Read the book: «Passionate Affairs: Breakfast at Giovanni's»
Passionate Affairs
Breakfast at Giovanni’s
Kate Hardy
Purchased for Pleasure
Nicola Marsh
Bedded by Arrangement
Natalie Anderson
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Breakfast at Giovanni’s
About the Author
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Purchased for Pleasure
About the Author
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Bedded by Arrangement
About the Author
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Copyright
Breakfast at Giovanni’s
KATE HARDY lives on the outskirts of Norwich with her husband, two small children, a dog—and too many books to count! She wrote her first book at age six, when her parents gave her a typewriter for her birthday. she had the first of a series of sexy romances published at twenty-five, and swapped a job in marketing communications for freelance health journalism when her son was born, so she could spend more time with him. she’s wanted to write for Mills & Boon since she was twelve—and when she was pregnant with her daughter, her husband pointed out that writing Medical romances would be the perfect way to combine her interest in health issues with her love of good stories.
Kate is always delighted to hear from readers—do drop in to her website at www.katehardy.com.
For Jim—
who has taught me much—
with love
CHAPTER ONE
SHE looked as if the world had ended, hunched over an empty coffee cup, staring out of the plate-glass window but not seeing anything.
Gio couldn’t leave her sitting there in such obvious misery. So even though he should’ve locked up ten minutes ago, he did exactly what his father would’ve done. He made a cappuccino and slid it on to the table in front of her. ‘Here,’ he said softly.
She looked up, her eyes widening in surprise. ‘I…’She’d obviously been about to protest that she hadn’t ordered the coffee. But then she smiled ruefully and cupped both hands round the mug, clearly taking comfort from its warmth. ‘Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ He handed her a chocolate dipper. ‘You look as if you need this.’
‘I do,’ she admitted. ‘Thanks. I appreciate this.’ She rummaged in her handbag for her purse. ‘How much do I owe you?’
He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Nothing.’
She frowned. ‘Won’t you get into trouble with your boss?’
‘Doubt it.’ He smiled. ‘Anyway, you’re a regular, so call it a refill.’
Those beautiful blue eyes—the same blue as the sky on a summer evening, he saw, now that he was this close to her—narrowed slightly. ‘Regular?’
He shrugged. ‘On Wednesday mornings, you order a cappuccino and an almond croissant to go at ten past nine.’
The suspicion on her face morphed into nervousness. ‘How do you know that?’
Oh, lord. Obviously she thought he was some kind of weirdo—that he’d been watching her or stalking her. He shouldn’t have mentioned the time. ‘Work here long enough and you get to know the customers,’ he said lightly, hoping it reassured her. ‘I’m out of croissants or I would’ve brought you one—hence the chocolate.’ He spread his hands. ‘Because that’s what women need when things get tough, right? Or so my sisters always tell me.’
‘Right. And thank you.’ She looked very close to tears.
‘Want to talk about it?’
She looked around, as if suddenly realising she was the only customer. ‘Oh, lord. Sorry. I’m holding you up.’
‘Not at all. Though would you mind if I put up the closed sign and put the bolt on the door, so I don’t get a sudden rush and end up staying open a lot later than usual?’
Fran thought about it. He’d actually asked her first, to make sure she didn’t feel threatened. And a man who’d brought her a coffee and a chocolate dipper couldn’t be all bad, could he? OK, so he knew her Wednesday-morning order—but, as he’d said, you got to know your regulars in business. Just as she did: she recognised voices on the phone and knew even before they asked which ones would be asking for a last-minute panic job and which ones would be booking slots for weeks ahead.
‘Sure,’ she said.
He bolted the door, turned the sign over to read ‘Closed’ from the outside, turned off one of the banks of lights, and came to sit opposite her. ‘Gio Mazetti,’he said, holding out his hand.
She took it, and was surprised at the sudden tingle in her fingertips when her skin touched his. ‘Fran Marsden. And thank you for the coffee, Joe.’
‘Gio,’ he corrected with a smile.
Now she was listening properly, she heard it. The soft G, the I and O sliding together almost after a pause.
‘Short for Giovanni,’ he added helpfully.
And then the penny dropped. Of course he wouldn’t get into trouble for making her a coffee for no charge. Because the café was called Giovanni’s. ‘You own the place.’
He lifted one shoulder. ‘It’s a family concern—but, yeah, I’m in charge.’
‘I, um…’ She shifted in her seat, embarrassed at her naïvety. ‘Sorry.’
He laughed. ‘Don’t apologise. I’m glad I come across as one of the baristas—there’s nothing worse than having the boss supposedly doing a shift and just throwing his weight around instead of doing something useful.’
He had a nice laugh. Good teeth, even and white—no fillings, either, she noticed. A guy who took care of small details. But he also didn’t look like the type who went in for cosmetic dentistry. She’d put money on him not going to the gym, either—she had a feeling that Gio Mazetti was in perfect shape from hard work, not from pumping iron. He was good looking, but far from being vain about it.
‘So. Want to tell me about it?’ When she said nothing, he added softly, ‘My nonna—my Italian grandmother—always says that a problem shared is a problem halved.’
Homespun wisdom. Just the sort of thing her mother would come out with.
Her mother…
Fran’s smile faded before it had had a chance to start. She was going to have to call her parents tonight and admit to them that she was a failure. Not only was she the only one of their children not to get a degree, now she was the only one who didn’t have a decent job. And it went right with the territory of not being their real child, anyway—the only one of the four Marsden children who was adopted.
She sighed. ‘I lost my job today.’
‘I’m sorry. That’s tough.’
It wasn’t his fault. And he was right—it felt good to unburden herself. Lose some of the sick feeling of failure. ‘My boss decided he wanted a new challenge, so he sold the business to go travelling for a year and to work out what he wanted to do with his life.’She shrugged. ‘A competitor bought the business. And you really don’t need two office managers when you’re merging two companies and need to cut your running costs. So one of them has to be made redundant.’
‘So you’re an office manager?’
‘Was.’ She pulled a face. ‘Ah, ignore me. I’m whining.’ She waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’ll find something else. It’s just that I really loved my job—and there aren’t that many opportunities in the market because there aren’t many voiceover studios around.’
He looked interested. ‘What does a voiceover studio do?’
‘Record jingles for radio stations, produce radio advertising and audio books, and do audio special effects—you know, like horses’ hooves or fireworks going off on bonfire night, that kind of thing.’
‘So you get all the famous actors and actresses coming in?’
She smiled. ‘They’re not always household names—but, yeah, I’ve booked a few in my time.’
‘You were in charge of booking?’
‘I didn’t make the final decisions on who we booked for each job,’ Fran said, ‘but I made suggestions and I did the organising. I made sure everyone knew what they were supposed to be doing and when.’ And she’d fitted in, right smack in the middle of things. She’d belonged. And that, to her, had been way more important than her admittedly good salary. ‘We had a sales guy handling the sales side of things, a sound manager to do the technical stuff, and my boss did the copywriting and most of the schmoozing.’ She bit her lip. ‘I’m going to miss it. Horribly. But, hey, life moves on. I’ll get over it. Find something else.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Sorry. I’m making you really late.’
Gio shook his head. ‘It’s really not a problem, Fran. My evening’s my own. Though I do need to clean the machines so they’re ready for tomorrow morning—so, if you don’t mind me sorting that out while we’re talking, come and sit by the bar.’
Fran looked at him properly for the first time. Gio Mazetti would get a definite ten on the scale of gorgeousness. Olive skin, dark straight hair that flopped across his forehead and which he’d obviously pushed back with one hand at various times during the day because it stuck up in places, a sensual mouth—and the most stunning eyes. With his colouring and his Italian name, she’d expected them to be dark brown. Instead, they were blue.
A mesmerising deep, almost midnight, blue.
She followed him to the bar.
‘So when do you finish?’ he asked.
That was what had knocked her for six. ‘It all happened today and I cleared my desk this afternoon. I’m on five months’ gardening leave, as of now,’ she said.
‘Five months is pretty generous,’ he commented, starting to strip down the coffee machine.
‘I worked at the studio for five years, so I guess the terms are one month for every year I spent there,’ she explained. ‘But the terms of my leave also mean that I can’t contact any of my former clients during those five months.’
‘So if you go to a competitor, you can’t take your contacts with you.’
He’d hit the nail right on the head, and Fran’s spirits took another nosedive. ‘In five months’ time, my contacts will be out of date, because things change so quickly in advertising and radio and publishing. And that’s assuming I can get another job in a voiceover studio—as I said, it’s not that huge an industry, so even in London there aren’t many openings.’ She shrugged. ‘On the plus side, my skills are transferable. I dunno. Maybe I’ll try some of the advertising agencies, see if I can work on the client management side. If that doesn’t break the terms of my gardening leave, that is.’
