Chapter 4
It was strange how cookery kept seeping its way back into Amy’s life.
The fact she worked for a food critic made her proximity to great food a bit of a given.
But it ran deeper than her job, or the fact that she ate three meals a day and so how far away from food could she ever realistically expect to get?
Somehow, it wasn’t about the food itself – which seemed a complete contradiction – and she wasn’t sure she could formulate an adequate explanation if asked to talk it through.
It made sense in her own head, when she reasoned it was about the preparation of the finished dish, the joy of taking basic ingredients and combining them to create something that exploded on your taste buds.
Having a bit of fun with the alchemy of cookery, rather than simply munching on the finished result.
Her nanna had understood – her best creations held within the battered old book Amy had managed to lose with the rest of her luggage.
And Amy had never felt happier than when she’d been in her nan’s kitchen, the two of them working on some recipe or another.
Sharing time and food together – neither thing something that had ever registered as important to the rest of Amy’s family.
Tad understood, too, because that peach tart had been a sensational pudding to accompany the lightness of the main course – a fillet of citrus pepper cod, accompanied by tiny roasted new potatoes and pea shoots with the lightest drizzle of olive oil.
Well, of course he did, Amy scolded herself – he was a chef.
But the peach tart could have been stodgy, and yet it was surprisingly light.
With a scoop of seed-rich vanilla ice cream it had been delicious.
So wonderful that after she’d eaten her meal in the elegant dining room, she’d taken a portion up to Billie’s room.
Billie wolfed it down with little in the way of comment except to say that perhaps the fact that Tad was Scottish, and not Italian, wouldn’t be the end of the world after all – which was as good as a gold seal, or a royal warrant, as far as a taste of peach tart was concerned.
Heading into the kitchen with Billie’s scraped plate, Amy rapped her knuckles on the doorframe as she wandered into the chef’s inner sanctum, then had to grin as her arrival made Tad startle for the second time in a matter of hours.
His spoon clattered back into his bowl as he turned, looking simultaneously guilty at having been caught in a private moment with a slice of his peach tart, and surprised at the unexpected intrusion.
It took him a couple of moments to regain his composure and level his expression.
That momentary vulnerability, alongside the trace of peach jam, stubborn on the corner of his upper lip, did something unexpected to the base of Amy’s stomach, had it twisting in a way she hadn’t felt in a long while.
‘Sorry to intrude, I… I wanted to let you know how much Billie enjoyed it,’ she said, finding herself stumbling over her words as she slid the empty bowl onto the work surface.
‘I’m glad,’ Tad said. ‘And it’s no bother, you’re welcome to go wherever you please while you’re here. We don’t have any off-limit areas at Casa del Cibo.’
Not even your bedroom? Amy felt her cheeks spike with heat even though she’d only thought the words, and managed to supress them before they took flight from her lips. Felt shocked enough by the way the thought had slid so easily into her mind.
‘So, what did you think? Can I tempt you to something more?’ he said, sounding confused when her reactions didn’t match up with his words as she stared at him.
‘More?’
‘Another slice of the tart,’ he added to clarify, gesturing to the remaining wedge under a fly cover.
‘Oh. You’re talking about food.’
‘What else would I be talking about?’ Tad ran a finger across his lip, aware at last of the jam Amy was struggling to ignore, licking at it with the very corner of his tongue to be sure it was erased, an action that did nothing to settle Amy’s thoughts.
A swipe with the back of his hand as a double-check and a fleeting frown, and Tad regained his composure, a professional smile replacing a moment of vulnerability.
‘No. Absolutely. I don’t know what I was thinking about. It must be jet lag or something confusing me,’ she added, doing her best to stop her gaze from remaining frozen on his lips. ‘All the travelling is catching up with me.’
‘Jet lag? How long was the flight?’
Amy shrugged, then grinned. ‘I don’t know. Three hours or so.’
Tad laughed. ‘Aye. Add that to the transfer time to get here and you’re talking a good three and a half hours. Maybe almost four. It’s no wonder you’re all exhausted.’
Her grin increased its intensity at his joke, then dropped as she remembered her lost luggage. ‘Plus, I did have to wait a while to discover my suitcase has gone off on a jolly somewhere.’
He grimaced. ‘I’d forgotten about that. Sorry.’
