Unbuttoning the Tuscan Tycoon, page 3
‘Thank you.’
But that happy light had bled from her face, and his temples pounded as he belatedly registered her lack of enthusiasm to work in his restaurant. Why? She had said she was here to pick grapes, but the job he was offering her was ten times better. ‘Is your grief too fresh? Will working in my restaurant make you feel your grandmother’s absence more keenly?’
She opened her mouth, then closed it, frowned. ‘This trip to Italy...well it’s because of my grandmother that I’m here and...’ She folded her arms. ‘Working as maître d’ wasn’t part of the plan.’
‘What is the plan?’ What was she hoping to achieve? If he could help her achieve it, perhaps she would help him in return?
‘For the six weeks I’m here at Riposo, I plan to do whatever odd jobs Senor Silva asks of me before the grape-picking starts. In my spare time I’m going to explore the area. After that I mean to travel wherever the mood takes me.’
It took a superhuman effort to stop his lip from curling. Her nonna had left her a legacy and she was squandering it on an extended holiday? ‘May I ask how old you are?’
She blinked. ‘Twenty-six.’
Bah! She was too old to be squandering her life, and her grandmother’s fortune, in such an irresponsible fashion. Irresponsible and immature. He’d sworn to avoid such people at all costs.
Her gaze narrowed. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
But saying as much would not win her cooperation. It was none of his business what she did with her money. It was none of his business what her grandmother might think of her granddaughter’s behaviour. Still, Frankie’s nonna had clearly worked hard all of her life. Why hadn’t Frankie learned from that example? Why hadn’t she—
He pulled in a breath, focussed on the problem at hand. ‘It is very important to me that Lorenzo’s is a success. I want the restaurant to gain an international reputation for being one of the best restaurants in all of Tuscany. I want people to flock here from far and wide.’
Her nose wrinkled. ‘It has to be the best?’
Nothing else would do. Lorenzo had thrown Dante, his mother and sisters a lifeline when they’d most needed it. Dante had worked all the hours of the day since to achieve what he had. He would never squander it. He would never stop being grateful for it. And he would pay Lorenzo back the only way he knew how.
‘Signor Alberici—’
‘Dante,’ he said automatically, but then wondered why. He rarely invited employees to refer to him by his first name, unless he worked with them daily like Michael.
She moistened her lips. ‘Is it usual for you to personally oversee a project like this?’
‘Some projects I decide to oversee myself.’
Her gaze dwelled on his jaw, moved to his throat, and then his shoulders. Her mouth tightened and things inside of him tightened too. Women did not usually look at him like this when appraising him. Women usually found him attractive.
‘I hope you don’t stress this much about every project or you’ll end up with an ulcer.’
What did this woman know about stress? ‘My health is none of your concern.’ He thrust out his jaw. He knew he must look insufferably haughty, but who did this woman think she was, questioning him like this?
She took a step back. ‘No, of course it isn’t.’
This was going all wrong! He wanted to win her cooperation, not alienate her. He pulled in a measured breath. ‘The loss of Eleanora is a blow. It is going to take time for me to find a suitable replacement. With me working the kitchen and you working front of house, it will give me the breathing space I need to sort things out.’
She waved her hands in front of her face. ‘But maître d’ won’t be a hard role to fill.’
Frankie might think it would be easy to train someone for the position, but she was wrong. She had something unique—an air or aura that would be impossible to replicate. Lorenzo’s diners would love her. ‘Why waste time finding someone else when you have already demonstrated your competence?’
Her continued—and obvious—reticence had his temper flaring. ‘Have you always been such a restless gadabout?’ he demanded, slamming his hands to his hips.
Her eyes widened and she stared at him for several beats, not saying anything. Then she clapped a hand to her mouth, as if to halt a bark of laughter. Those irrepressible eyes danced and he waited rather fatalistically for her to call him stuffy or pompous or something equally unflattering. She didn’t. Which was just as well, because if she had, he’d have had to dismiss her. Eventually she just pulled her hand from her mouth and said nothing.
He reached for the threads of his temper. He could order her to take on the role, he was her employer for the next six weeks after all. But ultimatums rarely produced satisfactory results.
‘The harvesting of the grapes will not take place for several weeks yet, so why not take this opportunity that presents itself to you? It might not be part of your plan, but it is an exciting and interesting opportunity.’
‘The grape picking and odd-jobbing was part-time. I suspect this will be full-time. I’m not interested in working full-time.’
He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. ‘Lorenzo’s is only doing a dinner service. And for the first month we are only open Thursday through Sunday.’
She blinked as if his words had taken the wind out of the sails of her protests.
‘As you heard earlier, we open this Saturday night. This week we do have staff training, but again it is only a few hours here and there.’
‘You want me to do this instead of the odd-jobbing and grape picking?’
He gave a hard nod. He wanted her focussed wholly on the restaurant. ‘What do you say, Frankie, will you be maître d’ for a month until I can find a replacement chef? You will earn twice as much money than you would picking grapes. That will ensure you have plenty of money to continue your travels when you leave here—meaning less working and more holiday.’
Perfect lips pursed.
