Right now I’m concentrating on the grand opening of Caversham Castle—the guest list is shaping up nicely. My plan is to grant exclusive coverage to a magazine—though I haven’t decided who yet. Perhaps we’ll discuss it over dinner.’
The implication was clear. Drop the gold-digger angle and you might be in with a chance.
The reporters dispersed, oiled away with ingratiating smiles, and satisfaction touched him. They would stop ripping Ruby to shreds, Hugh Farlane would in turn back off, public interest would die down and the bullies and the nutcases would retreat.
His aim was achieved—his anger channelled to achieve the desired result. Control was key—emotions needed to be ruled and used. When you let your emotions rule you then you lost control. And Ethan was never walking that road again.
Without thought he placed his hand on the small of her back to guide her forward and then wished he hadn’t. Too close, too much—a reminder that the physical awareness hadn’t diminished.
It was with relief that he entered the warmth of the restaurant and Ruby stepped away from him. Her face flushed as her gaze skittered away from his and she looked around.
‘Wow!’
‘Tony Pugliano is a fan of Christmas,’ Ethan said.
The whole restaurant was a dazzling testament to that. The winter grotto theme was delicate, yet pervasive. Lights like icicles glittered from the ceiling and a suspended ice sculpture captured the eye. Windows and mirrors were frosted, and each table displayed scented star-shaped candles that filled the room with the elusive scent of Christmas.
‘It’s beautiful...’ Ruby breathed.
‘You like it?’ boomed a voice.
Ethan dragged his gaze from Ruby’s rapt features to see Tony Pugliano crossing the floor towards them.
‘Ethan.’ Tony pulled him into a bear hug and slapped his back. ‘This is fabulous, no? Welcome to my winter palace. Ruby—it’s good to see you.’
‘You too—and it’s glorious, Tony.’
The grizzled Italian beamed. ‘And now, for you, I have reserved the best table—you will be private, and yet you will appreciate every bit of the restaurant’s atmosphere. Anything you want you must ask and it is yours, my friends.’
‘Thank you, Tony. We appreciate it.’
‘We really do,’ Ruby said as they followed in Tony’s expansive wake to a table that outdid all the other tables in the vicinity.
Crystal glasses seized the light and glittered from each angled facet, a plethora of star candles dotted the table, and the gleam of moisture sheened the champagne already in an ice bucket.
‘Sit, sit...’ Tony said. ‘I have, for you, chosen the best—the very best of our menu. You need not even have to think—you can simply enjoy.’
* * *
Ruby watched his departing back and opened her mouth, closed it again as a waiter glided towards them, poured the champagne and reverently placed a plate of canapés in front of them.
‘Made by Signor Pugliano himself. There is arancini di riso filled with smoked mozzarella cheese, radicchio ravioli, bresaola and pecorino crostini drizzled with truffle oil, and Jerusalem artichokes with chestnut velouté, perfumed with white truffle oil.’
‘That sounds marvellous,’ Ruby managed.
Once the waiter had gone she met Ethan’s gaze, clocked his smile and forced her toes to remain uncurled. It was a smile—nothing more.
‘This is almost as miraculous as what I just witnessed. I am considering how to lift my jaw from my knees.’ She shook her head. ‘Tony Pugliano is renowned as one of the toughest, most brusque, most temperamental chefs in the country and round you he’s turned into some sort of pussycat. How? Why? What gives?’
His smile morphed into a grin. ‘It’s my famous charm.’
‘Rubbish.’ However charming Ethan was—and that was a point she had no wish to dwell on—it wouldn’t affect Tony Pugliano. ‘Plus, I know Hugh eats here, so I’m amazed he seemed so happy to see me.’
‘You are underrating my charm capacity,’ Ethan said.
Picking up a canapé, she narrowed her eyes. Nope—she wasn’t buying it. This was zip to do with charm, but clearly Ethan had no intention of sharing. No surprise there, then.
‘Especially given his less than accommodating attitude when I applied for a job here after my break-up with Hugh. Whereas now, if you asked him to, he’d probably give me any job I asked for.’ Seeing his eyebrows rise she shook her head. ‘Not that I want you to do that!’
‘You sure?’ There was an edge to his voice under the light banter.
Disbelief and hurt mingled. Surely Ethan couldn’t possibly think she would go after another job. ‘I am one hundred per cent sure. You gave me a chance when no one else would give me the opportunity to wash so much as a dish. So you get one hundred per cent loyalty.’
‘I appreciate that.’
Yet the flatness of his tone was in direct variance to the fizz of champagne on her tongue. ‘Ethan. I mean it.’
His broad shoulders lifted and for a second the resultant ripple of muscle distracted her. But only for a heartbeat.
‘There isn’t such a thing as one hundred per cent loyalty. Everyone has a price or a boundary that dissolves loyalty.’
The edge of bitterness caught at her. Had someone let him down? All of a sudden it became imperative that he believed in her.
‘Well, I don’t. You’re stuck with me for the duration.’
His large hand cradled his glass, set the light amber liquid swirling. ‘If you had an opportunity to have a family then your loyalty might lose some percentage points. Likewise if I stopped paying your salary your allegiance would be forfeit.’ He pierced a raviolo. ‘That’s life, Ruby. No big deal.’
‘It is a huge deal—and I think I need to make something clear. I do want children, but that does not take precedence above this job. Right now my top priority is to see Caversham Castle firmly ensconced as the lodestar of Caversham Holiday Adventures. I have no intention of starting a family until I am financially secure, with a house, savings in the bank and the ability to support one. But even if I won the Lottery I would not let you down. As for you not paying me—I know you would only do that in a crisis. I would always believe that you’d turn that crisis around, so you’d still have my loyalty.’
Ethan didn’t look even remotely moved—it was as if her words had slid off his smooth armour of cynicism.
Dipping a succulent morsel of artichoke into the chestnut velouté, she savoured the taste, wondered how else she could persuade him. She looked up and encountered an ironic glint in his eyes.
‘Forget the Lottery. What if Mr Perfect turns up and says he wants a family right now? I wouldn’t see you for dust.’
