‘Of course, Luca might have popped back for some quick cannoli. He simply cannot resist my special recipe.’
The right-hand corner of Fabio’s mouth turned up and his lower lip twitched into the faintest smile. Oh. Perhaps he did have a sense of humour after all.
‘They must be good. Your cannoli.’
‘Very,’ she answered in a low calm voice. And blinked. Twice.
‘Perhaps I should try one?’ Fabio whispered in a voice as smooth as hot chocolate sauce poured over fresh cream profiteroles.
‘Maybe another time. Right now I need to get back to work. And no doubt you do too. Both busy people. Do we understand one another? Mr Rossi?’
‘Perfectly, Miss Brannigan.’ Then he blinked and returned her smile with a quick flick of his head over one shoulder. ‘Shall we get down to business?’
She smiled and waved her right hand with a wide flourish. ‘After you.’ She sniffed. ‘Saturday is a busy day.’
Fabio pushed open the door and followed Bunty into the kitchen. And froze. Trying to take in what he was looking at.
In contrast to the kaleidoscope jumble of textures and colours from the bright packaging in the shop area, the kitchen walls had been painted in a pale cream, which seemed to absorb the overhead light and reflect it back onto the long sealed-top worktable that ran the length of the room.
From the hard tile floor to the false ceiling panels and stainless-steel cookware, it was the kind of spotless clean space that made Fabio want to whisper. Painted cupboards lined one complete wall. Floor to ceiling. The overall effect was stunning. And professional. This was a kitchen that would not look out of place in a top city restaurant.
‘Was this a working kitchen when you bought the place?’ Fabio asked as Bunty strode down the hard floor towards a dining area at the very back of the room.
‘A gentleman’s tailor. When the house and workshop came on the market, my parents made the old maestro an offer he couldn’t refuse. The skylights and patio windows were his idea, and they still work. I prefer to work in natural light whenever possible.’
‘What do you use the table for?’ Fabio asked, glancing at the huge long, smooth surface stretching away from him towards a set of tall patio doors that seemed to lead onto an outdoor space. Various shapes and sizes of complicated-looking machinery were clustered in the centre.
Bunty reached forward to pick up a plastic container and his gaze was drawn to her long slender fingers, which had clearly never seen a manicure. No rings.
This girl had working hands. Deft and able. He admired talent – always had — and there was something about Bunty that screamed that she knew exactly what she was doing.
He had made a mistake at the restaurant the previous evening when he thought she was attractive. Even in this light she was stunning. She had changed into a smart white chef’s jacket and wide-leg navy blue and white trousers, which contrasted with her porcelain skin. And that hair! Dark auburn brown, tied into a loose knot at the base of her neck. Low black training shoes. She was sexier than she had a right to be.
Years of professional gambling had given him the ability to judge people very quickly.
He was rarely wrong. But of course there could always be a first time, and Bunty Brannigan was certainly hiding something.
Suddenly conscious that he had been ogling her hands for far too long, he looked up into her hazel-green eyes. Intelligent and something else. Wary. And why not?
Perhaps he had better get back to that.
‘So you make all of the food yourself?’ Fabio asked.
‘Please don’t sound quite so surprised, Mr Rossi. I am a trained chef, and this is my work. And my pleasure. I change raw ingredients into delicious finished meals. I also use the kitchen for my catering students from the local college.’
A teacher, then? Smart girl. He liked smart.
‘Does anyone in your family cook from scratch?’ Bunty asked. ‘It’s quite a tradition in mine.’
Fabio laughed out loud at that one, and shook his head at the thought of his mother or sister making an elaborate meal. ‘That would be no. They like to shop. Buy things other people have cooked or follow a few simple recipes when the occasion demands.’ He paused for a few seconds as Bunty rearranged the packets into a neater design. ‘I don’t think a creative gene runs in the Rossi line. Not so far anyway.’
Her lips were full, warm and when she smiled the difference on her face was startling.
‘I am sure you understand how families work, Mr Rossi. Well, this is Caruso family business and I would rather not discuss it.’
‘Well,’ he replied. ‘In that case, we’ll just talk about you instead.’
Bunty turned her head and blinked at Fabio a couple of times, eyebrows high. She found herself drawn to his brown eyes. Only they weren’t brown, more of a soft truffle golden brown like the caramel topping on the finest crème brûlée dessert. His thick, wavy, gelled-back hair was only a little darker than the slight stubble above his lush upper lip and each side of the chiselled chin.
And every pore was oozing sex appeal.
The kind of sex appeal that could encourage a girl to let her guard down and say more about the Caruso family than was necessary or good for family relationships. Especially to a man who worked for her family and was probably being paid to report back everything that she told him.
She glanced at the wall clock and exhaled slowly. She had a couple of hours at most to get her act together before Luca called. She had to come up with a master plan. And there was only one way she knew how to do that – by cooking, and thinking, then cooking some more.
She didn’t have any more time to waste on lawyers. Even if they were only doing their job.
Bunty rolled her shoulders back and inhaled.
She could do this. This was her life. And she was damned if she was going to let anyone tell her how to live it.
Bunty turned around, rubbed her hands together and her eyes instantly locked on Fabio, who looked up at that moment as though prompted by some unseen signal.
Their gazes locked across the few feet of warm kitchen air that separated them. And stayed locked.
The weird thing was, the longer she stared at him, the slower her breathing became, and her fists unclenched one finger at a time until she could rest a hand on each hip.
‘Nice flowers,’ Fabio said in a cool, calm and totally matter-of-fact voice after what seemed like a geological time period of intense quiet. It was a rich, warm voice. And it came from deep within his chest so that it reverberated between the walls before finding a home between her ears.
‘They are. Thank you.’
‘You are most welcome.’ His head tilted about ten degrees to the side. ‘Do you want to talk about last night?’
‘You
