by Kate Hardy
‘You’re on a losing streak there, because your mother has spies all over London. Not to mention Nonna’s network,’ Ric said, laughing. ‘So does this mean you’re going to announce your engagement at the party?’
‘Engagement?’ Gio looked utterly stunned. He dragged in a breath. ‘Porca miseria, Ric! You’ll have me married with twins next.’
‘Nothing wrong with being married with twins,’ Ric returned equably. ‘In case he hasn’t told you, Fran, I have twin boys. Patrizio and Oliviero. They were three last month.’
‘I have twin brothers,’ she said. ‘They’re two years younger than I am.’
‘So twins run in your family, too?’ He smiled at Fran. ‘I should warn you—there are rather a lot of us. Though no doubt you’ll be meeting us all next weekend at the party.’
‘So Gio tells me.’ She smiled back. ‘And you’ve escaped tonight for a romantic meal with your wife?’
He nodded. ‘It’s our wedding anniversary.’
‘I did send you a card,’ Gio said, lifting one hand to forestall a protest.
‘And flowers. Which Alison really appreciated.’
‘I most certainly did.’ A woman joined them and ruffled his hair. ‘Thank you, sweetheart. Hello, you must be Fran.’
‘Oh, man. Can’t I have a romantic meal in peace without my cousins coming over to interfere?’ Gio asked plaintively.
‘Not when it’s the first girlfriend we’ve heard of in five years. Of course we want to check her out,’ Alison said with a grin. ‘Fran, it’s so nice to meet you. I’ve already heard a lot about you.’
‘From Angela?’ Fran guessed.
‘Yes.’ Alison smiled. ‘The family network can seem a bit overpowering at first—but don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to it. They only do it because they love each other. Gio’s primed you about the party?’
Fran nodded. ‘Except the dress code—which he said is “whatever”.’
‘Men!’ Alison rolled her eyes. ‘The men try and get away with looking as casual as they can, but the women go dressy. Definitely high heels—oh, and you can make your man buy you a seriously expensive bag to go with your outfit.’
Ric groaned. ‘I take it that was a hint to me, too?’
‘Oh, honey. How sweet of you to offer,’ Alison teased. ‘I’ll call Bella and we’ll go shopping tomorrow. Gio’s middle sister is a handbag fiend,’ she confided to Fran.
Gio gently disentangled his hand from Fran’s and covered his face. ‘I can’t cope with you lot. I think I’m going to run away.’
‘No, you’re not,’ Ric said. ‘We know exactly where to find you. You’ll be in the Charlotte Street café at six o’clock tomorrow morning.’
‘Seven, actually,’ Gio corrected, lifting his head and looking his cousin in the eye. ‘Stop stirring.’
‘As late as seven?’ Ric pantomimed amazement. ‘Fran, you’ve just earned yourself a zillion brownie points with Angela. And…’ Ric glanced at his watch. ‘Yep. You’ve got him out of the office a good hour earlier than usual. Make that two zillion points.’
‘Don’t you dare report this,’ Gio said.
‘Too late,’ Alison told him with a wink. ‘I’ve already texted Jude. But we’ll leave you in peace now.’
‘In peace? Chance would be a fine thing,’ Gio grumbled, but he smiled.
‘Happy anniversary,’ Fran said.
‘Thanks.’ Alison tucked her arm through Ric’s. ‘Now stop annoying your poor cousin and let him have his romantic dinner out. Which is what we’re supposed to be doing, too,’ she reminded her husband. ‘See you later, Fran—Gio.’
‘I’m so sorry about my family,’ Gio said when his cousins had returned to their own table. ‘They just…take over. They’ll be impossible at the party. You won’t get a second’s peace.’ He shook his head. ‘OK. This is what we do. I’ll tell a white lie on the night and say you weren’t able to come because you have a migraine.’
Fran smiled. ‘It won’t alter a thing. They’ll all drop in to Charlotte Street, the same way your mum did, to check me out. One after another. It’s probably easier to get it all over with in one go.’
‘Are you sure about this?’ Gio asked.