‘Tell me about what your job involved,’ Gio said.
‘I kept the schedule for the studios so I knew which slots were free if we were doing a rush job, and which actor was working on which job. I used to talk to the radio stations and audio publishers to sort out timescales, and to the agencies so we had the right voice for the right job. Plus a bit of PA work for the boss and keeping up to date with invoicing and payments.’
‘Hmm.’ He finished cleaning the machines and leaned on the counter opposite her. ‘So you’re good at organisation and you’re used to keeping track of lots of different projects at the same time, and dealing with lots of different people at lots of different levels.’
That pretty much summed it up. And there was no point in false modesty: she might as well get used to stating what her skills were. She needed the practice for interviews. ‘Yes.’
‘And you understand finances.’
There was a difference between being honest and sexing it up. She wasn’t going to claim to be an accountancy whiz-kid. ‘I can do basic book-keeping and set up spreadsheets and produce graphs,’ she said.
‘Can you read a P and L statement?’
‘Profit and loss? Um—I might need to ask some questions, but, yes, I think so.’
‘And you understand how profit margins work, the difference between fixed and variable costs?’
She nodded.
He smiled. ‘Excellent. In that case, I might have a proposition for you.’
‘What sort of proposition?’
‘A business proposition.’
Well, of course—it wouldn’t be anything else, would it? Some of the actors at the studio had flirted mildly with her, but Fran knew from experience that men basically saw her as a colleague or a friend, not as dating material. She was the one they came to asking for help to woo the girl of their dreams, rather than being the girl who’d caught their eye in the first place. And she was fine with that. Right now her life was complicated enough, without adding in all the muddle of a romantic entanglement.
‘It’s something that might solve a problem for both of us,’ he added mysteriously. ‘Have dinner with me tonight and I’ll explain.’
Dinner? Didn’t he have a wife and family waiting for him at home?
The question must have been written over her face, because his smile broadened. ‘Before you ask, I’m single. My nonna says that no girl in her right mind will sit around waiting for a workaholic to notice her existence. She also says it’s time I settled down, before I hit thirty and I’m on the shelf.’ He laughed. ‘I’ve seriously been considering telling her I’m gay.’
A frisson of disappointment slid down Fran’s spine. Where a gorgeous man was concerned, there was always a rule of three: he’d been snapped up at an early age, he was a rat, or he was gay.
‘But apart from the fact I’m not—’
Oh. Not attached and not gay. So did that put him into the rat category?
‘—she wouldn’t believe me anyway. Because I’m a hopeless liar,’ he added with a rueful smile.
So maybe the rule of three didn’t apply in this case. Gio might just be the exception that proved the rule.
He smiled at her. ‘Don’t look so worried. What I’m trying to say is that you’re safe with me. I’m not trying to hit on you.’
Which was true, Gio thought—up to a point. He’d noticed Fran Marsden weeks ago. There was something about her: she was quiet, maybe even a little shy, but she always knew exactly what she wanted instead of dithering over the menu, always had the right money, and always had a smile for the barista who made her cappuccino, not taking the service for granted. Efficient and courteous. He liked that. So he’d made a point of working a morning shift in the Charlotte Street café on Wednesdays, when he knew she’d be in; even if he hadn’t served her himself, seeing her put a sparkle into the middle of his week.
But he’d never intended to act on that attraction. He knew better than to mix business with pleasure, and he’d never overstep the boundaries with a customer.
Besides, Nonna was right. There was no point in asking her out because no woman would put up with the hours he worked. And it wasn’t fair to suggest a relationship to someone who was just trying to pick up the pieces of her life after some bad news. Especially the way he was feeling right now—restless, at the point where the chain of coffee shops had stopped being a challenge and started being a burden. Though he’d invested so much of his life in Giovanni’s, he had no idea what he wanted to do instead.
Except…
No. That particular dream had crashed and burned. He wasn’t going back.
But if the idea that had been spinning round in his head for the last few months worked out, he could help Fran pick up the pieces and maybe help stop his restlessness at the same time.
He knew he was acting on impulse, but he’d always been a good judge of character in the past. And he was pretty sure that Fran Marsden was just the kind of woman he needed to help him. ‘I think this could be good for both of us,’ he said. ‘So, will you have dinner with me this evening? I happen to know the best pizzeria in London.’
‘Pizza,’ she said, the tiniest sparkle in her eyes.
He laughed. ‘Well, what else would an Italian suggest for dinner?’
To his pleasure, the sparkle turned into a full-wattage twinkle. And, lord, she was lovely when she smiled properly. It lit her up from the inside, transforming her from average to beautiful.
‘Grilled scamorza,’ she said. ‘Panna cotta. And dough balls with garlic butter.’
Oh, yes. A woman on his wavelength. One who actually enjoyed food instead of nibbling at a celery leaf and claiming she was too full to manage anything more—one who saw the pleasure in sharing a meal instead of the misery of counting calories. One who might just understand what he wanted to do. ‘That,’ he said, ‘sounds pretty much perfect. So we have a deal? I’ll feed you and you’ll listen to what I have to say?’
She shook her head. ‘I might not have a job right now, but I can still pay my way. We’ll split the bill.’
Not a yes woman, either; he warmed to her even more. Fran was exactly what he was looking for. ‘Deal,’ he said. He still had a pile of paperwork to do, but he’d done the banking an hour before and the float would be fine in the safe. ‘Let me lock up, and we’ll go.’
CHAPTER TWO
TWENTY minutes later, Fran and Gio were sitting in a tiny Italian restaurant in Fitzrovia, halfway between Euston Road and Gower Street. The décor was classic: a black-and-white chequered floor, walls colour-washed in amber, marble-topped bistro tables, wrought-iron chairs with thick burgundy-coloured pads on the seats, a chalk board with the day’s specials written in European-looking handwriting, and candles set in raffia-covered chianti bottles.
Gio was clearly known here, because the waiter bantered with him before showing them to what looked like the best table in the house.
‘So, are you a regular here?’ she asked.
‘This place does the best food in London. It’s where my family comes for birthdays, red-letter days and every other excuse we can think of.’
The waiter materialised beside them and handed them a menu. ‘Except you’re always late for dinner, Gio, because you’re busy working and you have no idea of time. Nonna would tell me to box your ears.’
Gio laughed. ‘Ah, now, Marco, she would also tell you that the customer is always right.’
‘You don’t count as a customer,’ Marco said, laughing back. ‘But you, signorina, do.’He set a plate of tiny canapés in between them. ‘Don’t let him talk you into giving him your share.’
‘As if I would—oh…’ Gio’s eyes widened ‘…don’t eat those cheese discs, Fran. They’re inedible. Better let me handle them.’
Marco pretended to cuff him. ‘I’ll be back in a minute for your order. And behave yourself, or I’ll tell Mama what you just said about her cooking.’ He winked, and left them with the menus.
‘Are the cheese discs really…?’ Fran asked, eyeing the plate of gorgeous-looking canapés.
‘No, they’re fabulous. They’re my favourite and I was teasing you. Actually, I was trying to be greedy,’ Gio admitted with a smile. ‘I’m sorry. I should have said—Marco’s my cousin.’
She glanced at the waiter, who was serving another table; now Gio had mentioned it, she could see the family resemblance. But although Marco was good looking and charming, there was something else about Gio. Something that all the other women in the room had clearly noticed, too, because Fran could see just how many heads he’d turned.
‘Marco’s mother—my Aunt Annetta—is the chef.’ Gio’s smile turned slightly wry. ‘I’m afraid my family’s terribly stereotyped.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘My grandparents moved to London from Milan in the 1950s, and they opened a trattoria,’ he explained. ‘Their children all went into catering, too—Dad opened a coffee shop, Netti started the pizzeria, and my Uncle Nando is the family ice-cream specialist. He makes the best gelati in London.’
‘And you’re all still close?’
‘As I said, we’re stereotyped. Typical Italian family.’ He spread his hands. ‘Big and noisy and knowing way too much of each other’s business. Dad, Netti and Nando all live in the same street—the same place I grew up with my sisters and my cousins. Though none of us lives at home now; my generation’s spread a bit.’ He shrugged. ‘Sometimes it feels a bit crowded, and it drives me crazy when they try to organise my social life and find me the perfect girlfriend. But if things get rough it’s good to know there’s a bunch of people looking out for you, people you can rely on.’
Fran suppressed the feeling of wistfulness before it had a chance to take hold, and tried one of the tiny discs. ‘Oh, wow.’
Gio smiled. ‘Told you they were good.’
‘Do you recommend anything in particular?’ she asked, scanning the menu.
‘Netti’s a genius in the kitchen. You could pick anything and it’d taste superb. But you mentioned grilled scamorza, panna cotta and dough balls.’
‘They’re not on the menu,’ Fran pointed out.
