by Sara Wood
‘It’s useless discussing this. You talk about fitting in,’ she went on sharply. ‘The trouble is that I don’t like you and you don’t like me. That’s hardly the basis for a comfortable arrangement.’
‘Comfortable…?’ He seemed to consider this with some amusement. ‘No, it would never be that. You owe me something, Anna. For the lies, the shame, the humiliation—’
‘I owe you nothing!’ she declared. ‘You brought shame on your own head!’
His jaw tightened as if he was containing his anger. ‘I’m sure we can be adult about this to the advantage of us both. You want the job, I want a chef who can cook food like my mother used to make,’ he said quietly and suddenly it all made sense.
Misty grey eyes met melting brown. She saw his pain before he could conceal it and despite everything she felt a flood of sympathy for him. He knew that she’d learnt every one of his adored mother’s recipes.
It occurred to her that she was his link with his mother, a potential recreation of those happy days when Sophia had poured all her heart and soul into cooking for her beloved son.
And then she realised he’d used the past tense. ‘Used to? You mean…she’s…dead?’ she asked tentatively.
With a haunted expression he looked towards his desk. Although the large silver photo frame had its back to her, she knew it must be of Sophia because his eyes had misted over.
‘Shortly after we arrived in Italy. Nine years, five months ago,’ he said with touching precision. And added in a low growl, ‘With her dying breath, she spoke of our dishonour and made me swear to—’ His mouth clammed shut.
‘Oh, Vido,’ she said sadly.
That was the nub of his grief. He felt responsible for his mother’s decline. His behaviour would have disappointed the fiercely upright and honest Sophia and she would have died full of regrets that her son had turned out so badly.
Yet inexplicably Anna felt deep sympathy for him. The anger and scorn had left his face. For a short moment he had become the man she remembered; an adoring and attentive son.
The thick black lashes lowered to hide the sadness in his eyes though it was still evident in his frown and in the tightness of his jaw and every line of his body. Staring at the ground, he muttered, ‘I miss her, every day of my life.’
Her heart lurched. It had always touched her that he had loved his mother with such passion. He had been gentle and courteous towards Sophia, treating her as if she were a queen. Often Anna had found him cleaning the house or preparing the evening meal because his mother wasn’t well. Yet he’d done it willingly because he’d adored her and saw it as his joy and duty to care for his sick mother.
Why Sophia had been so rude to her grandfather, she’d never know—only that it was obviously impossible for the proud old man to employ someone who’d insulted him. But she had missed Sophia, very much.
Wistfully Anna recalled how desperately she’d envied them the closeness of their relationship and the warm, demonstrative nature of their love. In the cramped, ugly little flat, she had glimpsed a family happiness that she’d wanted for herself.
Perhaps, she thought, that was what she’d hungered for. A small portion of Vido’s affection. She hadn’t loved him at all. Just the idea of being loved the way he loved his mother, totally and utterly.
‘I’m sure you do. She was such a big part of your life and you were devoted to one another,’ she said with understanding. ‘I know you would have done anything for her. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I was very fond of her. And I admired her because she worked so hard—even when she wasn’t feeling too good.’
He seemed incapable of speech, emotion chasing over his strained face. Her hand touched his arm, her fingers lightly resting on the silky shirt. In the back of her mind she was conscious of his warm skin beneath, and the steeliness of his flexing muscles as they tightened beneath her hand.
‘Sophia was always kind to me,’ she recalled, her eyes smoky with memories. ‘Some of the happiest times I ever spent were when I was learning to cook in her kitchen.’
‘I remember,’ he husked. Silence hummed between them. ‘Anna. Recreate that time,’ he urged quietly. ‘You’d have all the freedom in the world to cook whatever you like. All her recipes. I want that little bit of home.’
‘I know,’ she said, her heart melting at his longing.
Two-timer or not, fortune-hunter, a ruthlessly ambitious man who’d stop at nothing to claw his way up the ladder to success, he had that one little bit of goodness in him. He had loved his mother. Perhaps he’d even embarked on that crooked route to the top because he’d wanted to care for his mother, to give her the best.
