Best of Bosses 2008: In Bed With Her Italian Boss\Taken by Her Greek Boss\Blind Date With the Boss (2 page)

But he'd never intended to act on that attraction. He knew better than to mix business with pleasure, and he'd never overstep the boundaries with a customer.

Besides, Nonna was right. There was no point in asking her out because no woman would put up with the hours he worked. And it wasn't fair to suggest a relationship to someone who was just trying to pick up the pieces of her life after some bad news. Especially the way he was feeling right now—restless, at the point where the chain of coffee shops had stopped being a challenge and started being a burden. Though he'd invested so much of his life in Giovanni's, he had no idea what he wanted to do instead.

Except…

No. That particular dream had crashed and burned. He wasn't going back.

But if the idea that had been spinning round in his head for the last few months worked out, he could help Fran pick up the pieces and maybe help stop his restlessness at the same time.

He knew he was acting on impulse, but he'd always been a good judge of character in the past. And he was pretty sure that Fran Marsden was just the kind of woman he needed to help him. ‘I think this could be good for both of us,' he said. ‘So, will you have dinner with me this evening? I happen to know the best pizzeria in London.'

‘Pizza,' she said, the tiniest sparkle in her eyes.

He laughed. ‘Well, what else would an Italian suggest for dinner?'

To his pleasure, the sparkle turned into a full-wattage twinkle. And, lord, she was lovely when she smiled properly. It lit her up from the inside, transforming her from average to beautiful.

‘Grilled scamorza,' she said. ‘Panna cotta. And dough balls with garlic butter.'

Oh,
yes.
A woman on his wavelength. One who actually enjoyed food instead of nibbling at a celery leaf and claiming she was too full to manage anything more—one who saw the pleasure in sharing a meal instead of the misery of counting calories. One who might just understand what he wanted to do. ‘That,' he said, ‘sounds pretty much perfect. So we have a deal? I'll feed you and you'll listen to what I have to say?'

She shook her head. ‘I might not have a job right now, but I can still pay my way. We'll split the bill.'

Not a yes woman, either; he warmed to her even more. Fran was exactly what he was looking for. ‘Deal,' he said. He still had a pile of paperwork to do, but he'd done the banking an hour before and the float would be fine in the safe. ‘Let me lock up, and we'll go.'

T
WENTY
minutes later, Fran and Gio were sitting in a tiny Italian restaurant in Fitzrovia, halfway between Euston Road and Gower Street. The décor was classic: a black-and-white chequered floor, walls colour-washed in amber, marble-topped bistro tables, wrought-iron chairs with thick burgundy-coloured pads on the seats, a chalk board with the day's specials written in European-looking handwriting, and candles set in raffia-covered chianti bottles.

Gio was clearly known here, because the waiter bantered with him before showing them to what looked like the best table in the house.

‘So, are you a regular here?' she asked.

‘This place does the best food in London. It's where my family comes for birthdays, red-letter days and every other excuse we can think of.'

The waiter materialised beside them and handed them a menu. ‘Except you're always late for dinner, Gio, because you're busy working and you have no idea of time. Nonna would tell me to box your ears.'

Gio laughed. ‘Ah, now, Marco, she would also tell you that the customer is always right.'

‘
You
don't count as a customer,' Marco said, laughing back. ‘But you,
signorina
, do.' He set a plate of tiny canapés in between them. ‘Don't let him talk you into giving him your share.'

‘As if I would—oh…' Gio's eyes widened ‘…don't eat those cheese discs, Fran. They're inedible. Better let me handle them.'

Marco pretended to cuff him. ‘I'll be back in a minute for your order. And behave yourself, or I'll tell Mama what you just said about her cooking.' He winked, and left them with the menus.

‘Are the cheese discs really…?' Fran asked, eyeing the plate of gorgeous-looking canapés.

‘No, they're fabulous. They're my favourite and I was teasing you. Actually, I was trying to be greedy,' Gio admitted with a smile. ‘I'm sorry. I should have said—Marco's my cousin.'

She glanced at the waiter, who was serving another table; now Gio had mentioned it, she could see the family resemblance. But although Marco was good looking and charming, there was something else about Gio. Something that all the other women in the room had clearly noticed, too, because Fran could see just how many heads he'd turned.

