by Annie Seaton
“Not my problem. Talk to Papa.”
She swallowed as she realized he’d finished his call and was staring at her. She quickly put her head down and focused on her order pad, ignoring the gaze that she knew stayed on her face. She could feel him looking at her, and the warmth in her face traveled through her body.
“Sorry for that. You were about to tell me what you would recommend?” His deep voice sent a tremor down her back. She was tempted to use the order pad to fan her face, but that would only draw his attention to her embarrassment. She peeked over the top of the order pad, though it certainly wasn’t big enough to hide behind. Amused sapphire-blue eyes surrounded by the longest eyelashes she had ever seen, stared at her.
“Signore.” She dug deep for courage. “I think an apology is in order.”
“Apology? For what?” Those blue eyes were suddenly full of mirth. Better than the look that had been on his face when he’d been on his phone.
“For calling you an idiota,” she rushed on and moved closer to him, brushing the stray strands of hair that fell across her face, impeding her vision as she leaned forward. “It was entirely my fault. I shouldn’t have stopped where I did. I’m so very, very sorry I was rude to you. I should not have been.”
“Apology accepted. Let’s forget we have already met. Perhaps we can begin again?” He stood and held out his hand, and Gia looked up at him shyly as she put her hand in his. For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her fingers, and her heart sped up a notch, but he turned it over and examined her paint-stained palm.
“I am Nic… and you are Gia.”
Her heart gave another funny little blip and that damned warmth moved lower from her stomach. He truly was one of the sexiest men she had ever seen. The voice, the eyes, the dimple…the whole damned package.
She pulled her hand from his and slipped it into the pocket of her apron, conscious of the paint stains. Probably not very hygienic in a restaurant. No wonder Gabriel had sent her off to wash her hands like a small child. “I shall not bother you any longer. Are you ready to order?”
“Bother me?” He smiled at her. “Why would you be bothering me?”
That voice sent her nerve endings running amok—not to mention the sexy bedroom eyes that were holding hers. Oh dear, she was out of her element here.
Gia held up her order pad and tried to regain a measure of calm. “What would you like for dinner, sir?”
…
A strange, yet familiar, fragrance washed over Nic when Gia pulled her hand from his. Talking to her almost took his mind off the phone call from Antonio. Her hands were stained with paint, and the not-very-intoxicating scent of turpentine blended with her sweeter perfume. Ignoring her request for his order, he narrowed his eyes as interest quickened in him. “You are an artist?”
Gia lifted her head and returned his gaze coolly before inclining her head in a simple nod. Her pen was poised above the order pad. “I would recommend the ribollita to begin with. It is made from vegetables grown locally in the village. The herbs come from the garden in our own courtyard.”
Nic got the impression she was quite shy and didn’t want to answer his questions, so she had launched into her waitress spiel with her standard description of the menu. She obviously didn’t want to engage in any more personal conversation. He found it difficult to turn away from anyone who needed encouragement. That’s where the whole artist protégée thing had begun.
His mother had told him it was his Cancerian nature. He’d always treated it as a load of rubbish, but Antonio delighted in ribbing him about their mother’s insistence that Nic had been entitled to more teenage angst than he was because of Nic’s astrological chart.
Don’t know about Venus rising in Mercury, you’re just a moody bastard. Nic had been tempted to punch his brother’s lights out after that comment.
Nah, I’m just a sucker for anyone needy. And that’s why he was so interested in this shy woman who waited for his order. He knew there was fire beneath that shy facade; he’d seen it firsthand. He focused on the menu before he looked up at Gia with a smile.
“Then the ribollita it is.” He put the menu down as she waited for him to continue. “I’ll look at the rest after I have my primo course.”
“Certainly, sir.” Gia scribbled away.
He reached up and caught her hand. “Call me Nic.”
“Certainly, Nic.” Gia nodded again before she removed her hand from his and turned away, walking across to the other side of the restaurant.
