Summer with the Millionaire
Jessica Gilmore
Coming home to Italy…Lady Araminta Davenport has never managed to settle down. A fiancé–but never a wedding. A business–but never her own. Now she's determined to turn her life around, which is why she's returned to Tuscany and the man she can't forget….Luca Di Tore is married to his work. But when he sees Minty again he remembers all the sunshine of their summers together as teenagers. And soon, Luca realizes there's been something missing from his life…and she's right there in front of him!
‘Come in,’ she coaxed. ‘The water’s lovely.’
He shook his head at her, amused. ‘You said yourself it’s not deep enough to swim in—it barely covers your feet!’
‘I’m paddling,’ she said, with as much dignity as was possible when she was standing in the middle of a stream. ‘And it’s lovely. Scared?’ she taunted softly.
Slowly, with almost catlike grace, Luca pushed himself away from the tree on which he’d been leaning and leant down, loosening the ties on his boot before slipping it off, casually kicking it off his foot. His eyes fixed on Minty’s face, he slid his sock off his foot, tucking it neatly into the boot. It should have looked ridiculous—he should have looked ridiculous. But there was something so deliberate, so assured in his movements that Minty could only stand and watch, her mouth dry.
Luca stood before her: impossibly tall, imposing. Infinitely fascinating.
‘Luca …’ she said hoarsely.
He didn’t answer, but looked down at her searchingly. What the question was she did not know, but her face must have signalled an answer because with a muttered groan Luca pulled her close, moulding her long curves against his hard body, one hand tilting her chin up as his mouth came down upon hers.
There was nothing but him and the heat blazing between them. Nothing but the here and the now. Nothing but them.
Summer with the Millionaire
Jessica Gilmore
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
After learning to read aged just two, JESSICA GILMORE spent every childhood party hiding in bedrooms in case the birthday girl had a book or two she hadn’t read yet. Discovering Mills and Boon
novels on a family holiday, Jessica realised that romance-writing was her true vocation and proceeded to spend her maths lessons practising her art, creating Dynasty-inspired series starring herself and Morten Harket’s cheekbones. Writing for Mills & Boon really is a dream come true!
A former au pair, bookseller, marketing manager and Scarborough seafront trader—selling rock from under a sign that said ‘Cheapest on the Front'—Jessica now works as a membership manager for a regional environmental charity. Sadly, she spends most of her time chained to her desk, wrestling with databases, but likes to sneak out to one of their beautiful reserves whenever she gets a chance. Married to an extremely patient man, Jessica lives in the beautiful and historic city of York, with one daughter, one very fluffy dog, two dog-loathing cats and a goldfish named Bob.
On the rare occasions when she is not writing, working, taking her daughter to activities or tweeting, Jessica likes to plan holidays—and uses her favourite locations in her books. She writes deeply emotional romance with a hint of humour, a splash of sunshine and usually a great deal of delicious food—and equally delicious heroes.
For Abby
My amazing, enthusiastic, enquiring, bright girl.
Thank you for all your encouragement, belief and pride—and thank you for just being you. I love you.
I want to thank everyone who has supported Minty, especially my friends and colleagues who voted daily in SYTYCW 12 and begged me not to give up. Special thanks once again to Jane, Julia and Maggie, for reading every single version with patience, humour and just the occasional crack of the whip, and I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Heidi Rice for a thoroughly comprehensive New Writer’s Scheme report—thank you.
Finally thanks to Dan for all your support x
Contents
CHAPTER ONE (#u69a93e75-f77b-565c-8fe0-c6b717b635bb)
CHAPTER TWO (#ua33c9b86-1375-5135-9d9a-f09957997956)
CHAPTER THREE (#ub0ae8431-b9e3-5a13-b42b-49db3222c311)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
‘NO, HE ISN’T expecting me, and no, I don’t have an appointment, but...’
The impeccably made-up woman behind the desk held up a hand dismissively. ‘I am sorry, signorina, but without an appointment I cannot let you go in.’
Minty Davenport suppressed a sigh. It was only 10:00 a.m. but she had already done more this morning than she usually managed in a full day. After negotiating the Tube armed with two large suitcases, battling the automated check-in of the budget airline and enduring her taxi driver’s taste in music, she really needed something to go her way. Even the subtle scent of juniper, olives and garlic, and the sight of much missed rolling hills and olive groves, had failed to settle her nerves.
‘Here is Signor Di Tore now,’ the receptionist said, thankfully, gesturing to someone behind Minty. Minty closed her eyes, butterflies tumbling around her stomach.
I’m not ready for this.
But she had no choice.
Calm, collected and professional, Minty reminded herself, taking a deep breath and straightening her shoulders before pivoting round, confident smile pinned brightly onto her face.
Only to be transported back in time to her gauche teen self. To when just the sight of him had caused the breath to whoosh out of her body like a blow to the stomach—a hard blow.
Oh, he had changed; only for the better. She’d been hoping for seedy, balding and obese. No such luck. He was still enviably trim, but muscled in the right places. His dark hair was cut shorter than she remembered, with just enough length to run her fingers through; those strangely light caramel eyes framed by long, dark lashes. Devil’s eyes, she used to taunt him.
Okay. Time to switch it on. She could do this.
‘Buongiorno, Luca. What a beautiful day. It was so gloomy when I left London this morning, but spring seems well and truly to have hit Italy.’
Luca raised an eyebrow, laughter lurking in hooded eyes. ‘I don’t know what part of that statement surprises me more,’ he said. ‘Polite chit-chat about the weather, or the realisation that you must have got up at the crack of dawn to get here. Unless you didn’t bother going to bed at all; jumped on the plane straight from one of your Mayfair nightclubs? It wouldn’t be the first time,’ he added.
Minty clenched her fists against the light wool of her skirt, resisting the temptation to smooth down the material. ‘No, it wouldn’t,’ she agreed evenly. ‘But you are behind the times, Luca darling; I haven’t partied in Mayfair for years.’ She smiled sweetly up at him. ‘All the best clubs are in the east of the city now, you know. And I’m not dressed for dancing.’
Damn, she never knew when to stop talking. Why did she have to mention her clothes rather than let them make the statement for her? The laughter in Luca’s eyes ratcheted up as he surveyed her up and down, the firm lips folding together to suppress something that looked suspiciously like a smile. ‘So I see.’
She had dressed carefully, appropriately, in a simple grey, short-sleeved dress, a wide red belt adding a splash of colour as it cinched her narrow waist. Her shoes were a sensible height, her jewellery elegant and understated. She had even pulled her long blonde hair back into a loose bun. All she needed was a pair of glasses perched on her nose and a briefcase to make the metamorphosis complete. Leaving London in the lamplit, drizzly early hours, Minty had felt smart, professional, businesslike.
Now she felt like a child playing dress-up.
‘Not that it isn’t lovely to see you,’ Luca continued, that same silkily sarcastic tone in his voice. ‘But what have we done to deserve this rare treat? It must be at least six years since you last graced us with your presence.’
Almost exactly six years. She hadn’t been back since her aunt’s funeral. Since she and Luca had almost... Minty pushed the memory firmly back into its box. It wasn’t relevant to today, not relevant to any day. She couldn’t allow the past to derail her; couldn’t afford to mess this up. ‘It is the board meeting today, isn’t it?’ She allowed a fleeting, alarmed expression to cross her face. ‘Oh, no, I didn’t get the date wrong, did I?’ Let him think she was unprepared. She’d show him.
‘You’re here for the board meeting?’ Minty couldn’t help feeling smug as incredulity replaced amusement. ‘Why?’
‘I am on the board,’ she pointed out.
‘Technically,’ he said. ‘But as you have never yet attended a meeting, or even sent your apologies, you’ll have to forgive me for being a little confused. Have you read the papers? Do you know what’s on the agenda? I don’t have time to bring you up to speed.’ His tone was condescending, a little superior. Just like when they were children, when he had used every second of his four years’ seniority to put her down, push her away.
She wasn’t a little girl now.
