by Kate Hardy
‘I don’t normally bother with jewellery,’ Fran said, eyeing it dubiously.
‘Try it on and see what you think,’ the assistant suggested. ‘I reckon it matches the dress perfectly. Here—do you want me to do it up for you?’
Ten seconds later, Fran stared at herself in the mirror. The necklace really was the finishing touch, skimming across the middle of her collarbones and throwing the paleness of her skin into relief.
And the bulges she’d feared she’d see weren’t visible. Just curves.
‘It’s perfect. Don’t wear anything else, not even a watch,’ the assistant said. ‘What about shoes?’
‘I was thinking black high heels,’ Fran said.
‘Patent or suede?’
‘Suede.’
The assistant nodded. ‘Perfect. You’re going to blow his mind when he sees you.’
Not when she wasn’t his real girlfriend. ‘Maybe,’ she hedged.
‘There’s no maybe about it,’ the assistant said with a smile. ‘That dress was made for you.’
‘I was planning to get a little black dress. Something practical that I could dress up or down.’
‘You could,’ the assistant said, ‘but, believe me, nothing’s going to be as perfect as what you’re wearing right now.’
And Fran knew the assistant was right when she opened her front door to Gio and his jaw dropped.
‘Wow.’ Then he seemed to recover fast and go back to their usual teasing relationship. ‘You scrub up nicely, Francesca Marsden.’
So did he. In dark trousers and a silk shirt, he looked stunning. And very, very touchable.
He reached out and traced a fingertip just below the line of her necklace. The feel of his skin against hers made every nerve end quiver and her pulse speeded up.
‘Your dress is the same colour as your eyes. It’s fabulous,’ he said softly.
And she knew he meant it.
He wasn’t paying his pretend girlfriend a compliment in front of his family.
He was telling her this, here and now. In private.
‘Not just the dress. You look fabulous.’ Then he held out his hand. ‘We’d better go. The taxi’s waiting.’
She locked up and followed him out to the taxi. He held the door open for her—the perfect manners were typical of Gio—and it seemed as if hardly a minute passed before they were there.
‘Are you really sure you’re up to this?’ Gio asked. ‘The Mazetti clan is pretty big. It’s not too late to back out.’
‘I’ve already met Nonna, your parents and your sisters, your aunt and some of your cousins,’ she reminded him. ‘It’ll be fine.’
‘Then let’s do it.’ He slid his arm round her shoulders, and they walked into the hall together.
He’d said his family was big. But she hadn’t expected the place to be so utterly packed. Gio introduced her to person after person; although she was normally good with names, there were so many that she simply lost track.
And she had no idea who was topping up her glass, but the level of champagne never seemed to go down. It would be way too easy to drink too much and make a mistake—say something she shouldn’t. She made a mental note to put her glass down and forget about it.
‘Francesca, cara!’ Nonna came over to her, hugged her and kissed both cheeks. ‘You look lovely.’
‘So do you,’ Fran responded politely.
Nonna chuckled. ‘Ah, but I don’t have that extra sparkle—the look of a young woman in love.’
Maybe Gio’s family were seeing what they wanted to see, Fran thought. Or maybe after all these years she’d finally found her hidden talent: acting. Because she wasn’t in love with Gio.
Was she?
Before Nonna could say anything else, the band on stage played a fanfare.
Gio groaned. ‘Why do we have to do this every year?’
‘Because it wouldn’t be a birthday party without it, figlio mio,’ his father said, laughing and patting his shoulder.
‘You know the song,’ the singer said into the microphone. ‘Four times. Giovanni, Isabella, Giuditta and Marcella.’
The band played the introduction to ‘Happy Birthday to You’, and then were drowned out by the entire room singing in Italian. ‘Tanti auguri a te, Tanti auguri a te, Tanti auguri Giovanni, tanti auguri a te!’ The song was repeated for Gio’s sisters; and finally, there was a rousing set of cheers.
‘Your family definitely knows how to party,’ Fran said, smiling at Gio when the cheers had died down and the band was playing again.
