Liz Fielding - Italian Escape

When had he risen to his feet? Leant over his desk? Why was it he only lost control of his emotions when she was around? Luca took a deep breath, tried to still the adrenaline swirling around his body, the blood thumping in his ears. She was staring at him, eyes still wide but now with shock. ‘Your points were valid, Minty,’ he said more calmly. ‘If you had come to me earlier, told me your thoughts, I would have listened, incorporated them. We could have gone to the board together with a final plan, costings. You didn’t need to make such a drama out of it. You don’t need to make such a drama out of everything.’

Were those tears swimming in her eyes? She blinked rapidly and the shine was gone. Maybe he’d imagined it, had seen what he wanted to see.

She had always played him—as a child, a teenager. It looked like nothing had changed. ‘It ends here,’ he added more calmly. ‘Understand? Or you can leave right away. You have something to say? Talk to me. Work with me. I’m open to suggestion, ask anyone.’

His eyes continued to bore into her, to pin her down. ‘But if it’s not business then I don’t want to hear it. Gio may be glad you’re back.’ He leaned on his desk, eyes boring into hers. ‘But I’m not. Stay out of my way, Minty. That’s a warning.’

CHAPTER THREE

EVERY LIMB WAS HEAVY; her head was not just foggy but filled with a traditional London pea-souper straight from the nineteen-thirties. Minty wasn’t sure she could even stagger down the driveway, let alone open the front door and flop her exhausted body inside when she got there.

‘Ciao, Gianni; ciao Alfonso. Grazie; a presto,’ she said, feebly pushing the heavy lorry door shut, managing a small wave at the grinning drivers as she did so. How did they manage to stay awake? And so cheerful. Forty-eight hours of helping to deliver ice cream and other frozen desserts to restaurants, on a circular route that had taken in three countries and given very few opportunities for sleep, had taken every ounce of zest out of her.

She turned away from the lorry and, on the third attempt, hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and set off along the cypress-tree-lined path that led to the farmhouse.

Minty had spent every summer in Oschia since she’d turned seven and yet, on evenings like this, with the sunset beginning to turn the countryside red-gold, the landscape still had the power to make her stop and stare, drink it in. It was an idyllic setting.

The old stone house was positioned in the middle of a row of terraced plateaux that climbed down the hillside. At the top of the hill the small Oschian town clung on precariously. To one side she saw the medieval town walls gleaming gold in the evening sun, the tower of the medieval church jutting high above; in every other direction were a hundred different shades of green, as far as the eye could see.

It was only a couple of hundred yards down the driveway yet every weary step felt like a mile. Luckily the front door wasn’t locked. Minty didn’t think she was capable of finding her keys, hidden as they were somewhere amongst the tangle of essential toiletries, changes of underwear, sweet wrappers and other items she had considered necessary for her road trip. She turned the big wooden doorknob and almost fell into the large, marble-tiled hallway, dropping her bag with a relieved sigh.

‘Honey, I’m home,’ she called out, then sniffed. What was that smell? Onions, garlic, tomatoes, herbs, some kind of fish: the smell of a proper Italian kitchen. Her stomach rumbled painfully. It had been a while since the last food stop. At least that one had been over the Italian border; their journey through Austria, Slovenia and the tip of Germany had required more stop-offs at bratwurst stalls than Minty cared to remember.

The currywurst at the second one had definitely been a mistake; having two, an even bigger mistake.

Minty stayed in the hallway for a second, leaning against the panelled wall. Ahead was the staircase. All she had to do was somehow get herself up those stairs and she would be just one door away from her bed. Her gloriously comfortable bed with all the trimmings. What a beautiful contrast to the past two days, trying to nap squeezed into the front seat of the lorry between Gianno and Alfonso. Charming men, but not her sleeping companions of choice.

Minty swayed, torn between hunger and tiredness. Another enticing waft of garlic floated through the air and, with a regretful look up the stairs, Minty pulled herself together and went through the door to the kitchen to find the source of the heavenly smell.

The house was exactly the same as it had always been, unpretentious and homely with the large kitchen at its very heart. Taking up the whole back of the house, the combination kitchen, dining and family room was a warm, spacious area, the separate parts divided by a long tiled counter. On one side was the kitchen area, simple, with wooden doors and shelves, a marbled worktop and a huge range cooker. On the other a large table was set about with assorted, mismatched chairs. Further back, cosily clustered around the fireplace, were two old sofas. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered one wall, filled with an assortment of battered, well-read Italian and English paperbacks, ancient board games and several incomplete packs of cards.

Minty had been raised in one of England’s oldest and finest houses but she had never felt as at home there as she did here, had never loved it as much as she loved this room with its simple charm. Every piece of furniture had been lovingly chosen and pieced together. It was a much-loved home, far more appealing than the stunning, architecturally remodelled places she usually holidayed in.

Luca stood at the stove stirring the source of the heavenly smell with a spoon. At the sight of him Minty rocked back on her heels. There was something so inherently sexy about a handsome man cooking. It really wasn’t fair; like a man holding a puppy or a baby, or taking his granny to church, the act added an extra glow, a sweetness to the sensuality.

He was dressed in snug-fitting, worn black jeans, in parts so faded they were grey, and a simple black T-shirt. The lack of colour should have been austere, especially teamed with his dark hair, but he looked good, the jeans showcasing long, powerful legs; the T-shirt skimming the smooth stomach; the short sleeves defining the muscles on his olive-skinned arms. Yep, he looked good, Minty thought dreamily.

She shook her head angrily, clearing the fog as best as she could. Goodness, she must be tired, standing here mooning over Luca, of all people! She was hungry, that was all; her brain was confusing the cook with the food.

‘That smells delicious.’

Luca didn’t bother to look round. ‘Separate meals, remember?’

‘I’ll make the spaghetti,’ she said as coaxingly as she could.

Luca spun round, horror on his face, tomato sauce splattering everywhere from the spoon he still held. ‘Mio Dio, do you still know nothing about food?’ he said. ‘‘First of all this is cioppino—a soup. A simple salad and some ciabatta are all it needs. Secondly, if you think I would trust you with cooking pasta, you are delusional—unless at some point in the last six years you learned what al dente means, which I doubt very much. Thirdly, if it was a stew I would team it with something heartier than spaghetti: farfalle or maybe bucatini.’ The amber eyes glazed over as he considered his options.

‘I have done several cooking courses, you know,’ Minty said, ignoring Luca’s outburst. He couldn’t help himself. Gio was just the same, convinced that nobody could cook as well as he did, especially not someone unfortunate enough to be English. ‘I can even make pasta, not just cook it. How about I cut the bread?’