‘Anna,’ he said, his voice laden with fatal persuasion. ‘I know this is a good job. You’d be mad to turn it down. You’d even have a share in the business, like everyone else. Some of my employees are wealthy in their own right.’
‘Why on earth do they stay with you, then?’ she queried in surprise.
‘Ask them. They’ll say they love the work. It’s challenging and varied. But…’ He gave one of his expressive shrugs. ‘If you’re not interested, if you’re too proud to work here because of an incident ten years ago between us, then that’s up to you.’
As if dismissing her, he returned to his desk and began to collect together the papers there. She watched, her mind spinning. His dig about her pride had struck home. That was all that was stopping her. It oughtn’t to come first. Her grandfather’s well-being should be at the top of the list. A secure job and more money would make life so much better for him.
Pride shouldn’t keep her from earning a decent salary. Why should it? If Vido’s company was as democratic and as wonderful as he boasted, then she’d be a fool to walk away. He wouldn’t want to jeopardise the ethos of his entire business by constantly sparring with her.
On the other hand, if he was lying and he was running something crooked, then she could fling a claim of misrepresentation at him and get out fast. She couldn’t lose!
Her eyes sparkled with life. Even if she only lasted six months, it would get her out of a financial hole. She’d do it. Tell her grandfather that they were milking Vido for all they could get. That would go down well. She would swallow her pride and suffer Vido’s triumph for her grandfather’s sake.
But she wouldn’t behave like a skivvy. She wasn’t to be walked all over. He might learn that the hard way. Aware of the risk to her peace of mind that she was running in working for Vido, she took a deep breath, her hands clammy as common sense battled with practicalities.
She would. She wouldn’t. She must.
‘Is the kitchen still in the same place?’
He froze. Flicked his inky eyes at her and slowly placed the papers back on the desk. He’d got her. A surge of elation fired him up, demanding physical release. Short of flinging her down on the carpet then and there, and ravishing the living daylights out of her, he was forced to find another outlet.
She was engaged. Off limits. Something he must get into his brain so it could tell his libido. Which he hoped he could direct towards other women.
‘I’ll show you,’ he said unnecessarily and strode out so quickly that he could hear her feet scurrying to catch up.
When she took one look at the old-fashioned kitchen she wrinkled her nose.
‘I expected something wonderful,’ she said with disappointment.
‘It was due to be modernised last week,’ he explained in haste, in case she was put off. ‘The fitter broke his leg and we’ve been rescheduled by his team.’
‘Poor man,’ she said with surprising sympathy.
Her soft grey eyes scanned the untidy, uncared-for room she must know so well. Gradually he detected an easing of her stiffly held body. This place meant a lot to her. He filed that fact away in case it came in useful.
‘It’s a bit of a mess,’ he conceded. ‘The cleaner has only kept on top of the essential areas because of the planned revamp. It’ll look better once it’s had a good scrub.’
‘No problem.’ There was an air of excitement about her and the eagerness lit her face, stirring up emotions in his chest. ‘You said…modernised.’ She looked anxious.
‘I’m not intending to go for stainless steel or wall-to-wall Formica,’ he said drily. ‘I was thinking of an unstructured look. The classic country kitchen. Free-standing pieces such as a large oak dresser and cupboards crafted from reclaimed timber, that kind of thing.’ He saw her look of relief. ‘My chef would have total control over the fittings,’ he bribed.
She beamed as if he’d handed her the crown jewels. ‘Thank goodness!’ Her finger swept across the large pine table collecting a thin layer of dust. ‘This needs attention before I start cooking—and all the surfaces and those mucky dishes.’
‘I was supposed to do the dishes,’ he explained. ‘It’s my turn today to tackle anything that doesn’t fit in the dishwasher. I planned to leave everything till after the interviews—’
She wasn’t listening. He watched her shed her jacket and hang it on the back of a chair. Then she lifted down one of the cleaner’s overalls from its peg and kicked off her shoes.
‘Are you intending to hang around here or do you have something better to do?’ she demanded, her head high on her long, slender neck. Which he contemplated kissing. The skin was smooth and golden and seemed to be inviting his lips to— ‘Vido? Did you hear me?’