‘For us, they will be.’He said it without a trace of arrogance; it sounded more like he knew he was getting special treatment, and appreciated it. ‘Would you prefer red or white wine?’
‘White, please.’
‘Pinot grigio all right?’
‘Lovely, thanks.’
When Marco returned to take their order, Gio leaned back against his chair and gave him a wicked smile. ‘Ah, cugino mio. In fact, oh, best cousin in the world—best cousin in the universe…’
Marco groaned. ‘You’re going to ask for a Giovanni special, aren’t you?’
‘Yup.’ Gio spoke in rapid Italian. Fran couldn’t follow the conversation at all, but Gio’s accent was incredibly sexy. And he had the most gorgeous mouth. Even when he wasn’t talking, there was a permanent tilt to the corner of his lips, as if he were smiling. A real knee-buckler of a smile, too. Yet, at the same time, there was a sense of suppressed energy and restlessness about him. Gio Mazetti was a puzzle. And she found herself wanting to know more about him.
‘Basta—enough. I’ll ask. But as you’re her favourite nephew…’ Marco rolled his eyes.
‘I’m Netti’s only nephew,’ Gio corrected with a grin.
‘As I said. Her favourite. So there’s a pretty good chance she’ll say yes.’ Marco smiled. ‘One bottle of pinot grigio and a jug of iced water coming up.’
‘What’s a Giovanni special?’ Fran asked.
‘Ah.’ Gio coughed. ‘It’s just the topping I like on my pizza. I went through an—um—let’s say experimental phase in my teens. This one stuck.’
‘Experimental?’
‘Blue cheese—preferably dolcelatte—and mushrooms.’ She frowned. ‘That doesn’t sound particularly experimental.’
‘No. That would be the other ingredient,’ he said drily. She was intrigued now. ‘Which is?’
‘Avocado.’
She blinked. ‘Avocado on pizza? Cooked avocado?’
‘Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,’ he advised.
He was full of energy, full of ideas, a little offbeat—and the more time Fran spent with Gio, the more she liked him. His good humour was infectious.
What she couldn’t work out was why he’d asked her to dinner. What his proposition was going to be.
When the wine arrived, he didn’t bother tasting it; simply thanked Marco, poured out two glasses, and raised his own in a toast to Fran. ‘To us—and the beginning of what’s going to be a beautiful friendship.’ Again, that mischievous half-smile appeared. ‘Horribly corny. But it’s true anyway. I think we’re going to suit each other.’
‘How do you mean?’ she asked, slightly suspicious.
‘I’m sure you’re used to dealing with confidential material at the studio,’ he said. At her nod, he asked, ‘So I trust you’ll keep my confidence now?’
‘Of course.’
‘OK.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’m at the point in the business where I need to make some decisions about expansion—either I can open more branches or I can franchise Giovanni’s so we open outlets in other cities besides London. There’s a fair bit of day-to-day admin in running a chain of coffee shops, so I need to free up some of my time to let me move the business forward.’
It all sounded perfectly logical.
‘So I need to find someone who has fabulous organisational skills. Someone who’ll be able to be my number two in the business, who can take over from me in juggling rotas and sorting out time management issues, maybe hiring temps or talking people into doing overtime if we have staff off sick. Someone who can sort out the admin, ring the engineers if one of the coffee machines breaks down, help keep the team motivated and not be fazed by dealing with figures and statistics. Someone who’s fantastic on the phone and good with people.’
A new challenge. One where she’d be working with people. Using all her skills. This sounded right up her street.
As if he’d read her mind, he added softly, ‘And I think that person’s you.’
‘You’ve only just met me. How do you know I’m what you’re looking for?’ she asked. ‘For all you know, I’m not really an experienced office manager. I could be a pathological liar.’
‘I’ve worked in this business long enough to be a good judge of people,’ he said simply. ‘I trust my instinct. You’re no bunny-boiler. And if you were a pathological liar, you’d have told me that not only could you read a P and L statement, you could do business projection modelling and write your own computer programs, while juggling six flaming torches and tap-dancing on a tightrope all at the same time.’
She couldn’t help smiling at the picture he’d painted. ‘Juggling, tap-dancing and tightrope walking aren’t quite my forte. Though I can use a computer and I know where to get help if I’m stuck.’
‘Exactly. You’re straight and practical and honest.’
Which wasn’t quite what a woman wanted to hear from a man, but this wasn’t a date anyway, she reminded herself. This was business.
‘In short, you’re exactly what I’m looking for.’ He paused. ‘Though, since you brought it up, how do you know that I’m not a pathological liar?’
‘Because if you didn’t own or at least run the coffee shop, you wouldn’t have been the only one there after closing time, you wouldn’t have the keys and you probably wouldn’t be called Giovanni.’
‘He isn’t. His real name’s Fred,’ Marco interposed, bringing them the scamorza.
‘Just ignore him. He’s only jealous because his coffee’s not as good as mine,’ Gio retorted with a grin. ‘Cugino mio, any time you want a lesson on getting the perfect crema on an espresso—’
‘—I’ll ask your dad,’ Marco teased. ‘Enjoy your antipasto, signorina…?’ He waited for a name.
‘Fran,’ she said with a smile.
‘Fran.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Short for Frances?’
‘Francesca.’
‘An Italian name. Hmm.’ Marco gave Gio a knowing look, and was rewarded with a stream of Italian.
Fran, judging it wiser not to ask, tried her scamorza. ‘It’s gorgeous,’ she said.
‘Course it is. My aunt Netti’s a fabulous cook.’ Gio gave her another of those knee-buckling smiles. ‘So, Fran. Francesca. Your family has Italian blood?’
‘No idea.’And she really wasn’t comfortable talking about her family.
He didn’t seem upset that she’d been a bit short with him. ‘So we’ve established that we trust each other, yes?’
She wasn’t quite sure how to answer that.
‘Trust has to start somewhere,’ he said softly. ‘And if you see the best in people—expect the best from them—they’ll give you their best.’
‘Is this another of your Italian grandmother’s sayings?’
‘Yup—she’s a very wise woman, my nonna. When I was a teenager, I used to think she was just rabbiting on. But, the older I get, the more I realise she knows what she’s talking about.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Actually, you remind me of her in a way.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘It was.’ He ate another mouthful of scamorza. ‘As I said, this job’s got your name on it. But you’ll also need to understand the business from the bottom up.’
‘Running a coffee shop?’
He nodded. ‘Specifically, Giovanni’s. What makes us different from the competition. What makes us special. What makes people come to us instead of one of the national chains or the independents. So I need someone who understands about coffee.’
Fran shook her head. ‘That counts me out. I know what I like—cappuccino and latte—but when it comes to all these complicated orders…’
Gio took a sip of wine. ‘Firstly, all coffees are based on espresso. And Giovanni’s doesn’t go in for coffee that takes half an hour and a degree in rocket science to order. We make it easy for the customer. A basic espresso for those who like black coffee; latte, cappuccino and Americano for those who like varying degrees of milk or frothiness. Hot chocolate, mocha for those who like a mixture, tea with milk or lemon, and iced coffees and smoothies in summer.’ He ticked them off on his fingers. ‘Pastries and biscotti in the morning, paninis for lunch and cakes for the middle of the afternoon. It’s a matter of knowing what our customers like and second-guessing the right quantities so that we don’t run out, but also don’t have to throw away too much.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I suppose it’s like you’d book your studio slots so you weren’t empty half the time and double-booked the rest of the time.’
She could appreciate that. But the coffee thing…‘I don’t even have an espresso machine at home.’
He groaned. ‘Don’t tell me you drink instant coffee?’
‘No, I use a cafetiere. Same at work—well, used to,’ she corrected herself. She really had to get her head round the fact that she didn’t work at the voiceover studio any more. ‘I like my coffee fresh, not stuck in a filter pot stewing for half a day.’
‘Then you already have a feel for what we do. Fran, the best way to understand a business is to work in it for a while—and I’m short-staffed right now. I’m about to lose one of my baristas because she wants to go travelling.’
She flinched. ‘Like my boss.’
He smiled ruefully. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rub salt in your wounds. But—to quote Nonna yet again—when one door closes, another opens. This is an opportunity for both of us. I need someone with your skills, and you’re on garden leave for five months. It strikes me you’re the sort who enjoys being busy and rises to a challenge, so if you work with me this will solve both our problems. I get an office manager who can take some of the weight off me and let me plan where to go next with the business and maybe let me bounce ideas off her, and you get a job that you can stretch to suit you.’
It sounded as if he had it all worked out.
‘And the coffee thing isn’t a problem. I can train you as a barista, teach you what you need to know. If you work a few shifts in one of the coffee shops, you’ll understand the business more and you’ll be able to bring that to the office manager job too.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘You’ll need a food hygiene certificate, but the course only takes a few hours and the exam’s pretty straightforward.’