Minty held up her handbag. Her prized Birkin bag had always seemed ridiculously huge, dangling off one arm with only a credit card, lipstick and mobile rattling around inside the cavernous depths. Turned out it was the perfect size for her iPad, ready-loaded not just with the last year’s board-meeting papers but also Minty’s notes and ideas. Her game plan. ‘Read and digested.’
‘Okay, then.’ Luca was back to his usual inscrutable, faintly mocking self. ‘I look forward to hearing your thoughts. Shall we go through?’
Hang on, this wasn’t in her plan. ‘What, now? The meeting doesn’t start for an hour.’
‘I thought you might want to settle in, freshen up.’ The amber eyes gleamed. ‘Prepare for the meeting. I’m sure we can find you a spare corner somewhere.’
‘Thanks,’ Minty said. ‘But I’m quite all right here.’ She gestured vaguely around the foyer. It was a light, welcoming space, the inside functional yet as lovely as the outside. Some people thought running a business the size of Di Tore Dolce from old farm buildings in the lush Oschian countryside was crazy; that they would be better moving to one of the big cities: Rome, Milan or Florence. But neither Luca nor his uncle had ever considered uprooting from the family estate where it had all begun.
The office building had once been a barn. Now it housed desks, meeting rooms and dozens of people. The reception area in which they stood was a modern, glass-roofed extension. Living vines wound abundantly round the ceiling and support beams and large wooden pots held huge, vibrant green plants. Clusters of chairs were grouped around coffee tables and to one side three smartly dressed women were seated behind a long desk. Despite the early hour, their fingers were flying away on the keyboards as they chatted into earpieces.
They were the stylish embodiment of Cerberus, the three-headed dog that guarded the entrance to Hades, and there was no getting past them. Minty had tried, unleashing the full power of her charm on them.
It hadn’t worked.
On the short flight over, Minty had allowed herself a few daydreams about her successful return to Di Tore Dolce, mostly inspired by late-night Dynasty reruns. She would be sitting at the head of the table, presentation already set up when the other board members walked in, ready to dazzle them with her business acumen and vision.
If Cerberus hadn’t barred her way.
But if Luca took her through she would immediately be sidelined, relegated back to the same position she had been in as a bored and sulky teenager dragged into the office for work experience.
Minty thought quickly. ‘Honestly, you go ahead; I need to sort out my pass,’ she said, darting a look over at the receptionists.
They’d have to let her through now. And then she could set up while Luca assumed she was freshening up. She could still surprise him.
‘No worries, they can deliver one to you. Come on.’ Luca put his hand on the small of her back and ushered Minty towards the automatic door that separated the public part of the business from the private. At just that brief contact a jolt of electricity snaked up Minty’s spine and she shot forward, away from his touch.
So much for cool and professional.
But she was no longer a silly teenager with a crush. This time she was the one in control.
* * *
What on earth was Minty Davenport doing back in Oschia? And, more important, what was she doing here at Di Tore Dolce?
Luca strode over to the window and looked out over the hills and vineyards that surrounded the head office of the business he had inherited and grown. Just a mile away over the brow of the nearest hill was his home, the old Oschian farmhouse where he had lived first with his parents and then, after the accident, with his uncle, Gio, and Gio’s English wife. Luca had adored the softly spoken Englishwoman—and had dreaded the summers when her wilful, wild niece came to wreak havoc for weeks on end.
Now Minty was back. What destruction did she bring in her wake this time?
And what on earth did she want with his business? If only Aunt Rose hadn’t split her third share between the two of them; she’d given Minty a reason to return.
There had to be a reason she was back. Minty was wild, impulsive and thoughtless but her whims had never included board meetings before. Luca pulled out his phone and quickly did a search on her name. Instantly the return page showed thousands of possible hits, some dated that week. He pulled up the most recent and read, a frown pinching his forehead.
‘Aha,’ he said softly as he scrolled down the backlit screen. ‘Got you.’
* * *
‘You summoned me?’ Her voice was light, full of laughter, but the blue eyes were defiant. Luca recognised the pose well: the time she’d stayed out all night... No, he corrected himself, the times she’d stayed out all night. After every outrageous prank, after every time she’d been called to account, Lady Araminta Davenport had presented that same mix of insouciance and bravado.
There had been a time when Luca had thought there was a vulnerability to her. That she presented a mask to the world.
He had been wrong.
Luca leant back in his chair, allowing his eyes to travel slowly down the demurely clad, long, lean body, the grey dress oddly seductive as it clung to her subtle curves. The coltish teenager had matured into a beautiful woman.
Luca looked directly at her, held her guileless gaze. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your engagement.’
The blue eyes widened momentarily. A faint flush crept over her cheekbones but it was the only outward sign of any inner emotion. Surprise? Discomfort? Embarrassment? Whatever Minty was feeling, she kept it locked inside.
Once he had wanted to know—to know what she felt. To know if she felt. To peel back her layers and see if there was anything more to her than a trust fund with an attitude.
‘To lose one fiancé is unlucky,’ he said, still watching her. ‘Three losses could be considered careless.’
She shrugged. ‘What can I say? I never did take care of my toys.’
Had he been one of those toys? Picked up on a whim then discarded? He felt the old familiar anger rise up and swallowed it back down. He had never given her the satisfaction of reacting to her selfish and outrageous behaviour. He wasn’t going to start now.
‘Probably for the best. I can’t really see you as a politician’s wife.’
‘Oh, it’s not all opening fetes and kissing babies, you know; some spouses even have jobs here in the twenty-first century.’ Minty wandered over to the bookshelves that lined the left side of the room and picked up a photo of her aunt. Rose was standing outside the farmhouse, her arm around a twelve-year-old Luca. He was smiling, leaning into the woman who had become his surrogate mother. He remembered that day clearly. It had been the first day since the accident that he had been happy and hadn’t thought about his parents.
‘It seems odd to be here, without her,’ Minty said, so softly he barely made out the words. ‘As the taxi drove past the house, I half-expected it to turn in to the driveway and I’d see her standing on the step in that flour-covered apron of hers.’ She put the photo down and continued to browse along the shelves, examining the photos and awards he kept there.
For a moment Luca softened. Rose had been just as much Minty’s surrogate mother as his; it must be strange for her to be back in Oschia for the first time since the funeral. But it had been her choice to stay away; to run away in the middle of the night; to barely bother keeping in touch with Uncle Gio, the man who had provided her with stability and a home for over ten summers.
‘It says here that your father wasn’t very pleased about the engagement being called off.’
Minty turned, leaning back against the bookshelves, confident, graceful, unpredictable as a cat. ‘You shouldn’t read gossip websites, they’re very bad for you.’
‘Ah, but how else would we know what you are up to?’
Her eyes gleamed. ‘I didn’t know you cared.’
Luca stared at her, not trying to hide his contempt. ‘I don’t, but Gio worries about you. Is it true?’
Minty wandered back towards the desk, dropping into the chair opposite, folding one long leg over the other as she did so. ‘True that Daddy was unhappy? You know Daddy. Inconvenient offspring of early marriages should not be seen, not be heard and definitely not be splashed all over the newspapers. He was a tad cross.’
‘Is that why you’re here?’
She gave him a long look from under her lashes. ‘Can’t you just believe that I was seized with a desire to contribute to the company?’
A burst of impatience shot through him. She’d been back for less than an hour and already she was playing games, turning his plans upside down. No way was he allowing her into that board meeting without knowing exactly why she was here and what she wanted. ‘Come on, Minty,’ he said. ‘You may be a shareholder, but as we plough most of the profits back into expansion we can only be a tiny part of your income.’ His eyes slid to the snakeskin Birkin bag dumped by the door. ‘A tiny part,’ he repeated. ‘You have never shown any interest in Di Tore Dolce before. Why now?’
Minty was silent for a long moment; he could see the wheels turning in her mind as she considered his question, considered how much to reveal. Finally she seemed to come to a decision. ‘I need a job,’ she said.
* * *
For a moment Minty thought Luca was going to laugh at her but the laughter quickly faded from his eyes, his mouth twisting sceptically as he took in her words.
