‘Call in sick tomorrow,’ he dared. ‘Spend the day with me. All night. All day.’
He was joking but it was actually so tempting she got angry with herself—but turned it on him. ‘You want me to ditch all my commitments? To drop everything else in my life to meet your sexual needs?’
‘Not just my needs,’ he pointed out, purposefully kissing her neck, apparently already confident of her surrender. ‘You want this too.’
‘I can’t. I have to go,’ she pleaded, but couldn’t help tilting her head to let him have greater access. ‘I can’t let Francesca down. I have work. I can’t just not show up.’
‘Move in with me,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I’ll work from here for a while and then we’ll have all night, every night. At the weekends, you’re mine. You do get weekends off, don’t you?’
She was too busy trying to process his first words to be able to answer that last question. ‘You want me to move in with you?’
He eased back and looked into her eyes. ‘Briefly.’
She half laughed, her suddenly strung-out nerves getting the better of her. ‘Well done on the clarification. Wouldn’t want me getting the wrong idea.’
She so didn’t want to get the wrong idea about this. But she couldn’t believe what he’d just asked.
He grinned. ‘I’ve been reliably informed honesty is the best policy.’
‘Been talking to someone wise?’ She desperately tried to maintain the teasing, but tension knotted her stomach. Staying with him—even briefly—was an alarmingly appealing idea and she instinctively shied from its strength.
‘Someone with a smart mouth.’
He was joking. Surely. She tried to focus on all the practical reasons why she should say no. ‘I start work very, very early.’ And cycling from the villa would mean she’d have to wake even earlier.
‘I’ll drop you there. I’ll have slept better with you beside me.’
Her innards melted at the thought of sleeping beside him night after night, of cuddling and curling close. Of being that intimate with him.
‘Because it’s still all about you,’ she tried to joke, tried to stall, tried to steady her trembling slide towards his too-enticing invitation.
But there was a glint of outrageousness in his eyes and she just couldn’t help warming like wax in his hands.
‘Stay. I promise to make it worth your while.’ He kissed her.
Oh, she didn’t doubt it. What she doubted was her ability to leave again as ‘easily’ as she’d left the other day. Because that had been so difficult she’d had to run as quickly as she could. And she knew the more time she spent here, the harder it would become to leave again. It wasn’t the villa and all its luxuries that posed the problem, but him. He was magnetic and his power over her only increased with exposure.
But she wanted him. She ached for his touch, his company. Her eyes closed as he kissed her again.
She should say no. She should just have the sex she’d said she wanted and escape. But her brain shorted out, refusing to process anything other than the delicious sensations he was pulling from every cell within her. The man knew how to make love. He knew how to make her want more. He knew how to make her say yes. Over and over again.
And that was terrible, because if he kept this up, she’d say yes to everything. And he didn’t want everything, he only wanted this. Only now.
‘You’re incorrigible,’ she admonished breathlessly.
‘But I’m right.’
She quivered. It was more than his touch that tormented her, more than his sensuality and striking looks—it was his interest in all of her, his ability to fascinate her, his ability to make her laugh. If this were just sex, it would be easy. But it was all of him. She liked him, so much that she was in danger...but because he was all that, he was impossible to deny. She couldn’t deny herself.
She sighed, her defences crumbling. ‘Okay.’
‘Okay? Just like that?’ he teased.
Just like that? A helpless little laugh escaped.
‘I’m hoping to get sick of you,’ she admitted frankly, opening her eyes. ‘Perhaps the more time I spend with you, the sooner that will happen.’ She could only dream, right? ‘And I can practise making some of the pastries in your oven if I stay.’
His mouth opened and then closed. Then opened again. ‘You want to practise using my oven? That’s why you want to stay?’
‘It’s one of the reasons.’ She hid a smile. She’d got a tiny hit on him when he constantly overwhelmed her so completely. ‘But I’m not cooking dinner for you,’ she clarified, establishing a smidgeon of assertiveness. ‘You’re not getting a housekeeper as well as a bedmate.’
‘If I wanted a housekeeper, I’d hire one.’ He planted a kiss on her nose. ‘I’m capable of cooking both for me and for you.’
‘Is that so?’
‘I enjoy eating so, yes, that’s so,’ he mocked, moving his kisses across her cheek. ‘I’ll cook for you, seeing as you’re going to be my guest for a little while.’
A little while, right. His guest. Not his girlfriend or his live-in lover. She accepted this for what it was, a short-term fling and a risk she was going to make the most of. She’d keep it an indulgence for herself. She’d keep it calm.
‘Perfect.’ She ran her hand up his chest and pretended this wasn’t all that perilous, pretended her heart wasn’t pounding louder than a rocket launch.
But he stopped kissing her, pulling away to look into her eyes.
‘What?’ she queried breathlessly, poised right over the precipice.
‘I hadn’t expected you to agree so easily. I’ve been dreaming up other ways to convince you.’
‘Oh.’ She burned the last of her nerves in the bonfire of sensual anticipation and embraced the humour that bubbled so easily between them. ‘Well, we can’t let those ideas go to waste. I’ve changed my mind. Convince me to stay some more.’
