by Nina Milne
‘I get that.’ And he did—realised he hadn’t fully thought this through. ‘This trip to Jalpura would be preliminary, a research trip, to give you some ideas.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Why do I get the feeling you made all that up on the spot?’
‘Does it matter if I did? I want to run with this.’
‘Enough that you want to drop everything to research an ad campaign yourself that you only thought of yesterday.’
‘Yes. There is no point in wasting time once a decision is made.’
‘But why? Surely you have a marketing director or someone else who would usually do this.’
‘I do. But I’m also a hands-on CEO. I work across all departments. I do stints in packaging, delivery, tasting, everything. Otherwise I think it’s too easy to get distanced from reality. I want to produce chocolate for everyone and for me to do that I need to understand every facet of my business. I don’t want to end up consumed only by admin and spreadsheets and profit margins.’ All true. ‘This feels right—I want to get it done. Yes, obviously, I have some stuff scheduled but I have a very efficient team of people and I can manage to be away for a few days.’ He paused. ‘Though we’ll need to sort out a visa for you. Mine is still valid from my last visit.’
‘I have a valid visa already. I got a five-year one that hasn’t run out as yet.’ He could hear reluctance in the admission.
‘So how does this sound? We head to Turin tomorrow afternoon. Next day the factory tour, after that we fly to Jalpura. Stay there a few days and we’ll be back in a week.’
‘A week?’ There was a small catch in her voice, her brown eyes wide with doubt, her upper lip caught in her teeth. His eyes lingered and caught on her mouth, before he wrenched his gaze away, stared into the dregs of his espresso and tried to dismiss a sudden niggle of doubt. A week with Emily. Seven days, seven nights... With a woman who impacted him in a way he didn’t understand.
His glib words of the previous night mocked him. Instant connection, mutual attraction, click factor. It was all that and more.
Resolutely he stopped the thoughts in their tracks. The die was cast and once this had become professional the attraction factor was irrelevant.
‘A week,’ he repeated firmly. ‘That should be enough.’
More than enough. He wasn’t sure if she’d actually said the words or he’d imagined them. ‘OK.’ She nodded and he sensed she was trying to convince herself. ‘It’s not as though we will be spending every minute together. I’ll get on with my own thing; I don’t need hand-holding.’
His gaze dropped to study her hands, the slender length, the short unpainted nails, the faint line where her wedding ring had once been. Stop looking. But as he wrenched his eyes away he saw that Emily’s gaze loitered on his hands, her eyes wide. She pressed her lips together as if to moisten them and desire gave a fierce tug in his gut.
Sufficientemente. Enough, Petrovelli. Professional, remember?
‘Excellent, as I don’t plan to hold your hand.’ The words were too harsh and he did his best to smile. ‘Because you won’t need me to—I trust you to get on with it. So, do we have a deal? I propose to pay you a flat fee of five thousand pounds for this week and all expenses paid. After that you can invoice me for the hours you put in.’
A silence and he’d give a lot to know what was going through her head. Then she nodded. ‘That sounds more than fair. We have a deal.’
Relief mixed with satisfaction—Mission Jalpura was on. Which meant perhaps now was a good time to tell Emily about Jodi, ask her if she would be willing to use her name to help him in his search. But the words wouldn’t come; instead an image of his sister filled his mind. Dark curls, fierce-eyed. And the words of their last conversation.
‘Please, Luca, let it be. I am OK, I just need to figure some stuff out and to do that I need space and time.’
‘But—’
‘No buts, Luca. This is my business, not yours. I appreciate your concern, but please leave it be. No big-brother stuff. My business, OK? Got it?’
Her lips had turned up in a smile as she’d said the words, but the underlay of seriousness had been clear.
