The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle. Catherine Spencer
his credit, he drove carefully down the rutted track from the vineyard so as not to add to her discomfort, but when they reached the paved road, he wasted no time covering the miles into town. Beyond a terse, “Which hotel?” he mercifully made no other attempt at conversation.
Once arrived, he ignored the hotel’s No Parking sign, stopped the vehicle right at the front door, and came around to help her alight. “What’s your room number?”
By that point almost blind with pain, she sagged against his supporting arm. “Four twenty-two.”
“You have a key card?”
“Yes.” She fumbled without success in her tote.
He muttered indistinctly under his breath—something unflattering judging by his tone—found the card himself, and hoisting her off her feet, strode past the doorman and across the lobby to the elevator just as its doors swished open and Gail emerged.
Stopping dead in her tracks, she let out a horrified gasp. “Heavens, Arlene, what happened? You look like the wrath of God!”
“Step aside, per favore,” Domenico ordered, when she continued to block his entrance to the elevator. “I wish to take her to her room.”
“Hold on a minute!” Gail replied, clearly not the least bit fazed by his autocratic manner. “You’re not taking her anywhere without me.”
“Indeed? And who are you?”
“Arlene’s roommate.”
“You’re her friend?”
“You’re her mentor?” she shot back, imitating his incredulous tone. “The one who’s supposed to be teaching her everything there is to know about growing grapes?”
“I am.”
“Well, congratulations! You’re doing a fine job, bringing her home dead drunk in the middle of the day.”
“I’m doing nothing of the sort!” he snapped. “What kind of man do you take me for?”
“You don’t want to know!”
“Gail,” Arlene protested weakly, “it’s okay. I have a headache, that’s all, and just need to lie down until it passes.”
Gail’s face swam into her line of vision. “Sweetie, what kind of headache has you practically passing out?”
“A migraine,” Domenico interjected on an irate breath. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”
“Oh.” Her tone suddenly less confrontational, Gail backed into the elevator. “I’m…um…sorry if I came on too strong. I’ll help you get her upstairs.”
“Close the shutters,” Domenico instructed, when they reached the room. “I understand it helps to have the room darkened.”
While Gail scurried to obey him, he lowered Arlene to the bed farthest from the window, then sat on the edge of the mattress and stroked a cool hand down her forehead. “Close your eyes, cara,” he murmured, and even in the depths of her misery, the shift in his attitude was not lost on her. Whatever had given rise to that unspoken edge of hostility between them yesterday and which had continued into this morning, melted in the deep, soothing warmth of his voice.
“I’ve never seen her like this before,” she heard Gail whisper from the other side of the bed. “Shouldn’t we call for a doctor?”
“She doesn’t usually suffer from migraines?”
“Not that I’m aware of, and if anyone would know, I would. We’ve been best friends ever since college.”
The mattress shifted slightly as he rose to his feet. “Stay with her and keep the ice pack at the back of her neck.”
Panic lacing her voice, Gail hissed, “You’re just dropping her off, then leaving? What if—?”
“I’ll be back,” he said, as his footsteps receded quietly over the tiled floor.
As soon as she heard the door click shut behind him, Arlene struggled to sit up. “Gail…? I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Oh, cripes!” Gail slipped an arm around her shoulders and eased her to her feet. “Okay, sweetie, come on. I’ll help you to the bathroom.”
They made it with seconds to spare. Wrenching and horrible though it was while it lasted, vomiting seemed to ease the stabbing ferocity of the pain just a little.
After rinsing out her mouth and splashing cold water on her face, Arlene lay down on the bed again and managed a feeble smile. “Don’t look so worried. I promise not to pull a repeat performance.”
“I’m going to hold you to that,” Gail said, crossing to peer through the peephole as a knock came at the door. “You just took ten years off my life. Now lie still and look pale and interesting. Your Sir Galahad’s back, and he’s not alone.”
“How is she?” Domenico inquired, the minute he set foot in the room.
“About the same,” Gail told him. “But she threw up while you were gone.”
Oh, please! Arlene whimpered silently. Haven’t I suffered enough indignity for one day, without your sharing that with him?
“Then it’s as well I summoned professional help. This is Dr. Zaccardo,” he added, as a middle-aged man with prematurely gray hair advanced to her bedside.
“It is as you suspected.” After a brief examination and a few pertinent questions, the doctor stepped back from the bed and nodded so energetically at the other two that Arlene shuddered inside. “I will leave this medication with you,” he continued, reaching into his medical bag for a small bottle. “See, please, that she takes two tablets immediately and, if necessary, two more at six, this evening. However, treatment now is such that a migraine is usually dispelled in a matter of hours. If she shows no improvement by nightfall, you will contact me, but I do not expect to hear from you. By tomorrow, she will be herself again. Arrivederci, signor, signorine.”
With that, he was gone as quickly as he’d arrived, leaving Arlene to deal only with Domenico who didn’t seem disposed to leave with equal dispatch. Instead while Gail brought her two pills and a glass of water, he went to the desk and wrote something on the pad of paper supplied by the hotel.
“If you’re concerned at all, you can reach me at any of these numbers, and this one is Dr. Zaccardo’s,” he told Gail. “Regardless, please call me this evening and let me know how she’s doing.”
“I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
“I want to hear from you anyway. You’ll be staying with her, of course?”
“Of course.”
“Until later, then.”
The next time Arlene was aware of her surroundings, the room was completely dark except for the soft glow from a lamp next to the armchair by the window, where Gail sat reading.
Cautiously Arlene blinked. Dared to turn her head on the pillow. And let out a slow breath of relief. No flashing lights before her eyes. No stabbing pain above her left temple. Nothing, in fact, but a cool, delicious lassitude—and a gorgeous bouquet of pink roses on the coffee table, some distance away.
“You’re awake!” Gail exclaimed softly, setting down her book and coming to the bed. “How’re you feeling, sweetie?”
“Better,” she said. “Much better. What time is it?”
“Just after eight. You slept for over six hours. Do you need more medication?”
She sat up carefully. “I don’t think so. But I’d love some water.”
“Sure.” Gail plumped her pillows, then filled a glass from the carafe on the desk.
Arlene sipped it slowly, letting the