Whisked Away by the Italian Tycoon
Page 6
As they stepped out into the balmy air Emily inhaled. ‘I love the smell of Italy.’ Though truth be told she’d swear she could also catch Luca’s scent, a crisp, deep note of bergamot and citrus that added to the sudden heady feeling. This unfurling of enjoyment had been absent for too long and she suspected it would be a short-lived burst before the shadows set back in. For a moment the rawness of grief and loss cast a darkness; it shouldn’t be like this. She should be home, with her baby, celebrating the milestones: a first tooth, a smile...all things her baby hadn’t had the chance to experience. Not now. Instead she pulled in air, refocused on the smell and the sights around her, allowed them to create a bubble that insulated her from the might-have-beens.
Luca’s gaze rested on her face and she saw the dawn of concern and knew she must head it off. ‘I can smell garlic and oregano and chocolate.’
‘My chocolate in particular, of course.’
‘Of course.’ She returned his smile. ‘It must feel amazing to be part of Turin’s history. Part of how chocolate has evolved through the years.’
He looked struck. ‘I’m not sure I ever thought about it like that. Thank you.’ His smile was genuine and he looked absurdly youthful and it touched her even as she wondered how he did see himself.
Absurd shyness overcame her and she took refuge in what she knew best. ‘Would you mind if I take pictures as we walk?’ The camera was her equivalent of a safety blanket.
‘Of course.’
As they walked she looked round, snapped away, took in the wide tree-lined boulevards, the buildings of varying sizes and shapes that oozed history and colour. Elegant gardens vied for attention with a proliferation of formal beds that looked centuries old.
Luca seemed content to walk beside her, occasionally pointing out a place of interest.
Until, ‘We’re here. This is Silvio’s.’ Emily gazed around at the square, absorbed the sheer feel of the history of the buildings, shops and cafés. In the middle was a church, an architectural mix of bell tower, walls, domes and a neo-classical face that combined to create an awe-inspiring awareness of how long people had worshipped here.
Following her gaze, Luca said, ‘This is one of Turin’s most loved places of worship; it has been added to over the centuries and is said to be a place of healing.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Emily said softly. ‘It all is.’
Luca nodded towards a small café. ‘That has been there since the mid-seventeen-hundreds. We should come here tomorrow for a cup of bicerin.’
‘I’d like that. Layers of espresso, chocolate and milk, right?’
‘Right.’
She smiled at him. ‘It’s a date.’ The words seemed to echo softly round the square and she hastened to clarify. ‘Not a real date, obviously. Just a business date.’
‘Of course.’ His voice was smooth but laced with amusement and she felt heat flush her face. ‘Shall we go in?’
* * *
Luca looked round the familiar, eclectic interior of the bar he had worked in for years. The walls were a vibrant blue, and empty bottles were suspended from the ceiling in an eye watering zigzag display. Small mosaic-topped tables were scattered over the wooden floor, the air hummed with conversation, and the scents of fruit and food and a sheer vibrancy that always gave him a buzz.
‘Luca.’ The waist-coated man moved from behind the bar arms outstretched and Luca moved forward, clasped hands and exchanged a hug before turning to Emily.
‘Emily, this is Matteo, my old manager.’
‘Your old boss,’ the Italian corrected with a beaming smile.
‘Matteo, this is Emily Khatri, a business colleague, here to get some photographic inspiration on Turin.’
‘Enchanted to meet you.’ Luca saw the appreciation in his old friend’s eyes as they rested on Emily and felt a sudden absurd stab of emotion. Whoa. What was that? Jealousy? That was both irrational and ridiculous. Emily was not the type of woman he would enter into a relationship with; she was just out of a relationship, she was clearly vulnerable, she had got married, which implied she believed in the fallacy of love and, as icing on the proverbial panettone, she was Ava’s best friend. In other words, he had no claim on her whatsoever, yet a stab of irritation jabbed him as Matteo smiled at Emily and engaged her in a flirtatious conversation.
