Best of Bosses 2008: In Bed With Her Italian BossTaken by Her Greek BossBlind Date With the Boss

by Kate Hardy

  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 anywa
y, 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.’