Whisked Away by the Italian Tycoon

by Nina Milne

  But she knew tonight he didn’t want to dwell on it or look back, and for now neither did she. Instead she’d absorb this city with its life and laughter and traditions, focus on getting the ideas she needed.

  As if his thoughts walked with hers, he gestured around. ‘It’s beautiful by day but it’s a different sort of beautiful by night.’

  Emily nodded agreement. ‘A city is different by night, by day, by season...by weather. Sometimes it’s happy, sometimes it’s sad—I think places are fascinating and capturing different images of them is a hobby of mine. You can show such different facets—the tourist haunts and sometimes the grittier undersides.’

  ‘I see what you mean but it would never occur to me to take a picture.’

  ‘Of anything?’ She turned to look at him, aware that incredulity had pitched her voice high. ‘When is the last time you took a photo?’

  ‘Um...’ Luca frowned. ‘I scanned a business document on...’

  ‘Doesn’t count.’ Emily came to a halt in the middle of the street. ‘Seriously, I genuinely want to know. I mean, you must take photos—nowadays you don’t even need a camera. Surely you take pictures of...something. When you look around you and see such beauty don’t you want to record it?’

  But Luca didn’t look round. Instead he looked at her; his gaze held a molten spark that tugged desire in her tummy. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said, his voice deep and decadent, and she felt a delicious sizzle of knowledge that he was saying she was beautiful. ‘But sometimes I prefer to simply look at beauty. Absorb it.’

  She gulped, realised she was hanging on his every word now, tugged into the depths of his eyes, intoxicated by the words, by the play of moonlight on his strong features. The catch of his accented voice added to the spell and she knew danger loomed. But somehow she couldn’t bring herself to care. ‘But a picture captures that beauty.’

  ‘Or I can put it into my memory banks.’

  ‘Memory distorts things, a picture doesn’t.’ Her voice sounded breathless and she realised she had stepped closer to him.

  ‘Not true. A picture can tell a lie. Think of all the fake smiles, pictures taken to pretend everything is all right.’

  ‘A good photographer bypasses that. If you look closely you can see the fake, it’s something in the eyes, or the tilt of the lips.’ Now her eyes fell to his lips, the firm contour of them, and she caught her breath.

  ‘Fair enough, but if you are always recording a moment you aren’t living it. If you look at life through a lens, then you always have something between you and reality. You’re experiencing it at one remove.’ The dip and cadence of his voice sent a shiver over her skin and she moved forward another step. ‘It is important to experience the moment.’

  ‘Like this?’ She couldn’t have stopped herself if she tried; she took one more step, placed her hands on his shoulders and kissed him. Had meant it to be a quick brushing of the lips but she hadn’t reckoned on the impact, gave a small gasp of sheer delight.

  And then he cupped her face gently and lowered his lips to hers again, let out a small groan and now she tasted a hint of grapefruit and the sweetness of chocolate. Then her arms went round his neck and he deepened the kiss and she was lost. The scent and sounds of the Turin night seemed to dim and mute and condense until all she was aware of was Luca and that she wanted this to last for ever.

  But it couldn’t. Eventually reality intruded into the bubble of sensuality. They broke apart and Emily stared at him. What had she done? Why, oh, why had she kissed him? And how could it be so sinfully wonderful? How could she have been so swept away that she’d forgotten everything: professionalism and, even worse, her grief? How could she have allowed such joy to fizz through her—not only allowed, but actively sought it out? The betrayal of her grief appalled her even as her whole body still buzzed.

  ‘I... I have to go.’ Turning, she stumbled through the crowd. A cascade of horror at her actions ran through her as her brain relived the kiss, caused her to barely see the crowds around her, the glare of the lights, the exclamations of annoyance. All she wanted, all she needed, was the sanctuary of her hotel, where she could retreat to bed and try to block this from her mind.

  ‘Emily. Wait.’