Although she’d braided her hair and washed the paint from her face—that smear he’d seen near her glasses had been too bright to be dirt—he wondered if she realized that the kitchen light behind her accentuated the thin cotton of the shirt she wore. Not that he minded the glimpse of a lacy bra, from the distance and the lighting he couldn’t quite distinguish the shade, something pale though, pink or perhaps lilac in color. Much more feminine and soft than he’d expect from the prickly woman who’d refused his assistance, and much sexier than the black and white waitress uniform she wore over it. He settled back and picked up the glass of water as he observed the restaurant around him, thinking of colors and contrasts, the series of small paintings and colorful landscapes that covered the wall behind the buffet caught his attention. He narrowed his eyes as a tingle of interest ran through him. They were different from the generic prints sold by the hawkers in the squares around Florence. The crowd around the buffet table had cleared and Nic picked up his empty plate. Everything from antipasto to pizza was on offer on the food-laden table, but he only gave it a glance as he leaned closer to the wall.
The small landscapes were…exceptional. To stay in touch with his art, he attended as many exhibitions as he could. What stood out in each of the paintings in front of him was the minute detail of the flowers, the scarlet heads bobbing in a breeze that he could almost feel. The artist had captured the distinctive bluish light of the Tuscan hills to perfection. The silence of the hills replaced the noise of the restaurant around him until a deep voice interrupted his intense observation.
“Our Gia likes to dabble in her spare time.” Mauro stood beside him with a frown on his face. “We try hard to ask her to work with her sister in the village in the daytime, but”— the burly man threw his hands in the air in frustration—“she will not listen to her Papa. She should be thinking about settling down, raising a family, and not chasing her foolish dreams.”
Nic widened his eyes. “These are Gia’s?”
Mauro sighed and nodded. “Yes, she wanders the fields and then paints what is in her head. She is very stubborn, but it is not a good life for her.”
“Are they for sale?” Nic pointed to the four paintings on the wall in front of them.
“Tourists.” Nic was sure he heard Mauro mutter under his breath before he raised his shoulders. “No. They are not for sale. They are the product of her little hobby”
“I will pay you well for them.” Nic stared at the man, shocked that he couldn’t see the talent, the passion that screamed out from each of the landscapes.
Not a life for her? Nic hadn’t seen talent like this in a long time, not from any of his past protégées or even in exhibitions.
Frustration clawed at his throat. What I would give to be able to capture a scene like this with the stroke of my brush. But all the money in the world couldn’t buy talent like that on the wall in front of them. It made him all the more determined to put the next ten days to good use. He sympathized with Gia. Obviously they both had fathers who saw their art as a waste of time.
“I will ask Gia.” Mauro pointed back to Nic’s table. “You have not had your primo course yet and your soup is waiting.”
“Thank you…and no matter. I will ask her myself.” Nic smiled at Mauro. “When I complete my order.”
Mauro frowned and shook his head. “I am afraid you won’t be able to ask her. My daughter has gone home. She was not…well.”
“Is she okay?” Hoping it was not delayed
shock that he had caused, Nic frowned. “Where does she live?” He immediately regretted asking when Gia’s father pulled himself up and stared at him. For a moment, he’d forgotten he was in rural Tuscany and not sophisticated Florence.
“My daughter does not live at home. It would not be right to give her address to a stranger.”
“Does she have a studio where she works where I could see her work when she is feeling better? Does she exhibit anywhere?”
“No, of course she doesn’t.” Mauro frowned and shook his head. “But I will ask her if she is interested in selling her little paintings.”
For Christ’s sake. Her little paintings. Nic couldn’t believe the dismissive tone in her father’s voice.
Empathy filled him for the shy, young woman he had met so briefly. No wonder he had sensed that passion in her, if she was capable of producing amazing work like this. Her father’s disinterest made him doubt that he would even mention his interest to his daughter. Nic wondered if anyone else had asked about her work before and the message hadn’t been passed on to her. No wonder she looked as though she had no confidence in herself, if this was the way her family treated her.
