A Bride for the Italian Boss

by Susan Meier

  Behind her someone said, “You’d better keep your hair behind your ears. He’ll yell about it being in your face and potentially in his food once he gets over being happy you’re here.”

  She turned to see one of the waitresses. Dressed in black trousers and a white blouse, she looked slim and professional.

  “That was happy?”

  Her pretty black ponytail bobbed as she nodded. “Sì. That was happy.”

  “Well, I’m going to hate seeing him upset.”

  “Prepare yourself for it. Because he gets upset every day. Several times a day. That’s why Gino quit. I’m Allegra, by the way. The other two waitresses are Zola and Giovanna. And the chef is Chef Mancini. Everyone calls him Chef Rafe.”

  “He said you have a system of how you want people seated?”

  Allegra took Daniella’s seating chart and drew two lines dividing the tables into three sections. “Those are our stations. You seat one person in mine, one person in Zola’s and one person in Gio’s, then start all over again.”

  Daniella smiled. “Easy-peasy.”

  “Scusi?”

  “That means ‘no problem.’”

  “Ah. Sì.” Allegra smiled and walked away. Daniella took two more menus and seated another couple.

  The lunchtime crowd that had assembled at the door of Mancini’s settled quickly. Dani easily found a rhythm of dividing the customers up between the three waitresses. Zola and Gio introduced themselves, and she actually had a good time being hostess of the restaurant that looked like an Old World farmhouse and smelled like pure heaven. The aromas of onions and garlic, sweet peppers and spicy meats rolled through the air, making her confident she could talk up the food and promise diners a wonderful meal, even without having tasted it.

  During the lull after lunch, Zola and Gio went home. The dining room grew quiet. Not sure if she should stay or leave, since Allegra remained to be available for the occasional tourist who ambled in, Daniella stayed, too.

  In between customers, she helped clear and reset tables, checked silverware to make sure it sparkled, arranged chairs so that everything in the dining room was picture-perfect.

  But soon even the stragglers stopped. Daniella stood by the podium, her elbow leaning against it, her chin on her closed fist, wondering what Louisa was doing.

  “Why are you still here?”

  The sound of Rafe’s voice sent a surge of electricity through her.

  She turned with a gasp. Her voice wobbled when she said, “I thought you’d need me for dinner.”

  “You were supposed to go home for the break. Or are you sneakily trying to get paid for hours you really don’t work?”

  Her eyes widened. Anger punched through her. What the hell was wrong with this guy? She’d done him a favor and he was questioning her motives?

  Without thinking, she stormed over to him. Putting herself in his personal space, she looked up and caught his gaze. “And how was I supposed to know that, since you didn’t tell me?”

  She expected him to back down. At the very least to realize his mistake. Instead, he scoffed. “It’s common sense.”

  “Well, in America—”

  He cut her off with a harsh laugh. “You Americans. Think you know everything. But you’re not in America now. You are in Italy.” He pointed a finger at her nose. “You will do what I say.”

  “Well, I’ll be happy to do what you say as soon as you say something!”

  Allegra stopped dropping silverware onto linen-covered tables. The empty, quiet restaurant grew stone-cold silent. Time seemed to crawl to a stop. The vein in Rafe’s temple pulsed.

  Dani’s body tingled. Every employee in the world knew it wasn’t wise to yell at the boss, but, technically, she wasn’t yelling. She was standing up to him. As a foster child, she’d had to learn how to protect herself, when to stay quiet and when to demand her rights. If she let him push her around now, he’d push her around the entire month she worked for him.

  He threw his hands in the air, pivoted away from her and headed to the kitchen. “Go the hell home and come back for dinner.”

  Daniella blew out the breath she’d been holding. Her heart pounded so hard it hurt, but the tingling in her blood became a surge of power. He might not have said the words, but she’d won that little battle of wills.

  Still, she felt odd that their communication had come down to a sort of yelling match and knew she had to get the heck out of there.

  She grabbed her purse and headed for the old green car she and Louisa had found in the garage.