The silence dragged on a second too long. Minty forced herself to stay relaxed, leaning back in her chair, her face calm, impassive.
After all, how many times could this man reject her?
Finally, just as her nerves wound tighter than her mother’s last facelift, he spoke. ‘Do you have a CV?’
‘With me, or at all? Not that it matters; I don’t have one.’
Luca had looked relaxed, in control, ever since she had walked into his office, leaning back in that ridiculously big chair. Now he sat up and leaned forward, eyes fixed on her face. ‘You are asking me for a job but you don’t have a CV?’ he repeated slowly.
Minty toyed with the idea of pointing out that, with a sixth share of the business, asking Luca was merely a formality, but one look at the stony expression on his face told her winding him up further was probably a bad idea. Shame; it would have been fun. He had always been so easy to rile.
And he was easier to handle when he was cross with her. Less dangerous.
‘I’ve never needed one before; I never had to formally apply for anything,’ she said. ‘But I do have a lot of varied experience. I’ve crewed a boat halfway around the world, run a Greek taverna, taught English in Bangkok and was a cow girl in Texas for a while.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’m aware none of these are particularly relevant but—’
‘Relevant to what?’ Luca interrupted. ‘Sales, finance, reception, milk maid?’ To Minty’s indignation the amusement was back in his voice. Damn; she had tried so hard not to be alone with him before the meeting because she knew he would be like this: superior; condescending. He wouldn’t hear her out.
It was all too familiar. She carried on as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘But they do show that I am adaptable, versatile and not afraid of hard work. I know you think it’s time for Di Tore Dolce to expand beyond the continent, into the English-speaking countries. I’m half-American and half-English—I can help you see the real differences in the two markets beyond the superficial accent and spelling differences. Also, don’t forget I founded a small cupcake chain in West London. I know all about stock management, sales and marketing. Oh, and budgeting too.’
She sat back, ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap. Excitement fizzed in her veins; she had said her piece, made her pitch. Had shown that she was abreast of current plans and developments. And in stark contrast to a minute ago Luca was looking engaged, interested.
He remained silent for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face. She tried not to stare at him hopefully, to appear nonchalant, relaxed.
As if this didn’t really matter at all.
And then he leant back again. ‘If you have a business back in England why do you need a job here?’
And just like that her mood went flat. ‘England and I need a break from each other,’ Minty said.
‘Come on, Minty. You need to do better than that.’
Only four years older. And yet he had always acted as if he were an adult and she an annoying child. She suppressed a scowl. It looked like nothing had changed. ‘Three cupcake shops in South London is fun but Di Tore Dolce is in a different league altogether. You’re already international; if the board goes ahead with the expansion, you’ll be close to global. Who wouldn’t want to be part of that?’
Luca raised an eyebrow. ‘Such enthusiasm from somebody who has been absent for so long the receptionists didn’t even recognise her. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be expanding your cupcake empire?’
‘Quite sure,’ Minty said. ‘Besides, the shops were funded through my trust fund. I am trying to rely on it less.’
That was one way of putting it.
His brows drew together, puzzled. ‘You are?’ He looked pointedly again at her expensive bag, his eyes travelling to her equally expensive shoes. ‘How novel for you. Inspiring, even. Unless...’ There was a speculative gleam in the amber eyes. ‘Unless you can’t rely on it. Just how upset was your father?’
Minty mentally went through the weapons at her disposal and dismissed them all. She doubted he’d be moved by tears, nor impressed with flirtation. There was no way she was going to plead.
She’d have to settle for honesty.
She looked down at her right hand and twisted the moonstone ring she wore on her middle finger round and round. Her left hand felt bare; yet another engagement ring removed. She’d liked the latest one too—not big, not ostentatious, not a family heirloom.
She took a deep breath. Right, honesty. How hard could it be? She looked back up, directly at Luca. ‘Daddy was furious,’ she said. ‘Not that he particularly liked Joe, but he wanted me settled. And he hated the publicity. Although I think that’s more because the press always drag up his three divorces, which kind of bursts his “happy family” bubble. Anyway, he decided I needed some tough love and cutting off my trust fund was the kindest thing he could do. Because I used my trust fund to start the first shop, he banned me from entering the premises. Too easy, he said.’
It took some work to keep the bitterness from her voice. Tough love. That was a good one. It would have been nice if he’d tried unconditional love first.
‘So you came to us in desperation?’ Luca said drily.
Ouch, that cut far too close. ‘Oh, no,’ Minty assured him, making sure she kept her voice light and breezy, not letting him see how much she wanted this, needed this. ‘Desperation would have meant accepting one of the reality TV shows I keep being offered, or pretending to write a book. And there are a lot of art galleries who would snap me up. Pearls, a little black dress and an expensive education are all they require, and I have all three in abundance. But, believe it or not, I want more; I do always read the board’s papers. I think this expansion is a good idea, and I want to be part of it.’
Minty put as much conviction as possible into her voice.
‘I’m glad our plans have your approval.’ Why did he have to sound so scathing? ‘But your sudden desire to contribute still seems a little suspicious. After all, apart from collecting your annual cheque, you haven’t shown any interest in Di Tore Dolce—or Oschia—for years. And now you want to...what? To move here? Or do you see your role as being more ambassadorial? Wining and dining prospective clients? Parties?’
Minty bit her lip. This was what she’d been afraid of—her plans dismissed out of hand, her ideas rejected unheard. And now she was here, actually back in Oschia, she was suddenly unsure. After all, he had shown her more than once how little he valued her. That he thought her nothing but a spoilt child.
He wasn’t the only one who thought that, yet somehow, even now, his disapproval stung that little bit more.
She stared unseeingly out of the window, at the landscape that used to feel like home. It hadn’t been for a long, long time. Maybe she should go back to London. Stop fighting her birthright, her destiny. Take a job in a West End gallery and share a flat with one of her trustafarian friends. Rejoin society—go to Henley, Ascot, shooting parties and hunt balls; see if she could attract the kind of husband who asked for little more than the right family and the ability to throw a good party. She’d managed it once, after all. Maybe this time she could actually go through with the wedding.
‘No, I want more than that.’ The conviction in her voice surprised her, and she could see Luca looked taken aback too. ‘I know this seems like a whim to you. And it is sudden. But I have thought it through; I’ve planned a role which fits in with the board’s objectives.’
‘Come on, Minty.’ Luca pushed his chair back and got up, walking over to the window and looking out. He stood there for one long moment then turned back to face her. ‘You can’t just swan in after all these years and expect us to fit in around your half-baked ideas. You’ve read the papers? Great. You’re a shareholder; you should know what’s going on. But that doesn’t mean that because you are bored with your shallow London life you can create a job here. We need people we can rely on, not people who run away in the middle of the night without even leaving a note.’
The room seemed distant, fuzzy. Her stomach churned as heat enveloped her, her palms clammy, her throat dry. Minty opened her mouth and then shut it. What could she say? She couldn’t believe he was even mentioning that night.
After all, she had spent six years trying to forget every single second of it.
But there was no way she was going to let Luca Di Tore know just how his actions had affected her.
She barely admitted it to herself.
Minty lifted her chin and looked directly at him, as if it didn’t matter at all. ‘I was young, Luca. Scared. Grieving. I didn’t know what I was doing.’
Hadn’t known what they were doing. Hadn’t known how her childhood adversary had suddenly become someone she was so, so tempted to cling to. Someone she needed. Wanted. Trusted.
He’d soon proved her wrong.
‘Not that young, Minty. You were engaged a month later. That was your first engagement, I believe,’ he added.
Minty swallowed a half-hysterical giggle. As if her engagement to Barty could be compared to what had nearly happened with Luca. Barty had been safe, undemanding, still a boy. She hadn’t needed him, hadn’t expected anything from him other than fun and flirtation.
She had wanted everything from Luca.
Until the moment he’d pushed her away. Until she had looked up to see nothing but horror in his eyes.
She pushed the unwanted memories away. She needed this to work; needed to find out if she was anything more than a pretty face and an old name, more than a trust-fund baby with a tabloid-friendly romantic history. ‘Rose wanted me to be part of the business,’ she said softly. ‘That was why she left me half her share.’
