Beautiful People

by Wendy Holden

  "Ciao!" Some coffee-drinkers were leaving, and he waved them off.

  He watched approvingly as Daria, the waitress, came out and cleared away the coffee cups from some earlier breakfasters. Daria was pretty, certainly, with her doe-like face with its creamy skin and the shiny black ponytail that flopped down her back. But what Marco admired most about her was the speed with which she could chop a carrot and her neatness at table-setting. He had no time for women, for romance. The love of his life was his restaurant.

  He looked over the courtyard once more before disappearing inside. And it was then that he saw her.

  She was walking up the steep cobbled street towards him, flushed as even the fittest usually were by this point. She was about twenty-five and the hair that swished about her shoulders was as thick and shining as squid ink. Her wide, creamy face made him think instantly of panna cotta, and her pale arms and legs, the beautiful sheeny white of freshest leeks, were set off by a dress the bright yellow of saffron rice. As she got closer, he saw her pretty, full mouth was a rich, strawberry-semifreddo pink.

  A hot wave of excitement washed suddenly over Marco. Rocolo, being one of the jewels of the Chianti tourist trail, attracted its fair share of beautiful women. Some of them even famous. But he had never looked at any of them the way he was looking at this woman now. She was enchanting.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Christian Harlow was not having a good day. This boneheaded Italian cop's refusal to let him drive at top speed up the village street was merely the latest example of how events at the moment seemed to be conspiring against him. Why the hell couldn't he, anyway? The crumbling old heap of a village needed something fast and new in it. The place was a mess; you could see that from here.

  "Whaddya mean I can't get my car up there?" he demanded, stabbing one of many beringed fingers at the small cobbled lane leading under the arch. "I'm starving. I need a burger, like, now, man. Hey. You don't know who you're dealing with here, yeah? Don't you know who I am?"

  The cop was jealous, Christian decided. Sure he was; the Ferrari he'd had the film company hire for his entertainment while in Italy was a great car. He'd had a blast roaring up and down the country lanes in it this morning—Jesus, they made them small round here—but now he was hungry, and this shitty little village was the nearest place to where he was staying. He'd zoom in and stop at the burger bar.

  "Walk?" he shouted angrily as the policeman mimed ambulatory movements. "Are you kidding?"

  It was on the tip of Christian's foot, expensively shod in Versace sandals, to put the pedal to the metal and roar away. But where the hell would he get his burger then? Besides, he wanted to check out the scene—and the chicks. There was bound to be someone willing to have a little fun with a Hollywood superstar.

  What was this freak of a cop saying to him? Christian frowned and tried to understand, not a process that came to him easily. "Bicycle?" he repeated disbelievingly.

  The policeman was bending his legs, holding his arms out in front and jiggling. A crowd that had gathered, and was swelling, tittered. Thunder gathered in Christian's heart. He threw his arm across the low, black leather back of the driver's seat, flung the Ferrari violently into reverse, and screeched away. Grudgingly, he parked the car, and, once the crowd had dispersed, trudged across to the bridge to begin the ascent to the village on foot.

  Bloody Italy, thought Christian. He'd never wanted to come here in the first place, had no interest in Europe whatsoever. Who did? As markets went, it was a million miles behind the only one that really mattered, his own native U.S. of A.

  And now, of course, he was stuck here for weeks on end. One of the other reasons that this morning had been such an ass-pain was the call he had got from his agent, Greg Cucarachi. Cucarachi had informed him that principal photography on the film had been set back by a week or so while locations were finalised.

  "Jesus," Christian had shouted. "Nothing on this goddamn film is finalised. Locations, actors, whatever. What is it with this guy Saint?"

  "The fee he's paying you and the fact the film will be huge," Greg had replied immediately. "And as it happens, another actor has been finalised." Christian now learnt that Belle Murphy had been given a part in Galaxia. "You're kidding me!" Christian screeched.

  "Don't you read the papers?" Greg asked.

  "No, I fucking don't," he yelled. "I pay people like you to read them for me."

  "In which case," Greg rejoined smoothly, "let me explain. Belle had a hit with some Shakespeare play in London. She's hot again— well, pretty warm."

  "You say this movie's gonna take eight weeks to shoot once principal photography actually starts? Eight weeks with her?"

  "Eight weeks in Italy, yes," Greg said. "But that's only the ceremonial space city bits—Saint wanted real palazzo interiors for them. There's about three months of shooting elsewhere, plus post-production…"

  "I don't wanna see her!" Christian interrupted violently. "Saint's gotta drop her from the film!" Not least because his chances of bedding anyone else would be badly scuppered by having his banshee of an ex around.

  "Not much chance of getting her dropped," Greg remarked. "But don't worry," he soothed. "There's a way round this. You don't have to see her. Or, rather, she doesn't have to see you."

  "How d'ya figure that out?" Christian demanded hysterically. "We'll be on set together."

  "Sure, but whenever you're on set, you're in disguise. You're the evil lord Jolyon Wooloo, half lizard and half man," Greg reminded his client, quite unable to believe that Christian was unaware of this central fact.

