by Liz Fielding
‘I’ve always loved this moment,’ she said, calling on every reserve of control to act as if nothing had happened. Using the excuse to stop, rest her hands lightly on the back of a chair as her legs began to wobble dangerously. Looking around. Anywhere but at him.
‘Pure theatre,’ Max agreed, without having to ask what she meant. He knew.
Behind the scenes, in the kitchen, the food was being prepared, the front of house staff were assembling. Out here the tables were laid with snowy white cloths, polished silver, glasses, fresh flowers. Not just theatre, she thought, but the grandest of opera, everything was ready, waiting for the audience to appear, for the conductor to raise his baton and the evening to begin.
Until a few months ago that had been her father. This restaurant, the smaller private dining rooms on the floor above, the offices on the top floor, had been the heart from which he’d run the Bella Lucia empire.
‘He nearly lost it,’ she said, more to herself than Max, using anger to drive off the intensity of that moment in the taxi. She was angry, she realised, because of all of them Max would have been the one who lost most. Perhaps everything…‘All for the sake of a son he hadn’t known existed until a few months ago.’
‘He’d have done the same for you, Louise.’
Would he?
When Daniel and Dominic had turned up, twin images of John Valentine, saying ‘Hi, Dad…’ they’d been received like prodigal sons by John, while her reward for thirty-something years of dutiful daughterhood had been the shocking revelation that she was not actually Ivy and John’s daughter at all, but had been adopted at birth.
She’d suddenly felt invisible, excluded.
Blood was thicker…
‘He wouldn’t have had to,’ she said, keeping her voice even, matter-of-fact.
Easy for you to say, the still small voice of her conscience reminded her. John Valentine would have given you anything. Has given you everything…
Which was why she was here now. Paying her dues.
‘Forget the past, Louise,’ Max said, catching her hand, holding it, forcing her to look at him. ‘Bella Lucia is still here. We’re still here. It’s the future that matters.’ His hand tightened around hers as if he could somehow transmit his excitement to her by direct contact. ‘Expanding. The new restaurant in Qu’Arim is just the beginning. I’m going to launch the third generation of Bella Lucia onto a world stage. Close your eyes, stick a pin in a map and ten years from now we’ll be there. Don’t you want to be a part of that?’
No! Yes…
All her life, ever since she was a little girl, she’d longed to be here, centre stage. Back then her dream had been to be at her father’s side, but Max-older, male, the first-born Valentine grandson-had always been ahead of her.
Now he needed her he was using family ties to draw her back into the business, but it would always be his empire. She would always come second. Second to her father was the way of the world, she could have lived with that; second to Max was never going to be enough.
Why did it have to be him?
Because it was his life, she thought, answering her own question. He loved it. He was like his father in that, if in nothing else.
The staff had always trusted him, turned to him. Even now he was doing this as much for them as for himself. They were, she realised, his family. Which was why she’d do her best to help him put Bella Lucia on the world map.
She’d do it for him, for her father, for the Valentine family that she’d always thought she was a part of. And for herself, too, so that she could walk away with a clear conscience. All debts paid. But she would walk away…
‘Lou?’ He was pressing her to commit. To say the word.
‘Yes,’ she said, as matter-of-factly as if he’d asked her if she wanted a drink.
Her answer was always going to be, had to be, yes.
For now. Until the fourteenth of February. Valentine’s Day.
‘What’s the matter? You don’t look convinced?’ She let loose a smile that was trying to break out. ‘You did say that you wouldn’t take no for an answer.’
For once Max seemed lost for words, a predicament so rare that she’d have to be a saint not to take some pleasure from the situation. The truth was that all day she’d been on pins, nervous about meeting her mother for the first time, nerves that had been made worse by the background tension: her cast-iron certainty that Max was simply going through the motions to convince Jack that he had done all he could to bring her on board. That he didn’t really want her.
But the meeting with her mother had gone better than she could ever have imagined and then, when she’d seen Max waiting for her at the gallery, that for once he’d kept his promise, made time for her…
She didn’t, in her heart of hearts, believe that anything other than desperation would have driven him to make such a gesture, but he had made it, demonstrating beyond words that she was the one in the driving seat. That he needed her, that the family was relying on her. Taking her seriously for once.
How could she not say ‘yes’?
‘For the moment my time is completely booked up with the relaunch of HOTfood, but once that’s out of the way-’
‘When?’ he demanded, impatiently. ‘When can you start?’
‘After the party on Friday.’ She looked up at him. ‘After that I’ll be all yours.’
It was only when she wanted to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear that she realised Max was still holding her hand, and as she looked up at him she found herself remembering years before when, on a family trip to the beach, he’d reached out to her when she couldn’t keep up with him and Jack as they’d scrambled over the rocks.
How he’d stopped, come back to hold out a hand to her. How safe she’d felt.
Remembering how safe she’d always felt. How lucky she’d been…
‘You haven’t got a fistful of clients hammering on your door?’ he asked, abruptly abandoning her hand to straighten a fork on the table.