Luca stared back, indecision in his eyes. She knew he wanted nothing more than to give her her marching orders, put her back on a plane and order her to never set foot in Oschia again. But she had played her trump card, gambled it all on his sense of honour, his respect for the woman who had raised him.
He shut his eyes then they snapped open, all indecision gone. ‘Okay,’ Luca said. ‘You have two weeks. Two weeks to show me you can do the job. If you do, you can stay.’
Jubilation filled her. He was giving her a chance. Minty jumped to her feet and ran round the desk, flinging her arms around the tall figure. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you, you won’t regret it.’ She leant in, her face pressed against the cotton of his shirt, and before she could stop herself she inhaled. The fresh fragrance of his clean shirt mingled with the sharp freshness of his aftershave, mixed up with something warm, spicy. Something uniquely male. The smell shot through her, sending a jolt of sensual awareness right down to her toes.
She was all too aware of him, of the muscles under her hands, of his height, his strength. The leg pressed against hers, the flatness of his belly. If she raised her head just a little, she knew her mouth would be tantalisingly close to the pulse at his throat.
What was she doing? She dropped her hands and stumbled back.
He was as still as the Renaissance statue he resembled. His was face unreadable, his eyes shuttered.
Minty swallowed and moistened her lips. ‘It means a lot,’ she said. ‘Your faith.’
‘Don’t get carried away.’ She flinched. Was that a reference to her inappropriate bodily contact? ‘I have very little faith in you. And don’t think you can just start at the top. I served an apprenticeship here while you lazed by the pool and chatted up all the local boys. I have worked in every single department, from deliveries to stock management, learned how everything works. You’ll do the same over the next two weeks. One bad report, just one, and it’s all over. You sell your shares back to me and never come near me or my company again. Is that understood?’
A gamble. This was Minty’s language. Her ancestors had won—and lost—fortunes on the turn of a dice or a card. A Davenport never refused a wager. And they always played to win.
‘Understood,’ she said, holding her hand out to him. ‘We have a deal. If I lose, you buy my share at full market price, not a penny less. Not that I intend to lose.’ She grinned, all her old confidence rushing back. This was a challenge she could sink her teeth into. This was going to be fun.
‘In that case...’ Luca’s expression gave nothing away. ‘We’d better go and introduce you to the board. After all, many of them have no idea who you are. If you’re ready?’ He gestured to the door, keeping a clear distance between them.
Maybe he had been more affected by their brief contact than he had let on.
Or maybe he just didn’t want her to embarrass herself again. He really didn’t need to worry. That lesson had been well and truly learned.
‘Ready.’ She walked over to the door and picked up her bag, swinging it jauntily from her arm. This was it. ‘Just one more thing—I haven’t got anywhere to stay, and I’m a little short of cash and credit, which is less fun than I imagined. Could I stay in my old room at the farmhouse? Just for a few weeks? It’s what Rose would have wanted,’ she added, perhaps unwisely.
Luca moved so fast she barely saw him towering over her, his body between hers and the room. He put both hands on the wall either side of her, pinning her in place. ‘Don’t push me, Minty,’ he warned, his voice low and gravelly, the accent more pronounced than ever. ‘Don’t ever try to play me again. Consider this a warning.’
She was momentarily paralysed by his proximity; by the heat burning in the molten gold of his eyes; by her body’s traitorous reaction to his display of strength. But she was older, if not wiser; stronger. She summoned up all her attitude and stared brazenly back at him, a smile playing on her lips. ‘I take it that’s a no?’
He released her abruptly. ‘Your room is still as you left it. Gio insisted. You tidy up after yourself, you cook for yourself and you stay out of my way. Clear?’
‘As crystal,’ she said.
She gathered up her bag and followed him meekly out of the room, trying not to let her eyes linger on the length of his legs, the power in his stride. She had two weeks to work hard and keep her head down.
It had to be enough. She couldn’t afford to lose. Not this time.
CHAPTER TWO
LUCA WATCHED MINTY as she preceded him into the boardroom. He had seen her in many guises but this prim, butter-wouldn’t-melt look was a new one to him. And to her too, he thought, noticing her hands pull nervously at her skirt, rising to her head as she fiddled with the neat bun her usually flowing hair was pinned back in. Her demeanour might be cool and collected but she was nervous.
What on earth did she have to be nervous about? What was she planning?
She had her two weeks, didn’t she? What else did she need?
The large room was still empty. Adapted from an old hay loft, it had huge skylights all along the slanting roof allowing the morning light to flood in. The west wall was a lightly tinted screen of glass, shielding eyes from the bright sun whilst allowing those inside to admire the pastoral view beyond. The back wall was timber and brick and hung all over with posters from old advertising campaigns. One half of the room was taken up with a traditional oval wooden conference-table, large enough to sit twenty, the other half with comfortable chairs and sofas for more informal gatherings. Today’s meeting would begin with coffee and chat as usual, and the cups and steaming jugs were already laid out, along with plates of breakfast pastries, fresh fruit and a variety of other snacks.
One plate really stood out amongst the more traditional pastries, rolls and cheeses: a chilled platter of tiny frozen spheres in a variety of pinks, creams and reds. Luca watched in amusement as Minty picked up a particularly inviting-looking pink and cream affair and popped it into her mouth with a fervent, ‘Oh, good, food. I’m starving.’
He waited. It didn’t take long.
‘Eurgh.’ Looking about her wildly, Minty groped for a napkin and inelegantly spat out the remains of the canapé into its white folds. ‘That’s not strawberries and cream! Or if it is there is something seriously wrong with your recipes, Luca.’
‘No,’ he said, trying without much success to keep his face straight. ‘We usually have a tasting session before each meeting. This is our new line of canapés: frozen savouries. That one, I believe, was smoked salmon and cream cheese.’
‘That explains the fishy aftertaste,’ Minty said, her face still screwed up in disgust.
‘Try it again,’ he said, picking up another pink and cream canapé and offering it to her. ‘Now you know what it is, see what you think of the flavours.’
‘What’s wrong with a nice blini? Some fresh black pepper, a dollop of sour cream, just a hint of lemon: there’s a reason it’s a classic,’ Minty grumbled but took the ball cautiously between her finger and thumb and nibbled at it. Her face gradually relaxed as she savoured the taste and she took a larger bite. ‘Now I know what it is, it isn’t bad,’ she said. ‘Subtle. Texture’s nice too, not slimy. How did you manage that? What are the other flavours?’
‘The red one is tomato mixed with ciabatta crumb, the pale pink one ham, parmesan and caramelised onion. Try one.’
‘People will seriously buy this stuff?’ Minty picked up the ham and parmesan and sniffed it gingerly. ‘I mean, I like a nice Earl Grey sorbet as much as the next girl, but savoury ice-cream canapés?’
‘You are behind the times, Araminta cara.’ Luca popped one of the icy tomato balls into his mouth and tasted the sharp, sweet hit of tomato, the herby crumbs tempering the sweetness. Delicious. It had taken months to get the texture right, not so sloppy a sorbet that it couldn’t be finger food, nor so creamy that it overshadowed the taste. ‘Food experimentation, playing with perceptions, sweet and savoury combinations, is huge right now; this product allows any party-giver to show how modern and sophisticated they are. However, a girl whose idea of a perfect meal is a fishfinger sandwich can’t be expected to appreciate something so adventurous.’ He waited, an eyebrow raised, for the inevitable reaction.
‘Actually...’ Luca grinned as Minty rose to the bait just as he had known she would. Some things never changed. ‘I think you’ll find that fish goujons served with rocket, aioli and ciabatta is a staple in any self-respecting gastro-pub.’
He repressed a shudder. ‘And that is why I will never eat in England.’
‘Snob.’
‘Philistine.’
The tension crackled between them. Minty was standing close, so close it would take less than a second to pull her to him, to silence her the only way that had ever proved effective. The blood thrummed in his ears as his eyes fastened on the full curve of her mouth, wide, provocative, tempting.