Luca gave his head a small shake. He knew exactly how negative an emotion jealousy was—it had been the downfall of his first relationship. He had been so terrified Lydia would leave him he had smothered her in love, hated it when she so much as looked at another man. Ironically enough, in the end, she had left him for another man. A rich, handsome, charming man who ‘knew how to have fun’. Just as his father had left him for a rich, aristocratic woman who had financed his path to success. The parallels were impossible to ignore and he’d learnt a lesson he would never forget. Do not get involved; if you don’t feel love, you can’t fear its loss, can’t let that fear generate negative emotions, take over your every waking moment with dread of the inevitable. Even better, you couldn’t experience the pain of loss when the inevitable happened. As it inescapably would.
Never again. And in truth, since Lydia, no woman had ignited so much as the smallest spark of jealousy—he’d always been in control of his liaisons. Luca shook his head. Jealousy was a mire of negativity that would have no place at his table. Certainly not now. Matteo was one of his dearest friends. And Emily was a business colleague. And if for some inexplicable reason attraction was distorting into feelings of jealousy it was time to rein the attraction in. Fast.
They were both looking at him. ‘Is all well, Luca?’ Matteo asked and he’d swear he saw a smile lurk in his friend’s eyes.
‘Yes. Sorry.’ He pulled a smile to his face. ‘I was daydreaming about my many hours behind the bar.’ Now he turned to Emily. ‘Have you chosen a cocktail?’
‘Not yet. I was going to see if I could have one of your signature ones.’
‘Better yet,’ Matteo said. ‘Why don’t you mix it, Luca? Show Emily how it is done. You are both welcome behind the bar. In the meantime, I had better serve some customers.’ He waved a hand to one of the other staff. ‘Keep a table for Luca.’ He smiled at Emily. ‘It will be good, I promise. Luca was the best in the business.’
As Matteo moved away Luca knew how foolish he’d been. Presumably the misplaced jealousy was simply another symptom of his current emotional state—a state he would supress. As he would suppress this attraction. Yet he sensed perspiration form on the back of his neck as he eyed the somewhat small space behind the bar. Forcing his jaw to unclench, he managed a smile as he gestured to the area. ‘Come, I will show you how to make martini cioccolato di Luca.’
‘Luca’s chocolate martini?’ she asked, with the faintest gurgle of laughter.
‘It sounds better in Italian,’ he conceded. ‘Try it.’
She repeated the Italian words and then grimaced. ‘I sound ridiculous. I have no aptitude for language.’
‘You need to say it with more emphasis, make each syllable more dramatic, more passionate. Martini cioccolaaato.’ His over-emphasis brought a smile to her face and he felt ridiculously pleased. ‘You have a go.’
‘Martini cioccolaaato.’ She stopped and gave a small delicious chuckle. ‘Like that?’
‘Excellent. Now come, let us get started.’ He paused. ‘As long as you are sure you would like this particular cocktail. It is a little decadent—a bit like having dessert before your main course.’
‘I can do that,’ she said. ‘In fact, I’d like to do that.’
‘Sometimes it is good to do something a little bit sinful.’ The words fell from his lips without intent, as if his vocal cords had been taken hostage. Created a shimmer of awareness, carried on the waves of noise and chatter and the clink of glass.
‘Then let’s get started.’ Her words were low as her breath caught.
Emily shook her head. ‘Nope. And I feel I should warn you now that my culinary skills are not particularly good.’
‘No worries. I’ll run over the basics. Then just copy what I do.’
He was aware of her studying him as he set out the ingredients, suspected she wanted to take photos. ‘So we have vodka, we have a bicerin chocolate liqueur, we have an espresso and we have my secret ingredient.’ He picked up a grapefruit. ‘This adds a sour kick to counteract the sweetness of the chocolate and the darkness of the coffee.’ Quickly he cut the grapefruit in half and juiced it.
‘That sounds divine. So what now? We put all the ingredients in with some ice and shake?’