‘What? Oh, yes. Well, actually, no…’ She tucked back her hair, said, ‘I haven’t taken on any new jobs since my return from Australia. I didn’t want to tie myself down.’
He frowned. ‘You were really serious about leaving?’
Was she?
In truth she hadn’t known. It was as if she’d been poised between her old life and the possibility of something new, waiting for some small sign to set her on the right path.
What she’d got, in the shape of Max Valentine, was a three-lane motorway direction sign saying ‘BELLA LUCIA’…
His question suggested that as far as he was concerned it was a momentary whim to be brushed aside now she was back in the fold and, deciding that it was wiser to leave him with that impression, she lifted her shoulders in a wordless shrug.
He let it go, said, ‘I didn’t ask if you were free this evening.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘Are you?’
There were two possible answers to that question.
One…She could tell him that she had to work and then waste the evening pointlessly stressing over the last minute details of the HOTfood party even though she knew there was nothing left to do, or…
Two…‘No, Max. I’m not free. I’m having a working supper with the new head of the Valentine empire. Unless you’ve got something more interesting planned?’
His response was a sudden smile that involved every part of his face, deepening the creases that bracketed his mouth, lighting up his eyes in a way that almost impossibly intensified the blue. The kind that took time, that she hadn’t seen in years.
‘I can’t think of anything more interesting than that,’ he said and she was forced to bludgeon down the heart leap, the foolish warmth at his admission that being with her would be a pleasure rather than a pain.
‘Interesting’ was what he’d actually said.
In some cultures ‘interesting’ was a curse…
‘If that’s your measure of interesting, Max,
’ she replied, ‘you need to put some serious thought into getting a life.’
He looked as if he was about to say something. He clearly thought better of it, because instead he shrugged, said, ‘This is my life.’
He’d got that right, anyway. The restaurants, the people who worked for them; he’d strived for success not just for himself, the family, but because he knew that it was the men and women who worked for them who would suffer most if things went wrong.
He’d only fired her, she realised, because her volatility when she was around him threatened that success…
‘Come on, let’s get started,’ he said, ignoring the lift in favour of the stairs. ‘I’ve been thinking about some of your ideas.’
‘Which ones?’ she asked, taking them rather more sedately in her high heels and narrow skirt.
‘All of them, but especially Meridia. I really think you’re on to something so I sent Emma an email and asked her to look out for likely locations.’
‘Your sister doesn’t work for you any more, Max,’ she reminded him. ‘In fact I imagine being Queen of Meridia doesn’t leave her with too much spare time to spend running errands for you.’
‘You think?’
He stopped without warning, turned and, a step below him, she was suddenly cheek-to-chest close. Without thinking she swayed back to avoid touching him, just as she always had, just as he always had, but now he put out a hand to grab her, steady her as she took a step back. Save her from a fall. Keep her close.
‘If we’re not cousins,’ he’d said, ‘we don’t have a problem…’
Not for him, maybe, but it was as if that moment when he’d come close to kissing her had intensified her response to him. Even through her coat, the sleeve of her suit, his hand was applying heat to a square of skin just above her elbow that spread like wildfire to every part of her body.
Just the simple act of breathing became suddenly more difficult.
Yes…
The word whispered through her mind, silken temptation.
This was what you wanted. Max at your feet. Max in your bed…
‘Yes,’ she said. Then, when he waited for her to elaborate. ‘I do think.’
‘Well, never mind,’ he said, with a tormenting smile that she knew only too well, ‘I’ve got you for that now.’
Got her? To run his errands? Was that what he thought? Not even close…
‘You think?’ she enquired, throwing his words back at him as the heat intensified to a dangerous calm. She knew this feeling, recognised this, welcomed it even; the motorway sign was flashing an urgent warning ‘SLOW-ACCIDENT AHEAD’ but, just as she always had, she ignored it.
‘What are you looking for?’ Max asked as she cast about her before fixing her gaze on the vast arrangement of flowers on the half landing where the staircase split into two and curved away on either side.
She blinked, collected herself, swallowed.
What was she thinking? She was grown up, an in-demand consultant, not some stupid girl with a crush.
Get a grip. He was just teasing.
There had been a time when his teasing had made her insides curl up in a paroxysm of pleasure that this godlike figure had noticed her.
A lifetime ago.
Then there had come a time when it had just made her mad.
Now…
‘A vase,’ she said. ‘If you think I’m interested in running your errands, Max, you obviously need a large dose of cold water.’
For a moment he just stood there and she knew, just knew, that it was going to be a rerun of the last time they’d worked together; he said something dumb, she responded like an outraged cat, spitting and arching her back, then he blew up.
And she felt nothing but regret.
‘Since your aim is as bad as your timing,’ he said, after a monumental pause that had probably been no more than a heartbeat but which had seemed to stretch for a hundred years, ‘maybe we should take the cold shower as read.’
Her timing?
‘My timing is off? I like that! You were the one who couldn’t wait. One kiss, a token, how hard could that be?’