It would be a lie to say that the memory of kissing Minty Davenport had haunted him for the past six years; a lie to say that he had wasted those years yearning to taste her again. And yet the oddest things would remind him of that night; remind him how gloriously right it had felt, how right she had felt.
How right they had felt, as if all the years of competition and antagonism had led them to this point.
But she had been too young. Grieving. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, have taken advantage of that. Of her. Stopping might have been hard but it had been the right thing to do.
And in the morning she had gone. No note; no word for six long years. Until today, waltzing in as if she had never been away, as unpredictable, as selfish, as ever.
And just because the memory of that night, that kiss, hung heavily in the atmosphere didn’t mean he had to act on it. Not at all.
Luca had a plan for his future, for his business, for his home. Minty didn’t figure anywhere.
Just two weeks and she would be gone. He needed to keep his distance and never, ever let himself forget who and what she was.
It was time for him to take control.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later the room was filled with the remaining board members. Luca, his Uncle Gio and Minty were the only stockholders. Having taken up the reins at such a young age, Luca had carried on with Gio’s practice of having an independent board made up of professionals with very different skills, from an expert in international law, whose only connection with Di Tore Dolce was these meetings, to Giovanna, a woman in her early sixties who had made gelato for the Di Tores since her teens.
He might not always take their advice but he valued it.
The meeting began informally, as always, and the room was filled with the usual hubbub of chit-chat, greetings and animated conversation as the board members caught up whilst sampling the food on offer. With one eye on the clock, Luca managed to back Minty into a corner, keeping her engaged in conversation and making it hard for her to mingle. By the time the others had taken their places at the table, she was well and truly relegated to the position of visitor, the object of everyone’s gaze and curiosity.
Thank goodness Gio was running late; he would have swept her into the midst of the conversation before Luca could say ‘ciao’.
‘Everyone,’ Luca said in English, ‘I would like to introduce Araminta Davenport. Although you may not know her by sight...’ He bestowed a smile on the silently fulminating Minty. That was right; mark her out as an outsider from the off. ‘You may be aware that she was left a sixth of the company by my aunt. It’s lovely to see her take an interest in the company at last. Come on, Minty, let’s find you a seat.’
Luca took care to spend some time ensuring she was comfortable, deliberately continuing to emphasise her visitor status. ‘Would you rather we held the meeting in English?’ he asked solicitously and had the pleasure of seeing her practically bare her teeth at him as she assured him that, really, her Italian was quite adequate, thank you.
One-nil to Luca.
Over the next half-hour Luca almost forgot that Minty was in the room. Almost. The occasional glance of her neatly coiffed head nodding earnestly as someone made a valid point; the sight of her typing rapid notes onto her iPad; the small wrinkle at the bridge of her nose when the conversation became more animated or technical than her rusty Italian could follow would make him falter, check his notes, regroup.
But so far she had said nothing. Not even a murmur of agreement. Luca felt the slight weight of worry lift. Maybe she was just here to observe; maybe he had seen trouble where there was none.
The niceties were soon dealt with: apologies, minutes, agendas, a few small points all despatched. It was time for the main event.
It was time to address the international expansion, the biggest change to Di Tore Dolce since they had made the decision to produce not just the traditional gelato but the full range of Italian desserts. And this expansion was all Luca’s.
He pressed a button on his laptop and pulled up the presentation, adrenaline flooding through his veins. The business was profitable, successful and flourishing under his leadership despite the difficult financial conditions. It was time to take it global. He smiled confidently at the table and opened his mouth, ready to begin. But before he could speak the first carefully prepared word, the door opened.
Gio had arrived, smiling, full of apologies, bestowing embraces all round. Minty rose to her feet, ready for his embrace as he walked in, but Luca could tell that behind her smile and hug she was shocked. Shocked at how the bear of a man had shrunk, at the lines on his face, the greyness of his hair. Shocked that the twinkle in his eyes was just a faded reflection of the real thing. Luca recognised the shock; he felt it too every time he saw his uncle.
When Rose had died, Gio’s heart had died too.
What did that feel like, to be halved like that? Luca knew what he wanted and it wasn’t such grand emotion, such all-or-nothing passion.
He wanted compatibility, comfort.
Almost against his will, his glance slid over to Minty, still enfolded in Gio’s arms. Resolutely Luca wrenched his eyes away again.
Minty was many things but she had never been comfortable.
‘Okay, everyone.’ It was time to call this meeting back to order. ‘Gio, lovely to see you.’ He tried not to allow the anxiety his uncle’s appearance caused him to show in his voice. Was he eating enough? Drinking too much?
When would he stop grieving for a woman who had been dead for six years?
‘As you know, I have been investigating expanding into some of the English-speaking territories,’ he began, projecting confidence as he spoke, looking round the table to catch and hold every single person’s eye. They were all nodding and smiling back at him. All except Minty, who was frowning down at her iPad. A surge of irritation ran through him. She had seemed so keen on the expansion back in his office.
Instantly heat flamed through his body as the memory of her impulsive embrace hit him: the lean length of her, impossibly, incredibly soft; the way she fit into him, around him.
Luca took a hurried gulp of water.
He took care to avoid looking at Minty as he carried on, spending the next twenty minutes taking the board through the figures, projections and risk analysis of the project. They seemed engaged, approving. And so they should; Luca had been working on this for months.
‘Any questions?’ he finished. There were just a few hands: some clarifications, double-checking of the figures; nothing major, nothing to worry about.
And why would there be?
‘Bene.’ He beamed round at the assembled company. ‘If we are all agreed, then...’
‘I’m sorry.’ Luca looked up in shock. She chose to speak now?
‘Si?’ he bit out impatiently.
Minty smiled apologetically but those blue eyes were steely. Whatever she intended, she planned to see through. The long-buried antagonism began to force its way back into Luca’s consciousness. What act of sabotage was she plotting?
‘I have something to say. There’s actually a presentation.’ She gestured towards the iPad. ‘Do you all mind?’
‘Of course not,’ Gio broke in. ‘Help Minty set up, Luca. Let’s hear what she has to say.’
Lips set, mind whirling furiously, Luca obeyed. To shut her down would seem churlish, as if he had something to hide. The cunning little minx: she had set him up. The clothes, the lowered eyelashes, the hair—it was all an act, just as he had guessed. Of course, he thought darkly, the leopard doesn’t change its spots.
But what did this particular feline want this time and, more importantly, what did she want with his company?
* * *
Minty’s pulse was racing, her palms slippery with nervous sweat as she stood up and walked towards the head of the table, putting as confident a swagger into her walk as she could manage.
She couldn’t let him shut her down. Not this time.
It had taken six years, three broken engagements and the loss of everything to bring her back here. But, now she was back, she suddenly, desperately, wanted to succeed. Needed to succeed.
She needed to show Luca she was worth more than a quiet ‘no’.
She needed to show herself that she was worth something. Worth anything.
One of her ex-fiancés was a musician; another a politician. They had nothing in common apart from having presented Minty with an engagement ring and then telling her she could keep it, a last act of patronising kindness as they’d walked away. But both men knew how to work a crowd. Very different crowds, true, but they both had the knack of commanding the attention of everyone in the room with the sheer power of their personality.
It was all in the presentation.
And confidence. ‘If you believe you can do it,’ Joe had said, ‘anything is possible.’ The trite, predictable sound bite of a politician, but Minty was going to take his words at face value.
She could do this.
‘Buongiorno,’ she said and, taking a leaf out of Luca’s book, she smiled around the table, making sure she caught every single person’s eye before she moved on. Even Luca’s, although it took every ounce of determination she had to meet that burningly intense gaze.
His eyes were smouldering gold, promising slow, painful retribution. Just like the time she borrowed his rare Batman comic and dropped it in the swimming pool. Not entirely by accident.
Enough dwelling on the past; this was about the here and now. About impressing them, proving that she had a right to be here; that despite everything she belonged.
‘Expanding into the UK is a great idea,’ she began smoothly, pulling up her first slide as she spoke. ‘As you can see, the UK has been getting more and more serious about food over the last couple of decades with a much bigger variation in both restaurant types and meals cooked at home. Traditional Italian ingredients such as pasta are now a British staple.’