‘Too late,’ he breathed, and pulled her to the edge of the table, a ferociously intense look in his eye. ‘You’re mine now.’
CHAPTER NINE
‘WELL?’ FRANCESCA LOOKED up from a mountain of flour the second Gracie walked into the café.
‘Well, what?’
‘How big is this party?’ Francesca sounded amazed to have to explain. ‘You didn’t give me anywhere near enough information in your text message last night. Are you sure we can handle it? We can’t even make enough pastries to last till closing each day.’
Gracie flushed and quickly turned to hang up her bag. She’d forgotten all about the party. ‘Large but not impossible. It should be fairly straightforward as long as we start early. It’s having enough stock here at the same time for those couple of days leading up to it that’s the problem.’
‘Well, I can always close early then if we have to,’ Francesca mused. ‘Often those clients prefer to get catering in from Milan or even further, I want to show them local is better.’
Which, now she thought about it, had been Rafe’s point when they’d discussed it more late last night. He knew exactly how to play them. He knew how to win. Not that Gracie was complaining.
She worked swiftly. While several trays were baking she organised the small outside tables, putting one of Alex’s roses in each of the small vases. Turning to go back inside, she was startled to see an elderly man staring at the table nearest him. She frowned in surprise—it was very early, there was almost no one else even moving in the village yet. And this old man hadn’t shaved and looked dishevelled. He looked lost.
‘I’m sorry, we’re not open yet,’ she said apologetically. But he didn’t answer. He didn’t stop staring at the rose she’d just put in the vase.
‘Are you okay, sir? Can I help you?’ she tried again.
Again, no reply. But his hands were trembling. He was clearly disoriented.
‘Why
don’t you take a seat and I’ll get you a drink?’ Gracie said gently, lightly putting her hand on his shoulder to guide him. At her touch he looked at her and smiled.
‘Thank you,’ he said very formally with a crisp American accent.
‘Something cool.’ She smiled at him and gestured for him to take a seat. Even though it was early, the morning was warming quickly.
She quickly fetched a glass of the lemonade that Alex favoured and put a pastry on a plate for him as well. ‘It’s a beautiful rose, isn’t it?’ She set the refreshment in front of where he was sitting.
He nodded jerkily, lifting the glass to sip a small amount.
As she turned to go back inside, she saw another man striding along in the distance, looking down the narrow streets, concern carving the lines more deeply into his face.
She stepped forward to intercept him. ‘Excuse me, are you looking—’
Gracie stopped and drew a steadying breath because she suddenly recognised this man. He was from that party the other night. Rafael had said he was his nephew. His much, much older nephew.
‘Oh, there you are, Dad.’ The man brushed past Gracie.
Dad? Gracie stared. If the elder man was the nephew’s father, then he must be Rafael’s half-brother. Her heart pounded. But she saw the confusion in the elder man’s eyes. The lack of awareness, of recognition.
‘I’m sorry he troubled you,’ the nephew said briskly. ‘He gets confused and wanders and I should have...’
He breathed out a harsh sigh and apologised again.
‘It’s okay.’ Gracie smiled to put him at ease. ‘It must be worrying.’ She could see the stress he was under and she truly did understand.
‘What do I owe you for the drink?’
‘Nothing.’ She smiled again. ‘I’m just glad he’s reunited with you.’
The man breathed out and relaxed fractionally. Then he leaned forward to focus on the flower as well. ‘Is that from the Villa Rosetta? They’re famous for roses that colour.’
‘Actually, no.’ Gracie almost lost the strength in her legs. ‘But it is one that’s been grown by the villa’s head gardener. He’s very talented.’
‘Right.’ He nodded and helped his father to his feet. ‘Thanks again.’
She watched them leave with a heaviness weighing down her chest. He’d reminded her of her own grandfather and that same confusion in his eyes. Aging wasn’t easy.
‘Is that man okay?’ Francesca interrupted her thoughts as she went back into the small shop.
‘Yes, he’s fine now.’ Gracie rolled her shoulders back, fretting over what had happened. She should tell Rafe. She just wasn’t sure what she was going to say. ‘Back to it.’
* * *
Hours later she looked out the window and saw Rafe pull in across the road. She grabbed the bags she’d prepared and dashed across to meet him.
‘You’ve packed some clothes?’ He grinned as he lifted them into the car for her.
‘No, some ingredients.’
‘Food?’ He glanced again at the bags. ‘You didn’t pack any clothes?’
‘I didn’t think I’d need any.’ She laughed and fastened her seatbelt.
‘But you need ingredients?’
‘I said I was going to try out your oven.’
‘You can’t be serious. You’ve been working all day and you have to be back at the bakery at stupid o’clock in the morning.’ He drove them back to the villa.
‘It’s a stress release.’ She giggled.
‘I can help with that.’ He sent her a look.
‘You can, by telling me which of my pastries you prefer for your party. I need to get it organised.’
‘And you’re going to bake naked, right? Seeing as you didn’t bring any clothes.’
‘I’m not—’ She broke off as music suddenly blasted from her phone. Her heart skidded—she’d saved that song for her mother. ‘I’m sorry.’ She glanced at Rafe. ‘I need to get this.’ She quickly swiped the screen. ‘Mum, are you okay?’