‘Years of practice,’ Gio said. ‘Let’s get some food and escape outside. It’s boiling in here.’
Once he’d piled a plate with assorted canapés and dips, they found a quiet corner in the grounds. Gio looked at the bench, then at Fran’s dress. ‘Some of that varnish is peeling. I don’t want it ruining your dress. Better sit on my lap.’
From another man, it would be a cheesy excuse. From Gio, it was practical common sense. So when he set the plate down on the bench beside them, she acquiesced without making a fuss, settling herself on his lap and resting one hand on his shoulder for balance.
The fact that his hand was resting on the curve of her waist really shouldn’t be sending these little shivers through her body, she thought. He’d only done it to make sure she didn’t accidentally slide off his lap. And she really shouldn’t get used to being close to him like this. Close and personal.
Striving to keep her voice normal, she said, ‘It’s quite an evening.’
‘When we were kids, we used to have a bouncy castle and a barbecue in the back garden. But as we grew older and the family’s grown bigger, Mum decided to hire a hall and a band.’ He sighed. ‘To be honest, I’d much rather have a quiet night out somewhere. See a good film or a show. But Mum, Nonna and the girls really enjoy it. They love planning the party and getting dressed up and having an excuse to get everyone together and talk so much that they end up with sore throats the next day.’
‘So you put up with it for their sake?’ Fran guessed.
‘Yeah.’ Gio shrugged. ‘Just call me Saint Giovanni.’
She gave in to the temptation to stroke his cheek. Freshly shaven. Smooth and soft and sensual. ‘You’re a good man,’ she said.
He turned his head slightly and pressed a kiss into her palm—like the way she’d pressed a kiss into his palm that afternoon when he’d kissed her on her sofa. ‘Not really. I let my family down once—at the time when they needed me most. I promised myself I would never do that again.’
‘Everyone else forgave you long ago—if they ever blamed you in the first place.’ Which, having met his family, she very much doubted. ‘Your dad’s heart attack wasn’t your fault. When are you going to forgive yourself, Gio?’
‘I don’t know.’ He sighed. ‘Can we change the subject, please?’
This wasn’t the time or the place to push him. ‘Sure. What do you want to talk about?’
‘Dunno.’
He looked utterly lost, and it made her heart ache. She leaned forward and kissed the tip of his nose.
He looked up at her, his eyes dark, and his hands tightened round her waist. ‘Why did you do that?’
She opted for honesty. ‘Because you’re hurting, Gio, and I want to make you feel better.’
She couldn’t help staring at his mouth. Even though he was in a bleak mood, right now, there was still a tiny curve upwards at the corner of his lips. That irrepressible, funny man she’d grown to l—
Whoops. She was getting too much into this role of being Gio’s girlfriend. Better remember she was just his office manager, and this was just for show. ‘Talk to me,’ she said softly. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’
He shook his head. ‘Just ignore me. I’m in a funny mood.’
She stroked his face again, and her skin tingled at the contact. ‘I’m going to quote Nonna back at you. “A problem shared is a problem halved.” You helped me when I hit a bad patch. Now you’re having a bad patch and it’s m
y turn to help you. So tell me what’s put you in that mood. Is it work?’
‘No.’ He sounded very definite.
‘What, then?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just this feeling of something…’ He shook his head in obvious frustration. ‘Something missing, I suppose. I can’t explain it. If I knew what it was, I could do something about it. But there’s just this black hole staring at me.’
‘Your music?’ she guessed.
‘No. I still play, for me.’
And he’d played for her, too.
‘You could go back to it. You don’t have to expand the café chain—it’s doing fine as it is. Take a sabbatical,’ she suggested. ‘Be a musician.’
‘How? Busking on street corners?’
She shook her head. ‘There’s nothing to stop you playing a concert once in a while. An arts centre, a gallery—even in Giovanni’s. You’re thinking of opening one evening a week in Holborn for the book group. Why not open another evening a week as a classical music night, maybe at Charlotte Street? Play the music you love for people?’