‘Marco's mother—my Aunt Annetta—is the chef.' Gio's smile turned slightly wry. ‘I'm afraid my family's terribly stereotyped.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘My grandparents moved to London from Milan in the 1950s, and they opened a trattoria,' he explained. ‘Their children all went into catering, too—Dad opened a coffee shop, Netti started the pizzeria, and my Uncle Nando is the family ice-cream specialist. He makes the best
gelati
in London.'

‘And you're all still close?'

‘As I said, we're stereotyped. Typical Italian family.' He spread his hands. ‘Big and noisy and knowing way too much of each other's business. Dad, Netti and Nando all live in the same street—the same place I grew up with my sisters and my cousins. Though none of us lives at home now; my generation's spread a bit.' He shrugged. ‘Sometimes it feels a bit crowded, and it drives me crazy when they try to organise my social life and find me the perfect girlfriend. But if things get rough it's good to know there's a bunch of people looking out for you, people you can rely on.'

Fran suppressed the feeling of wistfulness before it had a chance to take hold, and tried one of the tiny discs. ‘Oh,
wow
.'

Gio smiled. ‘Told you they were good.'

‘Do you recommend anything in particular?' she asked, scanning the menu.

‘Netti's a genius in the kitchen. You could pick anything and it'd taste superb. But you mentioned grilled scamorza, panna cotta and dough balls.'

‘They're not on the menu,' Fran pointed out.

‘For us, they will be.' He said it without a trace of arrogance; it sounded more like he knew he was getting special treatment, and appreciated it. ‘Would you prefer red or white wine?'

‘White, please.'

‘Pinot grigio all right?'

‘Lovely, thanks.'

When Marco returned to take their order, Gio leaned back against his chair and gave him a wicked smile. ‘Ah,
cugino mio
. In fact, oh, best cousin in the world—best cousin in the universe…'

Marco groaned. ‘You're going to ask for a Giovanni special, aren't you?'

‘Yup.' Gio spoke in rapid Italian. Fran couldn't follow the conversation at all, but Gio's accent was incredibly sexy. And he had the most gorgeous mouth. Even when he wasn't talking, there was a permanent tilt to the corner of his lips, as if he were smiling. A real knee-buckler of a smile, too. Yet, at the same time, there was a sense of suppressed energy and restlessness about him. Gio Mazetti was a puzzle. And she found herself wanting to know more about him.

‘
Basta
—enough. I'll ask. But as you're her favourite nephew…' Marco rolled his eyes.

‘I'm Netti's
only
nephew,' Gio corrected with a grin.

‘As I said. Her favourite. So there's a pretty good chance she'll say yes.' Marco smiled. ‘One bottle of pinot grigio and a jug of iced water coming up.'

‘What's a Giovanni special?' Fran asked.

‘Ah.' Gio coughed. ‘It's just the topping I like on my pizza. I went through an—um—let's say
experimental
phase in my teens. This one stuck.'

‘Experimental?'

‘Blue cheese—preferably dolcelatte—and mushrooms.'

She frowned. ‘That doesn't sound particularly experimental.'

‘No. That would be the other ingredient,' he said drily.

She was intrigued now. ‘Which is?'

‘Avocado.'

She blinked. ‘Avocado on
pizza
? Cooked avocado?'

‘Don't knock it until you've tried it,' he advised.

He was full of energy, full of ideas, a little offbeat—and the more time Fran spent with Gio, the more she liked him. His good humour was infectious.

What she couldn't work out was why he'd asked her to dinner. What his proposition was going to be.

When the wine arrived, he didn't bother tasting it; simply thanked Marco, poured out two glasses, and raised his own in a toast to Fran. ‘To us—and the beginning of what's going to be a beautiful friendship.' Again, that mischievous half-smile appeared. ‘Horribly corny. But it's true anyway. I think we're going to suit each other.'

‘How do you mean?' she asked, slightly suspicious.

‘I'm sure you're used to dealing with confidential material at the studio,' he said. At her nod, he asked, ‘So I trust you'll keep my confidence now?'

‘Of course.'

‘OK.' He took a deep breath. ‘I'm at the point in the business where I need to make some decisions about expansion—either I can open more branches or I can franchise Giovanni's so we open outlets in other cities besides London. There's a fair bit of day-to-day admin in running a chain of coffee shops, so I need to free up some of my time to let me move the business forward.'

It all sounded perfectly logical.

‘So I need to find someone who has fabulous organisational skills. Someone who'll be able to be my number two in the business, who can take over from me in juggling rotas and sorting out time management issues, maybe hiring temps or talking people into doing overtime if we have staff off sick. Someone
who can sort out the admin, ring the engineers if one of the coffee machines breaks down, help keep the team motivated and not be fazed by dealing with figures and statistics. Someone who's fantastic on the phone and good with people.'