She gave a quick smile to hide her nerves. Gio caught her eye and gave her a broad wink of approval and Minty’s spirits rose. She didn’t sound like an idiot.
Confidence buoyed, she carried on, taking them through statistics on British dietary habits, eating-out spend and grocery spend. Luca lounged back in his chair, the anger in his eyes simmering down to annoyance. So far she was covering no new ground.
Minty was fully aware of that.
‘The expansion as it stands is a two-pronged plan,’ she said. This was it, when she deviated from the ideas and costings Luca had put together. Butterflies tumbled through her stomach, making it hard to catch her breath. ‘Restaurants and specialist food-outlets. I’m not going to discuss restaurants, as they buy different quantities and are sold differently, but I am going to tell you why I think focussing on the specialist outlets is a mistake.’
The challenge was thrown down.
Minty didn’t intend to look at Luca at this point but she felt his gaze on her and, like a magnet, it drew her in. He was no longer leaning back, no longer simmering. He sat bolt-upright, those disquieting eyes fixed on her face, a tiger ready to pounce. Her mouth dry, she carried on, moistening her lips with her tongue, resisting the instincts that screamed at her to back away slowly. To stop right now.
Too bad she always ignored her instincts.
‘Supplying ready-made gelato and Italian-made puddings to the UK is the right course,’ she said. ‘Although we love to talk about cooking, to watch cooking programmes and to buy vast libraries of cookbooks, most people in the UK don’t really enjoy cooking. Not day-to-day. Or people are too just too busy to cook properly. Also, at weekends they feel like they deserve a treat, a break from the kitchen, but the recession has meant that the old staples of going out or ordering takeaways are no longer weekly treats but monthly indulgences.’
Minty took a deep breath. ‘This in turn has given rise to the gourmet ready-meal. Dine in for ten pounds for two, or kits that you put together in your kitchen and that take five minutes to cook but make you feel like you actually made the meal.’
There were a few murmurs at this. Minty looked round the incredulous-looking people who sat opposite her and had to restrain a laugh. They could as little comprehend a world where people bought their lasagne ready-made as they could imagine a talking dog. Which was exactly why they needed her; they just didn’t know it yet.
‘Some gourmet food shops do provide ready meals,’ she continued. ‘But the people who shop there have different values. They care about food, which is great for us, but they also care about origin. A York deli will want to sell ice cream made with cream from Yorkshire cows, not Italian cows, to cut down on food miles and support local economies. And the food miles will be exorbitant; supplying a few delis here and there will cost a fortune, eating into our margins.’
Minty took a deep breath. The table was silent, every person hanging on her every word. Excitement surged but she ruthlessly dampened it down. She wasn’t there yet.
‘One solution would be to concentrate on London, which has a huge amount of delis and a sizeable Italian population. But then we haven’t really tapped into the UK, just a tiny part of it.
‘So we should consider the supermarkets.’
There. It was said.
There was a stunned silence. Minty pressed on, ‘Not every supermarket, not even the most popular supermarkets, but the most up-market supermarkets, to fit in with the aspirational and fresh appeal of the brand. There are two who will manage our prices, sell-by dates and image without cheapening and demeaning our brand. Their endorsement will make us desirable to the delis and specialist food-outlets you prefer and, crucially, raise our profile with the consumer.’
Minty looked up at the last slide, a stock image of a laughing, loving nuclear family gathered around a table, bowls of ice cream in front of them.
What would it be like to be part of such a family?
She thrust the thought aside and lifted her chin. ‘Any questions?’
She risked a look over at Luca’s chair opposite. He was leaning back again, relaxed. To all appearances, open to ideas and opinions.
Unless you looked closely at his eyes. A chill shivered down Minty’s spine. She was no coward but she couldn’t sustain eye contact of any length with such contemptuous anger blazing out at her. She wanted to challenge him, to sustain the advantage her height and position gave her as she stood at the front of his boardroom, but she quailed before him and lowered her eyelids, blocking out the unleashed fury.
Submitting.
Idiot; coward, she admonished herself. You have a right to be here, to make your point.
But when she steeled herself to take him back on, plastered on her most guileless expression and raised innocent eyes back to his face, it was too late. His expression was bland, his eyes hooded. Emotionless.
Maybe she had made up the earlier anger, seen only what she was expecting to see. But the hairs still stood up on her arms; a disquieting prickle at the back of her neck was a reminder. Luca could have been a formidable ally. Instead she had made a dangerous enemy.
There was no time to dwell on her tactics as the questions began. If Minty had thought she could get away with making her presentation unchallenged, she was wrong. The board members might not have had a chance to prepare their questions but that didn’t stop them. Which supermarkets? Prices, margins, market penetration, rival brands? Minty had done her homework, had spent the past two weeks preparing, but the level of detail they wanted at this stage astonished her. Frightened her.
It was very different from sitting down with the three women who managed her cupcake cafés. From the cosy chats over coffee and cakes about new recipes, promotions, staff. Her accountant took care of the finances, the staff the social media and marketing. The shop managers were responsible for all the day-to-day issues.
She was just a trust-fund baby with a vanity business, after all.
The door was so close. She could just leave, sell the damn shares. With the money she could travel, start again, open up a new vanity project: design handbags, maybe, like many a socialite before her. She wouldn’t need her trust fund.
But Aunt Rose had left her the shares. She had believed in Minty, had wanted her to be involved. She had never believed Minty could let her down, would let her down. Maybe she’d been the only person who had ever believed that?
‘Don’t fudge; if you don’t know the answer, say you’ll find out and get back to them. Always get back to them. And never let them see you’re scared.’ Who would have thought that Joe’s ‘top ten tips on winning over the electorate’ would come in so handy? Minty squared her shoulders, turned her charm up full blast and answered the questions as best she could, as confidently as she could.
And she was winning them over; she could see it in their eyes, their demeanour.
Of course, not everyone was getting carried away. ‘Have you set up meetings with these supermarkets? Discussed pricing, volume and distribution?’ Luca, the voice of reason: cold, questioning, eyes narrowed, pen poised over paper, waiting for her answer. Like a headmaster dealing with a disappointing pupil.
‘Not yet. It seemed premature.’ Minty had considered it. She had gone as far as finding out the names of the buyers involved, but making the next step scared her. She repressed a shudder, imagining herself there like an Apprentice contestant, trying to convince the supermarkets to buy. What if she overpitched or under-pitched? What if she cost the company hundreds of thousands by negotiating too low a discount—or lost the opportunity by going in too high?
Maybe this idea of Luca’s that she spend two weeks learning the ropes had some merit after all.
Merit beyond proving him wrong, that was.
‘That sounds eminently sensible.’ The sound of Gio’s voice made her jump. He’d been silent up to now, she realised with a sense of shock. The Gio she remembered was larger than life in business, in laughter, in food, in love. Not a man to sit quietly and listen, his eyes troubled and sad. ‘I think Minty has made her case very well. Now it’s up to us to investigate the feasibility, with Minty’s input, of course. You are planning to stay, aren’t you?’
Minty opened her mouth to assure him that, yes, she was planning to stay for the time being—noncommittal agreement, her speciality. But something in his eyes made her stop. ‘I hope to,’ she said, surprising herself by the honesty in her voice. ‘I mean, I’d like to.’
‘Good.’ Gio sat up a little straighter and turned to Luca. ‘In that case, fifty per cent of the shareholders are in favour of advancing Minty’s idea to the next stage. Are you going to make it one hundred percent or will we need to put it to the board?’
It wasn’t anger in Luca’s eyes now, or contempt. It was shock. Of course, Minty thought. As a fifty per cent shareholder and CEO he had the majority vote. It was only her presence that made a tie possible. For six years he had had things all his own way.
Minty had just spoiled all his fun.
‘There’s no harm in investigating,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ll talk to our head of sales later today.’ He shot a glance at Minty. ‘You’ll need to be there.’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s just an investigation at this stage,’ he warned them. ‘It may not be feasible. But we’ll look into it. Okay, if there are no more questions on the expansion, let’s move on. Giovanna, I believe the next section is yours...’
