Kate Hardy - Passionate Affairs - Breakfast at Giovanni's

She opened the envelope that was tucked into the cellophane, and recognised the handwriting instantly.

Thank you. For everything. Love, Gio .

Love.

Her stomach clenched. Except this wasn’t, was it?

When Gio walked into the office, he could see that Fran’s eyes were slightly red. The flowers were on her desk, just as he’d hoped—but why did she look as if she’d been crying?

Or maybe…‘Oh, no. I should’ve checked before I had them delivered. I didn’t realise you suffered from hay fever.’

‘I don’t.’

He leaned against the edge of her desk. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I have three sisters. So I know that “nothing” never really means that, especially when a woman looks as if she’s been crying,’ he said softly, and gently tilted her chin with one finger so she was facing him. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked again.

‘I’m just being silly. I can’t remember the last time someone sent me flowers,’ Fran said, ‘and I wasn’t expecting these.’

‘My intention wasn’t to upset you,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to say thank you.’

‘And it’s appreciated.’

There was the tiniest wobble in her voice. He wanted to pull her into his arms, hold her close and tell her everything was going to be fine, because he was there—because he’d always be there and he’d never let anything hurt her.

But that was the whole problem.

He didn’t trust himself not to let her down, the way he’d let his family down all those years before—the way he’d been selfish and stupid enough to put himself first, and they’d nearly lost his father as a result. How could he make her a promise he didn’t know he could keep? So instead he kept things light. Ruffled her hair. ‘I’m off to Islington. I only popped in while I was passing to see if there was anything you needed here.’

‘No, we’re fine.’

‘And these aren’t in lieu of the chocolates, by the way—Sally’s already checked. We’ll be getting those tomorrow.’

That at least made her smile. Which in turn made him feel less panicky. ‘Catch you later,’ he said, and left the office before he did something stupid.

Like give in to the urge to scoop her up in his arms, kiss her properly, and carry her to his bed.

AND then it was Saturday. The day of the party.

Fran rang Angela in the morning to see if she could do anything to help.

‘Sweetheart, that’s so kind of you to offer. But there’s no need—Nonna, the girls and I have everything under control,’ Angela said. ‘We’ll see you tonight. And the idea is that you and Gio have fun , OK?’

‘OK,’ Fran promised.

Which left her with nothing to sort out except what she was going to wear. Although she had a perfectly serviceable little black dress—one she’d worn to functions when she’d worked at the voiceover studio—it didn’t feel quite right for the Mazetti party. She wanted something a little dressier. The kind of thing that Gio Mazetti’s girlfriend would wear, not his office manager.

She was browsing in the clothes shops in Camden when her eye was caught by a dress. It was a deep cornflower blue, in floaty organza over taffeta. Absolutely nothing like what she’d intended to buy—she’d always thought herself too curvy to wear a strapless dress—but some impulse made her try it on.

She was looking at herself in the mirror and wondering if she had the nerve to wear it when the sales assistant appeared with a lapis-lazuli necklace.

‘I don’t normally bother with jewellery,’ Fran said, eyeing it dubiously.

‘Try it on and see what you think,’ the assistant suggested. ‘I reckon it matches the dress perfectly. Here—do you want me to do it up for you?’

Ten seconds later, Fran stared at herself in the mirror. The necklace really was the finishing touch, skimming across the middle of her collarbones and throwing the paleness of her skin into relief.

And the bulges she’d feared she’d see weren’t visible. Just curves.

‘It’s perfect. Don’t wear anything else, not even a watch,’ the assistant said. ‘What about shoes?’

‘I was thinking black high heels,’ Fran said.

‘Patent or suede?’

‘Suede.’

The assistant nodded. ‘Perfect. You’re going to blow his mind when he sees you.’

Not when she wasn’t his real girlfriend. ‘Maybe,’ she hedged.

‘There’s no maybe about it,’ the assistant said with a smile. ‘That dress was made for you.’

‘I was planning to get a little black dress. Something practical that I could dress up or down.’

‘You could,’ the assistant said, ‘but, believe me, nothing’s going to be as perfect as what you’re wearing right now.’

And Fran knew the assistant was right when she opened her front door to Gio and his jaw dropped.

‘Wow.’ Then he seemed to recover fast and go back to their usual teasing relationship. ‘You scrub up nicely, Francesca Marsden.’

So did he. In dark trousers and a silk shirt, he looked stunning. And very, very touchable.

He reached out and traced a fingertip just below the line of her necklace. The feel of his skin against hers made every nerve end quiver and her pulse speeded up.

‘Your dress is the same colour as your eyes. It’s fabulous,’ he said softly.

And she knew he meant it.

He wasn’t paying his pretend girlfriend a compliment in front of his family.

He was telling her this, here and now. In private.

‘Not just the dress. You look fabulous.’ Then he held out his hand. ‘We’d better go. The taxi’s waiting.’

She locked up and followed him out to the taxi. He held the door open for her—the perfect manners were typical of Gio—and it seemed as if hardly a minute passed before they were there.

‘Are you really sure you’re up to this?’ Gio asked. ‘The Mazetti clan is pretty big. It’s not too late to back out.’

‘I’ve already met Nonna, your parents and your sisters, your aunt and some of your cousins,’she reminded him. ‘It’ll be fine.’

‘Then let’s do it.’ He slid his arm round her shoulders, and they walked into the hall together.

He’d said his family was big. But she hadn’t expected the place to be so utterly packed. Gio introduced her to person after person; although she was normally good with names, there were so many that she simply lost track.

And she had no idea who was topping up her glass, but the level of champagne never seemed to go down. It would be way too easy to drink too much and make a mistake—say something she shouldn’t. She made a mental note to put her glass down and forget about it.

‘Francesca, cara!’ Nonna came over to her, hugged her and kissed both cheeks. ‘You look lovely.’

‘So do you,’ Fran responded politely.

Nonna chuckled. ‘Ah, but I don’t have that extra sparkle—the look of a young woman in love.’

Maybe Gio’s family were seeing what they wanted to see, Fran thought. Or maybe after all these years she’d finally found her hidden talent: acting. Because she wasn’t in love with Gio.

Was she?

Before Nonna could say anything else, the band on stage played a fanfare.

Gio groaned. ‘Why do we have to do this every year?’

‘Because it wouldn’t be a birthday party without it, figlio mio,’ his father said, laughing and patting his shoulder.

‘You know the song,’ the singer said into the microphone. ‘Four times. Giovanni, Isabella, Giuditta and Marcella.’

The band played the introduction to ‘Happy Birthday to You’, and then were drowned out by the entire room singing in Italian. ‘Tanti auguri a te, Tanti auguri a te, Tanti auguri Giovanni, tanti auguri a te!’ The song was repeated for Gio’s sisters; and finally, there was a rousing set of cheers.