‘You are on a working holiday, yes? Consider this one of those unexpected things that happen when one travels overseas—an adventure.’
Her eyes suddenly brightened. ‘Can I still camp in Bertha as arranged?’
‘Bertha?’
‘My van.’
She had named her van? ‘All of your former arrangements will stand.’
‘Fine.’ She rolled her eyes ceilingward. ‘You have a deal.’
He tried to not feel affronted at her lack of enthusiasm. There were people who would jump at the opportunity to be front of house at his restaurant.
‘You will give me your best work, yes?’ His hands slammed to his hips. ‘You do not mean to sigh, roll your eyes heavenward and make my patrons feel they are a chore.’
She straightened. ‘Of course not. You have my word.’
But what was the word of a restless gadabout worth? He would need to keep a close eye on Frankie Weaver. He refused to let anything else go wrong in the lead up to Lorenzo’s opening.
Yes, he’d keep a very close eye on Frankie.
CHAPTER TWO
‘C, C, F, F, G... C, C, F, F, G...’
Frankie sang the notes over and over, trying to fix them in her mind, while madly strumming on Saffy—her ukulele—and doing all she could to channel the Beatles ‘Twist and Shout’. She suspected it sounded better in her head than it did in reality, but what did that matter? She was having fun!
Glancing out of Bertha’s wide-open back window, she grinned and kicked her heels against the mattress. Look at her lounging on the bed in her sky-blue retro Kombi, with all the splendour of a Tuscan vineyard spread before her, while playing her ukulele. If there was a better picture of holiday indolence, she didn’t know what it could be.
Oh, and to make matters even better? Dante had called her a gadabout. Her? He thought her an unreliable flake. Nobody had ever accused her of that before. She grinned so hard her cheeks started to hurt.
The sudden freedom from having to be responsible and sensible, the freedom from the weight of other people’s expectations...the freedom of not being Dr Weaver, made her lift her ukulele in the air in a victory salute.
Unbidden, her father’s face rose in her mind. ‘Dr Weaver, is this really the best use of your time?’
Her smile faded and her heart plummeted. For as long as she could remember, she’d wanted to be a doctor. It had felt like what she was supposed to do with her life. It had felt right.
Until her father had died. And she’d promised to follow in his footsteps.
She stared out at grapevines and golden hills and blue sky. Let out a long breath. The joy had slowly bled from that dream, she now acknowledged. Duty had replaced passion. Now whenever she thought about choosing her medical specialty, it felt like a prison sentence.
You promised!
A lump lodged in her throat. How did she reconcile the promise she’d made with the growing certainty that she wanted to be a mother? She couldn’t be the mother she wanted to be and be the surgeon her father had been.
She hugged Saffy to her chest. She wanted to be present in her child’s life. Very present. One day she hoped to be like her nonna—wise, loving...the heart of the family. Giving up that dream would...
Her lungs cramped and her breath came in short sharp gasps.
Don’t hyperventilate. Stop thinking about it. Three months.
Grabbing Saffy, she launched into her ‘C, C, F, F, G’ routine until some of the tightness eased from her and she could breathe again. She huffed out a wry laugh. Maybe one day she’d prescribe the ukulele to her patients.
If you’re still a doctor.
Gritting her teeth, she strummed on Saffy for all she was worth.
A shadow passed along the wall of her van and she followed it, waiting to see who would appear, blinking when Dante materialised at Bertha’s wide-open back window.
She halted mid strum, considered leaping to her feet—though, one had to be careful leaping in the close confines of the van—and then remembered he thought her a ‘restless gadabout’, and resisted the urge. For the next three months, she wanted to be the person he thought her. She had every intention of channelling that person for all she was worth.
‘Ciao, Dante.’
‘Hello, Frankie.’
They stared at each other for a moment and she registered the shadows in his eyes, the tight set of his shoulders as if he were constantly braced against some vast invisible weight, and bit back a sigh. If ever a person needed a holiday, it was Dante.
He glanced beyond, clearly curious about the van’s setup.
‘Come around,’ she gestured to the sliding door at the side, ‘and see it properly.’
He did as she bid. She currently had the sofa folded down as a bed, and lounged on it crosswise with Saffy negligently held between her hands. He took her in with barely a glance, and then gazed at her tiny hotplates and sink. The cupboards above.
‘It’s cute, isn’t it?’
She shuffled down the bed, handed him Saffy, and then demonstrated how the bed folded into a sofa. For some reason it seemed more comfortable to not have a bed in the vicinity when Dante was nearby. She didn’t want to give off those kinds of casual vibes.
She showed him how the table folded out, before slotting it back into place, and making shooing gestures so she could exit the van without bumping into him.
The van had an awning which she’d pulled out, and beneath it rested two camp chairs and a wooden crate that served as a coffee table. She waved him to one of the seats now. ‘Soda?’
He blinked. ‘I...’
She took that as a yes, and set two cans of soda on the wooden crate.
He held her ukulele out towards her and a thread of mischief wormed through her. She folded her arms and stared at him. ‘You’re here to talk about work, right?’
‘I am.’
‘Even thought I don’t officially start work until tomorrow.’
