The Italian Surgeon's Christmas Miracle Read Online Free PDF Page A

bloom. If he hadn’t already considered her to be incompetent after that disaster in the ward the other day, she was offering ample proof right now.
    The kitchen was in utter chaos.
    Robert and Andrew had still not begun their allocated task of dishwashing. Pots and plates smeared with tomato sauce and festooned with strings of spaghetti littered the bench. Bowls with spoons and puddles of melted ice cream had been pushed to one end of the table. The other end was crowded with ripped-up magazines, scissors, rolls of sticky tape and a pot of glue that had spilt, making a larger puddle that was now congealing around shreds of discarded paper.
    The doors of the hutch dresser were open and it had been Amy who had created the piles of recipe books, ancient domestic paperwork, long out-of-date telephone directories and any number of other random finds including a set of ruined paintbrushes and several half-empty tins of varnish.
    The room was hot and steamy and it smelt of cooking and smoke. It was dingy because one of the bare light bulbs that hung from the high ceiling was burnt out and Amy hadn’t had a chance to haul in the ladder so she could replace it. The walls were covered with examples of children’s artwork but most of the pictures hung at drunken angles because the tape was rendered useless when it became damp.
    And there were children everywhere in various stages of undress. Chantelle had pyjamas on but, instead of a dressing-gown, she had pulled on a vast woollen jersey that had been a favourite of Uncle Vanni’s. It hung down to her knees and her hands were hidden somewhere within the sleeves.
    Twelve-year-old Kyra had a woollen beanie on her head, ug boots on her feet and a flannelette nightgown between the accessories. Standing together, the girls were the picture of children who looked like they had no one who cared about them.
    The twins seemed oblivious to their visitor and marched about importantly. Marco had the dustpan and Angelo the hearthbrush, but they couldn’t decide how to co-ordinate their efforts and were finding the task highly amusing.
    Eleven-year-old Andrew was beside Robert. He elbowed the older boy, who obligingly scowled at Luke.
    ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, flushing as his voice cracked. ‘And what are you doing here?’
    Amy caught her breath. This was actually rather stunning. Robert had been passed from foster-home to foster-home in his short life, becoming progressively more ‘difficult’ and setting up a vicious cycle where the things that children needed most—an accepting, secure, loving environment that had boundaries—were getting further and further from his reach.
    He’d come to the Phillips household six months ago, which was already a record for him, taken in as Marcella’s way of coping with her grief at losing her beloved cousin and a signal that she intended to carry on what had become a passion for Vanni. Caring for ‘lost’ children. Being told that ‘a man of the house’ was needed had been startling for the teenaged Robert.
    Right now—standing up to this stranger in their kitchen—it was possible he was reaching out to accept that position of responsibility. That he felt safe enough himself to feel the need to protect his ‘family’.
    Amy still hadn’t let out her breath. Imagine if he learned why Luke was really here? That he had inherited this house and was planning to kick them all out? That the children might be separated and Robert could find himself back in a home where no one was prepared to accept him, let alone make him the man of the house.
    She couldn’t let it happen.
    Catching Luke’s gaze, Amy knew she was sending out a desperate plea.
    ‘This is Mr Harrington,’ she told Robert. ‘He’s Summer’s doctor and he’s just come to make sure she’s all right.’
    ‘Oh…’ Robert straightened his shoulders and became visibly taller. ‘That’s OK, then.’
    Amy could see Luke assessing the situation. Deciding whether or not to