‘It’s hardly your fault, is it? It’s a shame though.
I stupidly put my grandmother’s recipe book in it.
I hope at least I get that back.’ She brightened again.
‘Maybe it will have some stories to tell – my luggage will probably have more jet lag than me, if it ever gets here. I wonder where it’s gone? ’
‘Timbuktu…?’
‘Yeah, or maybe Rio. The South Pole?’
Tad grinned. ‘Or maybe it got left behind at Heathrow. I’m sure it will arrive soon. You might even get it tomorrow.’
‘Let’s hope so. Otherwise I’ll be sleeping in that lemon T-shirt for the rest of the week,’ she said, smoothing at the dress that had replaced her earlier casual clothes, watching with interest as some of the paleness of his skin was replaced by a bloom of colour as his gaze skimmed across her.
She had to admit that even though the dress she’d borrowed from Billie was slightly too big for her, it was cut with an elegance only serious money could buy.
‘I can think of worse things,’ he said, frowning at his unguarded words. ‘I meant, I can think of worse things than losing luggage…’
Amy stared at him, trying to pull her gaze away. What was she doing? The last thing she needed was to create a complicated situation between herself and the chef.
Her plate was already overflowing trying to keep Billie on track.
It was far more than a job. It was more of a 24/7 task.
A lifestyle choice. Constantly moving around was also the reason she’d forsaken any kind of personal relationships since she’d worked for Billie. Or perhaps she had that part backwards.
The trips and the parties and the endless supply of people desperate to be a part of the Billie Forsythe-Rogers circus showed no sign of diminishing.
In turn, Billie had always encouraged her to make the most of the constant stream of opportunities – or to be more precise, the men.
Billie was always telling her to live a little while she was young, to make the most of her opportunities for hot twenties sex while she still looked trim from every angle.
To stop thinking long term and enjoy herself.
And although Amy supposed it was a kind of a compliment, she’d never been any good at hooking up. Didn’t see the sense in it. Which was why whatever undertone she’d decided she might be getting from this conversation with Tad, although it might be pleasurable, was also ultimately pointless.
* * *
Once Amy had gone, Tad took a few deep breaths before he rinsed his and Billie’s dessert bowls and added them to the tray destined for the industrial dishwasher.
Focusing on work went no way towards banishing his train of thought.
That dress had done nothing to help calm him either, the way the black silk flowed across her curves, pooling precisely in the right place below the gentle lines of her collarbones – Tad hadn’t felt this distracted in such a long time, struggled to contain thoughts that had strayed into one of the Casa del Cibo guest rooms, where Amy lay beside him, her long blonde hair cascading across the white bed linen.
Setting the dishwasher going, Tad tried to focus. Grabbing the itinerary for the coming week, he decided to perform a full inventory, to ensure he had enough of everything for his planned lessons.
He needed to concentrate on proving himself to Billie Forsythe-Rogers, not lose himself in crazy thoughts about a woman he’d only known a handful of hours.
Shoving a pen behind an ear, Tad pulled boxes from the shelves in the storeroom and began to count.
A while later, and with the majority of the stocktake complete, Tad felt focused again.
About to check their dates and reorganise the sacks of arborio rice, his attention was taken by a furious rattling noise.
Frowning, he wandered out from the storeroom, hearing the noise again as it reverberated through the reception area of the hotel.
Was someone trying to get in? Guests were provided with a key to the main door so they could gain access whenever it suited them, most of them loved the old-world charm of having an actual key, rather than a number for a combination pad or a keycard, and enjoyed the heft of a sizeable key cut for a lock that had been manufactured a century ago.
Flicking on lights in the teaching kitchen as he went, Tad wasn’t unduly worried – didn’t feel the need to arm himself against intruders.
Riva might be one of the larger towns surrounding Lake Garda, but it wasn’t exactly a crime hotspot, past a bit of pickpocketing and the occasional Vespa theft.
Perhaps it was the elderly Casa del Cibo regular, Hugh Bradbury, who had dined with local friends this evening, returning late and unable to turn his key in the lock.
‘Hello? Anyone there?’ Tad called. The reception area was in shadows, a couple of small wall sconces the only lighting, which was left on all night to give the hotel a veneer of welcome, whatever the time.
‘I can’t bloody well get out.’