Luca couldn’t keep the pained expression from his face and Emily gave another gurgle of laughter. ‘Sorry. I am guessing that’s like someone saying to me “so I just point and click”?’
‘Exactly. Mixing a cocktail is an art. You need the measure of ingredients to be exactly right, the perfect combination of strength and sweetness, depth and light.’ As he spoke he was aware of her gaze on him, the widening eyes, felt his own pulse ratchet up a notch at the undertones of his words. ‘Sometimes you need a cocktail with a bit of spice, like a chilli, or other days you may feel like something a little more bland, but with a kick, like a vanilla martini. Different moods call for a different touch. But the most important thing is to get the balance right.’
Her breathing quickened and heat flushed the angles of her cheekbones to a red-brown glow. ‘It sounds almost Zen-like.’
‘And the art of the Zen master is to make sure every cocktail, whatever the mix, brings satisfaction.’
Their gazes locked and the surroundings no longer mattered, the voices on mute, the blue of the walls seeming to fade as his lips tingled with the urge to kiss her, to lean forward and taste her lips.
The spell was broken by the bartender, who stepped in and reached up for a bottle of spirits. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said, in a cheerful London twang. ‘I need the spiced rum.’
‘No problem.’
They spoke simultaneously and Emily took a small step backward.
‘Right,’ Luca said, knowing he had to use words to bridge the awkwardness. ‘So, we need to very carefully measure each ingredient.’ Relief touched her expression as she concentrated on the amounts and he continued to speak. ‘So this is a two-piece shaker. It’s made of stainless steel, which I think is better than glass. It creates a purer cocktail. You put the ingredients in the smaller cup. And now we need the ice. I use ice straight from the freezer to reduce any possible dilution factor. The ice goes in the top half.’ Her forehead creased in a small frown of concentration, he saw a glimpse of her teeth as she bit into her upper lip, her whole body taut as she copied his actions, and desire tugged inside him again. ‘So now we get ready to shake. Tip the top half over the smaller one as quick as you can so you don’t spill any ice.’
She hesitated and he saw doubt cross her face. ‘What if I miss?’
‘Then we start again. It’s no big deal.’ Yet it seemed as if to Emily it was. ‘Hey, no one is expecting you to be perfect. Honestly, when I started I made at least a million mistakes. But I think you’ve got this.’
She raised an eyebrow but he saw a hint of a smile. ‘Somehow I doubt that, but thank you for making me feel better. Here goes.’ In one fluid movement she did as he’d said.
‘Perfect. Now tap the top to form a seal and you’re ready to shake.’
Now a smile did tip her lips and he could tell the success had given her a small thrill of satisfaction. ‘So are there any special moves?’
‘Of course.’ He walked over to the music section and chose a track. ‘Caribbean drum beat for twelve seconds. Ready, set, go.’
He started to shake, keeping the rhythm of the drums. For a moment she stood as if mesmerised and then followed suit, closed her eyes and he allowed himself to watch, the sway of her body, the entranced look on her face as if she were lost in the movement. And he sensed this was an instant of escape, wondered what she was escaping from. ‘Now we strain it and then we’re done.’
A few minutes later Emily surveyed the two glasses, tipped her head to one side. ‘They look beautiful,’ she proclaimed and, no surprise, she pulled out her phone and took a picture. ‘Now how about we taste them?’
He led the way to the small square table in the corner and placed his drink down on the mosaic top, moved round to pull her chair out before sitting down. ‘Cheers,’ he said and she raised her glass, full of the dark rich liquid. Carefully she tasted it and closed her eyes in sheer delight. ‘It’s incredible. I can taste the hint of grapefruit but it’s not overpowering, just the teensiest bit astringent.’ She took another sip. ‘The world of chocolate may have benefited but the land of cocktails definitely missed out.’
She smiled as a waiter approached and her eyes widened as a wooden platter was placed on the table between them. Cold cuts of salami and thin slices of Parma ham, bowls of plump olives, sliced rustic bread, cheeses, were all laid out beautifully.
