by Daisy James
‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you? As a chef, I mean!’
Izzie smiled, suddenly feeling completely at ease in this man’s company, as though she’d just met up with an old friend for a chat about the meaning of life – except for the inconvenient fact that her heart was galloping way ahead of her brain, riding on a wave of romance and hot, steamy passionate embraces.
‘Of course! But I adore food! It’s so much more than a means of keeping body and soul together. It’s art, it’s science, it’s passion! What is your favourite dish?’
‘Oh…’ Taken by surprise, she was unable to invent something quickly enough, so she decided to go with honesty. ‘Actually, I’m not really interested in food. Give me a plate of buttered toast and a cup of coffee and I’m happy. I never seem to have the time, or the inclination, to labour over a mountain of ingredients. I live by myself, so what’s the point?’
Oh God! Had she just managed to drop into the conversation the fact she was single!
‘You don’t enjoy cooking? Everyone loves cooking! For an Italian – life revolves around the pursuit of culinary excellence; from sourcing the raw ingredients, to their preparation and devouring with gusto and the right wine. Food is part of the fabric of life – without it the journey would be dull, don’t you think? If you spent even a little time in my kitchen you would change your mind like that!’ He clicked his fingers to demonstrate his point. ‘In fact, you must taste my tiramisu. I will bring a slice with your coffee. I’m Luca Castelotti, by the way. I am the owner of this little slice of Tuscan paradise.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Luca. I’m Isabella.’
She held out her hand, but he leaned forwards and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. The air between them crackled with attraction and she even found herself lowering her eyelids in preparation for that particular dose of ecstasy, but sadly she was mistaken because instead of placing his lips on hers, he reached up to remove a stray leaf from her hair. The intimacy of his gesture sent her emotions into a maelstrom of confusion, so she croaked out the reason she was sitting on his veranda in the first place.
‘Erm, before you go, do you happen to know where the driver of that van is? He’s supposed to be delivering the contents to us this morning and he’s already three hours late!’
‘Alberto?’ Luca rolled his eyes in exasperation. ‘Yes, he’s here – almost drank the place dry celebrating his birthday last night. He’s upstairs sleeping off his hangover. I had to tell him that he wasn’t fit to get behind the wheel and I promised to deliver his cargo myself. Sorry for the delay, as you can see, I have the lunchtime preparations. Does that mean you are staying at the Villa dei Limoni?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Are you involved in the wedding?’
‘Yes, well, actually, it seems I’m responsible for organising the whole thing.’
‘What happened to Lucy Harwood?’
‘Oh, you know her? Well, unfortunately she’s suffering from a bout of food poisoning and, crazily, I agreed to step into her shoes and help out at the last minute. I don’t want to let anyone down, but there’s so much to do if everything’s going to be ready on time, so…’
‘Okay, give me a couple of minutes while I fetch the keys.’
Izzie watched Luca stride back into the restaurant, lean over the bar – gifting her with a fabulous view of his taut, muscular buttocks – and hook his finger through a bunch of keys. He returned to the veranda, smiling as though he’d just stepped from a toothpaste ad. In fact, thought Izzie as he removed his chef’s jacket to reveal a black T-shirt that hugged his torso like a second skin, Luca could give a professional model a run for their money.
She leaped from her seat and followed Luca back down the steps of the veranda. However, to her surprise, instead of turning left towards where the van was parked, he turned right and leaned through the open window of the Spider to remove the keys from the ignition.
‘Oh my God! Is that your car?’
‘Yes,’ beamed Luca misinterpreting her expression for that of awe. ‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’
‘The car is, the driver is a lunatic who shouldn’t be allowed on the roads,’ she blurted before swivelling on her heels and striding towards where she’d left the Vespa, leaving Luca gaping in her wake, his forehead creased, clearly regretting his encounter with the crazy Englishwoman with hair like a rust-coloured bird’s nest and a sharp line in driving etiquette.
Chapter Six
The garden at Villa Limoncello
Colour: Sherbet lemon
‘A pigeon? Oh, God, Izzie that could only happen to you!’