  Ten minutes later, she was back in the kitchen of Palazzo di Comparino.

  Though Louisa had sympathetically made her a cup of tea, she laughed when Daniella told her the story.

  “It’s not funny,” Dani insisted, but her lips rose into a smile when she thought about how she must have looked standing up to the big bad chef everybody seemed to be afraid of. She wouldn’t tell her new friend that standing up to him had put fire in her blood and made her heart gallop like a prize stallion. She didn’t know what that was all about, but she did know part of it, at least, stemmed from how good-looking he was.

  “Okay. It was a little funny. But I like this job. It would be great to keep it for the four weeks I’m here. But he didn’t tell me what time I was supposed to go back. So we’re probably going to get into another fight.”

  “Or you could just go back at six. If he yells that you’re late, calmly remind him that he didn’t give you the time you were to return. Make it his fault.”

  “It is his fault.”

  Louisa beamed. “Exactly. If you don’t stand up to him now, you’ll either lose the job or spend the weeks you work for him under his thumb. You have to do this.”

  Dani sighed. “That’s what I thought.”

  Taking Louisa’s advice, she returned to the restaurant at six. A very small crowd had built by the maître d’ podium, and when she entered, she noticed that most of the tables weren’t filled. Rafe shoved a stack of menus at her and walked away.

  She shook her head, but smiled at the next customers in line. He might have left without a word, but he hadn’t engaged her in a fight and it appeared she still had her job.

  Maybe the answer to this was to just stay out of his way?

  The evening went smoothly. Again, the wonderful scents that filled the air prompted her to talk up the food, the waitstaff and the wine.

  After an hour or so, Rafe called her into the kitchen. Absolutely positive he had nothing to yell at her about, she straightened her shoulders and walked into the stainless-steel room and over to the stove where he stood.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  He presented a fork filled with pasta to her. “This is my signature ravioli. I hear you talking about my dishes, so I want you to taste so you can honestly tell customers it is the best food you have ever eaten.”

  She swallowed back a laugh at his confidence, but when her lips wrapped around the fork and the flavor of the sweet sauce exploded on her tongue, she pulled the ravioli off the fork and into her mouth with a groan. “Oh, my God.”

  “It is perfect, sì?”

  “You’re right. It is probably the best food I’ve ever eaten.”

  Emory, the short, bald sous-chef, scrambled over. “Try this.” He raised a fork full of meat to her lips.

  She took the bite and again, she groaned. “What is that?”

  “Beef brasato.”

  “Oh, my God, that’s good.”

  A younger chef suddenly appeared before her with a spoon of soup. “Minestrone,” he said, holding the spoon out to her.

  She drank the soup and closed her eyes to savor. “You guys are the best cooks in the world.”

  Everyone in the kitchen stopped. The room fell silent.

  But Emory laughed. “Chef Rafe is one of the best chefs in the world. These are his recipes.”

  She turned and smiled at Rafe. “You’re amazing.”

  She’d meant his cooking was amazing. His rec
ipes were amazing. Or maybe the way he could get the best out of his staff was amazing. But saying the words while looking into his silver-gray eyes, the simple sentence took on a totally different meaning.

  The room grew quiet again. She felt her face reddening. Rafe held her gaze for a good twenty seconds before he finally pointed at the door. “Go tell that to customers.”

  She walked out of the kitchen, licking the remains of the fantastic food off her lips as she headed for the podium. With the exception of that crazy little minute of eye contact, tasting the food had been fun. She loved how proud the entire kitchen staff seemed to be of the delicious dishes they prepared. And she saw the respect they had for their boss. Chef Rafe. Clearly a very talented man.

  With two groups waiting to be seated, she grabbed menus and walked the first couple to a table. “Right this way.”

  “Any specialties tonight?”

  She faced the man and woman behind her, saying, “I can honestly recommend the chef’s signature ravioli.” With the taste of the food still on her tongue, she smiled. “And the minestrone soup is to die for. But if you’re in the mood for beef, there’s a beef brasato that you’ll never forget.”

