Chapter Twelve
Amy woke and turned her head on the pillow, her warm fuzzy feeling dying when she saw the empty space beside her. Leo had been away for two days but was returning today in time for the gala.
As she lay there stretching she saw the scarlet dress hanging behind the door in its transparent cover emblazoned with the designer’s name. Her outfit for the gala.
Leo had produced it like a magician before he’d left, expecting her to be pleased.
She knew her reaction had disappointed him—she loved it, she really did, and she felt sexy and powerful in it.
It wasn’t even the fact that she had reservations about being present at the gala.
It was more that it was an echo of all the times her father had demanded final approval on her mother’s outfit for an event.
Her phone rang and she reached for it, grimacing when she saw the caller’s identity.
She would ring Ben back. It had only been the previous week when he had rung, asking her if she would consider selling her share in Gourmet Gypsy. The temp, who had worked out really well and had increased their profits, was keen to buy in.
She was torn as the food truck was very much her baby, though it had only ever been intended to be a temporary stopgap, leading to better things. The better things had not involved staying in a Tuscan castle and becoming the mistress in everything but title to the most gorgeous man in the world.
Leo had already suggested she stay on after the gala, that their arrangement could become open-ended, but she hadn’t given him an answer yet.
She adored him, she loved him with every cell in her body, but the longer she was here, the harder the inevitable heartbreak would be when it came.
And when the man who you loved felt the need to slide the words just sex into the conversation every single time you made love, hanging onto any kind of hope was pointless.
She pushed away the decision yet again and instead fingered the red silk of her dress as she walked to the bathroom. Leo would be back later, and for now that was enough.
It was afternoon when the kitchen door opened; it was a quiet moment and she was alone. Amy looked up, emotions she struggled to dampen flaring and dying as the man delivering micro salad from the home farm walked in carrying their order in a cool box.
She was pathetic, she told herself. Even if Leo hadn’t been absent for the past two days, she wouldn’t have seen anything of him because she was too busy to see him.
Soon she wouldn’t see him at all. Even if she took up his offer, there was no promise of permanence, no commitment, but deep down she still had hope and she knew that she wouldn’t leave until she lost every scrap of that hope.
She pushed away the thought, which was more than a thought—a reality—but there was no point crying over something that hadn’t happened yet. She’d be damned if she was going to waste what time she had with him worrying about the future.
He had texted her when he had arrived back, checking she’d be able to make their meeting.
Their so-called meetings were often on the beach, sometimes by the pool, when he teased her for having a sentimental attachment to the second place they had made love.
Little did he know! But mostly these meetings were late at night or early in the morning, before he left her room in cover of darkness.
Several of the staff emerged from the staffroom, where they had been taking a break.
‘Have you seen this list, Amy… Chef? We might as well serve this woman fresh air!’
Amy eyed the tablet Jamie was scrolling through. ‘Someone with a lot of allergies?’ she asked, wondering at the younger woman’s annoyed tone. It wasn’t as if they weren’t all accustomed to accommodating guests’ dietary requirements aside of the usual vegetarian and vegan alternatives.
Sensing the unspoken query in Amy’s voice, the young chef pushed the tablet along the counter towards her.
‘Allergies,’ she said as Amy began to read, ‘I can do. Food intolerances I can do. Vegan options, well, I’m a vegan.
The calorie count that we cannot exceed on each course is also fair enough.
But have you seen the dictate on the food groups we’re not allowed to combine on a plate?
These are not just dietary requirements; it’s a straitjacket for any chef! Creativity will go out the—’
While Amy sympathised with the other woman, she adopted a soothing tone. ‘Yeah, it doesn’t leave much leeway but—’
‘But you’d better get used to it, Jamie,’ the chef who had been standing at the nearest work station interrupted. ‘Because that lady is going to be our new boss.’
‘With luck, she won’t be spending too much time here,’ the younger woman said, displaying crossed fingers before returning to the tablet. ‘Do you think they’ll be making the announcement tonight?’ she wondered gloomily. ‘I suppose we could do—’
Her suggestions were a static buzz in Amy’s head.
‘Our new boss?’ she said, aiming for casual and producing strangled.
‘You haven’t heard?’ someone on the other side of the kitchen said in a surprised tone.