He flashed a quick half-smile. No harm in looking, was there? Providing he didn’t touch.
‘Sorry. Miles away. I thought I’d watch you.’
She sniffed in disapproval as if he was some kind of pervert. Which, perhaps, he was. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She’d become suddenly sure of herself, quick and light on her feet. His gaze dropped to them. They were small and with perfect arches—
‘Turn around,’ she commanded.
He blinked, bristling immediately. ‘What—?’
‘Turn around!’
Intrigued, he obeyed, little thrills fizzing through his nerves. He had no idea there were so many in his body, he marvelled.
But… Me Tarzan, you Jane, he thought. He was the boss. So why was she ordering him about? More than that, why was he letting her?
His acute hearing picked up the soft slither of stockings sliding over skin. His pulses took up a highly erratic beat. What was that? Her skirt?
Per l’amor di Dio! She was stripping?
‘All right,’ she said breathlessly.
All right? With his heart lurching about like crazy and curls of intense excitement boiling his loins? No, it wasn’t all right. It was achingly delicious and uncomfortable. Dio! He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anyone in the whole of his life. And she was unavailable.
Taking a deep breath, he turned around, pretending to lounge casually against the fridge in the hope that it might cool him down.
His disappointment was acute. His excitement crashed down to subterranean levels. There she was, briskly demure and half-swamped in the large overall, efficiently stacking dishes while the hot tap filled the vast butler sink.
On the chair he could see her skirt and stockings. His eyes widened and flicked back to her. As she reached for the large oval plate, which had held the assortment of bacon, sausages and eggs for breakfast, the overall obligingly parted to allow him a glimpse of tanned thigh. His breathing became fractured.
‘I’ll soak these dishes that I can’t fit in the dishwasher,’ she said, oblivious to his salacious thoughts, ‘then you can show me what food stores there are. While I’m scrubbing the table I can decide what to cook. Right.’ She dropped the silver cutlery into a jar of hot water and pushed the last pan into the suds before wiping her hands on a towel. ‘What do we have?’
Before he could answer, there was a call from the hallway.
‘Veee-do-o-o! Oh! There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’ Camilla paused in the doorway, shooting a quick glance at Anna. The two women looked at one another like wary dogs poised to fight. ‘Your new chef?’ Camilla’s eyebrows arched high into her aristocratic forehead.
‘Depends,’ he muttered with studied nonchalance that didn’t quite convince him, let alone the perceptive Camilla. ‘What is it?’
‘Milan. They need a decision—’
‘Then make it.’
Her eyebrows went even higher at his abruptness. ‘I hear and obey. You take care,’ she warned, before turning on her Laurenti heels and sweeping out.
‘Coffee?’ he suggested to Anna, needing an activity to relieve his tension. Camilla had effortlessly identified his obsession. He hoped it wasn’t that obvious to Anna herself.
‘First show me the store cupboard. It’s not where it used to be,’ she said firmly, shutting the old larder door.
‘It wasn’t large enough for my needs.’ He strode over to the old dairy, knowing she’d be impressed. ‘There,’ he said, only just managing to suppress a childish desire to cry, Tarra!
‘Oh!’ Her face shone with awe. ‘It’s wonderful!’ She went inside. ‘Borlotti!’ she muttered to herself. ‘And sacks of rice and chickpeas—and 00 grade durum. Perfect. Sea salt, extra-virgin cold-pressed olive oil, Parmesan in muslin, olives, anchovy paste, capers, almonds, vanilla pods, pasta…’ Her fingers caressed the dried goods as though they were her lovers. He smiled to himself, amused that he should envy a stack of groceries. Then she saw the dried meats hanging on hooks from the ceiling. ‘Fantastic! Prosciutti, salami, a whole ham and proper sausages—Vido, I have to admit, it’s a chef’s paradise,’ she declared, her flushed face turning to his.
She was enchanting. Gone was the stilted, prim woman whose cold manner could have chilled Africa and given it Arctic frosts for a month. She had become someone entirely different. Alive and passionate.