  She said the words casually, but sampling the food had had the oddest effect on her. Suddenly she felt part of it. She didn’t merely feel like a good hostess who could recommend the delicious dishes because she’d tasted them. She got an overwhelming sense that she was meant to be here. The feeling of destiny was so strong it nearly overwhelmed her. But she drew in a quiet breath, smiled at the couple and seated them.

  Sense of destiny? That was almost funny. Children who grew up in foster care gave up on destiny early, and contented themselves with a sense of worth, confidence. It was better to educate yourself to be employable than to dally in daydreams.

  As the night went on, Rafe and his staff continued to give her bites and tastes of the dishes they prepared. As she became familiar with the items on the menu, she tempted guests to try things. But she also listened to stories of the sights the tourists had seen that day, and soothed the egos of those who spoke broken Italian by telling stories of teaching English as a second language in Rome.

  And the feeling that she was meant to be there grew, until her heart swelled with it.

  * * *

  Rafe watched her from the kitchen door. Behind him, Emory laughed. “She’s pretty, right?”

  Rafe faced him, concerned that his friend had seen their thirty seconds of eye contact over the ravioli and recognized that Rafe was having trouble seeing Daniella Tate as an employee because she was so beautiful. When she’d called him amazing, he’d struggled to keep his gaze off her lips, but that didn’t stop the urge to kiss her. It blossomed to life in his chest and clutched the air going into and out of his lungs, making them stutter. He’d needed all of those thirty seconds to get ahold of himself.

  But Emory’s round face wore his usual smile. Nothing out of the ordinary. No light of recognition in his eyes. Rafe’s unexpected reactions hadn’t been noticed.

  Rafe turned back to the crack between the doors again. “She’s chatty.”

  “You did tell her to talk up the food.” Emory sidled up to the slim opening. “Besides, the customers seem to love her.”

  “Bah!” He spun away from the door. “We don’t need for customers to love her. They come here for the food.”

  Emory shrugged. “Maybe. But we’re both aware Mancini’s was getting to be a little more well-known for your temper than for its meals. A little attention from a pretty girl talking up your dishes might just cure your reputation problem. Put the food back in the spotlight instead of your temper.”

  “I still think she talks too much.”

  Emory shook his head. “Suit yourself.”

  Rafe crossed his arms on his chest. He would suit himself. He was famous for suiting himself. That was how he’d gotten to be a great chef. By learning and testing until he created great meals. And he wanted the focus on those meals.

  The first chance he got, he intended to have a talk with Daniella Tate.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AT THE END of the night, when the prep tables were spotless, the kitchen staff raced out the back door. Rafe ambled into the dining room as the waitresses headed for the front door, Daniella in their ranks.

  Stopping behind the bar, he called, “No. No. You...Daniella. You and I need to talk.”

  Her steps faltered and she paused. Eventually, she turned around. “Sure. Great.”

  Allegra and Gio tossed looks of sympathy at her as the door closed softly behind them.

  Her shoulders straightened and she walked over to him. “What is it?”

  “You are chatty.”

  She burst out laughing. “I know.” As comfortable as an old friend, she slid onto a bar stool across from him. “Got myself into a lot of trouble in school for that.”

  “Then you will not be offended if I ask you to project a more professional demeanor with the customers?”

  “Heck, no. I’m not offended. I think you’re crazy for telling me not to be friendly. But I’m not offended.”

  Heat surged through Rafe’s blood, the way it had when she’d nibbled the ravioli from his fork and called him amazing. But this time he was prepared for it. He didn’t know what it was about this woman that got him going, why their arguments fired his blood and their pleasant encounters made him want to kiss her, but he did know he had to control it.

  He pulled a bottle of wine from the rack beneath the bar and poured two glasses. Handing one of the glasses to her, he asked, “Do you think it’s funny to argue with your boss?”

  “I’m not arguing with you. I’m giving you my opinion.”

