her way through mountain after mountain of white china plates, Meg tried to block out the noise of a busy kitchen—the chefs screaming at each other like proud cats fighting over territory, waiters collecting elaborate dishes, swooshing out of the swing doors only to return moments later, laden with half-eaten dishes to add to the pile Meg had been allocated. Not that Meg minded hard work, she’d been more than prepared for the back-breaking work of fruit-picking, but being shut up in a kitchen, her face red from the heat, her blond hair dark with sweat, was a million miles from what she’d envisaged from her time in Niroli.
Almost as soon as she’d found Jasmine and filled in an application form, Meg had been given a list of shifts. Six till ten o’clock each evening, paid in cash at the end of each of shift, which meant Meg had the whole day for exploring Niroli, and it paid well, much better than fruit-picking, which meant, Meg realised, if she was careful and perhaps worked a couple of extra shifts she could treat herself to a day at that luxury spa.
With renewed enthusiasm Meg tackled the mountain of plates—the last hour of her shift made so much easier by fantasising about being smeared in the famous Niroli volcanic mud she’d read about and being thoroughly pampered and spoiled for a day!
‘Faster now!’ Antoinette, her colleague for the night who was rinsing and stacking the plates that Meg was washing, egged her on in her broken English, but kindly. ‘We need empty sink for next staff. Or else they …’ She didn’t finish what she was saying—in fact a ream of sentences and orders around the kitchen remained forever incomplete, broken off midword for a reason Meg couldn’t yet fathom—the swing doors opened and an immediate hush descended on the busy kitchen as a group of dark suits entered.
‘Ah—sir!’ The head chef jumped to nervous attention as he approached the foreboding-looking men that had entered, yet he addressed only the leader.
And even if he hadn’t uttered a single word, even if she had no idea who he was, Meg knew that he was very much in charge. His jet hair was a head above the rest of them, but it wasn’t just his height that set him apart—there was an authoritative air about him that would hush any room, an intimidating and overwhelming presence that had everyone in the kitchen, Meg included, on heightened alert.
‘Who is he?’ Meg whispered to Antoinette as slowly he toured the kitchen, talking with the staff as he did so. There was a slightly depraved look to him, a dangerous glint in those black eyes as he worked the room.
‘That,’ Antoinette said, in broken English, ‘is the boss, Luca Fierezza. He owns the casino. A prince.’
For a simple woman like Antoinette, Meg reasoned, such an enigmatic personality would seem like a prince. Not for a second did it enter her head that nothing had been lost in translation.
He was over at the far end now, talking with some of the kitchen staff, and Meg quickly realised that this was far more than a cursory appearance by the owner, that he was actually listening to what they were saying, taking in every word and relaying them to one of his sidekicks who was faithfully writing down each word.
‘He comes often,’ Antoinette said. ‘He make sure that everything work okay. See, now Mario tell him the trouble we are having with the shrimp—the yield was low this last two days …’
‘Is that his concern?’ When Antoinette frowned Meg attempted to make herself clearer. ‘Isn’t that a problem for the kitchen?’
‘He makes it his concern,’ Antoinette said, an almost proud note to her voice as she did, letting Meg know she had understood her the first time. ‘This casino is the best place to play and to work—Luca makes sure of that. I work here under four different owners and he is the best.
‘Come—’ she nudged Meg ‘—work now. He is coming.’ Meg could feel him making his way over, feel the thick tension in the air as he worked the room, the raucous sound of the earlier kitchen replaced now by the quiet hum of ordered efficiency.
‘Antoinette!’ he greeted the elderly lady by her first name. ‘Come stai?’ How are you?
‘Molto bene, grazie.’ Very well, thank you. Antoinette carried on working as she spoke, kept her head down as she addressed her boss, but, Meg noted, even if his greeting had been personable and friendly, Antoinette was keeping her respectful distance, a clear pecking order on display.
Meg glanced over as he walked past, gave him a brief polite nod as he did the same, and then picked up a plate, swishing the cloth over it, waiting for him to move on—a casual kitchen hand undoubtedly didn’t merit Antoinette’s more familiar greeting—only he didn’t move on! Meg could feel him standing over her shoulder; feel the burn of his eyes on the back of her neck as he questioned Antoinette.
Antoinette introduced Meg and he asked something in Italian, his rich, fluid voice prompting Meg to briefly turn around.
‘She’s a good worker,’ Antoinette responded to his question as Luca ran a dismissive eye over her, and, turning her back on him, Meg plunged her hands back into the soapy water, her skin red—not from heat or exertion, instead embarrassment, humiliation prickling every nerve as they openly discussed her without inclusion.
She was beautiful.
Luca had noticed her the second he’d walked into the kitchen, her blond head amidst the many dark ones immediately drawing his attention, her tall, willowy body forcing his gaze.
She didn’t belong in the kitchen—that tall, delicate frame would wear the finest of gowns with ease; those long, delicate fingers should be wrapped around the silverware on the other side of the door; those full lips should be tasting the delicacies produced here, not clearing the aftermath. Yet she clearly thought otherwise. There was nothing martyred in her stance as she worked on, unlike some of the foreigners who came to the island—he had met one just moments before. Bold as brass, she had deemed herself too good for the manual work behind the scenes.
Only this lady was too good for this.
Too good for here, only she didn’t know it yet—and now she was turning her back on him.
Luca felt the discomfort of his staff around him, registered the appalled look on Antoinette’s face as this Meg broke with protocol as she turned her slender back to him and proceeded to work on, but instead of feeling enraged, instead of demanding that she face him when he spoke, unusually he smiled and took a step closer to her. For the first time he inhaled the scent of her and it was like pulling the stopper on a fragrance bottle, a heady rush of femininity filling his nostrils, his first instinct to touch her shoulder, to turn her around to face him, but he resisted. Instead he clenched his fingers into his palms—there would be time for that later.
There would be a later.
Luca knew that with the certainty of a man who always got his own way. A combination of wealth, power and devilish good looks were a heady cocktail no woman had ever refused—at least not for long. The pleasure of pursuit was a skill Luca never needed for more than the short-term. But chatting up a lowly kitchen hand was far from Luca’s style, so quickly he came up with what he deemed a suitable solution, addressing her for the first time in English.
‘We need blondes out on the casino floor. You come and see me tomorrow and we can discuss something—’
‘No, thank you,’ Meg interrupted, still keeping her back to him, still not looking at him, but at least she was moving now—quickly washing the dishes, anger fuelling her, appalled at the gall of him.