He started to rise. ‘Si, I am impinging on your leisure time.’
‘Sit down, Dante. I’m happy to talk work if you humour me.’
‘Humour you how?’
She had no idea what devil was prompting her, but it felt carefree and fun, and it wouldn’t hurt anyone. ‘Dante, meet Saffy.’ She gestured to the ukulele he still held. ‘Saffy, meet Dante.’
‘You name your van Bertha and your ukulele Saffy?’
‘It’s short for Saffron.’ Because Saffy was the hottest of bright oranges. She reached inside the van and pulled out a second ukulele. ‘And this is Leilani, the ukulele I’ve always aspired to play well.’ Made from beautiful Hawaiian koa wood, a gorgeous beach scene had been painted onto its surface—a still lagoon and the setting sun framed by a palm tree. ‘It’s a work of art, don’t you think?’
For the first time since she’d met him, his lips twitched with genuine humour. ‘It is not exactly what I would call a Raphael or Michelangelo.’
She held Leilani at arm’s length and surveyed her. ‘No, I believe this is of a school all its own.’
Her nonsense was greeted with a warm chuckle that made her pulse hitch.
‘How am I to humour you, Frankie?’
For the briefest of moments her mind flashed to him stretched out naked on the bed behind her. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She gulped and coughed and tried to get her mind back on track. Men were strictly off the agenda until she had her life worked out. She wasn’t letting any man influence the decisions she had to make this summer.
Ha! As if Dante would be interested in a woman like her anyway. Her sudden awareness was nothing more than a result of his gorgeous Italian accent and the fact that with his whisky and smoke voice Dante could be an audio book narrator. Her imagination had gone into overdrive, that was all. She wasn’t in the market for that kind of holiday fun.
Are you sure?
Ignoring that traitorous inner voice, she gestured at Saffy, refusing to notice how gently he clasped the neck of the ukulele. As if it were precious. She could imagine those fingers—
Oh, no you can’t!
‘Have you ever played the ukulele before?’
One dark eyebrow rose.
That looked like a no then. This close, she could see his eyes were the darkest of browns—like coffee beans—all smoke and spice. ‘Well, I’m here to tell you that it’s fun—ridiculous fun—to play a ukulele.’
‘And this is why you play?’
‘Absolutely. I’m going to show you a couple of chords and—’
‘Why?’
He didn’t ask in a mean or even impatient way. He was simply perplexed.
She lowered Leilani back to her lap and stared at him. ‘Don’t you ever do things just for fun?’
He shifted. ‘Of course.’
She wasn’t convinced. Though maybe opening restaurants and making money was his idea of fun.
‘So...’ His brow pleated. ‘This is just for fun?’
‘Partly.’
‘And the other part?’
‘We’re going to be working together for the next month?’
He nodded, tension vibrating from him.
He really needed to relax. She lifted her ukulele ‘This will show me if you’re easy to work with or not.’
Those brows shot up. ‘You think you will be able to tell what kind of employer I’ll be by making me learn a few chords on the ukulele?’
‘Absolutely. Now ready?’
For the next ten minutes she showed him four chords and then a strum pattern. Once he had the strum pattern mastered, she called out the chord changes, and when he’d found the rhythm, she started singing ‘You Are My Sunshine’.
He stumbled in surprise, so she began calling out the chords again, and when she next started singing, he maintained the pace and pattern, even humming along. And when the song came to an end, his lips broke into the largest of smiles.
‘Dio! I played a song—a whole song!’
She grinned back, wanting to leap to her feet and dance under the awning as energy poured through her. ‘See? It’s fun!’
He stared at the ukulele in amazement, then Frankie. ‘Thank you.’
His simple gratitude made her chest ache. ‘You’re welcome. Anytime you want another lesson, you know where to find me.’
She took the ukuleles and stowed them back inside Bertha, and the wistful expression in his eyes made her smile. ‘One can learn basic ukulele very quickly, and that means you get to noodle around on your own and feel halfway accomplished.’
‘You are very good,’ he observed.
‘I’m terrible! But I’m improving every day and I’m having a ball doing it, and that’s the main thing. Learning to play is a joy rather than a stress or...’ She trailed off with a shrug, taking her seat again. ‘So, Dante, it’s your turn now. What did you want to talk to me about?’
He immediately sobered. ‘I am uneasy. I cannot lie. I sensed your... I won’t call it reluctance, but your lack of enthusiasm to act as maître d’.’
When he didn’t say more, it was her turn to shift and fidget. ‘And you want to assure yourself that I will give you my best work rather than a half-hearted devil-may-care, “Oh, my God, I’m at work and when does my shift end?” kind of attitude.’
His brow pleated. She had an urge to reach across and smooth it out. Or to push a ukulele into his hands again and make him play another song.
‘I would like to know why, when you’re clearly very good with people, and made such a great case for how well suited you were to such a position, that you would prefer to be picking grapes and doing menial chores than working in a lovely restaurant with happy people and a beautiful view?’
And just like that he got to the heart of the problem. While also making an attractive case for working in the restaurant. He made it sound like a wonderful job rather than an onerous obligation.