‘It seems he’s serious this time. Apparently, they’ve been secretly engaged for months. Her name’s Sophia.’
‘No ring yet, though,’ Jamie intervened, typing up notes with a frown. ‘And that paper—or rather, scandal sheet—is the rag that wrote that article on the Queen, the old Queen, still being alive. That squid recipe of yours, Amy, do you use…?’
Amy automatically listed the ingredients. ‘So Leo is engaged?’
Someone else laughed. ‘Do you have any footprint on social media?’
‘I follow some people.’
‘All food-related, right…but there’s a whole other world out there.’
‘Of bile, gossip and innuendo. Leave her alone.’
Amy didn’t have a clue how she got through the rest of the morning. On autopilot, she delegated the task of coordinating the staff who had been brought in for the gala, then waited for the couple of hours that were pencilled in for her time off—supposedly for her meeting with Leo.
Her knife skills had raised a few eyebrows as she’d sliced and diced as though her life depended on it. She didn’t have a clue who this woman was, but she already hated her. But not as much as she hated Leo and herself, and not necessarily in that order.
He had not promised her anything, but she had hoped—she had really hoped—that this had meant more than just sex for him. And all the while he had been planning to make a life with another woman.
She walked through the olive groves that bordered the beach, glad of the shade. When the stony ground gave way to sand, she removed her sandals.
She was early for their assignation, but so was Leo. He was already standing facing the sea when she reached the secluded cove. A voice in her head suggested now was the moment to pause, to get her thoughts in order, but her mortified anger was firmly in charge.
His dark hair was ruffled, his black tee-shirt was tucked into a pair of faded denim cut-offs. Barefoot, Leo was standing on the water’s edge, staring out to sea, shading his eyes—perhaps to see the boat with a red sail bobbing on the horizon.
As if sensing her presence, he turned when she was still fifty feet away and watched her approach.
She paused a few feet away from him, the light breeze whipping her hair into a tangled skein across her face. Even knowing what she now knew—basically, that despite all his simple honesty he was a lying bastard—she had unpinned her hair.
She had worn it loose because he liked it that way and she felt angry with herself for wanting to please him, wanting to hear him say she was beautiful just one last time.
She didn’t pause for preliminaries or even notice the smile of welcome on his face morph into an expression of caution.
‘Is it true that you are engaged to this Sophia woman?’
For once she had surprised him, but she was too angry to celebrate this triumph over his damned insouciance.
She watched the shock on his face meld into anger. ‘How is that relevant?’
Outraged breath hissed through her flared nostrils as she pulled herself up to her full and unimpressive five foot three. ‘You can ask that?’
‘I just did,’ he pointed out mildly.
She scowled furiously. ‘I don’t sleep with married men.’
‘I’m not married.’
She threw him a narrow-eyed challenge and gritted out, ‘But you’re engaged?’
Now the question was out, there was no going back, no pretending, and she felt an icy fist of dread tighten in her belly. Because, beneath her aggressive facade, Amy was willing him to deny it, or laugh at the suggestion.
He didn’t, and she died a little bit inside.
‘Can I ask where you got this inside information?’
He had the utter, unbelievable cheek to act offended. ‘Everyone knows, apparently.’
Except me.
Humiliation tasted bitter in her mouth.
‘The entire kitchen is talking about it, about her…’ The venom in her own voice shocked her, as taunting images of the gala’s guest of honour, the subject of Amy’s recent furtive internet searches, flashed before her eyes.
The blonde with the trashy reality television credentials was a perfect match for the Romano heir. The men her name had been linked with were all rich and famous, and none of them said a bad word about her. She had been equally discreet.
The perfect partner for Leo.
‘You’re jealous.’
She clenched her fists and tossed her head as she glared up at him.
‘Grow up, Leo. I don’t care who you marry!
You can have a harem for all I care, but I do object to not being given the information to make an informed choice.
You obviously don’t give a damn when it comes to cheating but, call me old-fashioned,’ she hissed, ‘I bloody do, you bastard!’
She finished her diatribe on a breathless gasp, doubled over at the waist.
‘I thought you had more sense than to listen to gossip.’
Her head came up with a jerk. ‘Don’t you dare patronise me, Leo!’
He stepped forward, clasping both her wrists, and pulled her upright.