‘I just told your cousins I was your girlfriend,’ she pointed out. ‘So it’s a bit too late to back out, now.’
‘I could kiss you,’ Gio said, his tone heartfelt.
She had to drag her gaze away from his mouth. Because it was all too easy to imagine what it would feel like if Gio kissed her. His lips would be warm and sweet and teasing, coaxing a response from her until heat flared between them.
Until they couldn’t stand any more barriers between them and had to be skin to skin.
The ultimate in closeness.
His body sliding into hers.
Oh, lord. She was going to start hyperventilating in a minute.
‘Have I told you lately that you’re wonderful?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Well, you are. You have no idea how much I appreciate this.’
‘Just as long as nobody gets hurt,’ she warned.
‘They won’t. OK, we’re not telling the truth, but it’s for a good reason. It’s to stop Nonna getting hurt in the first place.’ He topped up their jasmine tea and lifted his bowl. ‘Well, here’s to us.’
‘To us,’ she echoed.
On Friday morning, while Gio was at the coffee supplier’s, Fran intended to make a few phone calls. But Gio’s mother beat her to the first one.
By the time she came off the phone, after promising to go over for Sunday lunch, she was beginning to wonder quite what she’d let herself in for. But she wasn’t going to renege on her promise to help him. It didn’t take her long to sort out the rest of the arrangements. And, best of all, absolutely everyone agreed to be sworn to secrecy.
This, she thought, was going to be Gio’s best birthday in years.
Gio picked her up on Sunday morning at eleven. ‘Are you sure you’re up to this, Fran? I’ll do my best to protect you, but I think you’re in for a grilling.’
‘Relax. I’ve already met your mum.’ And plotted something with her—not that she was going to let Gio know about that yet. That was a delicious secret she was going to keep to herself. ‘It’s going to be fine.’
Though the butterflies in her stomach were stomping rather than dancing when Gio parked outside his parents’ house.
Relax. This isn’t for real, she reminded herself. It doesn’t matter if they decide you’re not good enough for Gio, because it’s not as if you’re planning to get married. This is just temporary. Acting a part.
And then they were right in the thick of things—in a houseful of people. Gio started on the introductions. ‘Fran, you already know my mum. This is my dad, Giovanni Mazetti the elder.’
‘Less of this “elder” business,’ Giovanni said, giving his son a pained look. ‘I’m not a pensioner yet.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Mazetti,’ Fran said politely.
‘Giovanni,’ he corrected, ignoring her outstretched hand and hugging her warmly. ‘It’s good to meet you too, piccolina.’
‘My sisters, Giuditta, Isabella and Marcella—known as Jude, Bella and Marcie,’ Gio said, introducing her to the three younger women Fran recognised from the photograph. They, too, hugged her in welcome.
‘And my nonna, Isabella Mazetti.’
‘Let me look at you, child.’ Isabella—who was even shorter than Fran, with grey hair tucked into a bun and deep brown eyes—placed her hands on Fran’s shoulders and peered up at her. ‘So you are the bella ragazza who’s made my Giovanni so happy. Bene,’ she pronounced, and hugged Fran.
‘It’s nice to meet the woman I’ve heard so much about, Signora Mazetti,’ Fran said.
‘Call me Nonna. Everyone calls me Nonna,’ Isabella said. ‘Now, come and sit down and tell me all about yourself. Gio, don’t just stand there, get the girl a drink.’
Fran didn’t get the chance to ask if there wa
s anything she could do to help prepare lunch. Just as Gio had predicted, she was in for a grilling. And by the time Gio appeared with a cup of coffee, Isabella knew just about everything there was to know about her.
‘Nonna, dolcezza, give Fran a break.’ Gio set the mug of coffee on the side, scooped Fran out of the chair and sat in her place, drawing her on to his lap.
For a moment, Fran stiffened; he hadn’t warned her he was intending to do that. But then again, Gio’s family was incredibly tactile. Whenever one of them talked to you, there would be a hand on your arm, a gesture, a smile, a patted shoulder. And she was meant to be Gio’s girlfriend. Of course they’d expect her to sit on his lap.
