of desire swept through him. It was a predictable male reaction to the feminine form, he told himself. Perhaps it was the Italian blood in him that made him find a woman with full breasts and shapely hips more attractive than the current fashion to be stick-thin and bony.
He cleared his throat. ‘Would you like red or white wine?’
‘Oh, I won’t have any, thanks.’ Rebekah grimaced. ‘I’m really hopeless with alcohol. Half a glass of wine is all it takes to make me drunk.’
‘Is that so?’ Dante found himself picturing his chef after she’d had a couple of glasses of wine—all bright eyes, flushed cheeks and discarded inhibitions. He poured himself a glass of Chianti. ‘Getting drunk doesn’t sound a bad idea after having to deal with Alicia’s unacceptable behaviour,’ he said grimly.
‘Don’t you ever worry that you’ll end up alone and lonely? Surely even playboys grow bored of sleeping around?’ Rebekah’s common sense warned her not to antagonise him, but she felt rebellious tonight, angry with the male species in general and Dante in particular—although if she was honest she was angrier with herself for her stupid crush on him.
‘It hasn’t happened to me yet,’ Dante drawled, annoyed that she had the audacity to question his lifestyle. He was not going to admit that lately he had been feeling jaded. There was no thrill in the chase when you knew at the beginning of the evening that you were guaranteed to bed your date by the end of it, he thought sardonically.
‘What do you suggest as an alternative to casual sex?’ he demanded, posing the question partly to himself. Marriage wasn’t for him—he had tried it once and had no intention of ever repeating the experience. But surely there had to be something more than meaningless affairs with women who did not interest him outside the bedroom? ‘I grew out of believing in happy ever after at about the same time that I stopped wearing short trousers,’ he said abruptly.
‘Why are you so cynical? It’s your job, I suppose,’ Rebekah murmured. ‘But not all marriages end in the divorce courts. My parents have been happily married for forty years.’
‘How nice for them, and for you,’ he said drily. ‘Unfortunately, I was not brought up in a stable family unit. My parents split up when I was young and for most of my childhood they fought over me like two dogs over a bone. Not because they loved me particularly, but because I was something else to fight about and winning was all that mattered to either of them.’
Rebekah heard the underlying bitterness in Dante’s voice and felt guilty that she had brought up a subject that he clearly found contentious. ‘That can’t have been much fun,’ she said quietly, trying to imagine what it had been like for him as a young boy, torn between his warring parents. Her own childhood had been so happy, and she had always hoped that one day she would have children and bring them up in the same loving environment that she and her brothers had enjoyed.
Silence fell between them while they ate. Dante gave a murmur of appreciation after his first mouthful but Rebekah’s appetite had disappeared and she toyed with her chicken.
‘I’m surprised you’re not married,’ he said suddenly. ‘You seem the sort of woman who would want to settle down and have a couple of kids. But you’re what—late twenties? And you’re still single.’
‘Twenty-eight is hardly over the hill,’ she said tersely. He had touched a raw nerve, especially when he had mentioned children. She was unaware that Dante had noticed her fingers clench around her knife and fork. He could almost see her putting up barriers and once again he asked himself why he was curious about her.
As the silence stretched between them Rebekah realised Dante was waiting for her to continue the conversation. ‘I would like to marry and have children one day,’ she admitted. She did not add that her longing for a baby sometimes felt like a physical ache inside her. ‘At the moment I’m concentrating on my career.’
‘What made you decide to train as a chef?’
‘I suppose cooking has always been part of my life and, when I left school, training to be a professional chef seemed a natural progression. My grandmother first taught me to cook, and by the age of seven or eight I could make bread and bake cakes and help my mother prepare the dinner. It was a matter of expediency,’ she explained. ‘I have seven brothers—six are older than me and Rhys is younger. When we were growing up, the boys helped my father on the farm, and they’re all huge rugby players with enormous appetites. My mother says it was like feeding an army when they all came in from working in the fields. I think she was relieved when she finally gave birth to a girl. Even when I was a small child I used to help her around the house.’
‘I don’t have any siblings and I can’t imagine what it’s like to be part of such a large family. Didn’t you resent being expected to help with domestic tasks rather than work on the farm with your brothers?’
Rebekah laughed. ‘My family is very traditional, but I’ve never minded that. We’re all incredibly close, even now that most of the older boys are married and have families of their own. Mum was too busy to teach me how to cook, but my grandmother loved showing me recipes she had collected over many years, and others that she had created herself. Nana Glenys is in her nineties now, but when she was young she worked as a cook for a top military general and his family, and she travelled to India and the Far East. Much of her cooking was influenced by the food she experienced abroad, as well as traditional Welsh dishes.’
She hesitated, wondering if she was boring Dante. Although she had worked for him for two months she had never talked to him on a personal level and she was conscious that the details of her life were mundane and unexciting. But when she glanced at him she found he was watching her and appeared interested in what she was saying.
‘Actually, I’m compiling a cookery book of Nana’s recipes. I’ve been working on bringing the dishes up to date and replacing items such as double cream with low-fat ingredients that are available today. A publisher has shown some interest in the book, and Nana would be thrilled to see her recipes in print. But she’s very frail now and I’m aware that I need to hurry and finish the book.’
Her eyes softened as she thought of the tiny elderly lady who had only recently been persuaded to leave her remote cottage and move into Rebekah’s parents’ farmhouse.
‘It sounds like you are close to your grandmother.’
‘Yes, I am. She’s a wonderful person.’
Dante found himself transfixed by Rebekah’s gentle smile and he wondered why he had not noticed before how pretty she was. Perhaps it was because her dull clothes and the way she wore her hair in that severe style, scraped back from her face and tied in a braid which she pinned on top of her head, did not demand attention.
But it wasn’t quite true that he had not noticed her, he acknowledged. He knew from the subtle rose scent of her perfume the moment she walked into a room, and sometimes he felt a little frisson of sexual awareness when she leaned across him to serve a meal. Her violet eyes were beautiful, and her dark lashes that brushed her cheeks when she blinked were so long that he wondered if they were false. He quickly discounted the idea. A woman who was not wearing a scrap of make-up was not likely to bother with false eyelashes.
‘I was close to my grandmother. In fact I adored her.’ As the words left his mouth he silently questioned why he was sharing personal confidences with his cook when he had never felt any inclination to do so with his mistresses. ‘She died a year ago at the grand age of ninety-two.’
‘Did she live at your family’s estate in Norfolk? I looked