Exams? Oh, no. This was where it all went pear-shaped. ‘I’m not good at exams,’ she told him. ‘I tend panic. I failed my A levels.’
‘But in day-to-day practical things, you’re fine.’
It was a statement, not a question. She nodded.
‘Then think of the exam as just another day-to-day practical thing.’
‘That’s what my parents said about the driving test. It still took me four goes—and Suzy and the twins all passed theirs first time.’
‘Suzy and the twins?’ he asked.
She shifted in her seat. ‘I’m the eldest of four.’ Sort of.
‘The same as me.’ He smiled. ‘Now I know why you’re brilliantly organised. You’ve had years of practice, bossing your siblings about.’
‘They’re a trainee dentist, a PhD student and a forensic scientist. Bossing them about wouldn’t work,’ she said with a rueful smile. They were all academic and brilliant at exams, unlike her. They all excelled in sports, too, had always been picked for the school’s first team, whereas she’d been hopeless—in sixth form she’d opted to do voluntary work at the local old people’s home on Wednesday afternoons rather than sports.
She was the eldest. And most definitely the odd one out.
Probably because she didn’t share the same gene pool.
Marco took away their empty plates and returned with pizza and a bowl of salad. ‘Mama says panna cotta would take too long, but crème brûlée is on the specials board and she can do you some with raspberries.’
‘Fabulous.’ Gio smiled. ‘Tell her she’s the joint best mother in the world, along with mine.’
‘Tell her yourself. There are big hints in the kitchen that she hasn’t seen her favourite nephew for months.’
‘It hasn’t been anywhere near that long,’ Gio protested.
‘Eat your pizza. Then go see Mama, if you want pudding,’ Marco advised. ‘Fran, would you like pepper? Parmesan?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ She smiled back at him.
‘Bene. Enjoy,’ he said, and left them to it.
‘You have to try this,’ Gio insisted, and cut a small piece from his pizza. ‘Here.’ He offered her a forkful across the table; it felt oddly intimate, leaning across to take a bite, and when her gaze met his she felt a weird shifting in the region of her heart, as if it had just turned a somersault.
Oh, lord. Don’t say she was falling for Gio Mazetti, a man she barely knew and who was just about to become her boss?
‘Well?’ he asked. ‘So what do you think of avocado on pizza?’
‘It’s…different.’
He laughed. ‘That’s the diplomatic answer.’
She shifted the conversation back to business before it drifted on to personal ground. Dangerous ground. Because if she was going to work with Gio, any other sort of relationship was definitely out of the question. ‘You said you were thinking of expanding or franchising. How big is Giovanni’s?’
‘We have four outlets in London,’ he said. ‘So I’m at the stage where I need to decide what to do next. Well, I say “I”.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Dad started the business.’
‘But you’re in charge now.’
He nodded. ‘Though I need to consider Dad’s feelings. Franchising’s a possibility, but I need to do some proper research into what it all means and whether it’s the right way for us to go. And at the moment I simply don’t have the time.’
The pizzeria was another of his family’s businesses, and his aunt was clearly still hands on. Gio’s father couldn’t be that much older than Annetta, surely; so why wasn’t he hands-on with the coffee shop? ‘You seem—well, pretty young to be heading a chain of coffee shops,’ she commented.
‘I’m twenty-eight. But I’ve worked in the business for half my life. And I learned how to make decent espresso at my father’s knee.’
‘And because you’re the eldest, you were groomed to take over from your dad?’
For a brief moment, his face was filled with bleakness. And then, before she had the chance to ask him what was wrong, he smiled. ‘Something like that.’
She was pretty sure there was something he wasn’t telling her. ‘Your nonna said that trust has to start somewhere,’ she reminded him softly. ‘So why don’t you fill me in on the story?’
He toyed with his pizza for a while before answering. ‘I planned to go to college, ten years ago. I was going to study music. I helped out in the business while I was at school—we all did, whether it was washing up or baristaing or clearing the tables for Dad and washing them down when the shop closed—but this one night I was meant to be working a late shift when I had a chance to play in a concert. A concert where I knew a scout for a record company was going to be in the audience. Dad said I had to follow my dreams, and he’d do my shift for me, even though he’d been working all day and it meant he’d be doing a double shift. I was eighteen. Head full of stars. So I went. I played. The scout had a word with me and my guitar teacher. And I came home by the coffee shop to tell Dad my news.’ He dragged in a breath. ‘Which was when I found him lying on the floor. He’d had a heart attack while he was shutting up the shop. The ambulance got there in time to save him, but no way was I going to make Dad cope with the stress of the business after that.’
‘So you gave up music to take over from him?’ she guessed.
He grimaced. ‘I probably wasn’t good enough to make it commercially anyway. There isn’t that much scope for a classical guitarist.’ He spread his hands. ‘A bit of session work, a bit of teaching, the occasional gig in some arts club. It’s a bits-and-pieces sort of life, whereas running Giovanni’s means I can do pretty much what I like, when I like. It wasn’t a hard choice.’
The momentary flicker in those blue, blue eyes told her that he was lying. That even now he wondered, what if? But it hadn’t stopped him making the decision. He’d given up his dreams for his family.
Fran realised with a pang that Gio was the kind of man who believed in commitment. Who believed in his family.
A belief she so wanted to have. Except she didn’t share his certainty in belonging, the way that he did. Even though her parents had told her years before that she was special, that they’d chosen her to be part of their family, she wasn’t sure she belonged. Because they’d chosen her when they didn’t think they could have their own children, and she’d always thought that they regretted their decision when it turned out to be not the case. It was an unspoken fear, but one that still surfaced from time to time. Like now, when she’d stopped fitting in at work and she’d been the one to be made redundant rather than the other office manager.
Gio came from a large family. One that teased and drove him crazy, but clearly loved him to bits. If she accepted his offer of a job, would she fit in to his world any better than she fitted into her family?
‘What was the news?’ she asked. ‘The news you called by to tell him?’
Gio took a sip of wine. ‘Nothing important.’
She didn’t quite believe him. Hadn’t he said that the scout had had a word with him? But she had a feeling that if she pushed, Gio would clam up completely.
‘Besides, I’ve enjoyed managing the coffee shop. Dad believed in me enough to let me run it without interference. The one on Charlotte Street is the original café, but he was fine about me expanding it.’ He looked at her. ‘I said earlier about trusting people. I also need to be honest with you. Right now, it’s not so much the business that’s at a crossroads, it’s me.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know whether it’s because I’m heading towards thirty—a kind of early midlife crisis—but right now I feel in limbo. I don’t know what I want from life. And I need to find out while I’m still young enough to do something about it.’
That accounted for the suppressed restlessness she’d spotted earlier. ‘Music?’ she asked. Did he want to follow the dream he’d given up ten years before?
‘I’m too old. Too out of practice. I only play for myself nowadays, anyway.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I can promise you one thing, though—I’m not intending to sell the business or make you redundant. I just need…time. To sort a few things out in my head. And I need someone to help me. Someone to give me that time.’
He needed someone.
And he’d asked her.
‘How about we have a month’s trial, with a week’s notice on either side?’ she asked.
The smile he gave her was like that of a drowning man who’d just been thrown a lifeline. ‘Sounds good to me. When do you want to start?’
CHAPTER THREE
‘HOW about tomorrow?’ The words came out before he could stop them. Too eager. Stupid, Gio berated himself mentally. If he wasn’t careful, he’d scare her off.
‘Straight from one job to another, without a break?’ she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Very stupid, he amended silently. Hell. Now she was going to say no. Because he’d rushed her. Of course she’d want a break between jobs. Time to recharge her batteries. Would he never learn not to jump in feet first?
And then she smiled. ‘Well, it beats sitting around feeling sorry for myself. Tomorrow it is.’
He could’ve kissed her. Except officially, they were working together now. And Gio had seen too many good business relationships messed up when sex had got in the way of business. He wasn’t going to make that mistake. Even though he was definitely attracted to Fran and every time he looked at her he felt that low, humming excitement in his blood.
A feeling he’d just have to keep in check.
He settled on taking her hand and shaking it, instead. ‘Thanks. You have no idea how much I appreciate this.’
Time to let her hand go, now.
Now.
Because this was teetering on the very fine line between being a handshake and holding her hand. And he was aware of a tingling in his palm where her skin touched his.
This wasn’t the time. And in the middle of his aunt’s restaurant was definitely not the place. As it was, Marco had assumed that Fran was his girlfriend, and despite Gio’s denial the family grapevine was probably already buzzing.
He knew he’d get a call from his mother tonight, asking him how come he’d taken his girlfriend to meet his Aunt Netti before meeting his mother. Not to mention texts from Bella, Jude and Marcie staking their claims as bridesmaids, demanding full details of their new sister-in-law-to-be, and offering dinner invitations so they could meet her and grill her for themselves: his family didn’t seem to believe in taking things slowly.