* * *
There was no time to talk to Minty alone after the meeting. It wasn’t until Luca’s head of sales had left his office, armed with the relevant information, that Luca was able to catch her. ‘Just a minute, Minty,’ he said, his voice deceptively calm. ‘I just want a quick word.’
She was already at the door, holding on to the handle as if it were her only hope. As well she might, he thought grimly. Luckily for Minty, several hours had given him the chance to cool down. A little bit.
‘Sit down,’ he invited, still silkily calm. For a moment he thought she might defy him, insist on standing just because she could, just because she was Minty Davenport and always had to be contrary. But, after a long moment’s silent contemplation, she folded herself gracefully into a chair, limpid eyes fixed on his.
He continued to look at her levelly and had the satisfaction of seeing her squirm under his regard. Minty loved a bit of drama; a good argument didn’t faze her at all. But the silent treatment, ignoring her? That had always proved far more effective.
‘Gio’s offered to give me a lift back to the house,’ she said at last, caving in, breaking the silence first. ‘He’s going to let me have his keys for now, and he still has your old Fiat, which he’s happy for me to borrow while I’m here. I wouldn’t want to be dependent on you—I mean, I’m sure you would find that annoying.’
‘He’s pleased to see you. He always wanted you to be involved.’ The rebuke was subtle but as pointed as he could make it, and by the flush that crept over her cheeks it had hit home.
Good.
‘It’s lovely to see him, although a bit of a shock; he seems so much older.’ An anxious expression shadowed her face. ‘In some ways I barely recognised him. Is he okay?’
Luca didn’t reply. If she really cared about Gio she would have written. Or phoned, emailed, faxed, texted, tweeted. In this day and age there were no excuses for six years’ silence. She could have hauled her party-going ass onto a plane and come to visit. The righteous anger fuelled him, made it easy to ignore the concern in her eyes.
‘I don’t know why you are here or what you want,’ he said finally. ‘Regardless of your little stunt in the boardroom, my conditions still stand. I have your schedule here.’ He passed her a sheet of paper and she took it wordlessly, her blue eyes huge as she stared across at him. She looked tired, vulnerable, every bit the penniless adventurer who had risen at the crack of dawn to try to seek out her fortune.
She was quite the actress.
‘I’m sorry if you didn’t like what I had to say—’ she began. Luca cut her off ruthlessly.
‘No you’re not.’
She blinked at him. ‘Not what?’
‘You’re not sorry. Not at all. You wanted to come in here and make a big splash. Minty Davenport wins the day. Your clothes, your hair...’ His words were tumbling out now in anger, frustration, all the negative emotions this dammed woman stirred up in him. ‘It’s just the same as when we were kids. You always had some new role, some new drama. Remember the summer you decided to be an eco-warrior? Lectured us the whole time on our food, our cars, our clothes. Then you turned up again nine months later, clad in leather and guzzling up as much hot water as possible.’
‘I was fifteen...’
‘Your artist stage,’ he continued ruthlessly. ‘How much did you spend on lessons and supplies? I bet you haven’t picked up a brush in years.’
‘That has got nothing to do with—’
‘And this is your latest fantasy: running a company, making presentations, wearing a suit and coming into an office every day? Not in my company, Minty. I will not allow my hard work to be a backdrop for your latest role. I will not allow it.’
When had he risen to his feet? Leant over his desk? Why was it he only lost control of his emotions when she was around? Luca took a deep breath, tried to still the adrenaline swirling around his body, the blood thumping in his ears. She was staring at him, eyes still wide but now with shock. ‘Your points were valid, Minty,’ he said more calmly. ‘If you had come to me earlier, told me your thoughts, I would have listened, incorporated them. We could have gone to the board together with a final plan, costings. You didn’t need to make such a drama out of it. You don’t need to make such a drama out of everything.’
Were those tears swimming in her eyes? She blinked rapidly and the shine was gone. Maybe he’d imagined it, had seen what he wanted to see.
She had always played him—as a child, a teenager. It looked like nothing had changed. ‘It ends here,’ he added more calmly. ‘Understand? Or you can leave right away. You have something to say? Talk to me. Work with me. I’m open to suggestion, ask anyone.’
His eyes continued to bore into her, to pin her down. ‘But if it’s not business then I don’t want to hear it. Gio may be glad you’re back.’ He leaned on his desk, eyes boring into hers. ‘But I’m not. Stay out of my way, Minty. That’s a warning.’
CHAPTER THREE
EVERY LIMB WAS HEAVY; her head was not just foggy but filled with a traditional London pea-souper straight from the nineteen-thirties. Minty wasn’t sure she could even stagger down the driveway, let alone open the front door and flop her exhausted body inside when she got there.
‘Ciao, Gianni; ciao Alfonso. Grazie; a presto,’ she said, feebly pushing the heavy lorry door shut, managing a small wave at the grinning drivers as she did so. How did they manage to stay awake? And so cheerful. Forty-eight hours of helping to deliver ice cream and other frozen desserts to restaurants, on a circular route that had taken in three countries and given very few opportunities for sleep, had taken every ounce of zest out of her.
She turned away from the lorry and, on the third attempt, hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and set off along the cypress-tree-lined path that led to the farmhouse.
Minty had spent every summer in Oschia since she’d turned seven and yet, on evenings like this, with the sunset beginning to turn the countryside red-gold, the landscape still had the power to make her stop and stare, drink it in. It was an idyllic setting.
The old stone house was positioned in the middle of a row of terraced plateaux that climbed down the hillside. At the top of the hill the small Oschian town clung on precariously. To one side she saw the medieval town walls gleaming gold in the evening sun, the tower of the medieval church jutting high above; in every other direction were a hundred different shades of green, as far as the eye could see.
It was only a couple of hundred yards down the driveway yet every weary step felt like a mile. Luckily the front door wasn’t locked. Minty didn’t think she was capable of finding her keys, hidden as they were somewhere amongst the tangle of essential toiletries, changes of underwear, sweet wrappers and other items she had considered necessary for her road trip. She turned the big wooden doorknob and almost fell into the large, marble-tiled hallway, dropping her bag with a relieved sigh.
‘Honey, I’m home,’ she called out, then sniffed. What was that smell? Onions, garlic, tomatoes, herbs, some kind of fish: the smell of a proper Italian kitchen. Her stomach rumbled painfully. It had been a while since the last food stop. At least that one had been over the Italian border; their journey through Austria, Slovenia and the tip of Germany had required more stop-offs at bratwurst stalls than Minty cared to remember.
The currywurst at the second one had definitely been a mistake; having two, an even bigger mistake.
Minty stayed in the hallway for a second, leaning against the panelled wall. Ahead was the staircase. All she had to do was somehow get herself up those stairs and she would be just one door away from her bed. Her gloriously comfortable bed with all the trimmings. What a beautiful contrast to the past two days, trying to nap squeezed into the front seat of the lorry between Gianno and Alfonso. Charming men, but not her sleeping companions of choice.
Minty swayed, torn between hunger and tiredness. Another enticing waft of garlic floated through the air and, with a regretful look up the stairs, Minty pulled herself together and went through the door to the kitchen to find the source of the heavenly smell.
The house was exactly the same as it had always been, unpretentious and homely with the large kitchen at its very heart. Taking up the whole back of the house, the combination kitchen, dining and family room was a warm, spacious area, the separate parts divided by a long tiled counter. On one side was the kitchen area, simple, with wooden doors and shelves, a marbled worktop and a huge range cooker. On the other a large table was set about with assorted, mismatched chairs. Further back, cosily clustered around the fireplace, were two old sofas. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered one wall, filled with an assortment of battered, well-read Italian and English paperbacks, ancient board games and several incomplete packs of cards.
Minty had been raised in one of England’s oldest and finest houses but she had never felt as at home there as she did here, had never loved it as much as she loved this room with its simple charm. Every piece of furniture had been lovingly chosen and pieced together. It was a much-loved home, far more appealing than the stunning, architecturally remodelled places she usually holidayed in.