It was Jodi’s business and he’d done his best to stand by his sister’s request. Had held back, done nothing, but now he couldn’t do that any more, not when he sensed there was something wrong, that Jodi needed help. And this opportunity to take action had come along. But if Jodi didn’t want to confide in Luca or Therese, she’d definitely recoil at the thought of Emily knowing anything. In which case he owed it to Jodi to try and find the answers on his own; he’d bring Emily in only if he needed to. So there was no need to tell her anything now. For a second discomfort edged him and he dismissed it. He’d tell Emily if and only if it became necessary; in the meantime, he was employing her to do a genuine job.
‘Great. I’ll get a contract drawn up.’
She held her hand out and he hesitated, told himself not to be an idiot. What did he think would happen if he shook her hand? He’d combust? His hand would light up? He reached out and took her hand in his, resisted the urge to instantly drop it. Because the simple touch did affect him, pulled back the memory of their dance yesterday, enough to conjure desire right back up.
Dropping her hand, he cleared his throat. ‘Right. I’ll try and get you on the same flight.’ He pulled his phone out of his pocket and a few minutes later nodded. ‘As luck would have it there is a seat free. We can travel together. Can you meet me in the first-class lounge tomorrow afternoon?’
‘I’ll be there.’ Emily’s voice seemed taut and, in all truth, Luca couldn’t blame her.
* * *
Emily walked through the busy airport lounge, pulling her suitcase behind her, gripping the handle so hard it hurt as she battled the sense of surreal. Until now she’d focused on packing, on getting here on time, but, now that she had made it, as she approached the meeting point her nerves fluttered and she tightened her muscles to counteract them, felt the insidious flick of panic.
She braced herself against the fear that she couldn’t do this job. Somehow when she’d been with Luca it had all seemed possible. The ideas had buzzed, caught up in his own clear enthusiasm for the project and his equally clear strength of feeling for the product and for his company. This man would expect the best, deserved the best, and now all of Howard’s jibes rang and danced in her brain, told her she’d bitten off more than she could chew.
Emily gritted her teeth. This was the only job on offer. Striding forward, she raised an arm in greeting, forced herself to project a confidence she didn’t even feel a flicker of.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey.’
‘Shall we head to the departure lounge? We’ve time to grab a coffee before boarding.’
‘Sure.’ But she could feel her steps lag as they started to walk, as the flutter of nerves turned into a pirouette. For the past months she had spent nigh on every waking and sleeping minute in the sanctuary of her home. Now here she was about to embark on a global trip. And now the panic began to build, to twist and layer itself into knots of tension that tangled inside her.
She tried to focus, found her gaze riveted to Luca and decided to give in and be shallow in the hope his sheer aura would exert a soothing calm. So as they walked she studied him as she would a model, the jut of his jaw, the swell of his biceps and the tantalising strength he exuded. The kind of strength that would blanket and cocoon you in safety. And, politically correct or not, that carried her through the process of boarding, finding their seats and getting settled. Allowed her to try and suppress the growing, escalating swoosh and whoosh and pound of irrational dread.
Until the flight actually took off and the anxiety whirled in her head, turned and twisted her stomach in a nauseating spin. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on her breathing, on slowing her pulse rate.
‘You OK?’ Luca turned to her an
d she tried to speak, her hands gripping the arm rest as she forced her vocal cords to work.
‘Fine.’ The syllable sounded strangled but she hoped it would be enough.
‘Hey. It’s OK.’ His deep voice held concern but also a calm reassurance that at least didn’t escalate the numbing fear that had sent her fight-or-flight response into deadlock. ‘I’m guessing you have a fear of flying.’
It was a fair assumption but not true; this was a panic attack, brought on by the inescapable knowledge that she was heading away from the sanctuary of home, coalesced with the sudden realisation and guilt that she had taken this first step to moving on with life. All she wanted was to go back home, to the almost comfort of the abyss of despair that kept her close to her lost baby. What was she doing? How could she move on from him, the being whom she had loved so much?
None of this was anything she could or would share with Luca, even if she could speak, which right now she couldn’t. All her effort was concentrated on staying put, and not running up and down the plane in an attempt to get out.