“Perhaps you could call back tomorrow. I will ask her for you.” His tone was not very enthusiastic, and Nic got the impression that Mauro was less than impressed with his interest in his daughter…or her paintings.
One or the other.
“Thank you.” Nic nodded and headed back to the table. He quickly finished his bowl of soup, declining the wine list when Gabriel reappeared and held it out to him
“No wine, thank you.” Nic’s appetite had gone and had been replaced by a desire to go back to the villa and paint. Creativity surged through him and his fingers tingled with the urge to hold a brush. He had been inspired by Gia’s landscapes. If she was willing to sell them, he had the perfect spot for them above his desk back in Carrara. He could take some of the countryside back with him to remind him of his promise to his mother.
Odd thing was, when he thought about leaving, it was the image of Gia, not the countryside, that filled his mind… And he didn’t want to go.
…
Gia walked slowly up the hill. Papa’s words as she departed rattled around in her head with every step she took.
“Are you ill? Have you been getting enough sleep? Have you been eating well?’
Yada, yada, yada. Same old story. No, she was not ill. No, she was not in need of rest or food. What she needed was to escape!
The bottom line was: she didn’t want to be here. Not just there at the restaurant, not in Castellina. The studio at the back of her little cottage was the only thing that fulfilled her. When I can paint and put my feelings onto the canvas. That’s what brought life to her soul. Not serving food to an endless procession of tourists, night after night, and being wrapped in cotton wool by her well-meaning father.
The look on his face a few months ago when she’d asked him to lend her enough money to move to Florence had been almost comical! He was more than happy to put money aside for her to buy a house in the village with a future husband, but to go to Florence? You would’ve thought she’d asked if she could sell herself into a circus. As a sweetener, he’d begrudgingly agreed to put some of her paintings up in the restaurant. Though he’d shown little interest in them, at least they were up.
It was just so unfair.
Papa had bought the leather bag shop for Louisa, her older sister, in the Via delle Volte, the ancient tunnel in the medieval walls that now formed the shopping and restaurant area of Castellina. Gabriel had been sent away to Rome to do his hospitality training. Gia did not expect a handout or to have the way paved for her. She just wanted her choices to be respected.
Why did her family wrap her in cotton wool? Why did everyone think she needed protecting and helping, and make decisions for her because she was so fragile in their eyes?
She kicked a rock that was on the edge of the road and watched as it rolled over the pathway into the garden below. Well, Louisa could sell her bags, Gabriel could run the finest restaurant in the land, and she, the baby of the family, would show the lot of them. She would not rely on anyone apart from herself. From today she would save more. She would still have her rent to pay but no more spending on art books and expensive DVD tutorials. Even though she was lost in her thoughts, this time she heard the car coming up the hill behind her when the driver downshifted. She stepped to the side as anticipation rushed through her, even as she wondered why she was hoping it was Nic from the restaurant. It couldn’t be; he would barely have finished his first course by now and, knowing Papa, he would have taken over her tables, and he would be telling Nic the same funny anecdotes about the village he told the customers each night. Papa was a good man, and he meant well, even though he didn’t realize his baby daughter was now a grown woman.
Gia sighed as she waited for the car to pass her. She’d tried to get work in Florence. She could go to the Academy in the day and wait tables at night. Hell. She’d work back-to-back shifts if it meant going to the Academy. She’d applied for a couple of waitressing jobs there but had no luck—yet.
The car slowed and pulled to a stop behind her. Gia turned slowly and her eyes widened. The moonlight glinted off the chrome of the fancy sports car. It was Nic.
“Can I offer you a ride?” The deep tones of the already familiar voice reached her as he climbed out of the car.