He took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m good enough, any more.’
‘What you played for me was good,’ she said. ‘OK, so I’m not a music critic and your technique could’ve been all over the place, for all I know—but none of the notes sounded wrong. I liked it. And there are plenty of people out there who’d like to relax with a decent cup of coffee and one of Ingrid’s fabulous cakes and listen to something to help them chill out.’
‘Be a musician.’ He stared at her, though it was as if he wasn’t seeing her. As if he was some place far, far away. ‘I don’t know, Fran. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure that being a musician wouldn’t have been the right life for me. I don’t want to be constantly on the road, or doing bits and pieces and trying to scrape a living. I know I wouldn’t have had the patience to teach.’
‘Are you sure about that? You did a good job of teaching me to make espresso.’
‘Which is not the same thing at all as teaching someone who can either sing in tune, but has no sense of rhythm, or can sing with the beat, but is completely tuneless. That’s more like nails scraping down a blackboard, and I’m not noble enough to pretend it doesn’t matter and gently guide whoever it is into a better technique.’ He sighed. ‘I just feel I’m looking for something, Fran. Searching. And I don’t know what I’m looking for or even where to look.’
‘Maybe you’ll know when you find it.’
‘Maybe. But right now I feel like the most selfish man on earth. I have so many good things in my life. I love my family, I have free rein in my job, I like where I live. So why can’t I be satisfied with what I have?’
She held him close. ‘I can’t answer that. But I do know your family love you, your employees respect you, and you’re a good man. Don’t be so hard on yourself.’
‘Hard on myself? That,’ Gio said wryly, ‘is most definitely the pot calling the kettle black.’
‘But that’s not up for discussion.’
He rested his forehead against her temple. ‘Now who’s being difficult?’
His breath fanned her cheek, and it was, oh, so tempting to turn her head slightly, let her mouth brush against his. Kiss his blues away. But that wouldn’t solve anything: that would just put off the problem. Right now, he needed her to keep this light. ‘Not me,’ she said with a smile. ‘Come on. Let’s go and dance your blues away.’
After a few minutes of throwing themselves into the music, she was relieved to see that his bleak mood lifted slightly and he was starting to smile again. But somehow they’d moved near to the stage, and the singer had caught sight of them.
‘Gio! Come up and play with us, my friend,’ he called when the song had finished.
Gio shook his head. ‘No, I’m fine in the audience, thanks.’
‘Come on,’ the singer wheedled. ‘You know everyone would love to hear to you play. And sing.’
‘I’m fine right here,’ Gio repeated.
The singer refused to let it drop, and Gio’s face darkened. Considering the conversation they’d just had, for a moment, Fran thought that he was going to walk out.
And then Nonna placed her hand on his arm. ‘Gio, piccolino, do it for me. Or if you won’t do it for me, sing for Francesca,’ she said softly.
Tension was coming off him in almost visible waves. But then he nodded. ‘All right. I’ll do it for Fran.’
He climbed up on the stage, to loud applause and cheers from the audience. ‘OK, so it’s August and not October, but there’s a certain song I want to sing tonight. For Francesca.’ He winked at her, as if telling her that it was going to be OK, he wasn’t going to make a scene; then he turned and mouthed something to the pianist, who nodded. And Gio made no protest when the guitarist handed him an electric guitar—just checked the tuning.
And then he counted the band in to a soft, jazzy number Fran recognized: ‘Moondance.’
It was a song she’d always liked. But hearing Gio sing it somehow gave it something extra. He had the most beautiful voice. So beautiful that it hurt; she found herself wishing that Gio was singing this to her for real, that he wanted to dance with her and call her his love and make love with her.
But his eyes were on her as he sang. And just for a moment she could almost believe that he really was singing this for her. Could imagine what it would be like to run into his arms and dance in a frost-covered garden with him on an October night, the moonlight shining through the almost-bare branches of the trees and turning everything magically silver.
