She held up her hand. “I know, I know. Sorry.”
“Dinner, Ms. D’Arcy,” the sous chef announced, setting two plates on the counter in front of him and Francesca.
“Thank you, Kerry,” she said.
The scent of sautéed scallops wafted past him, and Tony put all thoughts of the cranky Pierre von Shalburg out of his mind. He selected a ’96 chardonnay from the fridge and poured the straw-colored liquid into two glasses. He paused with the bottle hovering over a third glass. “Kerry?”
“No, thank you, sir,” the sous chef said, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel. “I still have prep work for tomorrow.”
Tony set aside the bottle, then picked up his glass. He touched the crystal to Francesca’s. “To success.”
They had been eating like this, standing at the counter in the warm, busy kitchen in the basement, nearly every night for a month. Tony found himself checking his watch in the afternoon in anticipation of dinner with her. Must be a latent longing for all those impersonal meals he’d endured growing up with nobody but the housekeeper for company.
As they enjoyed the delicious meal, they discussed plans for the critic’s visit.
With the number of resorts in the area growing, they’d had to find ways to distinguish themselves from the competition. Since the wine production had always been their focus, it seemed logical to focus on food, wine and music, rather than spa services.
Would von Shalburg participate in their planned cooking classes?
Tony doubted it.
Would he relax in the jazz-themed bar at night?
Maybe. But certainly alone.
Would he like the wine-pairing sessions?
Only if he could tell everybody what he thought and have them bow and definitively agree with every word he said.
Finally, frustrated, Francesca shoved her plate aside. “Well, what do you think he would like?”
“How about a day at the spa? We could foist him off on Chateau Fontaine down the road.”
Francesca sighed. “No, do you plan to shuffle off every troublesome guest?”
“Hmm… Yes?”
“No.” She leaned toward him. “We’re trying to attract all the guests we can handle. Bookings equal revenue, remember? As much as you obviously don’t want to admit it, we need Pierre von Shalburg. He could bring us industry buzz and accreditation.”
“He could bring us a giant pain in the—”
“We agreed we were going to give this our best shot.”
Tony hung his head. He’d agreed all right—to the coup sponsored by Francesca and Uncle Joe.
No, that wasn’t true—or fair. Fact was, in addition to being one of the few Galinis in his generation capable of guilt, he’d also been a complete sucker for the hope and resolve that had shone in Francesca’s eyes that fateful day six months ago.
She’d always had so much faith in him—faith that he could get through his English final in high school, faith that he could graduate college, faith that he could resist Tiffani Lambeau’s determined advances even though she claimed her new husband ignored her, and, more recently, faith that he would be the best, most charming resort host on Long Island.
“Has it really been all that bad?” she asked softly.
Startled, he lifted his head. “No, of course not.” And it hadn’t. Watching the resort go from mere drawings on a page to three-dimensional reality, having people listen to his opinion on something besides which was the hip nightclub this month had been great. The responsibility gave him a sense of belonging and acceptance he hadn’t anticipated.
He just kept waiting for the whole thing to fall apart. No one—save Joe and Francesca—expected him to succeed. Not his acquaintances, his parents or his friends. He, in fact, knew they all had a pool going on the precise moment his dismal failure as a businessman would occur.
At least he’d cost that joker Sonny Compton—who’d started the pool—two hundred bucks already.
Francesca slid her hand over his. “You can do this.”
He stared into her sparkling, earnest blue eyes and almost believed her.
She was the only one who knew of his need to prove he wasn’t like his parents, that he could be a success in business—or anything else. He also suspected she knew he was terrified of everything he had to do in order to provide that proof….
He gripped her hand tightly. “I can’t thank you enough—”
“Don’t, Tony. I didn’t do anything, and I should be thanking you. I could never have jumped into the business at this level without you and your connections.”
“The only reason Joe offered to let me into the project was because he knew I’d turn to you for help.”
She shook her head, and tendrils of long, dark hair brushed her cheeks. “That’s not true.”
He thought it was, but he wasn’t particularly interested in examining Joe’s motives at the moment. He’d rather look into Francesca’s eyes. He’d rather stroke his thumb across her palm, feel the warmth of her skin, feel her pulse race in time with his. He’d rather brush her hair away from her cheek.
As if in a dream he did all these things, when he should have kept his hands to himself and his thoughts under control.
As his hand cupped her face, her breath came in short gasps. Her spicy, fruity scent enveloped him. He licked his lips, imaging the taste of her—wine and butter and something that would be hers and hers alone.
He glided his other hand to her waist. He leaned forward.
“What the hell are you doing?”
2
STUNNED, Francesca stared at Tony, at the glazed, desire-filled look in his eyes. She felt as if the world had suddenly starting spinning in a different direction.
He jerked his head and his hands back. “I—I’ve got to run.” He drained his wineglass, then stepped away from the counter.
She acutely felt the loss of his warmth, but since she’d so rudely drawn attention to his touch in the first place, she didn’t see how she could ask him to come back. “Run?”
“Out.” He grabbed her plate and his, then rinsed them both in the sink before putting them in the dishwasher. “To uh—I’m going up to…to the chateau.”
“Fontaine?” she asked, still confused about his odd behavior.
“Yeah. Meeting some friends.” He smiled, holding out his hands. “You know me, unending social life.”