‘And don’t get me started on my encounter with the donkey!’
‘I thought you were organising a film shoot for a wedding scene not opening a zoo?’ giggled Meghan, then softening her tone. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Izzie. I should have been more sensitive before I stuck my oar in and asked you to do this. I just thought you needed a break from the tedious treadmill that your life seems to have become over the last few months. You can’t continue to go on like that or your health is going to suffer and, as your best friend, I won’t let that happen! Please promise me that you’ll use this chance to work through your feelings?’
‘Okay, I promise,’ she muttered, before swiftly changing the subject. ‘So, I don’t suppose Jonti has any news from Darren?’ She was embarrassed by the hopeful note in her voice, but the thought of starting the search for a new job filled her with gloom.
‘No, nothing, sorry darling. It’s early days, though, isn’t it? Now, tell me more about Villa Limoncello? It’s such an amazing name! I can almost smell the lemons ripening on the trees, although I much prefer them cut into slices with a few ice cubes and a slosh of gin!’
‘The interiors are a bit threadbare, to be honest, but the place is completely private which is probably why Brad chose it. Did you manage to get in touch with him to ask why we’re all sworn to secrecy? I’ve tried to ring him a few times, but his phone always goes to voicemail and there’s nothing about who the actors are on the file – which is surprising given the detail in the rest of the brief.’
‘I’m sure Brad’ll ring you when he can, but I wouldn’t bank on it. You know what he’s like, and with Lucy still laid up I’d be surprised if he manages to catch the right flight home! So, what is there left to do?’
‘Well, the main thing is dressing the area where the ceremony is going to be filmed – this gorgeous white gazebo in the gardens, complete with marble flooring and roman columns. Everything was supposed to be delivered this morning, but apparently the delivery guy is still sleeping off his drunken stupor!’
‘Drunken stupor?’ laughed Meghan.
‘Apparently it was his birthday yesterday.’
‘Must have been one hell of a party!’
‘Talking of parties, how was your date with the cameraman?’
Since the demise of her relationship with Alex, Izzie had loved living vicariously through Meghan’s romantic exploits, giggling over a bottle of prosecco at the dates that didn’t work out because she’d decided that their reading preferences were too prosaic, or their avid interest in on-line gaming was dull beyond belief. Despite these setbacks, her enthusiasm for exploring the dating landscape never seemed to diminish and Meghan remained optimistic that her soulmate was out there, somewhere, waiting for her to tumble into his lap. Her favourite mantra, which she quoted frequently to Izzie and Jonti, was that if you dated enough frogs you were, by the process of elimination, bound to find your prince at some point, but in the meantime, you might as well enjoy diving into the pond.
‘Oh, it was okay, I suppose. I’d don’t think there’ll be a second one, though.’
‘Why not?’
‘He wore Birkenstock sandals with his cords!’
‘So?’
‘Not sure you’d be saying that if you’d seen his toenails.’
‘Ergh!’
‘Exactly. I think it was the director of destiny step
ping in to tell me to wait until I get to Tuscany where there’ll be an Italian hunk waiting to whisk me off my feet! So, what else is on your list?’
‘There’s the floral arrangements and the wedding cake to check up on – although apparently Francesca and Oriana are floristry and confectionary maestros – and I really need to do something with the inside of the house. Would you believe that the villa hasn’t been lived in for two years?’
‘Who does it belong to?’
‘I have no idea – there’s no mention of the owner in Lucy’s notes.’
‘So, who else is helping you? I remember Brad mentioning someone from the village?’
‘Yes, that’s Carlotta. Actually, she’s just left on a mission to stock up on all the non-perishable items on the menu cards. As there’s going to be five courses, I think she could be some time! She’s a culinary wizard, though, so I’m leaving the catering side of things in her capable hands.’
‘Phew, thank God for that,’ spluttered Meghan, her voice filled with laughter. ‘I’m not sure Brad’s vision of an elegant Italian wedding scene includes the wedding party celebrating their nuptials with a banquet of buttered toast and black coffee. Anyone else?’