  "That's the main part, yeah?" Christian said aggressively.

  Greg confirmed that it was. "It's a great part. Your costume's gonna be incredible. You'll wear a lizard mask made of latex. It takes four hours of make-up every day…"

  "What?"

  "Hey, all this is in your contract. Didn't you read it?"

  Christian fired hot air impatiently out of his nostrils. Of all the stupid questions. He hadn't read anything in the contract apart from how much he was getting paid. "I've got a latex mask on my head? In the middle of an Italian summer? I'm gonna cook, man."

  "You get cooled between takes by air pumped through a tube."

  "Big fucking deal," growled Christian. His big film break was

  looking less sexy all the time. Eight weeks in Italy with Belle Murphy, dressed as a lizard in a latex mask. Great.

  "Remember, it's a big part," Greg reminded him. "It's gonna make you huge."

  It had better, Christian thought as he stomped up the cobbles into Rocolo.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  "It's your restaurant?" Darcy was asking the wild-haired man in whites who had come out to take her order. He really was very tall for an Italian—over six feet, she estimated. But you obviously got tall Italians. There seemed no reason why not.

  "Every inch," Marco declared proudly. "I am chef-patron."

  She was lovelier than he had imagined, her long sweep of lashes like the tiny tentacles on the most delicious of sea urchins. Her perfect ears reminded him of the tiny, tasty clams he liked to use for spaghetti vongole. Her lips were not, as he had first imagined, the colour of the most perfect raspberry sorbet. No, they were redder, more like the tomato ice he had recently been experimenting with and which had actually turned out rather well.

  "What sort of food do you do?"

  He sighed happily. He was tongue-tied with women, and never more so than with this one, but this was the one subject in the world on which he could hold forth with the utmost confidence to anyone. "Country food, you know. Of the region. Traditional dishes, with perhaps a little modern twist here and there."

  "Is that what I can smell?" Darcy was sniffing hard. The scent was strong, herby, and delicious.

  "Si. Today we are doing a minestrone with beans and pesto. We make it with rice too, so much rice you can stand your spoon up in it and watch it fall slowly back down. Oh, and with a big glug of peppery, golden olive oil
to finish…what is that noise?" Marco asked suddenly, inclining his big shaggy head the better to listen.

  Darcy did not answer. She had no intention of admitting it was her stomach.

  Lunch started with aperitivo of crisp Prosecco with salami and olives, along with a dish of bright green beans, a speciality of the region, Marco explained. Then followed some sausage and pea risotto, and afterwards lemon ice cream. A succession of wonders, Darcy thought.

  Never before had she tasted such food. Everything was so fresh, so colourful, so obviously full of goodness and flavour. It seemed to Darcy, as she absorbedly ate this lunch, that she had only ever fuelled herself at tables before. Only now, here under the cool shade outside this little but excellent restaurant, was she really eating for the first time.

  From the kitchen window, above the main dining room and commanding a courtyard view, Marco watched her eat. At that exact moment, he knew, the nutty, creamy flavour of the rice was combining with the fresh sweetness of the peas. Her eyes were closed as she forked the risotto in. This, thought Marco, was a woman who really appreciated food. He had sensed this was so from the start, which was why he had arranged a handful of his prized green fava beans, the early, baby broad beans he so loved to eat raw, in a dish for her, a privilege he accorded normally to only his very favourite customers.

  What was the matter with him? Beautiful women came to the restaurant all the time. Most of them left him cold. Mostly because they didn't eat, just poked salads about and crumbled the breadsticks, which Marco hated to see. They were taking up a place at his table a food lover could have had.

  Darcy, lost in contemplation of how absolutely delicious that pea risotto had been, almost jumped when the white plate bearing two creamy scoops over which strips of candied lemon peel had been laid descended to the table in front of her. She looked up, startled, to find herself staring into the distracted eyes of the chaotic-looking chef.

  "Lemon ricotta ice cream," Marco murmured. She watched his big brown hands—they were scarred, she noticed, yet had long and sensitive fingers—move in explication. "Made with Sicilian lemons. The best."

  He saw her eyes glow at this; they had the burnish, he felt, of candlelight on a perfect chocolate-covered coffee bean. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Marco saw something move behind him.

  He turned, and his heart sank. A man was making his way up the slope. A macho type, with the muscle-bound swagger Marco associated with the gym. He was obviously heading straight for the restaurant.

  He wore a tight, white T-shirt on whose front, beneath the mass of gold chains, crosses, and pendants he wore, the glittering name Gucci flowed over undulating pectorals. His bare, brown, and powerfully muscled arms bristled with bracelets and an expensivelooking watch, and he wore a black-and-white knitted hat covered in interlinked Chanel Cs.

  Marco sighed. The few minutes alone with the beautiful foodlover had been delicious, but they were all too obviously over. Not least because the muscle-bound swaggerer seemed to recognise her.

  "Hey!" he said.

  Darcy Prince, Christian was sure. His latest co-star in what had better be the greatest film of his career. Looking even better than she had in Puccini's. Christian's thick-cut, sensuous lips curved in triumph as he got closer. That dark hair, that pale skin, those very nice tits under that yellow dress.