  The sound of her name permeated the fog of regret and she recognised Luca’s voice. She halted and spun round so quickly she almost collided into him. Braced herself, hands up to avoid so much as an accidental touch.

  He moved to the side out of the way of passers-by. ‘Emily. I am sorry.’

  ‘You have nothing to apologise for. I kissed you.’ Anger at her own actions mingled with the swirl of guilt that she could have been so shallow.

  ‘And I kissed you back. That is not acceptable behaviour.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I want to make this right.’ Emily could see the trouble in his eyes as he ran his hands through his dishevelled hair.

  ‘I want to make it not to have happened. To erase it from our memory banks.’ Something she suspected wouldn’t be possible however much she wished it. How could she have let attraction trump common sense and simple common decency? She was grieving and her baby deserved a time of mourning. Work had become a necessity but the pursuit of pleasure had been wrong.

  Luca exhaled. ‘We can’t pretend it never happened but...’

  ‘We can make sure it doesn’t happen again. It won’t. I can assure you of that.’

  He hesitated, raised a hand and dropped it again and it occurred to Emily that Luca was rattled. Clearly the kiss had affected him too and it would appear he regretted it as much as she did.

  He settled for a nod. ‘In that case I will meet you tomorrow morning for the tour of the factory.’

  Turning, she walked almost blindly, her mind churning with regret, her body aching with guilt. Tears threatened and she increased her pace, desperate to return to the hotel where she could lie down on the cool sheets and simply weep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LUCA WAITED IN the hotel lobby, watched the lift doors open and Emily step out, disconcerted anew by how her beauty affected him. But today as she approached him that impact was instantly diluted by worry. There were smudges under her eyes, eyes that had a washed-out look. Had she cried herself to sleep?

  And if so why? The kiss had been a mistake. He’d be the first to acknowledge that; guilt still prodded him at his own stupidity. But it didn’t warrant tears. He studied her face covertly, wondered if perhaps he’d been wrong. Wished he didn’t care so much, didn’t feel so angry with himself that he had clearly hurt her. Stop. Hell, she could have got shampoo in her eyes or just slept badly.

  ‘Good morning.’ He focused on keeping his voice steady.

  ‘Good morning.’ Her voice gave nothing away, but her expression held wariness as she crossed the lobby, and as they walked through the revolving glass door he saw the effort she made to hold herself aloof so as not to risk even the smallest chance of accidental contact.

  Actions he mirrored as they both climbed into the back of the car that would take them to the factory, the idea of stopping at a café for a bicerin now impossible. Once inside she scrunched herself as close to her side window as was humanly possible as the car pulled away from the kerb and the weight of silence descended.

  Luca cleared his throat. ‘The weather is a bit cloudier today.’

  ‘Yes. Especially for this time of year.’

  That seemed to cover the weather. ‘I hope you will enjoy today,’ he said.

  ‘I am sure I will find it useful.’ Her voice was tight, each word propped up by stilts. A pause. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing where your chocolate is produced.’

  Luca recalled the previous evening, the ease of their discourse, and tried to equate the woman who had shaken cocktails to the beat of Caribbean drums with the woman sitting so far away from him, her whole body taut. Regret ran through him as he cursed his own lack of restraint�
�he might not understand why, but the kiss had impacted her profoundly. Come on, Luca. It had impacted him hugely too. That kiss had broken all his own rules; in one fell swoop it had crashed through the fundamental basis of his relationship cornerstone. Do not act on attraction, do not get involved on any level until the rules were on the table. It was time to acknowledge what had happened, properly.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You aren’t looking forward to it and I wish you were. I am sorry I spoilt our professional relationship.’

  ‘You didn’t. I will still do my job to the highest standard.’

  ‘I am sure you will, but I think what happened has made that harder.’ Which was exactly why mixing professional with personal was so stupid. ‘I would like to try and clear away this...awkwardness, try to make it right.’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s hard not to feel awkward. To say nothing of embarrassed.’