Just as well he’d switched his mobile phone to ‘discreet’ mode. Pity he couldn’t switch his family to ‘discreet’ in the same way.
‘Appreciate what?’ Marco asked, overhearing Gio’s last comment.
Gio resisted the temptation to wring his cousin’s neck, and let go of Fran’s hand. ‘Perfect timing, cugino mio. I’d like you to meet my new office manager.’
Marco stared at Fran, and then at Gio. ‘Office manager?’
‘Yup.’
‘You’re telling me you’ve just been conducting a job interview—over dinner?’ Disbelief filled every note of his cousin’s voice.
‘It’s the civilised way to do things.’ Gio gave a wry smile. ‘And as I have to eat anyway…’
‘You decided to multi-task it.’ Marco made exaggerated quote marks with his fingers around the word ‘multi-task’, and rolled his eyes. ‘You’re unbelievable. Fran, he did warn you he’s a workaholic and his favourite phrase is “multi-task it”, didn’t he? Don’t let him take advantage of you.’
‘She’s too efficient to do that,’ Gio retorted.
Fran coughed. ‘And I’m also quite capable of speaking for myself, thank you very much.’
‘Indeed. And I apologise, Fran. My family’s bad habit—’ well, one of them, Gio thought ‘—is that we talk too much.’ He spread his hands. ‘Speaking of which…I’d better sneak into the kitchen to see my aunt. If you’ll excuse me for a little while?’ No way was he taking Fran with him to meet Netti. He needed to stop the family rumours before they spread: and he didn’t want his new office manager frightened off by the idea of his family claiming her as his new girlfriend.
Which she wasn’t.
Because he didn’t have a girlfriend.
Didn’t want a girlfriend.
Didn’t need a girlfriend.
OK, so his life wasn’t absolutely perfect at the moment. He couldn’t shift this restlessness, this feeling that there was a black hole in the middle of his life. He had no idea what he was looking for or what might fill that black hole—but he was pretty sure that it wasn’t settling down, getting married and having babies, whatever his family might think.
The second he walked into the kitchen, he was greeted with a hug and then a cuff round the ear by his aunt.
‘I’m too old and—at nearly a foot taller than you—too big for that,’ he said with a grin.
‘That’s what you’d like to think. I’m older and wiser and I know better. So where is she, then?’ Annetta asked.
‘Who?’
‘This bella ragazza Marco’s told me about. Francesca. This nice Italian girl.’
‘Netti, dolcezza, you know I adore you. But you’re jumping to conclusions.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘First of all, Fran’s not Italian.’
‘With a name like Francesca?’ Annetta scoffed. ‘Come off it.’
‘She’s not Italian,’ Gio repeated. ‘Secondly, she happens to be my new office manager. You lot have been nagging me for months and months and months to pace myself and take some time off—aren’t you pleased that I’m finally taking your advice and hiring myself some help?’
But his aunt refused to be diverted. ‘Marco says she’s nice. She has a pretty smile. And that you don’t look at her as if she’s a colleague.’
‘Yes, she’s nice,’ Gio agreed. ‘But Marco’s just become a dad and he’s sleep-deprived. He’s seeing things that aren’t there. She’s my colleague. And I’m not looking to settle down.’
‘You’re not even looking at going out with anyone, let alone settling down! And you need a social life as well as your work,’ Annetta said, pursing her lips. ‘You need someone to take you in hand. Why not this so-called “new office manager” of yours?’
‘Because.’ Gio knew better than to get drawn into this argument. He’d be here all night. ‘Netti, cara, I should get back to Fran, before she decides I’m going to be a terrible boss and changes her mind. And Marco did say you’d made us crème brûlée with raspberries…’
‘Don’t think you’re getting out of it that easily,’ his aunt warned, but she smiled and handed him the two dessert dishes. ‘Ring your mother tonight. You don’t call her enough. And you work too hard.’
‘Sì, mia zia. I know. That’s the way I’m made. It’s how Mazetti men are.’
She threw up her hands. ‘You’re impossible.’
He kissed her cheek. ‘Thanks for the pudding.’
‘My pleasure, piccolo.’ She shooed him towards the door. ‘Off you go, then. Back to the bella ragazza.’
Uh-oh. She clearly hadn’t listened to a word he’d said. That, or she’d decided not to believe him. ‘Please remember, Netti, Fran’s my office manager, not my girlfriend. Whatever you, my mother or Nonna would like to think—or dream up between the three of you,’ he said.
Annetta laughed. ‘You can tell Nonna that yourself. You know she’s coming over from Milan in about three weeks.’
‘I’m not sure,’ Gio said, ‘whether that’s a threat or a promise.’ He laughed, and fled from the kitchen before his aunt could flick a wet tea-towel at him.
Gio placed the dish of crème brûlée in front of Fran. ‘This will be the best you’ve ever tasted,’ he told her.
It certainly looked good. ‘How was your aunt?’ she asked politely.
‘Fine. I was told off for not taking you to meet her. But…’ He shook his head. ‘As one of four kids, you’ve got a better chance than most people of coping with the Mazettis. But you’ve only just agreed to be my office manager. I don’t want them scaring you off before you’ve even started.’
‘How would they do that?’
‘The women are—how can I put this nicely?—bossy. I grew up in a house with four women, so I can just about hold my own with my mother and my sisters—and my aunt. But when they add Nonna to the mix…’ He groaned. ‘She’s coming over from Milan in three weeks’ time. So I’m going to have to go into hiding.’
‘Your grandmother’s really that scary?’
‘No-o. Not exactly. She’s very straightforward—she tends to tell things like they are. I don’t think you’d have a problem with that. But…’ he sighed ‘…as I said, she’s got this thing about wanting me to settle down. Mum and Netti are her sidekicks, and they’ve got Marco on the team now—his wife had a little girl two weeks ago, and he’s just besotted with his wife and daughter. He thinks I should do what he’s done: find the perfect wife for me and have babies.’
He looked utterly horrified at the idea.
So was he the odd one out in his family, too? The one who didn’t want to do what all the others had done?
She smiled wryly. ‘I suppose that’s the good thing about being from a family of academics. Nobody expects you to settle down until you’re at least thirty. So I’m safe for the next four years or so.’
‘Is that what you want?’ Gio asked. ‘To settle down and have babies?’
A family to belong to. Where she’d fit smack into the middle of things. Be the hub.
She suppressed the shiver of longing. ‘Right now, I’m quite happy being single and fancy-free,’ she said lightly.
‘Hallelujah. Finally I’ve found someone female who’s on my wavelength—who actually understands where I’m coming from. You’re going to be on my side on this, right?’ Gio raised his glass to her. ‘To us. And we’re going to make a brilliant team.’
The pudding was indeed the best Fran had ever tasted. The coffee was good, too. And when they’d settled the bill and left the pizzeria, she was shocked to realise how late it was—how long she’d been chatting to Gio at the restaurant.
A man she’d only just met.
And yet, weirdly, it felt as if she’d known him for years. She couldn’t remember feeling so comfortable with someone so soon—ever.
‘I’ll see you home,’ Gio said.
She shook her head. ‘Thanks, but there’s really no need. I can look after myself.’
‘Remember, I was brought up the Italian way—it doesn’t feel right just to abandon you at the door of my aunt’s pizzeria and let you find your own way home. Let me at least walk you to the Tube station.’ Clearly he sensed that she was about to refuse, because he added, ‘Besides, we need to discuss when you’re going to start tomorrow and which branch, so we might as well—’
‘—multi-task it,’ she finished.
His eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘See. You can even read my mind.’
‘Hardly. Marco did tell me it was your favourite phrase,’ she reminded him with a smile. ‘OK. As long as it’s not taking you out of your way.’
‘I live within walking distance of the station,’ he said. ‘And it’s a warm, dry evening. The fresh air will do me good.’
By the time he’d walked her to Goodge Street station, they’d agreed to meet at the coffee shop on Charlotte Street at half past nine, and she’d checked the dress code—the baristas all wore black trousers or skirts and a white shirt, so she’d do the same. Gio insisted on waiting with her on the platform until she’d got on to the Tube, and then sketched a wave before striding off again.
When one door closes, another opens.
And how. She’d lost her dream job, stared failure in the face, then only a few hours later, she’d been offered something that might turn out to be even better. Something where she’d have free rein.
Gio was prepared to take a chance on her. So she’d take a chance on him. And she had a month to find out if she’d made the right choice.
The following morning, Gio had just finished signing for a delivery when Fran walked in.
He was used to seeing her on a Wednesday morning—but not this early, and only for the couple of minutes it took her to order her cappuccino and almond croissant. Seeing her now and knowing that she was going to be spending the day in his office, sitting at his desk, in his chair, felt…weird.