  Darcy, whose tastebuds were exploding like a firework display with intense lemonness, looked up, disconcerted. She did not immediately recognise the man standing at the edge of the parasol-shaded tables. But then he strode forward, dropped into the chair in front of her, and tore off his sunglasses. With a lift of her heart and a swoop in her stomach, Darcy found herself staring into the same pair of eyes that had hypnotised her in L.A. Christian Harlow. She never forgot a name, and his face was unforgettable anyway.

  "Darcy," Christian repeated, pleased at the effect he had had. She would be putty in his hands; he could see that immediately. He fixed his eyes on her breasts. Jesus, they even looked real. That was an unexpected bonus.

  Marco, pretending to push chairs in a few tables away, glowered from behind the sunshades. This muscle-bound beast of a man, all cheekbones and cock. He was staring at her breasts without even attempting to hide it. What was even worse was that she seemed to like it.

  "Christian," Darcy breathed, all confusion. Her ability to appear normal deserted her. She blushed hot, went cold, and felt shaky and oddly light, as if she might float or fall of the chair. "What are you…I mean…what are you doing here?"

  "Galaxia," Christian returned triumphantly.

  "You're in Galaxia?"

  He loved her voice. That prissy, high-end English, all repressed fire. You could just tell by looking at her that she'd never had a really good bang.

  "You alone?" he asked her, pulling out a chair and sitting down. "No, like, boyfriend?"

  She looked surprised at this, but Christian preferred to find out where he stood from the start. He was interested to see that a spasm of anger shot across her face as she shook her hair in a negative. The bust-up had been messy, Christian triumphantly deduced.

  "He didn't realise what a good thing he was on top of…I mean onto," Christian hurriedly corrected himself.

  "No." Darcy eyed him balefully. "He preferred to get on top of Belle Murphy instead."

  Christian fought to conceal his horror. He was an actor, after all. The coincidence was appalling. His ex…her ex…together?

  It wasn't, Christian realised, going to help his campaign if he now admitted he had been with Belle himself. Perhaps, later, he could gently slip it in. But—Jesus—that woman. She got everywhere. Still, he could control the situation; there had been plenty of similar ones before.

  "What do you think I should have for lunch?" he asked, changing the subject abruptly.

  "Well, everything's great. I almost had the lamb with aubergine myself…"

  He nodded, even though his only interest in what she was saying was the way her full lips pouted and parted in speech. They were very kissable. He caught a tantalising glimpse of pink tongue.

  Would it be tonight or tomorrow night, Christian wondered complacently.

  She watched him admiring himself in the shiny bowl of a spoon. "You're rather vain, aren't you?" she teased.

  Christian agreed readily. "Sure. You gotta look after yourself." His frankness was disarming; that he obviously saw vanity as a virtue, amusing. As Christian chatted on, Darcy noticed that he referred frequently, and in terms of the utmost approval, to his willy, but perhaps that too was refreshingly honest. Perhaps British men—or at least the ones she knew—didn't talk about their willies nearly enough. Perhaps bottling up all that angry sexuality was what, ultimately, had led Niall to Belle.

  Christian was smouldering at her. "You're very flirty," she remarked.

  He flashed her a grin. "I know. I can't help it. If I wasn't flirting with you, I'd be flirting with that fork over there." His grin broadened, and Darcy found herself smiling back. His candour was irresistible, as was the rest of him.

  As the man and the woman laughed on the terrace, Marco, inside, felt as seared as the salmon he was preparing. He had never felt this jealous before. At least, not of a man, about a woman. He'd felt something similar when tasting a particularly perfect dish in someone else's restaurant, but even that, now, seemed tame in comparison.

  Marco felt disappointed. The woman had displayed such impeccable taste up until now.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Of course, she was going to sleep with him. If sleep was the word. She had known that as soon as she had seen him walk up to her at the restaurant.

  She knew that now as he drove her off in his car. She could imagine what Sam would say about exposing her newly valuable features to the full force of mid-day Italian glare in an open-topped Ferrari. "Factor fifty sunblock at all times," the model agency head had warned. "And hats from eleven to three."

  She had tried to protest. "They're expecting me at the villa," Darcy had ga
sped. "My car's down in the carpark; there's a driver…" She thought guiltily of Marcello.

  "So what, baby," Christian had shrugged as he took a slug of sparkling wine. He had not been impressed by the fact Marco's did not stock champagne, only the Italian equivalent. "You're a star; you do what you like. What the hell does it matter about anybody else?"

  "But they'll be waiting…"

  "Baby, they're paid to wait. They expect to wait. So let 'em wait."

  "It's a bit rude…"

  Christian plonked his glass down hard and burst into incredulous laughter at this.

  Darcy let herself be persuaded. Marcello was sent to her villa with the luggage. Christian, with his designer clothes, his flashing gold, his cheekbones, and most of all, his swaggering self-confidence, made fame look like such fun. He talked about Galaxia endlessly through lunchtime, hardly noticing the food, it seemed to Darcy, as he outlined just how seismic the effect of the film would be on both their careers.