‘There’s a guy, Gianni, I think Carlotta said his name was, who looks after the gardens and the vineyard. At least they haven’t been neglected like the house. Oh, you should see the view from the terrace, Meghan. It’s perfect – exactly how you imagine a Tuscan landscape to be, all pointy cypress trees, rolling green countryside and gorgeous hilltop villages with terracotta roofs and church bell towers.’
But Meghan wasn’t listening to Izzie’s critique of the splendour of the Italian countryside.
‘Mmm, Gianni, you say? What’s he like?’
‘I haven’t met him yet. Why?’
‘Well, I’ll need something to do when I get over there!’
‘Oh my God, Meghan, there will be plenty to do! There’s the pond to cover up, the cute wishing well to paint, the tennis court to sweep, the honeysuckle and wisteria on the pergola to trim, the…’
‘Fab! So, speaking of Gianni, do you think you could take a sneaky photo and text it to me? I need something to help soothe my nerves – I’m commentating for Fabulous Fenella’s fashion show tonight!’
‘I’ll try,’ laughed Izzie, rolling her eyes at her incorrigible friend.
‘Great. Okay, so, got to dash; places to go, people to see. Can’t wait to see you on Thursday, darling!’
‘Me too! Ciao!’
‘Ciao, Bella!’
With a smile still tweaking her lips, Izzie meandered to the back door and was surprised to see it was raining. Not just a gentle sprinkling but ramming down in vicious stair rods that bounced on the glass roof of the limonaia with a vengeance. She lingered for a while, sipping her coffee, watching the meteorological gods do their worst, yet the rain did nothing to detract from the beauty of the landscape. In fact, if it were possible, a glaze of precipitation enhanced its appeal and the sharp staccato of the raindrops on the flagstones provided a much more musical backing track than the repetitive thump of a jack-hammer from the house next door!
She glanced over her shoulder at the culinary miscellany still scattered across every surface in the kitchen, now amplified by the neat piles of checklists she’d prepared for her own use and attached to her faithful colour-coded clipboards that went everywhere with her. She sighed and was alarmed to find that she had been invaded by a surprise squirm of reluctance to get started.
What was the matter with her? She loved the challenge of a list! There was nothing that pleased her more than ticking off each item and moving on to the next, filled with a sense of satisfaction at a successfully completed task, which meant she was edging nearer her goal. But, for the first time she could remember, she felt drawn to embark on an impromptu diversion from the schedule.
Why shouldn’t she play hooky for an hour or so?
The fact that she had even had that thought shocked her to the core! Safety in predictability had always been her motto. But the concrete-heavy block she had been carrying around with her for the last two years had eased under the Tuscan sun, and the pull of the checklists simmering on the heavily scarred kitchen table had diminished. Smiling to herself, she slipped her feet into a pair of old green espadrilles lurking in a basket by the back door and paused on the threshold to survey the sky.
The dark bulbous rainclouds had performed their finale and moved off northwards allowing the sun to resume its starring role. Izzie closed her eyes and listened. All around her, nature was speaking its appreciation for the rejuvenation the storm had brought and its welcome to the returning warmth – the crackle of the drying leaves in the borders, the cicadas tuning up to deliver their second sonata of the day.
Maybe it was time she too emerged from the mantle of melancholy the clouds of grief had brought and turned her face to greet the sunshine?
With a burst of renewed energy, she stepped onto the terrace. Where should she explore first – the olive groves at the far end of the garden where the leaves shimmered like silver glitter, the gorgeously fragrant glasshouse at the side of the villa, or perhaps a quick recce of her neighbour’s property whilst the rain had stopped play? There was really no competition. It had to be the limonaia.
She lingered on the threshold of the old glasshouse, savouring the warmth and the ambient calm of the place that had given the villa its name. When she stepped inside it was as though someone had pressed the pause button on the background music as silence enveloped her with a blanket of tranquillity. Everywhere she looked, clusters of heavy terracotta pots lined the gravelled walkways or huddled on the white-washed stone shelves that ran the length of the gable wall. Each pot housed a single lemon tree, its trunk gnarled and twisted, but displaying an array of bright yellow fruit.
