Chapter Seven #3
She obeyed, quite literally dropping to the floor and straight into a cross-legged position, where she proceeded to push her bare foot into the trainer before leaping to her feet again.
Had she always been like that? Always on the go, rushing around? There were certainly things that had changed. Her face was a little thinner, the youthful softness of her features had become more refined, her rounded cheeks more pronounced, her stubborn chin a little sharper.
But her figure seemed exactly the same as he remembered it.
An image from the many stored in his head surfaced unbidden through the wall he had erected to hold back what he had mentally filed as juvenile fantasies.
Except this fantasy had been real.
Amy, the rosy tips of her breasts showing through her silky hair as she bent over him, her hands either side of his head, her hair brushing his chest.
He fought free of the images that belonged to a time in his life when he had actually wanted ties, a time when he had not understood the advantages of no obligation, uncomplicated, honest sex.
Being transfixed by the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the loose cotton covering was an expression of nothing more complicated than a physical need, no more meaningful than slaking a thirst.
Sure, think of her as a glass of beer, Leo, mocked his internal voice. That’s really going to work!
Oblivious to the fact that Leo was fighting against memories, Amy was focused on coaxing her features into a neutral expression that didn’t hint at the painful friction caused by her breasts pushing against the fabric of her white shirt while she trawled frantically for a response, because the truth was not an option.
‘Let’s get this over with. I have work to do.’ Work was her salvation during tough times, all times really. When she was thinking of spice combinations, tastes and textures she could shut out the background noise—or at least turn down the volume.
He opened the door into the corridor she vaguely recalled from last night, and she really wished all her memories of last night were as vague.
She stepped past him, walking into the corridor in daylight giving the brief illusion that she was stepping into the sea and sky.
When the illusion faded, she realised that there was solid ground under her feet and the sea was several hundred metres beyond the ten-foot-high windows.
She lifted a hand to offer another level of protection from the bright sunlight.
‘You’re not a fan of delegation then?’ he wondered, joining her.
Light spots dancing across her vision, she turned away from the vista that another time she would have enjoyed. Her retinas made Leo a dark, threatening shadow against the light.
‘I don’t ask anyone to do anything I can’t.
I’ve never been what anyone would term an executive chef.
I’m hands-on, even when I was working at the restaurant,’ she explained, throwing a glance at her small hands with the neatly trimmed pearly nails.
‘We might not have kept the Michelin star, even if we hadn’t closed.
There’s a lot of pressure to maintain it, and for me it was never about attracting an elitist custom base.
I just wanted to serve good food that only the elite could afford. ’
Leo followed the direction of her gaze. Other than last night, he hadn’t seen those elegant fingers chopping and dicing, but he had plenty of first-hand experience of them stroking and touching his flesh, featherlight and skilful.
His body hardened, helpless to resist the ache of hunger in his belly.
His teeth clenched as he told himself he wasn’t helpless; he was fully in control of himself.
‘Very egalitarian of you.’
She ignored his mockery. ‘In my experience, throwing around orders isn’t the quickest way to gain respect.
’ She felt her shoulders relax. They were not retracing their footsteps from the previous night and the windows framing the views had been replaced by stone sconces containing bas-relief figures carved in the niches. They looked intricate but not friendly.
‘Do you need respect?’
‘Well, it’s handy, especially when there’s a kitchen full of professionals way more experienced than I am.’ She had realised that when she’d recognised the names and a quick internet trawl on her phone had confirmed her suspicions; the level of experience in the Romano kitchen was staggering.
‘They are being asked to perform at a level way below their pay grade, so it has to be frustrating. It explains the atmosphere last night when we walked in, and it wasn’t just me being foisted on them.’
‘Are chefs meant to be so self-deprecating? I thought arrogance came with the job.’
Her eyes widened a second before her lips began to twitch and she choked back a laugh. So ironic, considering the man who’d just said that oozed arrogance from every perfect pore!
‘Share the joke?’
She opened her eyes behind the smoky glass, this time not trying to stifle her laughter. ‘Oh, I doubt you’d get it if I did. I’m just impressed that self-deprecating is in your vocabulary. And, for the record, I’m not underselling myself. I’m good at what I do, but—’
‘But nothing,’ he interrupted, recovering from the novelty shock of being mocked. ‘The reason those highly qualified people are working under you is because they accepted a lot of money to do so—I only employ the best of the best.’
