat that Georgia’s hackles rose. Something about the man annoyed her. He was too good-looking, too confident of his own charms, too—everything.
‘Yes, it is,’ she said shortly, annoyed by his assumption that she was delighted to talk to him.
‘You will enjoy it very much,’ he stated, half-turned towards her, a hint of intimacy in his attitude which irritated her considerably. ‘Firenze is an experience rather than just a town, you understand.’
She gave him a cool little smile, then looked up in relief as the rattle of trolleys put an end to the exchange. She let down her tray ready for the meal on its way to them, and out of the corner of her eye saw the Italian do the same, a wry little smile on his lips.
When the familiar plastic trays arrived Georgia slid a slice of cheese into the bread roll provided, tucked it into a napkin and put it aside. ‘Charlotte’s appetite usually wakes up when she does!’ she murmured to Tom.
‘I learned that early on,’ he returned with feeling, doing the same. ‘When we got to Paris on our wedding day my bride demanded a very late, very large meal via room service before the honeymoon could get off to a proper start.’
Georgia giggled, then frowned as she met the heavy-lidded blue gaze trained on her from across the aisle. She turned away quickly, annoyed to find her colour high, and grateful when a pretty flight attendant arrived to dispense coffee, wine, or anything else the handsome latecomer desired.
‘You’ve made a hit there,’ muttered Tom, grinning. into his glass of wine.
Georgia sniffed. ‘The passengers next to him are men. I was just the nearest female for his chat-up line. He must be a celebrity of some kind, the way the attendants are fluttering round him.’
‘Face looks familiar,’ he agreed, frowning. ‘But I can’t place it. Not an actor or something, is he?’
Georgia indulged in a bit of discreet peeping round the duty-free trolley, but the man’s face was unfamiliar. ‘Certainly got the profile for it,’ she whispered. ‘Complete with Roman nose.’ She caught a glimpse of a long, slim foot in the kind of shoe that Italy was famous for, then the flash of a gold Rolex watch, worn loose on a muscular brown wrist, as the man accepted a refill of coffee. ‘He looks used to the dolce vita, that’s for sure—and to people dancing to his bidding.’
‘Shut up, Georgie,’ said Tom hastily. ‘He’ll hear you.’
But a glance at the aquiline profile reassured her. The heavy, black-lashed lids were closed.
The short flight to Pisa was soon over. As they made their descent Charlotte woke up right on cue, passionately grateful to find her ordeal almost over as she devoured the cheese rolls that her companions had saved for her.
The moment the plane touched down the elegant Italian was on his feet and ready for the off. He gave Georgia a dazzling smile and a slight, deliberate bow. ‘Arrivederci! Enjoy your visit.’ He slung the suede jacket over one shoulder and made a swift exit from the plane to a send-off of farewells and good wishes from the aircraft attendants and a handshake from the pilot.
‘Dear me,’ said Charlotte as Tom retrieved their hand luggage. ‘Who was that, Georgia? Someone important?’
‘He thought he was,’ retorted her sister, grinning.
Charlotte, a different person once the plane had landed, was jubilant as they waited for their baggage in the air terminal. ‘Just look at this gorgeous sunshine!’ she exclaimed happily. ‘And we’ve got two whole weeks of it, Tom.’ She sighed as they made their way to the waiting train. ‘A pity you aren’t spending more than one night of it with us, Georgie.’
‘A job’s a job,’ said Georgia blithely. ‘Besides, Tom, angel though he is, can hardly want me tagging along.’
‘Dead right,’ said Tom bluntly, grinning to take the edge off his words. ‘I love you madly, Georgia Fleming, but I want your sister all to myself.’
‘Tom!’ said Charlotte, shocked, as the train began to move off. ‘What a thing to say.’
‘It’s true,’ said her husband, unabashed.
‘Thank you, darling.’ They smiled at each other lovingly.