At that moment he wanted her very badly.
Before he knew it, his finger had lifted to flick away a bubble of soapsuds from her cheek. She gasped, presumably at his temerity, but he thought she might also have felt the spark that had leapt between them. It had certainly seared him with its intensity.
‘Soap,’ he explained unnecessarily.
‘Oh.’
She seemed incapable of moving. Her enormous velvet-grey eyes looked up at him and he felt as if his brain had gone swimming. Afraid he might jump her and ruin his plans for a slow and increasingly wild seduction, he crushed his longing to kiss that petal-soft mouth and zapped a frown onto his face.
‘You’d better inspect the fridge.’
She flushed. ‘Of course.’
She seemed nervous as she examined the contents of the American-sized refrigerator, but grew more and more sure of herself, obviously noting the supplies with a practised eye.
‘The freezer.’ He opened the massive door, proud of the goods he’d imported. Her reaction was more than pleasing.
‘This is heaven,’ she muttered to herself.
‘Is it?’ he murmured, recklessly close to her glowing body.
But she had eyes only for the frozen pancetta she was turning over in her hands with all the rapt attention of a mother tending her baby. With obvious reluctance she replaced the pancetta and shut the freezer door.
She felt almost delirious with delight. The store cupboard could have fed an army for a year. The freezer could have housed an entire herd of cattle. The fridge contained everything she could have wanted in her kitchen—and more.
In a dream, she turned to Vido and found herself just a few heat-inducing inches from his broad chest. For the life of her, she didn’t know what she’d intended to say. So out came the truth.
‘I really do want to work here,’ she confessed breathily to his waistcoat buttons.
‘You’d better start cooking, then,’ he suggested, the buttons heaving about oddly.
Puzzled, she darted a quick glance at him from under her fringe of black lashes. Mistake. For a moment, she felt herself swaying closer, mesmerised by the awesome nature of his sexual attraction. It was like a living thing, playing with h
er, reeling her in. And she knew why women had succumbed to him. There was something about him that appealed to her raw physical needs, promising the best sex ever.
The darkness of his eyes intensified, pulling her closer. His carnal mouth seemed soft and hungry and she imagined his pearly teeth sinking into her parted lips, gently tugging…
The touch of his fingers on her forearm brought her crashing back to reality. ‘What will you give me, Anna?’
Blinking, she looked down to where his forefinger was absently moving over her tingling flesh. Just a millionth of an inch. It was enough.
‘Give?’ she croaked, visions of them both entwined in a naked celebration of liberated lovemaking.
‘To eat,’ he said softly, his eyes suggesting something quite different.
Moving back so that his infuriatingly erotic caress couldn’t continue a second longer, she tried to get a hold of herself.
‘I thought—’ Curses. Her breathing was letting her down. Digging her nails into her palms, she felt her brain suddenly clear of the fog that had descended. ‘A simple pasta dish to start with,’ she said in a rush. ‘Say…a pasta roulade, filled with spinach and ricotta and herbs. Then that side of lamb stuffed with rosemary, and—and chestnut cake to finish.’
‘Castagnaccio,’ he purred, rolling the word around his tongue and making it sound like a lover’s compliment. ‘I haven’t had that since…’ He slammed his mouth shut. It was a moment before he continued and his voice was unbearably husky with emotion. Her heart went out to him because she knew he was remembering the last time his mother had cooked the cake for him. ‘I can’t wait.’ He gave her a faint smile. ‘I think that tonight we will go to bed satisfied.’
She was suffocating. Smothered by essence of man. And thinking darkly that she wouldn’t feel satisfied at all.
‘You’ll end up with a boiled egg if you don’t get out of my way,’ she muttered, pulling things—any things—out of the fridge. ‘Off you go so I can get on.’
‘You know,’ he mused in an unnervingly slow and liquefying voice that opened her body up to him, ‘there are only two activities that use all the senses.’ Like an idiot she paused, waiting wide-eyed for him to continue, her breath deserting her lungs. ‘One is making love. The other is cooking,’ he murmured, the gleam in his eyes telling her that he was a devotee of both.