A new challenge. One where she'd be working with people. Using all her skills. This sounded right up her street.

As if he'd read her mind, he added softly, ‘And I think that person's you.'

‘You've only just met me. How do you know I'm what you're looking for?' she asked. ‘For all you know, I'm not really an experienced office manager. I could be a pathological liar.'

‘I've worked in this business long enough to be a good judge of people,' he said simply. ‘I trust my instinct. You're no bunny-boiler. And if you were a pathological liar, you'd have told me that not only could you read a P and L statement, you could do business projection modelling and write your own computer programs, while juggling six flaming torches and tap-dancing on a tightrope all at the same time.'

She couldn't help smiling at the picture he'd painted. ‘Juggling, tap-dancing and tightrope walking aren't quite my forte. Though I can use a computer and I know where to get help if I'm stuck.'

‘Exactly. You're straight and practical and honest.'

Which wasn't quite what a woman wanted to hear from a man, but this wasn't a date anyway, she reminded herself. This was business.

‘In short, you're exactly what I'm looking for.' He paused. ‘Though, since you brought it up, how do you know that
I'm
not a pathological liar?'

‘Because if you didn't own or at least run the coffee shop, you wouldn't have been the only one there after closing time, you wouldn't have the keys and you probably wouldn't be called Giovanni.'

‘He isn't. His real name's Fred,' Marco interposed, bringing them the scamorza.

‘Just ignore him. He's only jealous because his coffee's not as
good as mine,' Gio retorted with a grin. ‘
Cugino mio
, any time you want a lesson on getting the perfect crema on an espresso—'

‘—I'll ask your dad,' Marco teased. ‘Enjoy your
antipasto
,
signorina
…?' He waited for a name.

‘Fran,' she said with a smile.

‘Fran.' He looked thoughtful. ‘Short for Frances?'

‘Francesca.'

‘An Italian name. Hmm.' Marco gave Gio a knowing look, and was rewarded with a stream of Italian.

Fran, judging it wiser not to ask, tried her scamorza. ‘It's gorgeous,' she said.

‘Course it is. My aunt Netti's a fabulous cook.' Gio gave her another of those knee-buckling smiles. ‘So, Fran.
Francesca
. Your family has Italian blood?'

‘No idea.' And she really wasn't comfortable talking about her family.

He didn't seem upset that she'd been a bit short with him. ‘So we've established that we trust each other, yes?'

She wasn't quite sure how to answer that.

‘Trust has to start somewhere,' he said softly. ‘And if you see the best in people—expect the best from them—they'll give you their best.'

‘Is this another of your Italian grandmother's sayings?'

‘Yup—she's a very wise woman, my
nonna
. When I was a teenager, I used to think she was just rabbiting on. But, the older I get, the more I realise she knows what she's talking about.' He raised an eyebrow. ‘Actually, you remind me of her in a way.'

‘I'll take that as a compliment.'

‘It was.' He ate another mouthful of scamorza. ‘As I said, this job's got your name on it. But you'll also need to understand the business from the bottom up.'

‘Running a coffee shop?'

He nodded. ‘Specifically, Giovanni's. What makes us different from the competition. What makes us special. What makes people come to us instead of one of the national chains or the independents. So I need someone who understands about coffee.'

Fran shook her head. ‘That counts me out. I know what I like—cappuccino and latte—but when it comes to all these complicated orders…'

Gio took a sip of wine. ‘Firstly, all coffees are based on espresso. And Giovanni's doesn't go in for coffee that takes half an hour and a degree in rocket science to order. We make it easy for the customer. A basic espresso for those who like black coffee; latte, cappuccino and Americano for those who like varying degrees of milk or frothiness. Hot chocolate, mocha for those who like a mixture, tea with milk or lemon, and iced coffees and smoothies in summer.' He ticked them off on his fingers. ‘Pastries and biscotti in the morning, paninis for lunch and cakes for the middle of the afternoon. It's a matter of knowing what our customers like and second-guessing the right quantities so that we don't run out, but also don't have to throw away too much.' He looked thoughtful. ‘I suppose it's like you'd book your studio slots so you weren't empty half the time and double-booked the rest of the time.'

She could appreciate that. But the coffee thing…‘I don't even have an espresso machine at home.'

He groaned. ‘Don't tell me you drink instant coffee?'