‘This is incredible. I hadn’t even realised how hungry I was until I saw this.’
‘Usually this would be a pre-dinner snack. Aperitivo originated years ago when a man in Turin invented vermouth. He claimed it was a good thing to drink pre-dinner. Then it all evolved and now all over Italy people have pre-dinner drinks and snacks and most bars serve something. Today I asked Matteo for enough for a meal.’
‘No wonder you love this city,’ Emily said as she picked up a piece of bread. ‘When did you move here?’
‘When I was eleven.’ A shadow crossed his face as he recalled the reason for the relocation from England. For the previous six months his life had been made a living hell by a gang of schoolyard bullies. The daily rituals of taunts and humiliations, pain and misery still occasionally populated his dreams. Worst of all had been his anger at his own weakness, the soul-churning knowledge that he couldn’t stand up for himself. A weakness he had refused to reveal to anyone.
But eventually the situation had escalated and his mother, once alerted to the problem, had gone into characteristic action. Had changed their name to her maiden name of Petrovelli and whisked the family to Italy to live, away from England where Dolci and the new Casseveti family continued to flourish. ‘Mum said it was a new start. She got a job here and we never looked back.’ The words sounded hollow even as he said them; in truth you could argue he had spent his whole life looking back.
As if she sensed the demon on his back she reached out and placed her hand over his. The warmth of her touch, the sense of her fingers shivered a small shock through him. ‘It’s hard not to look back,’ she said gently. ‘And there is nothing wrong with looking back, staying close to the past. There are some things we should never forget.’
And he saw such sadness in her eyes that pain touched his chest and he covered her hand, so it was sandwiched between his. Wondered what demons populated her past. ‘You’re right. Because what’s behind us is what shapes our present. We make decisions based on what has happened to us. Learn from it. But you shouldn’t dwell on it. You need to focus on the future, on your goals and dreams.’ Yet that hadn’t worked for him. Because now the dream, the goal he had worked towards, was out of his reach for ever. And that sucked.
‘What happens if you fail?’ Now her voice held a bitter undertone and her fingers curled around his palm; the touch shivered through him.
‘Then you try again or you reset the goal.’
‘That’s not always possible.’
‘No. It isn’t.’ His plan could never now be fulfilled and, it seemed, neither could hers.
They sat silent and he se
nsed a shared frustration, an instant of empathy he knew he had to dispel. He had no wish to get embroiled in anything emotional, yet the urge to do just that was nigh on overwhelming, told him to ask, to delve, to offer comfort. Stop. That was not his way and he could not let Emily under his skin. Instead perhaps it would be better to try to distract her, bring back the smile to stave off whatever it was in her past that had brought such sadness to her face.
‘How about we set ourselves an easy-to-achieve goal? Let’s walk the streets of Turin in moonlight.’
His reward a small smile and a decisive nod, the downside the bereft feeling as she gently pulled her hand away. ‘That sounds wonderful.’
CHAPTER SIX
AS THEY EMERGED into the dusky streets of Turin, Emily glanced up at Luca’s broad outline next to her, and curiosity surfaced as she wondered at the complexity of the man. He’d been the perfect host, charming and fun, but at the end she had sensed the depth of emotions that lay behind the charming façade, wondered what had brought shadows to darken his silver-grey eyes.
As if he sensed her gaze he turned and her breath caught—he looked ridiculously handsome. Moonlight glinted his dark hair, his chiselled features etched with strength, and for a crazy moment she wanted to hurl herself against the breadth of his chest, hold him, talk to him, kiss him.
But she wouldn’t. This wasn’t a viable attraction. Luca’s emotions were his to guard and she sensed he guarded them as fiercely as she did her own. That he too held a hurt, a dream unfulfilled, a failure he had to live with as she lived with hers. Her failure had led to tragedy, the loss of the baby she had wanted so much. Pain hurt her heart as the image of her lost baby hovered.