‘Now don’t go all sloppy on me, you two,’ ordered Georgia sternly. ‘Have a care for my youth and inexperience.’
Her sister hooted. ‘I don’t know about the last bit, but you’re exactly eleven months younger than me. Mother never spares us grisly tales of her heroism in surviving two babies in nappies.’
Georgia pulled a face. ‘Another reason for staying fancy-fiee a bit longer!’
‘Don’t you like children?’ demanded Tom. ‘If not, I pity the poor little beggars you teach.’
‘Ah, but I can hand those back to their mothers when school’s over for the day!’ Georgia laughed. ‘Of course I like children—I like babies too. It’s the reproduction bit I’m not keen on. Why wasn’t I born a man?’
Tom Hannay gave her a long, slow scrutiny. ‘The answer to that’s obvious.’ He put an arm round his wife’s waist and touched his lips to her cheek. ‘Politically incorrect it may be, but the women in your family were all meant to be just that—women! Your mother included,’ he added, with a grin.
They arrived at the hotel in a blaze of sunshine which turned the River Arno into a flowing ribbon of gold below Georgia’s window. She leaned over the balcony in delight, moving aside tubs of flowers so that she could stretch to see the Ponte Vecchio in the distance and drink in the beauty and noise and sheer vitality of Florence in one great heady, intoxicating draught.
She’d been teaching English near Venioe for a whole academic year already, but her love affair with Italy merely intensified as she grew to know the country better. Even the stress and strain of instilling English into reluctant little heads took none of the gilt off the gingerbread. She’d spent two working vacations at the Venice school’s summer camp in her student days, before getting her English degree.
This, indirectly, was responsible for her presence here right now, in the summer, when the school year was over. One of her pupils had sung her praises so much that a friend of his parents had come to see her at the school to ask if she would give his little daughter English lessons during the summer vacation. At first Georgia had been reluctant to give up so much of her holiday. But in the end the thought of a summer in Tuscany had been too tempting to pass up and she accepted, after stipulating that she must spend a week at home first.
Georgia leaned on the parapet dreamily, her heartbeat in rhythm with the throb of traffic from the autostrada across the Arno as she gazed at the view. Venice had been the realisation of all her dreams of Italy. But Florence, with its incredible wealth of Renaissance art, promised to surpass them.
Charlotte and Tom were spending a night of luxury here with her at the Lucchesi, then they were off to a Tuscan farmhouse for the rest of their holiday, to laze beside a pool and recharge their batteries before returning to London, where Charlotte, a legal secretary who’d married her boss, worked for her busy solicitor husband.
For Georgia tomorrow would be different. Signor Marco Sardi was sending someone to drive her to the Villa Toscana, where her duties as English teacher to young Alessandra Sardi would begin immediately.
Deciding that a bath was the next thing on the agenda, Georgia moved the flowerpots back in place, then looked up in surprise as Tom’s anxious face appeared above the stone partition that divided her balcony from theirs.
‘Georgia, come in here a minute, please!’
‘Something wrong?’
‘Charlotte’s not feeling too good.’
Georgia raced next door in alarm.
‘What’s up?’ she said urgently as Tom, wearing a hotel bathrobe only a shade paler than his worried face, let her in.
‘She’s throwing up in the bathroom,’ he said. ‘You speak the lingo, Georgie. I think we need a doctor.’
Georgia went into the bathroom where her sister was bent over the basin, sluicing cold water over her face.
‘I just lost the cheese rolls,’ gasped Charlotte, reaching blindly for a towel. ‘Take no notice of Tom—I most definitely don’t need a doctor. You know my stomach doesn’t travel well. The taxi ride from the station was a bit too exciting for it.’
Georgia put her arms round her sister carefully and held her close. ‘You’re shivering,’ she said sternly.
‘You would be too, if you’d just lost the entire contents of your digestive system!’
Georgia led her back into the bedroom to a very worried Tom.