  ‘There is no need to be embarrassed. What happened between us was—’

  ‘Unfortunate, unprofessional, unnecessary, stupid, and mortifying.’

  At least this was a proper conversation. ‘It was also natural.’

  Suspicion frowned her face. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘At Ava’s party we clicked, did we not?’

  For a moment he thought she’d deny it, then she gave a small reluctant nod. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I know we decided not to act on it and I know we shouldn’t have but I will not be embarrassed by something natural. There is nothing wrong with feeling attraction. I agree we need to put it behind us but there is no need to be ashamed.’ He studied her profile, saw that for some reason his words had had no effect. ‘Look at me.’ She did as he asked and he reached out and touched her lightly on the arm, pulled back fast. ‘Truly, do not feel embarrassed. I do not.’ That was true; he felt chagrin, surprise and annoyance and true regret at his lack of control, determination to avoid a repeat performance, but there also lingered a different regret that there wouldn’t be one. Now he frowned—there were way too many feelings in the mix. So, ‘How about we agree to try and be natural around each other?’

  ‘I thought you said that was the problem in the first place.’ Her tone was wry and he belatedly remembered his words of a moment ago.

  ‘Touché,’ he said and he couldn’t help it, his lips turned up in a smile and suddenly she gave him an answering smile.

  ‘But I know what you mean so, yes, let’s try and put it behind us.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  The remainder of the journey was achieved in a silence, but this time it felt more comfortable. Once at the factory they climbed out of the car and she gazed at the loom of the factory building, pulled out her camera and started to snap.

  Once inside he led the way to an office. ‘The contract should be in here,’ he said, then picked it up from the desk and handed it over to her. Emily read it carefully and once again he found himself studying her, the smallest of creases in her forehead, the bent head supported by the graceful column of her neck.

  She signed quickly and he followed suit.

  ‘Right, let’s start the tour.’

  As he showed her around the factory he watched her expression, felt a sense of satisfaction at her genuine interest as he led her round the different machines and explained how each one worked. With each step, the atmosphere relaxed a little more and he could see her immerse herself in taking pictures, admired her focus and method as she made sure she got every angle.

  After a while she came to a halt and, although he could still sense a slight rigidity in her posture, her expression held only interest as she returned to stand by the conching machine.

  ‘The sheer quantity of chocolate you produce is mind-boggling... I mean, I could practically swim in it. And to think it all starts with a cocoa bean.’ She glanced down at her notes. ‘And so much happens to those poor beans. But, if I have it right, how they are fermented is crucial, and so is the roasting process and the conching. I’m not sure I understand that last bit.’

  ‘Basically the mixture is stirred to extract any water that remains and to distribute the cacao butter evenly. This is what gives chocolate its taste, its texture, even its smell. The name comes from the word concha, which means shell. In the old days chocolate was conched in a vessel that was shell-shaped.’

  ‘I really like that. I’ll try to incorporate conch-shaped shells in the ads, and maybe something natural that represents the roasting and fermentation as well.’

  ‘I’d like that.’ Admiration touched him at her creative process, for the idea that the ad would embrace the actual process, would hold hints and clues that tied it all together. ‘Now I see why this is so important to how you work. And now for the last bit of the tour—the tasting.’

  He led the way out of the factory to the café he’d installed for meetings and tastings. Flowers hung from the rafters over the tables and the air was scented with a mixture of floral and chocolate. Once Emily was seated at one of the small wrought-iron painted tables he put together a selection of Palazzo di Cioccolato products.

  ‘This is one of our best sellers, this is a midnight-dark bar, here is my version of a nuts-and-raisin bar and finally here is a prototype for the new brand.’

  She popped the first sample in her mouth and closed her eyes as she savoured the flavour. Luca couldn’t help himself, he allowed his gaze to rove over her beautiful face, the length of her dark lashes, the slant of her cheekbones, the hue and glow of her skin. And, of course, the lips that had joined his in that explosive kiss just hours before.