The song ended with him pleading for one more dance with his love. Then he smiled. ‘Thank you. That one was for Fran,’ he said, and handed the guitar back.
‘Oh, come on, Gio—give us another one!’ someone called.
‘It’s my birthday party and you want me to work?’ he retorted, laughing. ‘Now there’s a first. I thought you lot all wanted me to slow down.’
‘Just one more song,’ someone else pleaded.
‘One’s enough. Now I’m going to dance with my girl and hand you back to the real singer. Enjoy your evening, everyone.’ He stepped down from the stage and joined Fran again.
‘I didn’t know you could sing that well,’ she said. ‘That was pretty amazing.’
‘Nothing that a thousand pub singers in London don’t do every Saturday night,’ he said, making a dismissive gesture. ‘It’s not a big deal. Dance with me?’
The singer had followed Gio’s performance with another Van Morrison song, a slow ballad; Fran stepped forward into Gio’s arms and swayed with him to the music. If only she could ease his troubles, the way the singer was telling them the love of his life did. But all she could do right now was hold him.
And even when the next song changed tempo and became upbeat again, Fran and Gio remained dancing close, just holding each other and swaying to the beat. Cheek to cheek. So close they could feel each other’s heartbeat.
With shock, she realised that this was what she’d been waiting for. To be in Gio’s arms. She couldn’t pin down the exact moment, but at some point over the last few weeks she’d fallen for Gio—and the whole Mazetti tribe. Which was stupid, because this wasn’t for keeps. Their relationship would end when Nonna went back to Italy.
And the knowledge broke her heart.
Gio sensed the sudden tension in Fran, and pulled back slightly so he could see her face. ‘OK?’ he mouthed.
She nodded and smiled, but although the light was too low to see properly, he could tell the smile didn’t reach her eyes. She was definitely upset about something, but she wasn’t telling.
Ah, hell.
He wanted to kiss her better.
No. Actually, he just wanted to kiss her again.
And that would complicate matters beyond belief.
He really ought to let her go right now. Put her in a taxi and pay the driver to wait until she was safely indoors. But he couldn’t drag himself away from h
er. So he just wrapped his arms round her again, held her close. Told her silently with his body that he was there, that whatever was wrong he’d do whatever he could to make it right.
Dancing cheek to cheek with her like this meant that he could smell the sweet floral perfume she’d used. Summer roses. Like the candied petals his mother used on a trifle and that he’d always begged for, as a child. So sweet.
His mouth was so close to her ear; he couldn’t resist pressing the tiniest kiss to her earlobe. The next thing he knew, his mouth was brushing a trail of kisses along her cheek. Her face turned slightly to meet his. And at last his mouth found hers. A tiny, gentle, questioning touch.
A second’s pause.
And then she tilted her head slightly, kissed him back. An equally tiny kiss. The barest touch of her lips against his.
His mouth was tingling. And despite the fact they were in a noisy, crowded hall with people dancing round them, everything seemed to melt away. There was just the two of them. And an overwhelming need to kiss her properly, feel her mouth open beneath his.
He caught her lower lip between his. So soft, so sweet.
His head was telling him that this was a seriously bad idea, but his body wasn’t listening. Because this felt as if tiny stars had started to illuminate the black hole in the middle of his heart. The tiniest flickers of light, of hope.
And when her mouth opened beneath his and the tip of her tongue touched his, the lights became brighter. She was warm and soft and her body fitted against his perfectly.
Right here, right now, this was where he belonged. With Fran. No pretence, no act. And the way she was kissing him back made him feel as if he could conquer the world. Walk on air.
‘Put the girl down, Gio. There are children present,’ Ric teased, slapping him on the back.
Oh, lord. However long had they been kissing? Fran’s mouth was slightly red and swollen, her pupils were enormous, and he could feel that her breasts had grown slightly fuller and heavier against him.
He was turned on just as much. And he couldn’t get the words of that song out of his head. How much he wanted to make love to her. In a frosted garden. On a swing.