Luca stood at the stove stirring the source of the heavenly smell with a spoon. At the sight of him Minty rocked back on her heels. There was something so inherently sexy about a handsome man cooking. It really wasn’t fair; like a man holding a puppy or a baby, or taking his granny to church, the act added an extra glow, a sweetness to the sensuality.
He was dressed in snug-fitting, worn black jeans, in parts so faded they were grey, and a simple black T-shirt. The lack of colour should have been austere, especially teamed with his dark hair, but he looked good, the jeans showcasing long, powerful legs; the T-shirt skimming the smooth stomach; the short sleeves defining the muscles on his olive-skinned arms. Yep, he looked good, Minty thought dreamily.
She shook her head angrily, clearing the fog as best as she could. Goodness, she must be tired, standing here mooning over Luca, of all people! She was hungry, that was all; her brain was confusing the cook with the food.
‘That smells delicious.’
Luca didn’t bother to look round. ‘Separate meals, remember?’
‘I’ll make the spaghetti,’ she said as coaxingly as she could.
Luca spun round, horror on his face, tomato sauce splattering everywhere from the spoon he still held. ‘Mio Dio, do you still know nothing about food?’ he said. ‘‘First of all this is cioppino—a soup. A simple salad and some ciabatta are all it needs. Secondly, if you think I would trust you with cooking pasta, you are delusional—unless at some point in the last six years you learned what al dente means, which I doubt very much. Thirdly, if it was a stew I would team it with something heartier than spaghetti: farfalle or maybe bucatini.’ The amber eyes glazed over as he considered his options.
‘I have done several cooking courses, you know,’ Minty said, ignoring Luca’s outburst. He couldn’t help himself. Gio was just the same, convinced that nobody could cook as well as he did, especially not someone unfortunate enough to be English. ‘I can even make pasta, not just cook it. How about I cut the bread?’
Luca’s withering glare would have wilted a lesser mortal. Luckily Minty was made of sterner stuff—and had been weathering his glares for years. ‘So it can go stale? No, thank you.’
‘Wash the salad? Or will I make the lettuce leaves too wet? Be too rough with the cucumbers?’
Luca continued to stare for a few seconds longer then shrugged, turning back to the stove to resume stirring. Minty, taking silence for acquiescence, padded over to the large American-style fridge and opened it, surveying the huge array of contents. ‘Only four types of lettuce leaves; Luca, your standards are slipping,’ she said. Suddenly she felt far more awake, either from the prospect of dinner or rediscovering the old joy of baiting Luca. Or both. ‘I’m not sure I can work with such ingredients,’ she continued, throwing a provocative glance over her shoulder. He was standing ramrod-straight, radiating disapproval.
She removed the salad leaves, by the look of them picked fresh that day, and carried them over to the sink to wash. For a few minutes there was silence as they worked side by side. Minty had never really cooked with anyone else before. It was oddly comfortable.
‘Can you pass the garlic?’ she said after a while.
Luca eyed her suspiciously. ‘Why?’
‘Well, I could put it at the door and ward off vampires, but I was thinking of making a vinaigrette for the salad and to dip the bread into. Your call.’
The corners of Luca’s mouth curled in a reluctant smile and he tossed a small white bulb over to Minty, who caught it one-handed with an elaborate flourish. Standing there, knife in one hand, chopping board in front of her, no small talk, Minty was aware of an odd sensation.
She was almost content.
* * *
Dinner tasted as good as it smelt, helped, Minty was at pains to point out, by her perfectly seasoned vinaigrette. Afterwards, she collected the dishes and took them into the kitchen, waving Luca away when he came to help. ‘Although I still think both my salad and the dressing were masterpieces,’ she said, ‘I do have to concede that you did the bulk of the cooking. It’s only fair I clear up.’
Luca wasn’t going to argue. He took his wine and a small plate of grapes and cheese over to the sofa and opened up his laptop, pulling up the spreadsheet Alessandro, his head of sales, had emailed over earlier that evening. He usually put at least an hour in after dinner; working from home sometimes gave things a different perspective.
Five minutes later it was as unread as when he had opened it. His eyes kept wandering over to Minty, who was industriously rinsing out pans. She looked tired; her hair was pulled back in a knot and she was still wearing the light trousers and simple knitted top she had put on two days ago when she had left to do the deliveries. But she hadn’t come in complaining about how exhausted she was, how achy her limbs were—and he knew they would be, after two days in such a confined space.
It was almost impossible to work, to concentrate, with Minty so visible, so present. Since she had arrived she had kept her word and had stayed in her room at night, eaten separately and kept out of his way. They had barely seen each other to exchange a muttered greeting. Just as he wanted, as he had insisted.
And yet tonight he found himself moved by the weariness in her eyes. It was the same old story. He couldn’t resist being her knight in shining armour, whether she wanted him to or not.
They might have spent most of their lives at loggerheads, but occasionally an unofficial, unacknowledged truce would be called. That first summer she’d come to stay, Luca had spent one memorable day playing old board games with the broken-hearted small girl after she’d discovered her father had chosen to go to St Tropez with his latest girlfriend instead of making a promised visit to Oschia.
Luca still had a fondness for Cluedo.
On her father’s third wedding day—a small, intimate affair for around two hundred guests, including a celebrity magazine, but not the groom’s only offspring—Luca had taken twelve-year-old Minty on an illicit road trip, pillioned on the back of his beloved Vespa. Rose had been furious when they had finally rocked back up long after dark, dirty, exhausted, exhilarated. Until she had seen the light shining in Minty’s eyes.
At sixteen, Minty’s boyfriend had dumped her by text. Another impromptu road trip, this time in Luca’s teeny Fiat—a present from Gio and Rose, who’d shared a fear of very young men driving powerful cars. Not that Luca had ever been likely to drive recklessly, not after his parents’ accident. They had headed south and ended up in Rome for an afternoon of sightseeing, shopping and very expensive coffee.
The last truce of all had been the night after Rose’s funeral. Luca’s hands tightened on the laptop keyboard at the memory. Six years later and he could still taste Minty, still recall exactly how it had felt to run his hands down those long, long legs; up over that supple waist to the swell of her small, firm breasts; her gasps and murmured endearments, begging him please not to stop, never to stop. He stared sightlessly at his keyboard, willing the memory to fade.
For the aftermath of these truces was always the same: distance; disdain. Minty acting out worse than usual, as if to wipe out those rare moments of vulnerability. And that last time she’d simply disappeared. For six years Luca hadn’t known who to despise more—himself for taking advantage of a grieving girl not yet out of her teens, or Minty for running away.
And now she was back. Wiping dishes in his kitchen as if they really were the family she had refused to allow them to be.
She was surprising him. There had been no moaning, no trying to shirk the long, arduous schedule he had put together for her. It was still early days, less than a week since she had taken up the challenge, but he had ensured her every moment was filled: a 4:00 a.m. start day for the morning milking; a gruelling day in the frozen-food section of the warehouse followed by two days on the road. Tomorrow would be spent in one of the kitchens; the weekend would be serving in the café which sold Di Tore Dolce products directly to the public.
‘I love that you haven’t changed anything,’ she said, banging the dishwasher door shut. She picked up a cloth and began to wipe down the sides. ‘The same dishes, pans, worktops. I like that it’s all the same.’
Luca put the laptop down on the table in front of him and leant back, the glass of wine in his hand. ‘What would I have changed?’ he asked.
Minty shrugged. ‘Sleek, black leather sofas and chrome everywhere,’ she suggested. ‘Knocking through into the next room. Creating an outdoor kitchen.’
Luca shuddered, looking round at the comfortable, cosy room. ‘That sounds completely horrible.’
‘Standard young CEO fare,’ she said. ‘The shinier, bigger and more expensive, the better. Hugely overcompensating, of course.’ She winked at him. ‘Good to see a man comfortable with what he has.’
‘This is part of my family’s history,’ Luca said, ignoring the wink and the innuendo. ‘Furniture made and chosen by my parents and grandparents. By Rose. Why would I change it?’
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