‘Darling, I’m all right. Really I am,’ said Charlotte as he took her in his arms. ‘I just need a shower and some tea and dry biscuits or something. When I’m feeling braver I’ll take some of that revolting stomach gloop Mother forced on me.’
‘Thank God she did,’ said Tom fervently as he drew the sheet over her.
Georgia gave the order to Room Service, made sure that there was nothing more she could do for Charlotte, then went back to her room to shower.
Later, in a brief, almond-pink dress, her heavy, sunstreaked hair framing a glowing, lightly tanned face, she joined Tom and Charlotte to find the latter still in bed, looking pale but less haggard, and triumphant at having retained the tea and toast that Georgia had ordered.
‘Oh, Lord, Georgie, you look so healthy,’ groaned Charlotte.
‘And gorgeous to boot,’ added Tom, with a leer. ‘Now you’re here, little sister, I’ll take a shower.’
Charlotte eyed him in alarm. ‘Darling, shower in Georgie’s bathroom, would you? I might need ours in a hurry if I lose the toast.’
Tom Hannay assured his wife that he would do anything in the world for her, collected Georgia’s key and took himself next door.
‘I’m so sorry, Georgie,’ said Charlotte in remorse as her sister perched on the end of the bed. ‘I’ve rather put a damper on things. I can’t face the thought of dinner.’
‘Of course you can’t,’ said Georgia cheerfully, and thrust a strand of gleaming hair behind her ear. ‘We’ll have a meal up here instead.’
Charlotte looked guiltier than ever. ‘I can’t face the thought of your dinner, either. I’d much rather you and Tom went down to the restaurant. I can doze a bit, and you and Tom can enjoy a proper meal.’
‘But we can’t just leave you here alone!’
‘Oh, yes, you can.’ Charlotte yawned and slid deeper in the bed. ‘To be honest, I quite fancy a couple of hours’ rest on my own. I need to recharge my batteries for tomorrow, and the drive through all this Tuscan scenery they rave about.’ Her face lit with a smile as Tom came in, rubbing his wet hair with the sleeve of his robe. ‘I was just telling Georgia you must both go down to dinner and leave me here for a bit to recover. Then she can order a snack for me when you come up later.’
Tom protested vigorously at first, but Charlotte won him over with the smile he could never resist. ‘I hate leaving you alone, darling,’ he told her, smoothing back her hair.
She held her face up for his kiss, smiling. ‘Don’t worry, Hannay, this is the only time in your life I let you dine with a gorgeous blonde!’
Georgia wrinkled her nose in protest. ‘Gorgeous I like, but not the other bit, please. Just “fair” will do.’
‘That’s what they said about Helen of Troy—and look at the trouble she caused,’ chuckled Tom. ‘Anyway, my fair Miss Fleming, give me a minute then we’ll go down. I could eat a horse.’
When they arrived in the dining room only two tables were still unoccupied. The maître d’hôtel led them to one near a window, expressed his regret that Signora Hannay would not be dining, provided them with menus, summoned a wine waiter, and left them alone to make their choice.
‘Good thing you booked,’ said Georgia later as they ate prosciutto with slices of perfect golden melon. She was halfway through grilled salmon served with a separate dish of tiny, buttery vegetables, when Tom let out a smothered chuckle as he poured Chianti Classico into her glass.
‘Don’t look now, Georgie, but guess who’s sitting in state at the back of the room!’
‘Who?’ she said indistinctly, still too hungry to be curious about anything other than the contents of her plate.
‘The chap who held us up on the plane.’
Georgia glanced up sharply, to find a pair of brilliant blue eyes staring into hers. But to her surprise they glittered with a hostility she could recognise right across the dining room.
‘He seems very interested in you,’ commented Tom, after a swift look. ‘Perhaps he remembers you from the plane. Odd, though. Looks a touch unfriendly. Shall I stroll over and ask why he’s glaring at you?’