He continued to speak, his tone soothing and almost conversational. ‘Jodi used to be terrified on planes—she’d hold my hand as tight as she could during take-off. She said it helped, stopped her from running to the pilot and begging him to take the plane down. We can try that, if you like.’
And so she gripped his hand, with all her might, focused on the cool reassuring strength of his grasp, the scope of his palm, the feel of his fingers encircling hers, closed her eyes and tried to think soothing thoughts. Time seemed to slow and ebb, but slowly the wave of panic stemmed and then subsided, as if his touch somehow soothed the tangle of chaos inside. Unknotted her insides and now, instead of panic, a different sensation pervaded with a gooey warmth, invaded her veins with a liquid heat. Now his hold encircled her with awareness, charged her with desire and she released him as tell-tale heat flushed her cheeks.
A sideways glance revealed an expression of shock flitting across his face as he looked down at his hand and she wondered if he’d felt something too.
Quickly she burst into speech. ‘Well, that was embarrassing. Especially when I said I didn’t need hand-holding.’ She tried a smile, hoped it didn’t wobble too much and he smiled back, the smile full wattage, and it curled her toes.
‘Don’t worry about it. Truly. How are you feeling now?’
‘A lot better. Thank you—I didn’t hurt you, did I?’ She studied his hand and again a frisson ran through her; his fingers combined strength with a masculine beauty that fascinated her, the breadth of his palm, the compact sturdiness of his wrist. This had to stop. All she could think was that this was some sort of aftershock, a reaction to her panic, but her awareness of the man next to her had grown exponentially.
Her gaze roved upwards; she saw the shape of his tanned forearm, the curve of his biceps, the width of his shoulder. Continued to take in his face, the angle of his cheekbone, the jut of his determined jaw and now her eyes lingered on the shape of his mouth.
Oh, God. As she forced herself to meet his gaze she saw something in his expression, a spark, and she sensed he had clocked and understood her scrutiny.
‘No. You did not hurt me at all. Please feel free to make use of my hand again.’ The deep undertone had a layer of suggestion, just the smallest hint of a double entendre, and she looked at him with a small question of wonder. Had she imagined it?
‘Thank you. But I think I’ll be OK.’
‘Do you often suffer from a fear of flying?’
‘No.’ Realising the abruptness of the answer, Emily wished she had simply claimed that as the reason. ‘This is the first time so hopefully it’s a one-off. Plus, the prospect of seeing Turin cancels any panic.’
For a moment she thought he’d pursue the topic but instead he clearly decided to accept her disinclination to discuss the issue further. ‘Have you been to Turin before?’
‘No, but I am looking forward to it. I haven’t had a chance to do a lot of research, but I do know that it is meant to be an amazing place. Full of history and tradition.’
‘It is. Turin has a real sense of tradition and the past. It is also, of course, the capital of chocolate. The very first chocolate bar originated in Turin. And in 1678 the Queen of Savoy granted a chocolate maker from Turin a licence to open the first chocolate house, so like a tea or coffee house today. And today the Piedmont region produces about eighty-five thousand tons of chocolate a year.’ He came to a stop. ‘Listen to me. I sound like a tour guide.’
Emily shook her head. ‘You sound like someone who is very proud of their city. A city that sounds like chocolate heaven. I’ll make sure I make time to look round, get some photos. I can see that Turin itself is important to the essence of your chocolate and I think we need to get that idea in somehow, even though we will be shooting in Jalpura.’
He hesitated. ‘If you would like I could take you around Turin, if that would help.’
A thrill of anticipation shot through her, one she quelled instantly. This was work related, nothing more. ‘That would be wonderful, and it will really help to see Turin through your eyes.’
‘Then I’d be happy to be your guide. We can start tonight. I’ll pick you up from your hotel at seven.’
‘Perfect. Thank you.’ There was that sense of looking forward. Again. And she hadn’t even noticed that the plane had begun its descent.