  He stayed behind the bar, across from her so he could see her face, her expressive blue eyes. “Ah. So, now I understand. You believe you have a right to an opinion.”

  She took a sip of the wine. “Maybe not a right. But it’s kind of hard not to have an opinion.”

  He leaned against the smooth wooden surface between them, unintentionally getting closer, then finding that he liked it there because he could smell the hint of her perfume or shampoo. “Perhaps. But a smart employee learns to stifle them.”

  “As you said, I’m chatty.”

  “Do it anyway.”

  She sucked in a breath, pulling back slightly as if trying to put space between them. “Okay.”

  He laughed. “Okay? My chatty hostess is just saying okay?”

  “It’s your restaurant.”

  He saluted her with his wineglass. “At least we agree on something.”

  But when she set her glass on the bar, slid off the stool and headed for the door, his heart sank.

  He shook his head, grabbed the open bottle of wine and went in the other direction, walking toward the kitchen where he would check the next day’s menu. It was silly, foolish to be disappointed she was leaving. Not only did he barely know the woman, but he wasn’t in the market for a girlfriend. His instincts might be thinking of things like kissing, but he hadn’t dated in four years. He had affairs and one-night stands. And a smart employer didn’t have a one-night stand with an employee. Unless he wanted trouble. And he did not.

  He’d already had one relationship that had almost destroyed his dream. He’d fallen so hard for Kamila Troccoli that when she wasn’t able to handle the demands of his schedule, he’d pared it back. Desperate to keep her, he’d refused plum apprenticeships, basically giving up his goal of being a master chef and owning a chain of restaurants.

  But she’d left him anyway. After a year of building his life around her, he’d awakened one morning to find she’d simply gone. It had taken four weeks before he could go back to work, but his broken heart hadn’t healed until he’d realized relationships were for other men. He had a dream that a romance had nearly stolen from him. A wise man didn’t forget hard lessons, or throw them away because of a pretty girl.

  Almost at the kitchen door, he stopped. “And, Daniella?”

&
nbsp; She faced him.

  “No jeans tomorrow. Black trousers and a white shirt.”

  * * *

  Daniella raced to her car, her heart thumping in her chest. Having Rafe lean across the bar, so close to her, had been the oddest thing. Her blood pressure had risen. Her breathing had gone funny. And damned if she didn’t want to run her fingers through his wavy hair. Unbound, it had fallen to his shoulders, giving him the look of a sexy pirate.

  The desire to touch him had been so strong, she would have agreed to anything to be able to get away from him so she could sort this out.

  And just when she’d thought she was free, he’d said her name. Daniella. The way it had rolled off his tongue had been so sexy, she’d shuddered.

  Calling herself every kind of crazy, she got into Louisa’s old car and headed home. A mile up the country road, she pulled through the opening in the stone wall that allowed entry to Monte Calanetti. Driving along the cobblestone street, lit only by streetlights, she marveled at the way her heart warmed at the quaint small town. She’d never felt so at peace as she did in Italy, and she couldn’t wait to meet her foster mother’s relatives. Positive they’d make a connection, she could see herself coming to Italy every year to visit them.

  She followed the curve around the statue in the town square before she made the turn onto the lane for Palazzo di Comparino. She knew Louisa saw only decay and damage when she looked at the crumbling villa, but in her mind’s eye Dani could see it as it was in its glory days. Vines heavy with grapes. The compound filled with happy employees. The owner, a proud man.

  A lot like Rafe.

  She squeezed her eyes shut when the familiar warmth whooshed through her at just the thought of his name. What was it about that guy that got to her? Sure, he was sexy. Really sexy. But she’d met sexy men before. Why did this one affect her like this?

  Louisa was asleep, so she didn’t have anyone to talk with about her strange feelings. But the next morning over tea, she told Louisa everything that had happened at the restaurant, especially her unwanted urge to touch Rafe when he leaned across the bar and was so close to her, and Louisa—again—laughed.