  Her eyes snapped open and he instantly dropped his gaze. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘These are freaking amazing. Why can’t I buy your products in the UK?’ She picked up the next one and took a bite. ‘You are missing an enormous opportunity.’

  The question was a reminder of his plan, thwarted for ever now by the finality of death. Now he would never visit Dolci headquarters, march into his father’s office and issue a personal invitation to the opening of the Palazzo di Cioccolato flagship London store. Satisfy his need for revenge.

  A dish best served cold and now a dish he would never get to serve at all. His dad had died and now he’d never get the chance to tell him anything. And without the idea of vengeance to fuel him the whole idea of a London store seemed pointless, filled him with a sense of flatness. Not the excitement and drive he needed to launch.

  ‘I am planning to open in the UK. I am looking for premises in London and then I will expand to regional high streets. It’s a balance between being a bit more exclusive and boutique and reaching a wider market.’ He also had to summon up the enthusiasm from somewhere.

  ‘Sure. You have already achieved so much.’ She gestured towards the door that led to the factory. ‘This is a massive operation. You made this happen. How? What’s your story? I did look on the website but there’s nothing there. What inspired you?’

  Revenge. That was not an answer he would share. That he had been inspired, driven, by the need to outdo his father.

  ‘I’ve always understood the importance of chocolate.’ Keep it light. Give a little, but not too much. ‘My mum was pregnant with Jodi and she craved chocolate. But only very good quality, expensive chocolate. I used to watch her savour the tiny squares and even then I could see that good quality chocolate was the answer.’ And so the first seed of becoming a chocolatier had been planted in the close aftermath of his father’s desertion, when all he’d wanted was to provide his mother with what she craved. At a time when affording basic food was a problem, and Luca could remember the gnawing pain of hunger in his belly.

  Sometimes they had imagined a feast and always in that illusory meal had been chocolate; the two of them would sit and imagine the taste of it, list the ingredients, savour the imaginary taste on their tongues. The memory unsettled him and he shifted on his chair, aware of Emily’s eyes on him, saw a questi
on in hers.

  ‘I went on a tour of a chocolate factory with school and I decided then and there that this was what I wanted to do.’

  He’d looked round and wondered if the Dolci factory looked like this, full of the smell of sweetness and the churn and grind of machinery. Known he didn’t want to copy his father or follow in his footsteps, he wanted to rival him.

  ‘I managed to get a meeting with Lucio Silvetti, one of Turin’s foremost chocolatiers, and he agreed to train me. I worked hard, at the cocktail bar and various other jobs, and in the end I started small and then grew the business.’

  ‘You make it sound easy, but I know it can’t have been.’ Her frown deepened and she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘In fact, you’re making it sound boring. I don’t get it. When you talk about your products and your company ethos you are full of enthusiasm. And pride. Surely you’re proud of how you achieved such success. Your story?’

  ‘Of course, I am. But there isn’t much to say about it.’

  ‘There’s loads to say about it.’ A quick sideways glance at him as she picked up a crumb with her fingertip. ‘Plus you don’t have a photo of you on your website. I could take one now, if you like. Maybe you on the factory floor, a hands-on CEO surveying your domain.’

  ‘No need. But thank you.’ After their conversation last night he felt stupidly vulnerable, as if all his mixed feelings about his company would show in his face, in his stance, in his eyes. And maybe he could fake a smile, but Emily would know it was fake and he wasn’t willing to show that to her discerning eye. For her to pick up the nuance and emotion he’d rather remain hidden. Hell, that he’d rather not feel at all. ‘I prefer for my products to speak for themselves. I am more of an invisible presence.’ For a moment he thought she’d protest but then she gave a small rueful smile.

  ‘Fair enough. I guess I get that.’ She placed the last piece of chocolate in her mouth and her eyes widened.

  ‘This is absolutely amazing. I’ve never tasted anything quite like this.’