‘New brioche for breakfast.’
Gracie’s heart sank at the code sentence her mother had always used for when they had to pack up quickly. ‘You’re moving again? Where to?’ Why? There was no need for her to live such a nomadic existence any more.
‘Portugal, I think,’ her mother replied. ‘I’m still deciding.’
‘You could come and visit me,’ Gracie invited softly.
‘You know I can’t return to Italy. Too many messy memories there. Look, I’ll call again soon with my new details. I just wanted you to know so you didn’t worry if you tried this number.’
‘Okay,’ Gracie answered, her heart sinking.
‘Bye, darling. I love you.’
‘Sure.’ Gracie hung up and then scrolled through her phone, deleting her mother’s contact details. Again.
‘Your mother’s moving?’ Rafe quietly queried.
‘Yes.’ She tried to smile to cover that old ache. ‘She never lasts more than a year in any one place.’
‘But she’s no longer in danger from the police because of hiding you, right?’
‘Right,’ Gracie answered. ‘But she runs away from any kind of conflict. I mean, any kind. She just can’t seem to settle.’ And Gracie hated that. Her mother never stopped long enough to learn to trust anyone or any place. She never returned. She just kept on running. Never faced what it was that she feared most.
‘How does she get by?’
‘Oh, she’s the best short-order cook you’ll ever meet,’ she said with a hiNt of pride. ‘No one can cook meals in minutes like my mum.’
But Rafe didn’t smile back, he looked concerned. ‘You miss her.’
‘Yeah.’ Sadness bloomed again in the light of his perception. ‘She was never present. She was always worried, always working to make the next buck. Not that she ever cooked for me,’ she admitted ruefully. ‘She was too tired when she got home.’
‘Is that why you learned to cook?’
‘I only ever baked—it was only about the pastry. I liked the science and taking the time to get it right. I spent hours in our little apartments, with all those crappy ovens, trying all different doughs.’
‘Alone?’
She caught his inflection and smiled.
‘But it was like therapy for you,’ he said. ‘That stress release.’
‘Exactly. And you have a really nice kitchen, Rafe.’ She got out of the car and headed into the villa with her bags to set up her space.
‘You’re not seriously about to make pastry now?’ He followed her into the room.
‘Actually, I am. Lots of little pastry cakes.’ Because she needed time to clear her head and working soothed her. But then she glanced at him, because she wasn’t alone now. ‘Is that okay?’
‘Of course. You know you’re free to do what you want.’ He lifted up the last of her heavy bags onto the bench. ‘But do you mind if I watch?’
‘You want to watch?’ She frowned. ‘I can’t make small talk, Rafe, I need to concentrate.’
‘I won’t distract you.’
At that she finally smiled. Did the man not know he distracted her round the clock?
* * *
Ninety minutes later she presented five petite pastries on a plate for him—all gilded differently. She’d used glossy sabayon, smooth ganache, gold leaf, poached pear crisps...and so much more. She’d gone with miniature, intense works of art. True to his word, he hadn’t distracted her—at least, not intentionally. He’d asked a few questions—to explain her methods—but otherwise he’d been quiet. And she’d relaxed into it. Now she saw the look on his face and pride licked. She was very good at what she did.
‘You really like to present perfection, don’t you? How am I supposed to choose?’ He groaned and selected one while studying the others with gleaming eyes. �
�You shouldn’t be working for anyone. You should have your own bakery.’
She laughed. ‘Thank you for that compliment.’
‘I mean it.’ He watched her, the curiosity in his eyes now professional as well as personal. ‘I talked with a couple of local tourism leaders the other day. They said Bar Pasticceria Zullo has undergone a transformation in the last few months. It offers a far greater selection of sweets and is much more popular. Apparently the change coincides with your arrival.’
‘Perhaps it coincides with the tourist season,’ she muttered, her face heating. ‘More people in town buying stuff.’
‘You know that’s not it.’ He sent her a droll look. ‘Why do you hide your light under a bushel?’
She wasn’t. She was happy doing her thing with the people she’d found. ‘Francesca has been really supportive of my ideas. I like working for her.’
‘But why not work for yourself? You’re doing all this work turning her business around for her. You should get the benefit.’
‘Speaks the guy who likes to own everything in sight, even when he doesn’t need it.’ She laughed. She truly liked Francesca and she liked being part of the village. ‘She’s a good friend.’
‘So you don’t want your own bakery? You have an amazing product, you have good ideas. You know you have a head for marketing the business.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Is it the start-up cost? You don’t want to go into debt?’
‘Are you about to make me an offer?’ She smiled at the way he’d morphed into spot-the-deal CEO mode. ‘Don’t. My father offered to pay to set up my own bakery, and if I didn’t take it from him, I’m not about to take it from you.’
‘Why didn’t you take it from him?’ He looked up sharply, taking a moment to search her expression. ‘There were strings?’
She sighed reluctantly, the guy was very perceptive. ‘He wanted it to be in London.’
Awakening His Innocent Cinderella Page 11