‘Good morning,’ she said.
Lord, she had the sweetest smile. A smile that did things to him. Things he hadn’t expected. He tried to ignore the flutter at the base of his spine and strove for casualness. ‘Hi.’
‘Sorry I’m a bit early.’
‘Well, you have to make a good impression on your first day,’ he teased. He introduced her swiftly to the baristas. ‘This is Fran. She’s our new office manager. And, no, before you ask, it doesn’t mean you can all go swanning off inter-railing like Kelly and let me cover your shifts.’
Sally clicked her fingers. ‘Damn. And there I was, planning to spend the summer on a beach full of gorgeous Italian men.’
Gio laughed. ‘That’s easy. Just go to one of my family’s back gardens on a Sunday afternoon.’
‘A sandpit and a horde of boys under the age of seven isn’t quite the same thing, Gio.’
‘They’re male, Italian and gorgeous, yes?’
She groaned. ‘Yes.’
‘And there’s sand.’
‘But no sea.’
‘That’s a minor detail. Plus, everyone has a freezer full of Nando’s best ice cream. What more do you need?’ he teased.
Sally rolled her eyes. ‘Welcome to the madhouse, Fran.’
‘Thanks. I think.’ Fran smiled back.
‘Let me show you round,’ Gio said. He gave her a tour of the coffee shop, then showed her into the small staff kitchen, rest room and office at the back of the shop.
Judging by the papers piled in a haphazard mountain on the desk, filing clearly wasn’t his thing—and he obviously knew it, because he looked slightly embarrassed. ‘I do know where everything is. I’m just not that good at putting things away.’
‘And I bet your computer’s the same. All the files lumped under one directory.’
‘I’m not quite that bad.’ Gio’s blue eyes softened. ‘I’ve just been too busy lately to keep on top of the filing. I did tell you I needed someone to sort me out. I’ll get you a coffee and then I’ll talk you through the computer systems.’
He reappeared shortly after with two mugs of coffee.
‘You need these.’ She handed him an envelope. ‘Details for your personnel records.’
He opened the envelope and looked through the files. ‘CV, emergency contact details, NI number, bank details—great, thanks—hmm, no, don’t need these.’ He handed the references back to her without even a cursory scan of the text.
‘Why not?’
‘The new studio owners are probably going to feel guilty about pushing you out so they’ll have written you a very glowing reference to make up for it. On the other hand, they’re also too short-sighted to see what they’ve passed up—so I doubt if their views are worth the paper they’re written on.’ He smiled to take the sting from his words. ‘Besides, I told you yesterday, I’m a good judge of character. So even though one or two of my baristas came with less-than-glowing reports from previous employers, I went by my gut instinct and I was proved right. They came good.’
‘One of your grandmother’s sayings?’ she guessed.
‘If you see the best in people, they’ll give you their best.’ He nodded. ‘Actually, there was one thing we didn’t discuss yesterday. Money. You’re working for Giovanni’s, so you need a salary. What were you on at your last place?’
She told him.
He sighed. ‘I can just about match that, but I’m afraid I can’t raise it. You’d probably get a lot more from a financial services company or one of the big ad agencies.’
‘But you,’ she said, ‘promised me free rein.’
He smiled. ‘I trust you not to make changes just for the sake of it.’ He talked her through the different systems on the computer, showing her how the information was coded for each of the four branches and how they fed into an overall system. ‘Your username is “marsfran”, and this is your password.’ He scribbled her initials and a series of numbers on to a piece of paper.
‘You sorted this out for me already?’
He shrugged. ‘It didn’t take long. Besides, I’d left some papers here that I needed last night.’ He hadn’t stayed particularly long. In peace and quiet with no interruptions, you could get a lot done in a couple of hours. Which was why he was usually in not long after dawn. Before the rush started.
‘I’m beginning to see what your cousin means about you being a workaholic,’ Fran said dryly.
‘Don’t tell me you’re going over to their team. I need you on my side.’ He smiled at her. ‘Well, the best way to get used to new systems and what have you is to play with them. If you get stuck, just give me a yell. I’ll leave you to it to book yourself on the food hygiene course—the place I normally use is in the address book under “food hygiene course”—and take a look through the systems.’
‘And do your filing?’ she asked, raising one eyebrow.
Gio pantomimed innocence. ‘I didn’t ask—but as you’ve just offered…’
She laughed. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Give me a yell if you need anything or you get stuck. Otherwise, I’ll bring you some coffee and an almond croissant.’ He smiled at her. ‘I haven’t forgotten about the barista training, but the morning rush is probably not the best time to introduce you to the delights of the espresso machine and the milk frother. Maybe if there’s an afternoon lull? Or just before I strip the machines down after we close?’
‘You’re the boss,’ she said lightly. ‘You tell me.’
‘Later,’ he promised, winked, and left her to it.
The day went surprisingly quickly. Fran sorted out the filing and worked through the different systems, making a list of questions for Gio as she went. He came in a couple of times, bearing a cup of coffee or a cool drink—and one time bringing her a list of what he needed ordering from the suppliers for delivery to each branch, the following morning—but for the most part she was on her own in Gio’s office.
The wallpaper on his computer screen was a family photograph. His parents, she guessed, plus three younger women who had to be his sisters, and an older woman who was probably his Italian grandmother. Gio was standing right in the middle of them, with a huge smile on his face. Whatever his protests about not wanting to settle down, he clearly loved his family. And he’d given up his dreams for them. He was a man who wasn’t afraid to make sacrifices. Who’d give everything for those he loved.
At the end of their shifts, Sally and Ian put their heads round the door to say goodbye. Fran felt a weird glow spread through her. Her first day, and already she was accepted as part of the team. Just as she’d been at the voiceover studio. Maybe this was going to work out just fine.
She logged off the computer, and then Gio walked in. ‘Wow. Are you Mary Poppins in disguise? You know, waving a magic wand and everything tidies itself up and marches in the right order into the right file in the right drawer?’
She laughed. ‘All you needed was a system. And it wasn’t actually that bad. There was a kind of order to the chaos.’
He perched himself on the edge of the desk. ‘The office looks better than it has in years. I normally don’t let Dad anywhere near here—in his day he kept things absolutely spotless, and seeing it in a mess would be an excuse for him to get back in here and start working stupid hours again.’
Considering the hours Gio worked…‘Like father, like son?’
‘But I’m twenty-eight, not fifty-eight. And I haven’t had a heart attack.’ Gio made a face. ‘I just want him to take things easy and not worry.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘But we need to sort out this barista training. We said we’d do it now, after closing, but you were in early this morning. So tomorrow I don’t want to see you until eleven, OK?’
She blinked. ‘But…’
‘No buts.’ He held up one hand to forestall any protest. ‘Your hours are Monday to Friday, nine to five with an hour for lunch. If you work more than that, you take time in lieu or you fill out an overtime form. I don’t expect you to work the same hours I do.’
Reminding her—in a nice way—that he was the boss and she was the employee. And she’d better keep that in mind. This was an employer–employee relationship, nothing else.
‘So how’s your first day been?’ he asked.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘I like Ian and Sally. And the people in the other branches were fine when they spoke to me.’
‘That’s a point,’ Gio said. ‘I need to take you to the other cafés so you can meet the staff there, too. Maybe tomorrow afternoon, or Friday morning.’
‘So this is where you’re based, most of the time?’ she asked.
‘Most of the time,’ Gio agreed. ‘Though I try to do a shift in each of the outlets, once a week. It gives the team a chance to talk to me about any problems that need fixing or any suggestions they have for improvements or innovations—and it gives me a chance to make sure everything’s ticking over as it should be and there aren’t any problems that need sorting before they get unmanageable. But this was the first branch Dad opened, so the office space is here.’ He spread his hands. ‘Ready to learn what it takes to be a barista?’
‘Sure.’
He talked her through how to use the machines and the steps needed to make an espresso. And then it was her turn. Despite taking notes, she’d forgotten one or two points—but Gio was standing behind her, ready to show her what to do. Not close enough to touch, but she was aware of how near his body was to hers. She could almost feel the heat of his body. And when his left arm reached out to the grinder, his bare skin brushed against hers, for just the tiniest fraction of a second, but it felt as if electricity zinged through every nerve-end.
Mentally, she went through the steps. Grind, dose, tamp—she tapped the filter gently and watched the contents level, then pressed it down as he’d shown her—fit the filter into the machine, flick the switch and let it pour…She counted for twenty seconds in her head, then turned the tap off.
‘Looks good,’ Gio said, looking over her shoulder. His breath fanned her ear, and she felt a shiver of anticipation run down her back.
Stop it, she warned herself. He’s your boss.