CHAPTER FIVE
EMILY GLANCED AT her watch: five minutes to seven. She surveyed her reflection in the hotel mirror, reminded herself she was done with dressing for a man. Any man. Before Howard she’d never dressed to be noticed, had preferred to blend into whatever scenario she found herself. Knew that as a photographer it made sense to be as invisible as possible and Emily was good at that. Invisibility was her watchword. Much of her childhood had been spent relegating herself to the background, tiptoeing around her mother and the man de jour. As she’d got older she’d disliked being feted because of her famous parents. So she’d learnt to dress to not be noticed.
Until Howard. Once she’d met him somehow she’d ended up dressing to please him.
‘How you look reflects on me. I need you to be beautiful, elegant, poised and attractive...’
‘Emily, sweetie, of course I love you for you, but I am a photographer—I need to be surrounded by beauty and I have an image to uphold. My wife cannot be a dowd.’
And somehow Howard had started to dictate her wardrobe and from there it had descended into snide criticisms and put-downs if she had so much as a hair out of place. Worse perhaps had been his habit of studying her and then emitting a small frustrated sigh, a shake of his head and then, ‘Honestly, Em. Why can’t you ever get it right?’
Never again would she dress for a man, so she should be happy with her appearance tonight. Smart casual black trousers and a plain demure button-up blouse with a collar, complemented by a pair of boring but serviceable, smart black pumps. Hair pulled up into a businesslike bun. Professional, boring and invisible. Perfect.
So why did she look so glum? Why was she wishing she’d packed a dress from the Howard era? Why was her hand hovering over her make-up? Why did her fingers itch to pull her hair loose?
The answer was obvious—dark haired, gorgeous, as sinful as the chocolate he created, Luca Petrovelli. Which was ridiculous. But something had happened on the plane—perhaps it was his instinctive ability to ward off her panic without belittling it as Howard would have. Or his clear enthusiasm and love for his home city. Or perhaps it was the thought of a night out, a chance to see a city she’d never seen, guided by a man who had succeeded in waking her hormones from a sleep she’d believed to be permanent.
Whatever it was it was time to go; one last glance in the mirror and she headed for the door. Reminded herself that this was a business meeting, a chance for her to work out how to incorporate elements of Turin into the ad campaign. And get to kn
ow the founder of Palazzo di Cioccolato better.
She scooped up a lightweight jacket and headed out of the elegant hotel room. As she entered the marble lobby she saw Luca by the front desk and her heart skipped a beat. He looked positively scrumptious—black hair, shower-damp and spiky. Shirt and chinos and a jacket hooked on one finger over his shoulder—he could have stepped out of a glossy magazine. In fact her fingers itched to capture the image. Itched to do way more than that—the tantalising V of his chest made her head spin and she forced her feet to maintain a steady pace towards him. Even as she fought the urge to race past him, find a boutique, buy a dress and transform herself.
Really, Emily? Shallow, much.
‘Buonasera.’ The timbre of his voice washed over her as he smiled at her. ‘I hope the hotel is OK?’
‘It’s wonderful. The room is beautiful and it’s got a marvellous view of Turin.’
‘Good. I plan to show you the sights a little more personally. I thought we could walk the streets for a little, then I will take you to Silvio’s, a cocktail bar where I used to work. They do the best cocktails in Turin and the food is pretty good too.’
‘That sounds lovely.’ She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone out for cocktails and dinner and the idea filled her with an unbidden sense of excitement. ‘So tell me about your cocktail-shaking skills.’
‘I am a pro. I can make a martini shaken or stirred. I invented at least three pretty brilliant mixes. Silvio still serves them today.’ Emily suspected that whatever Luca turned his mind to he would be the best at, the knowledge both potent and ever so slightly intimidating. After all, Howard had been excellent at what he’d done and it had made him both arrogant and cranky. Stop. Tonight she didn’t want her ex-husband to intrude—instead she wanted to try to enjoy this evening. The idea was a novel one, brought about by being in a new place, the scent of Italy...the buzz of a different language around her.