His comment had confirmed what Amy had suspected.
‘Too many leaders, too many egos. But none big enough to compete with yours, of course.’ She paused, seeing they had reached a gallery.
The hallway continued on to the right, almost to infinity, it seemed, and they stood directly at the head of a staircase.
Curving and graceful, it led down to a massive space. On a raised dais at one end, a grand piano took pride of place, and the marble floor had a pearlescent quality warmed by the ancient vibrant frescoes on the walls.
Amy blinked, the breath catching in her throat as she imagined what the room would look like when the chandeliers suspended from the coffered ceiling high above were lit, illuminating the intricately carved supporting pillars and bas-relief sculptures.
‘The ballroom.’
She shot a self-conscious sideways look at his dark profile and closed her mouth with an audible snap.
Though, in her defence, if ever a space deserved openmouthed admiration this was it.
Then, unable to resist the impulse, she ran her hand across the smooth inlaid wood of the curving bannister, enjoying the tactile sensation.
‘What’s the scent?’ Finally, something that wasn’t making her feel nauseous.
‘Cedarwood.’
‘I can imagine people making quite an entrance down this staircase,’ she said, tilting her head back to look at the frescoes above and immediately regretting it when a sharp pain stabbed through her temple.
‘It’s only used occasionally these days. The gala will be the first time this year.’
‘When is the gala?’
‘About six weeks away.’
‘And that’s why I’m here.’ She cocked her head in challenge. ‘Isn’t it?’
He cut across her. ‘For the record, I like to keep a degree of separation between work and pleasure.’
While he spoke he had taken a step towards her, but in every other way he felt further away.
Humiliation swelled like a balloon inside her, but she didn’t let it explode. ‘That works for me.’
‘I think you’ll enjoy it.’
‘Is this work we’re talking about now?’
‘I wouldn’t have said it if we were not talking work, but unless you’re a very good actress I know you enjoyed last night.’
She longed to throw his damned arrogance back in his beautiful smug face but he was right—she really wasn’t that good an actress.
‘The takeover we are celebrating was last month, but we felt it would be good to have a joint celebration for my grandfather’s birthday also.’
‘He’ll be there too?’ she blurted.
‘Save your horror until after you have met him.’
‘It’s not horror, it’s a genuine concern. I’m meant to be in charge of this thing, so a little more information would be useful.’
‘I’ll forward you the guest list. I think you’ll know quite a few names on it, old friends and the like; it’s a small world. I’m sure you’ll enjoy catching up.’
But you’re secretly hoping I won’t, she thought, keeping her face blank. ‘I won’t be catching up with anyone; I’ll be working.’
‘Actually, the staff here will be supplemented by some outside caterers. Obviously, our kitchen—well, your kitchen,’ he corrected with a slight smile, ‘will be overseeing the menu. I would imagine it’s not too late to make adjustments to your predecessor’s arrangements if you want to put your own stamp on it, but your role will strictly be as executive chef, and as such you’ll be expected to appear front of house. ’
So that had been his plan all along: throw her in with a lot of people from her old life and introduce her as the hired help. ‘How very not daunting at all,’ she said drily.
His short, hard laugh echoed off the rafters. ‘I think it would take a lot to daunt you.’
‘Is that a compliment?’
Not an intentional one. On one level he knew that if he were objective he’d have been impressed by her resilience and her determination.
He wasn’t objective.
‘An observation,’ he returned smoothly.
‘Well, I won’t be there. As I said, I’m very hands-on. I like to be in the kitchen at all times.’
‘Hands-on…that’s good to know,’ he drawled smoothly and watched her blush like a virgin, which he knew she wasn’t.
He felt a stab of self-contempt. He had drawn the line in the sand, professional one side and personal the other, secure in the knowledge that all it took to blur that line was the scuff of a shoe.
‘Besides, I don’t have a thing to wear to that kind of occasion,’ she rebutted, aware that her pounding head was not up to a full-scale battle on the subject—not now, anyway.
‘I think we can fix that. I’ve always liked you in red.’