So why couldn’t she stop thinking about him on a personal level? Why couldn’t she stop wondering how his mouth would feel against the curve of her neck? Why couldn’t she stop thinking how easy it would be to take one tiny step backwards so that her body was in close contact with his, and his arms would curve round her waist, holding her to him…?
‘Stir it,’ Gio said softly.
She did, half-expecting the coffee to stay black with just a tiny bit of foam clinging to the edges of the cup, but the crema reformed. ‘Wow.’
‘Now watch and wait.’
She watched as the thousands of tiny, tiny bubbles began to disperse. And as the caramel-coloured foam started to dissolve, so her awareness of Gio’s nearness grew. To the point where she was having a seriously hard time keeping her cool. It wasn’t that he was invading her personal space—it was that she wanted him to.
Which was a seriously bad idea.
He was her new boss.
Which meant hands off.
She’d seen what happened with office romances. The way the working relationship turned so awkward that one of them had to leave—and until that happened everyone was walking on eggshells. Messy. Complicated. Not something she wanted to happen here.
Gio glanced at his watch when the crema had almost vanished. ‘Just over a minute. Good. OK, you can do a second one. This time it’s for tasting.’
When he’d tasted it, he said, ‘Good. Just the right amount of smoothness. Try it.’ He held the mug to her lips.
Her mouth was right where his had just touched. Oh, lord. This was getting ridiculous. She’d spent years working without ever falling for a colleague or a client. So why was she reacting this way to Gio? Besides, he probably taught all his baristas this way, standing close to them so he could reach out and guide them where necessary.
This wasn’t personal.
It just felt like it.
‘Good?’ he asked.
‘Good.’ Her voice sounded very slightly squeaky; she really hoped he hadn’t noticed.
‘Excellent. Thus endeth your first lesson. We’ll do lattes tomorrow.’ He smiled at her. ‘See you tomorrow. I’m over in Holborn first thing, but you can buzz through to me if you need anything. And I’ll take you round the other branches tomorrow afternoon.’
Class most definitely dismissed, Fran thought, even though he’d done it in the most charming way. ‘Do you want me to stay and help clean the machines?’
Ouch. That sounded like an attempt to be the teacher’s pet.
‘No, that’s fine. I’ve kept you here long enough. And, Fran?’
‘Yes?’
He smiled at her. ‘Thanks. I appreciate what you’ve done today.’
‘No worries. See you later.’ She replaced her notebook in a tray in the office, collected her handbag from the bottom drawer, and lifted her hand in a casual wave goodbye as she left the coffee shop.
Putting distance between herself and Gio Mazetti was a good idea, she thought. And hopefully by the time she saw him again, she’d have it fixed in her head that they were colleagues only—and staying that way.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE next morning, Fran felt awkward going in to work so late—especially as Gio wasn’t there—but Sally and Ian, the baristas, greeted her cheerfully enough. Sally had a mug of coffee ready for her just the way she liked it before she’d even reached the office. Gio had emailed her from Holborn, asking if she’d get some information for him about specific aspects of franchising, so she spent the rest of the morning researching, and the afternoon setting up a spreadsheet that would do automated graphs showing the figures for each coffee shop.
She knew the second that Gio walked into the coffee shop; even though she couldn’t see him from the office, she was aware of his presence. Something that made the air tingle.
So much for her pep talk, the previous evening, spent in front of the bathroom mirror, repeating over and over again that Gio Mazetti was her boss and way off limits. It wasn’t as if she’d been bothered before about being single or on the shelf. Why should things be different now?
‘Hi.’ He walked into the office and leaned against the edge of her desk. ‘Good day so far?’
‘Yes. You?’
‘Pretty good. I’ve got a new supplier coming to see us tomorrow morning—someone who does organic cakes. So we’ll need to do a taste test and, if we like it, work out what we’re going to have to charge to keep the same profit margin and where the break-even points are. She left me the price list.’ He handed her a folder. ‘Tomorrow, can you sort me out some suggested figures for a trial?’
‘No problem.’She flicked into her tasklist and typed rapidly.
‘Thanks. Are you still OK for another half-hour lesson on baristaing, tonight?’ he asked.
So he was still going to teach her, not get Sally or one of the others to take over? A warm glow spread through her. ‘Sure.’ She tried for a light tone. ‘This is where I get to do the milk, yes?’
‘Yep. Have you got the orders from Holborn and the others?’
‘Yes, and I was just about to ring the supplier,’ she said with a smile.
He smacked his palm against his forehead. ‘Sorry, sorry. I’m teaching you to suck eggs.’
‘No. But you’ve been doing this for years. It must be hard to give up control.’
‘A bit,’ he admitted. ‘You’ve got your course booked?’
‘I was going to ask you about that. I can go on Tuesday or Thursday next week. Which one would fit in best with whatever you’ve got planned?’
‘Either. And I’m not expecting to see you in here before or after, whichever day it is,’he said firmly. ‘Straight to college from home—and straight back home from college, OK?’
‘Yes, boss.’ She saluted him. ‘Though I assume you’d like me to let you know if I pass?’
‘When,’ he corrected. ‘Of course you’ll pass.’
She’d already told him she wasn’t good when it came to exams, so it felt good that he had that much confidence in her.
‘When you’ve phoned the order through, come out the front and I’ll take you on a whistle-stop tour of the Giovanni’s empire.’ He smiled at her, and left her to it.
When she emerged from the office, a few minutes later, she was surprised when Gio led her to a car.
‘Wouldn’t it be easier to go by Tube?’
‘With all those line changes? Even Holborn, all of two stops away, means a line change. If you add in Islington and Docklands…’ He grimaced. ‘It’s a lot less hassle to do it this way.’
The car wasn’t what she’d expected, either. It must have shown on her face, because he said with a grin, ‘Just what were you expecting me to drive, Fran?’
Well, he’d asked—she might as well be honest. ‘A Harley. Or maybe a two-seater.’
He laughed. ‘First off, if I had a motorbike, it’d be a Ducati—I’d always pick an Italian make first. But if you’ve ever tried having a guitar case as your pillion passenger…’ For a second, his face clouded. And then he looked wistful. ‘A two-seater…Yeah.’
‘A Ferrari?’ It was the only Italian sports car she could think of.
‘Along with taking out a second mortgage to pay for the insurance? No.’ He shook his head. ‘My first car was a two-seater—an Alfa. I bought her the day after I passed my driving test. Dad went bananas that I’d spent so much money on an old car with a soft top that always leaked, but she was the love of my life. The day the mechanic told me there was no way he’d be able to fix her up to pass the MOT and I’d have to scrap her…’ He sighed. ‘I rang every car museum I could think of to see if I could donate her somewhere she’d get a kind retirement.’
‘And you found somewhere?’
‘No.’ He opened the passenger door of the estate car for her. ‘Dad had to take her to the scrap dealer’s for me. I couldn’t face it.’
Oh, bless. On impulse, she gave him a hug.
And then wished she hadn’t when every single nerve-end started tingling.
And tingled a bit more when Gio’s arms came round her to return the hug. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For not laughing at me.’
‘Course I wouldn’t laugh at you,’ she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as rough and croaky to him as it did to her, and she ducked into the car.
She just about managed to recover her composure by the time he slid into the driving seat. ‘So how come you’ve got an estate car now?’ It was the complete opposite of a little two-seater sports car.
‘Because Marco got really fed up with me borrowing his to do the cash-and-carry run, and nagged me into getting my own. Although my suppliers deliver nowadays, I haven’t got round to changing the car to something a bit smaller and easier to park.’ He slanted her a look. ‘Don’t tell me you drive a two-seater?’
‘I don’t have a car.’ She shrugged. ‘Don’t really need one, for London.’
‘What about when you go home to see your family?’
‘Train and taxi.’
‘So on a bright spring day, you never get up and decide to go to the seaside?’
‘No. But if I wanted to, there’s a reasonable train service from London to Brighton.’ She glanced at him. ‘Is that what you do on your days off? Go to the seaside?’
He gave her a non-committal murmur; given what she’d already heard his family say to him, she interpreted that as meaning that he almost never took time off.
As he turned on the ignition, the car was flooded with indie rock. Very loud indie rock.
‘Whoops.’ He turned the stereo off. ‘Sorry. One of my worst habits. Volume.’
She’d half-expected him to listen to classical guitar music. Or maybe that was too painful—a reminder of what he’d lost. ‘No worries,’ she said. ‘And I don’t mind if you’d rather have music on when you’re driving.’
‘Just not at that volume, hmm?’ he asked wryly, but switched the stereo on again, this time lowering the volume to something much more bearable.
The journey was quick, and he parked in a side street near the Holborn branch. The feel of the place was very similar to the Charlotte Street café, but Fran was intrigued to see that it had its own identity. Different art on the walls, for starters. But the staff were just as warm and friendly as they were at Charlotte Street, and Amy—the head barista—seemed pleased to put a face to the voice from the previous day.