‘Certainly not,’ snapped Georgia, then smiled in apology. ‘Sorry, Tom. Maybe he thinks he knows me. Which he certainly does not.’ She went on eating, her appetite unaffected. It would take more than a black look from some self-important stranger to spoil such a delicious meal for her.
‘The waiters are pretty attentive—just like the girls on the plane,’ observed Tom with interest.
‘I wonder who he is?’ she said idly, then laid down her fork at last, with a sigh. ‘Mmm, wonderful.’
‘Pudding?’
She sighed again regretfully. ‘I’m tempted—but no, thanks, I won’t. Let’s get back to Charlotte.’
‘Right.’ Tom rose to pull out her chair. ‘You can order coffee for three with Charlotte’s supper.’
Georgia walked ahead of Tom through the dining room, tensing slightly as her path led past the man from the plane. Willing herself to ignore him, to her annoyance she found her eyes drawn like a magnet to hits. Stiffening at the unveiled disapproval in the cold blue gaze, she reached for Tom’s hand hastily and hurried from the room.
‘I wouldn’t have caused a scene,’ he protested in the lift.
‘Just making sure,’ she retorted, still smarting from the experience. ‘Signor Sardi’s paying my bill, remember. I didn’t want repairs to broken furniture on it.’
‘No chance—the guy’s bigger than me.’ Tom ushered her out on the second floor. ‘I gave him my best legal scowl. Never fails!’
‘Oh, let’s forget the wretched man,’ said Georgia, secretly deeply dismayed by the disturbing little incident. ‘I won’t drink coffee with you, Tom. I’ll just find out what Charlotte wants from Room Service, then I think I’ll turn in. I’m tired.’
‘Pity you couldn’t have had a day’s grace before going off to the job.’
“I know. Never mind. I’ve been waiting to see Michelangelo’s David all my life. He won’t walk out of the Accademia before I get round to him,’ said Georgia brightly.
Charlotte was feeling very much better after a nap, and full of enthusiasm for the soup and toasted sandwich that she asked Georgia to order for her. She chuckled when Tom told her that the impressive Italian from the plane had been dining only a few tables away.
‘And looking daggers at our Georgie, would you believe?’ he added. ‘I was all for confronting him, but she dragged me from the dining room in case I made a fuss.’
‘Good move,’ approved his wife. ‘As I remember it, he was rather larger than you, darling.’
‘All right, you two,’ broke in Georgia, with a yawn. ‘If there’s nothing more I can do I’m off to bed.’
‘Come and have breakfast with us on our balcony,’ suggested Charlotte, kissing her goodnight.
Georgia found an envelope on the floor when she went into her room. It contained a terse message in Italian, instructing her to be in the hotel foyer at eleven the following morning, when she would be collected for the drive to the Villa Toscana.
Georgia frowned. The writing was quite unlike that of Marco Sardi, who had written to her twice during the past few weeks, his style infinitely more courteous than the brusque note in her hand. She shrugged and dropped it in a waste bin. Maybe it was a phone message which had lost something in the transcribing.
She filled a glass with mineral water from the small refrigerator, then went out on the balcony to sit for a while at the table there to enjoy the moonlit night before going to bed. She had lied to Tom about being tired. She’d felt a sudden, familiar desire to be alone.
She stared moodily at the improbable golden moon hanging over the Ponte Vecchio. Why had the blue eyes of the unknown Italian held such hostility? Perhaps he was allergic to blondes. Yet the Renaissance Florentine ideal had been fair hair not too different from her own, though with hazel eyes instead of her own uncompromising black. Georgia’s eyes were a throwback to a Spanish great-grandmother, and the contrast with fair, Fleming hair was striking. Normally it appealed to men on sight. But not to the hostile Italian stranger, obviously. Not that it mattered. She was unlikely to meet him again.
She sat looking at the moon until it dipped out of sight beyond the edge of the balcony, then went reluctantly to bed to spend a restless night, her sleep troubled by blue-eyed monsters who stalked her . through her dreams.