“I’m fine, thank you. I’m almost home.” She could remain calm now. Sophisticated and calm. Despite the scuffs on her shoes and stain on her skirt. Despite her earlier rudeness.
“I’m pleased I caught up with you. I wanted to talk to you.”
She pushed her glasses higher on her nose as he walked around the front of the car to join her. Funnily enough they were at the spot where they’d met earlier.
“Why would you want to do that? Wasn’t your soup to your taste?” She didn’t intend to be smart-mouthed, but the rude words tumbled out. But he didn’t appear fazed by it. A glimmer of a smile played about his lips.
“The soup was very good. Thank you for suggesting it,” he said politely.
“So? What else could you possibly want to talk to me about?” She frowned.
“I was worried you were unwell because of the near miss before.”
“Pfft.” She waved her hand dismissively. “That was nothing.”
He stared at her intently. Once again she was hit with the realization of what a good looking man he was. No—if a man could be called beautiful, he was that. Even in the moonlight, she could see his large bright eyes, full of interest, long eyelashes, high cheekbones and sexy, full lips that hinted at a passionate nature. She dropped her eyes to travel down to his broad shoulders, lower, past narrow hips, lingering on long legs that she knew would be muscular beneath those snug-fitting black jeans. Not that she had much experience looking at men’s legs; most of her knowledge of the structure of a man’s body came from her observation of Michelangelo’s statue of David. Her only other up close and personal observation had been her long-time boyfriend in her late teens. But Stefano had been too keen on the marriage and baby route. He was now settled in the village, happily married and with a houseful of bambini.
Much to my parents’ disappointment. And Stefano’s legs did not compare to either David’s or to this man’s. She shivered. Stefano had been a close call. Why the hell had her thoughts taken her in that direction?
Nic’s sexy lips curved in a grin, telling her he was well used to being admired. And that he didn’t mind at all. Another little tremble ran down her legs as his eyes swept over her body. This time it was a pleasant tremble, and his eyes flared with interest as they returned to her face and held her gaze.
Dio, this man did…things to her. She focused on the cute dimple in his chin and stood straight. Even though she was tall, she still had to tip her head back to see his face.
“Good, I am pleased you are okay.”
Okay? No way. Butterflies were fluttering throu
gh her stomach. Forget it. Nic’s fine clothes, his fancy car, his movie actor good looks… This man was way out of her league. He would never be remotely interested in her. A waitress from a little village like Castellina? When he drove a car that was worth more than she would earn in ten years.
“Gia?”
She shook her head. “Yes?” What was he going to ask her? His dark gaze was intent and his expression was so serious.
“I wanted to talk to ask you about your paintings.”
“My paintings?” That was the last thing she expected him to say.
“If you’re the artist who created those landscapes back in the restaurant. Unless your father was joking?”
“Of course he wasn’t joking. And yes, they are mine, but I am surprised he admitted that.” And what was the big deal about her paintings anyway? What did he want to know about them for? She was a provincial talent. He had city and sophistication written all over him. She couldn’t really understand why he had stopped to ask about her work.
“So they are yours?”
“I just said they were.” Gia stared at him.
“Can I buy them?”
Her face screwed into a confused frown. “Why would you want to do that?”
“Because they are very good.” He wasn’t smiling now. When Gia realized he was serious, a tendril of excitement unfurled in her chest.
“Um…er…you’ve—”
“Do you have more?” Nic reached out and took her arm. The expression of his face was akin to yearning. Gia’s heart gave one huge leap.
“More what?”
“Landscapes. Or other paintings?”
Gia wanted nothing more than to grab his hand and drag him up the road into her cottage, turn the lights on, twirl around with her arms spread wide and show him the dozens of canvases that graced the walls of her studio. There were more small pictures like those in the restaurant, but she had many more full-sized canvases of her landscapes.
But of course she didn’t take his hand. Too many years of having her work dismissed as unimportant by her family kept doubts running deep in her veins, and she imagined she would only be disappointed one more time.