filled with people enjoying themselves once more she had forgotten to allow herself the pleasure of eating out for what must have been months—too many to count.
Dante nodded and turned his attention to the menu. Faye watched him, unable to focus on her own. She wondered if he had any involvement in deciding what was served these days. She was not sure he would have time for the kind of attention to detail that had once so impressed her now he was based in a separate office, with restaurants all over Europe. He seemed to be looking critically, his thick, black eyelashes, outrageously long for a man, shrouding his eyes. She remembered how they had felt against her cheek, and subconsciously raised her hand to touch her face.
‘I recommend the seafood.’ He looked up at her, mistaking her gesture for puzzlement. ‘I took the liberty of ordering an accompanying wine at the bar, but if you would prefer something else I will order another.’
‘The seafood will be fine, thank you.’ Faye shut her menu. ‘But I will pass on the wine.’
‘A mistake, you realize?’
‘Perhaps.’ Faye did not trust herself to keep her head on anything more than mineral water.
‘And the seafood will be better than fine.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ Faye forgot herself for a moment, her nerves making her garrulous. ‘My father used to say, “To eat well, look to the plate of your host.”’ The memory conjured up a childhood image of her father serving up his favourite glazed chicken and rosemary dish as the whole family waited expectantly. She remembered announcing loudly at the very same moment that she wanted to do her Brownie hostess badge.
‘A wise man,’ Dante agreed, his voice unusually soft. ‘I was sorry to hear that he is no longer with us.’
Faye was taken aback. She had not expected Dante even to know of her father’s death, let alone offer his sympathy. She could bear anything but that. Much, much easier to remember that the reason he knew was because he was waiting for Matteson’s to fail in the aftermath. She nodded swiftly.
‘So tell me,’ she said, changing the subject, ‘what offer is it that you are going to make that you think I can’t refuse?’
‘Patience, Faye. My grandfather used to say to me, “Do not chew over an idea until you have digested your food.”’
Great, thought Faye, as Dante swiftly made their order with the waiter. He intends to keep me dangling.
‘So, tell me, what you have been up to since…we last saw each other?’ he asked, his hands together in front of him, his eyes upon her, their intensity stifling.
Trying to forget you, Faye thought, forcing down the parting image of his naked body pressed to hers.
‘I travelled for a year.’ Her tone was polite, stilted; she did not notice the nerve working at his jaw, her head too flooded by truths she would rather not acknowledge.
I left the country indefinitely because I couldn’t bear looking up at the door in the restaurant every time it opened, jumping at the phone every time it rang, hoping it was you, finding it wasn’t. Funny, how her travelling always sounded like the single most important thing she had done with her life when it had been nothing but an escape. At least going to the States to do research with Chris, who couldn’t have been any more different from Dante if he’d tried, had vaguely taken her mind off him. It had beaten sitting at home wondering if she would ever hear from him again. Learning not to hope had become second nature as the months had passed. A pity forgetting him altogether had not.
‘And I studied marketing,’ she continued without elaboration. ‘I graduated just before my father passed away. After that I naturally returned to the restaurant.’
‘And that is where you wish to stay?’
At the time she had never stopped to consider whether or not it was what she wanted. That hadn’t come into it. All that had mattered was that her father had devoted his life to Matteson’s and there was no way she would let everything he had worked for fade to black just because he was gone. But when she thought about it, despite their dire financial situation, deep within her she knew that the restaurant business was so close to her heart that it was where she belonged.
Faye nodded. ‘In particular my passion still lies in the design side of the business, when I get the chance.’ Though that was rarely, now she was practically managing the place as well as doing shifts waiting tables.
‘Really?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I was rather convinced your passion lay elsewhere.’
Faye’s face dropped immediately. She felt as if she had been foolish to let her guard down even for a second.
‘Buon appetito. Enjoy.’
The waiter had placed the seafood in front of them, the meals an artwork in themselves. Was the service always this immediate, or did they have every dish on standby when he was in the house?
Dante lifted his fork and looked down at his plate, his face breaking into an unadulterated smile. Faye wondered if this was another deliberate attempt to turn her on, because it sure as hell was working. She forced herself to look away, emotions warring within her. This is the man who made love to you and then walked away.
‘You’re not hungry?’
She shook her head. He looked insulted as he watched her move the food around her plate. But that only frustrated her more, for she knew damned well it was as important to him as it was to her that guests enjoyed their meal—it was just one of the things about him that had once appealed so much to her. But she didn’t care; she couldn’t force her appetite right now if her life depended on it. Even the very act of sitting opposite him made every muscle in her body contract.
‘Contrary to popular belief, a man who takes a woman out to dinner does not find it alluring to see her eat a single lettuce leaf.’
If the misogynist in him had not been apparent earlier, it had just been biding its time. ‘I am not here for your pleasure.’
‘Aren’t you?’ He put down his knife and fork and challenged her with his full attention.
It sent a shiver down her spine, and she felt suddenly conscious of the thin layer of fabric between her breasts and the cool air of the restaurant.
‘No. I am not.’ She concentrated on sipping her mineral water. ‘I am here because, before you so rudely cut short our business meeting this afternoon, you suggested you had something worth saying.’
‘Ahh.’ His pause was arrogant, his eyelids low. ‘So you prefer to digest an idea before your food? But patience has its rewards.’
Did it? she wondered. What good had the months of hoping he would call done for her?
Dante signalled for the waiter and spoke to him briefly in Italian.
‘Very well. You came here to join my marketing team six years ago, and you made it perfectly clear that your interest in doing so was—how shall we say?—to gain experience of a different kind. Once you had achieved that goal, you vanished.’ He trailed his finger pensively across his jaw, as if she was a rather irritating conundrum that had just fallen out of a Christmas cracker.