What surprised her most was the variety on show; some lemons she recognised as those she and Meghan enjoyed sliced in their gin and tonics, but there were others sporting wide green stripes or skin the texture of lumpy porridge. She marvelled at the intensity of the colours, the juxtaposition of the hard terracotta pots, the soft shingle under foot, the smooth glass of the windows, the golden light streaming into the room, the vivid yellow of the fruit. She sighed, contentment swirling around her body. She could spend all day in there, safe from the world and her demons, just lounging in the old rattan chair in the corner with a good book.
Okay, playtime was over, it was time to tackle those lists!
She decided to make a jug of home-made lemonade to share with Carlotta, and whoever was driving the delivery van – if they actually deigned to show their face at all that afternoon! Taking care not to damage the stem, she removed a couple of the lemons, smiling as she sniffed the skin just as Luca had, appreciating the sharp zing the fragrance sent to her taste buds.
With a spring in her step, she had just emerged from the limonaia when a gust of wind caught the awning above her and sent a barrage of rainwater over her head. She gasped, spluttering from the shock of the ice-cold dousing, sending her precious cargo bouncing across the terrace.
‘I prefer to shower in the bathroom myself.’
She glared at Luca, standing before her, barely containing his mirth, those cute dimples bracketing his full, sensual lips. As she took in the figure-hugging black jeans, the way the cuffs of his baby pink shirt had been rolled back to reveal his muscular forearms rippling with golden hairs, her stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch and a smouldering ember of desire thrummed in her chest. Oh god, why did he have to be so handsome? Yet, despite the effect his proximity was having on her emotions, a sudden whoosh of irritation blasted through her veins.
‘You do know that you ran me off the road this morning, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do, but if you let me explain…’
‘Explain what? That you’re secretly training as Italy’s next great Formula One driver? I could have been killed! And another thing – if a friend made a promise to another friend that he wou
ld step into his shoes to make a very important delivery then the least that friend could do is be on time. You are, let me see, over seven hours late! Seven hours! Do you know how much there is to do here before Friday?’
‘Actually, I know exactly what there is to do because…’
‘Well, in that case I can only assume that you have no interest whatsoever in ensuring everything runs smoothly!’
The amusement reflected in Luca’s dark, sensual eyes riled her even further. She watched his lips part, ready to pursue the case for the defence, but then he must have thought better of it because he simply shrugged his shoulders, thrust his hands into his pockets and strode away from her, straight across the terrace, and back to the front of the villa.
Izzie shook herself, her thoughts colliding. What was the matter with her? She barely knew Luca and yet the mere sight of him had ignited emotions that had lain dormant for years. She quickly smoothed her palms over her hair to calm her wayward curls and followed in his wake, an apology forming on her lips. As she rounded the corner, she was just in time to witness the white van reversing at speed towards her, tossing a generous confetti of pebbles in her face, before accelerating away down the driveway.
‘What the…’
But then her gaze fell on a higgledy-piggledy pile of white wooden chairs, a thick roll of red carpet, and several tall columns of cardboard boxes with the words posate, vasellame and cristalleria scrawled on the sides in black marker pen.
That’ll teach her to react before engaging her brain!
Chapter Seven
The Wedding Gazebo, Villa Limoncello
Colour: Chianti Red
Izzie was still trying to work out which task to tackle first when her eye caught on a cloud of dust moving slowly through the vines and heading in her direction. Clearly the director of her fate, and keeper of her sanity, had taken pity on her because within minutes George Clooney’s younger brother had drawn to a halt in front of her, jumped from the seat of his decrepit quad bike, and offered her his palm. She had never been so pleased to see anyone, despite the fact that he was wearing only the skimpiest of T-shirts and the shortest denim shorts she’d seen since a Nineteen-Eighties fancy dress party Meghan had dragged her to.