So she relaxed back against him, resting her head on his shoulder. His arms were wrapped round her waist, holding her close, and she was acutely aware of the warmth of his body. His strength. His clean scent. The steady, even beat of his heart.
And then it hit her.
This was exactly what she wanted.
Being smack in the middle of a big, warm, noisy family. Accepted as one of them. With a strong, handsome man holding her protectively.
Oh, lord. If she’d known it would be like this, she would never have agreed to this pretend-girlfriend thing. Because right now she was setting herself up for a broken heart. This wasn’t for real, and there was no chance it would turn out that way either—Gio had already told her he didn’t want to settle down.
As if he sensed the sudden tension in her, his arms tightened round her, a private signal that everything was going to be fine. No doubt he thought she was just a bit worried about whether his family would believe their story; and that was fine by her. Better than him guessing what she was really thinking.
Lunch was a noisy affair, with everyone chattering and laughing, the clink of glass and the tinkling of cutlery against crockery. A typical Italian Sunday lunch, with a steaming tureen of minestrone followed by beef with crispy-edged fluffy roast potatoes, roasted peppers and aubergines, cavalo nero and all the trimmings.
And pudding…‘Oh, wow,’ Fran said as she tasted the first mouthful. ‘I’ve never tasted ice cream this good.’
‘Nando’s special. Reserved only for the family,’ Angela told her. ‘Hazelnut.’
Served with a pile of tiny strawberries and a splash of wild strawberry liqueur over the top. ‘It’s fantastic,’ Fran said, meaning it.
And the entire table beamed at her.
After lunch, Fran insisted on helping to clear away.
‘No, you’re a guest—you sit down with Gio,’ Marcie said.
‘She’s not a guest,’ Nonna said firmly. ‘She’s Gio’s girlfriend. One of us.’
Fran had to blink away the tears. How easily she’d been accepted among the Mazettis. And it felt really good to be in this family kitchen, with all the women washing up or drying dishes or putting things away or making coffee, chattering away with half-a-dozen different conversations going on at once and everyone laughing and telling little anecdotes about their week—breaking off every so often to look at a photograph on a mobile phone screen and coo over assorted babies and puppies and kittens.
So different from her own, much quieter and more reserved family.
And the weird thing was, Fran thought with a pang, she felt as if she belonged here.
She’d marry Gio tomorrow, just for his family.
And the sudden realisation made her dizzy. If he asked her, she’d marry Gio tomorrow.
For himself.
If Gio’s family noticed that she’d gone a bit quiet, they clearly assumed that she was a bit overwhelmed by the experience of meeting the Mazettis, because nobody made a comment. They simply included her in the conversation and asked her opinion on things.
They’d just finished clearing away when the doorbell went. A few moments later, Ric and Angela came in with the twins, who were clearly used to the Mazetti way of doing things because they came to everyone for a hug and a kiss—including Fran.
With their mop of curly dark hair and huge brown eyes, they were irresistible; before she knew it, she was sitting in a chair with both children on her lap, cuddling them and telling them a story.
‘She’s perfect,’ Isabella said softly to Gio.
‘Sorry, Nonna?’
‘Fran. She’s perfect. When you look at her, the emptiness disappears from your eyes.’
‘My eyes aren’t empty.’
‘Sweetheart, they have been for years. I know you’ve been unhappy. That’s why you work so hard, to make sure you don’t have time to feel.’
Since when had his grandmother known that?
‘But she’s the one for you—and she’ll make you happy,’ Isabella said. ‘I like her very much.’
‘Good,’ Gio told her, striving for lightness. But every muscle felt tight with guilt. He was lying to his family about his relationship with Fran. Worse still, he had a suspicion that Nonna was right—that Fran was the one for him. That she was the one who could make him happy, fill the emptiness.
But on her part this was just for show.
And he’d always said he didn’t want to settle down.
