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