No! No…Do not remind him of that foolishness…
‘My mistake. Just tell me when and we’ll seal the contract.’
Tell him it was a joke. That you didn’t mean it…
Now!
But her gaze was riveted to his mouth, her own lips burning with a lifetime of unrequited longing, of denial, and with her breath caught in her throat she was unable to speak.
‘Your call,’ he prompted, clearly in no hurry.
It was enough to break the spell. With extreme care, she said, ‘Thanks. I’ll let you know.’
‘Any time,’ he said, then turned away before she could respond, taking the rest of the stairs in a couple of strides.
By the time she’d caught up with him on the top floor where the offices were situated she’d recovered her composure, had reminded herself that this was supposed to be a working supper. Posted a mental note to keep a curb on her tongue.
It would probably get easier with practice.
In the meantime, Meridia.
‘Are you-we-doing the catering for this big gala dinner and ball Emma is throwing to launch her “Queen’s Charity”?’ she asked, focussing on business.
‘I’m signing the contract on Monday. Do you want to come?’
‘To the ball?’
Was he asking her…?
‘I imagine Emma will want you there.’ Then, as she hesitated, ‘She adores you, Louise.’ Oh, right, just more propaganda on behalf of the family.
‘Of course I’ll go,’ she said. ‘Who in their right mind would give up a chance to buy a new dress?’
Most people would have taken her response at face value. The look Max gave her suggested that he was not so easily fooled.
‘All right, Max. I’ll be there for her.’
Just for Emma.
After a moment he nodded, accepting that she was sincere. It was frightening how easily he could read her.
‘Good. But I was asking if you want to come with me to Meridia on Monday.’
‘Oh, I see.’
It was unnerving how much she’d wanted him to be asking her to the ball as his partner. Still sixteen and waiting for her prom night Prince Charming. Still yearning to feel his arms around her. Instead she got a business meeting…
‘Well, it would be useful.’ Then, forcing herself to keep to the point, ‘Actually, since we’re doing the catering I’d like to discuss the possibility of a behind-the-scenes-in-the-palace-kitchens feature with the royal PR people. The work involved in putting on a royal gala ball. If you’re serious about moving into Meridia-’
‘I’m serious. You’re right; it’s the obvious place to start.’
‘Then the “Queen’s Charity” tie-in would be exactly the moment to announce the fact.’
‘Hold on. It’s a little premature to be thinking that far ahead.’
‘It’s never too soon for thought, Max. You have to take advantage of media at the moment when they want something from you.’ She saw his doubt. ‘It’s not until June and the feature wouldn’t appear until the week of the gala. You can drop the news into an interview I’ll set up for you to talk about that. That’s if you’re serious-’
‘I told you I’m serious!’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Good. Then we need to make the most of the moment, ride on the coat tails of the publicity that will generate. Whatever happens, the royal connection will add lustre to the outside-event catering side of the business.’
He still looked doubtful. ‘Do you really think Sebastian will allow photographers, journalists, to roam loose in the palace? Isn’t there a danger that we’ll be perceived as using our royal connection for commercial gain? I’m concerned it will hurt Emma.’
‘Just the kitchens, a glimpse of the food we’ll be serving-we can photograph that here. Some behind-the-scenes pictures of the banqueting room being made ready would be good,
but since that’s already part of the tour visitors can take it’s hardly likely to prove a problem.’ He didn’t look convinced. ‘Sebastian will want publicity for the charity and it’s the charity I’ll focus on. Obviously the copyright of the photographs would be invested in that. The major lifestyle magazines will pay huge money for a royal feature like this.’
‘You’ve been giving this a lot of thought.’
‘This is PR 101, Max. Sebastian’s a modern monarch. He knows he’s going to have to sell his country to tourists, industrialists, bankers. Put together royalty and romance with fabulous food and you have an unbeatable combination. Add a charming young queen launching a charity to help the world’s poor and Meridia is the winner.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Five minutes. You’ve come up with all that in five minutes?’
‘That’s just the thinking. I still have to make the connections, set up the deal. Do the work.’ She managed a smile. ‘I’m going to need every minute of that three weeks.’ Then, before he could press her for more, ‘We’ll all be winners, Max. And besides, I won’t have to persuade Sebastian,’ she added. ‘That is one job I’m happy to leave in the capable hands of your little sister. She owes me.’
‘For transforming her from a rather plain duckling into a stunning swan?’
‘Emma isn’t plain,’ she said, scolding him. ‘Far from it. She just needed a little help with her confidence; all I did was bring out the inner princess.’ Then, unable to resist fishing for a compliment from him, ‘You noticed how lovely she looked?’
‘When Sebastian introduced her as his future queen at his coronation the entire world noticed. You did a great job.’
‘She was such a beautiful bride,’ she said, unable to resist a little sigh of satisfaction, not just because her efforts had been so amply rewarded, but that Max had been generous enough to credit her with the transformation.
‘It’s what you do, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Make people take notice. Create an image.’