So much for his promise that nobody would get hurt. Fran was right: this was going to end in tears. But it was much too late to go back now.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘I REALLY like your family,’ Fran told Gio on the way home.
‘They’re a bit intense.’
‘Gio, they’re so warm and welcoming. They’re lovely.’
Which was what his family said about her, too. His parents and sisters had grabbed him the same way that Nonna had, to tell him privately that they approved of his choice.
No way could he have hurt them by telling them she was just acting a part.
But maybe she hadn’t been acting. The way she’d read stories to Ollie and Pat and cuddled baby Lorena…He’d seen a certain softness in her face. A softness that should have made him want to run as hard and as fast as he could, given that he wasn’t ready to settle down and have kids—but instead it had made him feel some weird kind of pull. Made him want something he didn’t dare put a name to.
‘They adore you, Gio.’
And he adored his family right back. He just didn’t want them running his life for him. ‘They liked you.’
‘Good.’
When he pulled up in the road outside her flat, she asked, ‘Would you like to come in for a coffee?’
It was a suggestion he couldn’t resist. Particularly as he hadn’t yet seen further into her flat than her front door. Her home would tell him a lot about her, he was sure. And he wanted to know more—a lot more—about the things she never talked about at work. Personal stuff. What made Fran Marsden tick?
‘Thanks. I’d love a coffee.’
‘It’s not going to be like the stuff you serve at the café,’ she warned, ‘so don’t expect it.’
He laughed. ‘If you had a café-standard espresso machine at home, I’d be a bit surprised.’
‘And my flat’s very small.’
‘Stop apologising. It doesn’t matter how big your home is—only how big your welcome is.’
It was her turn to laugh. ‘Why is it I can hear Nonna’s voice saying that?’
‘Probably because it’s one of her favourite phrases,’ he admitted.
Fran’s ground-floor studio flat was very neat and tidy, as he’d expected. The sofa obviously converted to a bed; there was enough room for a few shelves stacked with books and scattered with framed photographs, a small TV and a micro stereo, and a tiny kitchen in one corner with a bistro table and two chairs next to it. There was a small dragon tree in a white pot on the table.
‘It’s very nice,’ he said.
‘But it’s still very small,’ she said ruefully. ‘It was either sharing a house or renting a studio flat.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘And I wanted my own space. So I chose this.’
Fran didn’t like sharing her space? Given the way she’d fitted in so well with the Mazettis this afterno
on, that surprised him. Or maybe not—like him, she was part of a large family where having your own space was a luxury. This would be a bolthole for her. Just like his flat was, for him.
He walked over to the window. ‘Nice gardens.’
She nodded. ‘I’m really lucky that I’m this side of the building and not on the street side. The gardens are communal so the landlord deals with it all—the nearest I have to a garden of my own is my dracena.’
He noticed that she used the Latin name—so, was Fran a gardener at heart? Did she have a secret yearning for a house with a garden of her own?
But if he asked her she’d simply deflect the question. He’d already noticed she was very good at that; she rarely gave anything away about herself. He knew next to nothing about her family, other than that she had twin brothers and a sister and they were all academic.
‘Go and sit down.’ She motioned towards the sofa. ‘I’ll make the coffee.’
He sat down and watched her as she switched the kettle on and began shaking grounds into a cafétière. Every moment was efficient, economical. Beautiful to watch. But what shocked him was how much he wanted to go and stand behind her, slide his arms round her waist, hold her close and bury his face in the curve of her neck.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up believing their relationship was for real instead of a fiction to keep his family happy.
To stop himself thinking about touching her, he twisted round to look at the shelves behind the sofa. There were several framed photographs propped against the books. ‘These are your family?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
There was one of them all together, very similar in style to the one he had on his computer screen at work—but he noticed immediately that Fran wasn’t in it. ‘Where were you?’ he asked.
‘Behind the camera. Which is where I prefer to be.’
‘You’re worried about posing for a photograph?’ Without giving her the chance to answer, he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket, flicked it into camera mode and took a snap of her. He looked at the screen critically. ‘It’s perfectly OK. You don’t take a bad photograph.’