swept through me, swift and furious. I hated being at a disadvantage, never let anyone suspect I was anything less than competent and in control, and yet I’d given Tommaso ringside seats to my ignorance.
That made twice in less than a week. First, the Delta Corporation, and now this. My eyes burned, and it wasn’t just the after effects of the smoke, but anger at myself for failing. I never failed at anything I set my mind to. I didn’t know how to cope with failure.
Tommaso pushed back the hair falling loose from the chignon I’d tied it up into. ‘You’re welcome to use my oven until we can check out the chimney.’
At the sound of an engine, we both turned to look as a familiar silver sports car appeared around the corner of the house and pulled up in the yard. Luca Fioravanti.
And though I was a little more dressed than yesterday, I most certainly wasn’t dressed for visitors. If I hadn’t been aware before of how the silk gown only reached mid-thigh, or the proximity of Tommaso’s body, I certainly was now. A furious blush burned my face and I wriggled to get out of his lap. But he held me fast.
This was turning into one of those scenes in a really bad farce.
‘Making house calls on a Sunday?’ Tommaso called out as Luca stepped from the car.
With an extra hard shove at his chest, I scrambled out of his lap, burningly aware that not only was I scantily clad and dishevelled, but I no doubt also reeked of smoke. While Luca looked impeccably, impossibly perfect. Not a hair mussed, shoes polished, trousers crisply pressed, as if he had indeed just stepped from the pages of GQ. Exactly the kind of man I would choose if ever I were in the market for one.
He held a bouquet of pink roses. My stomach did a strange somersault thing.
‘I brought the partnership agreement for you to sign.’ Luca smiled his usual smooth, charming grin. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything?’
My blush deepened. ‘No, of course not.’ Sure, I always entertained sexy men at home on a Sunday morning in my pyjamas. Not. ‘Would you like to come inside?’
Luca looked at Tommaso, and though his polite expression held steady, it no longer seemed amused or friendly. ‘I think perhaps not. I have a pen, and you can sign right here.’
He whipped out a pen from his lightweight summer jacket and held it out to Tommaso. It almost seemed like a challenge. We signed the agreement on the hood of the car, first Tommaso then me, then Luca turned his smile up a notch for me. ‘I also came to invite you to lunch.’
This was no business invitation. It was definitely a date.
No holiday romance, no holiday romance.
But as much as I chanted the mantra, my body was shouting ‘yes, please!’
As I opened my mouth to accept, Tommaso spoke for me. ‘That’s very kind of you, but we already have plans today. We’re going to lunch with the Rossis.’
I opened my mouth again, this time to protest, but Tommaso continued without pause. ‘Alberto Rossi was one of your father’s oldest friends. He’d be offended if you turned down his invitation.’
I pressed my lips tight, to stop myself from doing yet another fish impression, shot Tommaso a glance that threatened all sorts of retribution, then turned to Luca with a smile. ‘Thank you for the invitation. Another day, perhaps?’
‘Si, bella. Another day.’ He reached for my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. I half-hoped he’d do that courtly knuckle kiss thing again. Though he didn’t need to for me to shiver at his touch. His dimpling smile flashed as he let go of my hand. ‘I will call you next time.’
He handed me the flowers and I cradled them to my chest, breathing in their sweet fragrance.
Luca was already backing out of the yard when my brain finally kicked in, and I remembered he couldn’t call because my mobile didn’t get signal here. Hand on my hip, I rounded on Tommaso. ‘What is it with you? I’m not a kid, and I don’t need you to play big brother watching over me.’
He merely shrugged. ‘Aren’t you pleased I came to tell you about the lunch invitation? If it weren’t for that, I wouldn’t have been here to rescue you.’
‘I don’t need rescuing. I am perfectly capable of rescuing myself.’ The fact that he had indeed rescued me only made me more irritable. I was no damsel in distress, and I didn’t ever plan to be. That was Geraldine’s game.
I stomped back into the house, with Tommaso’s amused voice trailing after. ‘It was my pleasure!’
There were vases in the pantry. I filled a crystal vase at the tap and set the roses into it. They were as perfect as Luca himself; pale pink, duskier at the tips of the petals, and so breathtakingly sweet.
The kitchen was less smoky now, reassuring me that the fire was indeed out, and I hadn’t set the house alight after all. Though burning the place to the ground might not be a bad place to start, even if it was under-insured.
I threw open all the windows, and the smoke began to dissipate. No harm done, except to my bruised ego.
But I was going to need Tommaso’s oven. If we were invited to lunch, I didn’t plan to go empty-handed. And I needed more clothes on. Especially if I was having lunch with some old friend of John’s rather than a sexy lawyer who was the first man to show an interest in me in way too long.
No holiday romance, I reminded myself. But I was smiling.
Una cena senza vino è come un giorno senza sole
(A meal without wine is a day without sunshine)
Our destination wasn’t a house, as I’d expected, but a trattoria up on a hill, reached along a winding dirt road edged by trees. As Tommaso parked in the lot behind the restaurant, I cast a mortified glance down at the plastic container in my lap, containing the schiacciata cake I’d finally managed to bake in his far more modern oven. ‘I thought we were having lunch at their home?’
‘We are. This is the Rossi family farm. The land all the way down to the river has been in the family for over four hundred years. Alberto’s father still owns the land, but these days it’s Alberto who runs the farm, together with his sons. His daughter, Beatrice, runs the trattoria. It’s sort of an extension of the farmhouse.’
I had to squint to see the river, a distant gleam across the wide valley. Four hundred years? The eight years I’d lived in Wanstead were the longest I’d ever stayed in one postcode.
Tommaso guided me towards the trattoria’s entrance, his hand hovering in the curve of my back, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat of his proximity through the thin fabric of my lightweight crepe blouse.
We rounded the low redbrick building onto a terrace. The restaurant was rustic, with simple pine tables and benches, plain tablecloths, a bougainvillea-covered trellis over the terrace, and an amazing view. My breath