Islington was next, and then Docklands; again, Fran noticed that there wasn’t a uniform style to the cafés. ‘If you’re going to franchise the business,’ she said to Gio on their way back to Charlotte Street, ‘shouldn’t the cafés all look the same?’
‘Yes and no,’ Gio said. ‘I suppose there needs to be some kind of corporate identity. A logo or what have you. But I don’t want them to be identikit. I want each café to fit in with its surroundings and suit the clientele in the area. Which means they’re different.’ He lifted one shoulder. ‘I want to keep it personal. And sell bakery goods produced locally, to local recipes where possible—so if we expand further afield that would mean Banbury cakes in Oxfordshire, parkin in Yorkshire, Bakewell pudding in Derbyshire and that sort of thing. We’ll sell the best coffee and the best regional goodies.’ He frowned. ‘So I suppose that’s an argument against franchising.’
‘But if you go the other route and open more branches, you’re not going to have time to do a shift in every one, every single week, to get feedback from your customers and staff. Especially if some of them are outside London,’ she pointed out. ‘With four, you can do it. With five, it’s going to be a struggle. With ten—no chance.’
He sighed. ‘I’m doing the wrong thing. I shouldn’t be looking at franchising—I should be inventing a time machine, so I can make the time to visit all the branches myself.’
‘What was it your Italian grandmother says about trusting people?’ she asked gently. ‘If you expand, Gio, you’re going to have to learn to delegate. Trust your managers to do what you do and to give you the feedback. You don’t have to do it all yourself.’
‘I’m trying to delegate. I’m trusting you to sort the admin side.’ He coughed. ‘Well. Apart from sitting on your case, earlier.’ He parked in a little square just off Charlotte Street.
‘Where are we?’ Fran asked.
‘My parking space, near my flat.’ He smiled. ‘Told you I lived near the café. It’s a ten-minute stroll from my flat to work, tops, which makes life very easy.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Are you sure you’re still OK for a lesson in lattes?’
‘Sure.’ Which was when Fran realised that she’d actually been looking forward to it. All day. And even though she’d spent most of the afternoon with Gio, most of the time they’d been with other people.
This would be just the two of them.
Alone.
Strange how that thought made her heart beat a little bit faster.
They arrived back at the Charlotte Street branch just before closing. Once Sally and Ian had left, Gio bolted the door and switched off most of the lights. Then he smiled at Fran. ‘Ready?’
‘Yup.’ She fished her notebook out of her handbag.
‘OK. Rule one of milk—it has to be fresh and cold, or it won’t froth. It’s the proteins in milk that make the foam. And the way we do it is with a steam wand—your goal is to get the froth hole in the wand at the same level as the surface of the milk, so you’ll get nice small bubbles throughout the milk instead of huge bubbles at the top.’
‘Why do you need small bubbles?’
He smiled. ‘I’ll show you.’ He talked her through how to use the steam nozzle on the machine, starting with half a pitcher of cold milk and gradually working it up so it became warm and frothy. ‘This is perfect for a latte. And latte art.’
‘Latte art?’ Fran asked, mystified.
‘It’s how you pour the milk in such a way that you make a pretty pattern on the top—the crema comes through in the design. You make a rosetta, swirling the leaves out, and you finish with the stem to pull it all together.’ He tapped the jug against the table; then, with what looked like a tiny wobble of the wrist, he swirled the milk on and a flower suddenly appeared in the middle of the foam.
‘That’s pretty,’ she said. ‘You make it look very easy—would I be right in saying it’s quite difficult?’
‘It’s advanced baristaing—an extra,’ he admitted. ‘It’s what the coffee tastes like that counts most, not what it looks like. If you’ve made vile coffee, it doesn’t matter how pretty it is—the customer won’t want to come back. And then again, some people don’t even notice; they add sugar and stir, and your rosetta’s gone so you might just as well not have bothered. But it sometimes makes the customer’s day when they see a heart or an apple or a flower or a rosetta on the top of their coffee.’
‘Latte art.’ He had to be teasing her.
He spread his hands. ‘If you don’t believe me, look on the internet. There are pages and pages of photos of latte art.’
She still wasn’t sure if he was teasing her or not. But she liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the way his eyes glittered.
‘OK. Remember how to make an espresso?’ he asked. ‘Normally, you’d froth the milk at the same time, but as it’s your first time we’ll do the milk second.’
‘Grind, dose, tamp, fit the filter and pour,’ she said.
He nodded, looking pleased. ‘Go for it.’
To her relief, the espresso came out well.
‘Now to steam and froth the milk.’ He guided her through the process, just as he had when he’d taught her to make an espresso. When he moved the steam nozzle for her with a clean cloth, his arm brushed against hers, the brief touch of his skin making her temperature sizzle.
This was crazy. She was known for being level-headed at work, good in a crisis. Reliable, calm and efficient. So why did she feel right now as if fireworks were going off inside her head? Why did she want to leave the coffee where it was, forget the milk, twist round in Gio’s arms and brush her mouth against his?
Focus, she reminded herself.
‘When you turn the pressure down, can you hear the change in the sound of the steam tap?’ he asked.
Low and husky—just like Gio’s voice. ‘Yes.’
‘Good. Bring the nozzle up a tiny bit—remember, we’re trying to keep the steam coming out almost at the surface of the milk—and let it froth.’ He was standing behind her, one arm either side of her, his hands resting on hers to help her keep the jug in the right place. ‘When the jug feels hot to the touch, the milk’s ready.’
She certainly felt hot right now. Hot and very bothered. Because his hands were strong and capable, and she could smell his clean personal scent, mixed with a citrussy tang which she assumed was shower gel or shampoo. A scent that she found incredibly arousing; she just hoped that Gio couldn’t see the way her nipples had tightened under her shirt.
‘You’re picky.’
‘Details are important,’ he said. ‘My customers expect the best. And I wouldn’t produce anything less.’
‘And yet your office is untidy. I thought perfectionists were that way about everything,’ she said.
He laughed, the smile-lines around his mouth deepening. ‘I’m a perfectionist about some things.’
For a brief moment—before she managed to suppress it—the idea flickered through her brain. What else would Gio be a perfectionist about? Kissing? Making lo—
They were making coffee, she reminded herself. Flirting and what have you was not on the agenda.
‘What we’re looking for is texture. Tiny microbubbles that make the foam and the milk one—so it settles out in the cup, not the jug. It’s got a sheen like quicksilver,’ Gio told her. ‘We’re looking for pure silk.’
Silk. Like his skin. Like his voice.
Oh, lord. She was going to drop the wretched jug in a minute.
‘OK. This’ll do nicely. Now, what I showed you was free-pouring—but that’s quite time-sensitive, and you need to build up to that. For now, we’ll spoon.’
Her mouth went dry at the thought. ‘Spoon.’
‘Spoon the froth from the jug.’
Oh-h-h. The picture that had flickered into her mind at the word ‘spoon’ had nothing to do with coffee or cutlery. She was really, really going to have to watch what she said.
‘Let the jug rest for a little while, so the foam and milk separate out a bit. Then you scoop the foam out of the jug and on to the surface of the espresso. A little bit for a latte.’
She did as he instructed.
Spoon. She couldn’t get that picture out of her head.
The picture of Gio’s body wrapped round hers.
Naked.
‘Then you hold the froth back in the jug with the spoon and pour the milk on to the coffee. It should go through the foam and lift it up, and mix with the coffee.’
She’d barely heard a word he was saying. Tonight, she’d have to go and research it on the internet, so she could make some notes—and maybe try again tomorrow when it was quiet and preferably when Gio was on a break.
‘Like so.’ He smiled at her. ‘The perfect latte. Try.’
‘It doesn’t look as pretty as yours.’
‘You can cheat a bit—some people spoon a tiny bit of foam on top of the crema and make it into a swirl with the back of a spoon. Or you can use a needle to make patterns, like starbursts or the kind of feathering a pastry chef does with icing,’ he said. ‘Or cheat even more and use chocolate syrup and a knife. But free-pouring’s the proper art.’
‘And it takes weeks to learn, you say?’
His eyes lit up. ‘Sounds as if you’re up for a challenge. I’ll teach you how to do it. And if you can do it by the end of your trial period, I’ll take you to Fortnum’s and buy you the biggest box of chocolates of your choice.’
‘And if I can’t?’
‘Then you buy me the chocolates.’ He moistened his lower lip in a way that made her heart beat just that little bit faster. ‘And I should warn you that I’m greedy.’
Fran had a nasty feeling that she could be greedy, too.
And it took every single bit of her self-control to stop her sliding her arms round his neck and jamming her mouth over his.
The free sample has ended.
