Best Laid Plans (4 page)

Her friend, Kate, came bustling up to him as he was about to serve another table, handing over a card. “This is Frankie’s number. If you don’t call her, I have the right to come back here with weaponry and nuke you.”

“It would take the weaponry to stop me,” he assured her. “
Grazie
.”

Kate gave him an unnerving onceover. “Lucky bitch.”

Before he could respond, she ran out of the restaurant. Luca looked down at the card and forced the number into his brain. Not that he would lose the card, but fate had a strange way of working against him.
Francesca, give me one hour
.

Frankie dragged her weary body into the house and leaned against the closed door. Her day had gone from bad to weird, to horny, to embarrassed to ridiculous and then to just plain stupid. If that councilwoman featured even a single sound bite about the visit, it would be in passing and that would be the end of it. A pile of letters on the stairs all had that official bank/debt taint on the envelopes. Hopefully they should all just confirm that the debts were all paid now. Thank Christ. All she had to do now was to find her spine and tell her mother that she was going to move out again.

Leon’s behaviour aside, the worst thing had been leaving her beautiful, carefully furnished flat and reverting back to a sixteen-year-old who couldn’t stand up for herself against her mother. “Francesca!”

Jesus lord
. “Hi, Mum.”

“Is that your phone buzzing? Or have you got one of those nasty toy things?”

Jesus lord.
“Probably just my phone, Mum.”

She hated this economy. If the flat had sold faster and for the price she’d paid for it, she wouldn’t have spent the last year paying everyone and everything off. Leon had been no use whatsoever, pleading ignorance about all sorts of bills. Frankie was far smarter than Leon had ever given her credit for and made sure he was chased by the appropriate people for what he owed too.

There’d be no problem getting a mortgage. She had the income and she would have enough for a deposit again in a few months. It was time to flat hunt again. She needed her own space; there was only so much “Francesca, when are you coming home?” she could take.

Rifling through her bag for her mobile, she scooped up the letters from the stairs and headed for her bedroom. Mobile bill? Paid. Credit card bill? Paid and card cut up. Other credit card? Paid up and iced in the freezer. Outstanding council tax? Fuck you, paid. Tax rebate of a thousand pounds, thank you very much I’ve been working for a fucking long time already, so yes I did probably overpay more than that. Increase in third credit card limit. What on earth? She could use that toward the flat deposit. Get in!

Ah ha! Phone. She yanked it out and saw a missed call and voice message. The number didn’t ring any bells with her, so she dialled voicemail and listened as she turned on her laptop.
Message one, received today at 3.37 pm:
“Hello, Francesca, this is Gianluca.”

Ho-ly Christmas
. “You’re probably at work now, but I wanted to talk to you. See if I can convince you to meet me for dinner? I’ll try you again this evening.
Ciao
.”

She hated the word
ciao,
normally spewed by arrogant wankers who thought they were transcontinental or some such rubbish, but
he,
Gianluca, he made the one word sound like he was going to lay her down, part her thighs and feast until Olympus crashed to earth.

Fuck, she was having a heart attack. She pressed a button to save the message—Kate and Pardeep would appreciate it another time—and yelped when her phone started ringing again. It was him! Again!

She cleared her throat and answered, “Hello?”

“Hello, Francesca. How are you?”

“Wondering why you’re so keen?” she replied bluntly.

“I told you, I’ve met you before.”

“Where?”

“Come to dinner and I might tell you.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“What? As in now, now?”

“Yes, Francesca, now,” he repeated. “Are you busy?” She paused for too long and he leapt into her hesitation. “Good. There is a fantastic little restaurant in Soho. It does Beirut street food. Do you know it?”

“It’s going to take me at least an hour to get there.”

“I will wait.”

Christ alive. “All right. I’ll see you there.”

“Thank you.”

“Er, you’re welcome. Bye.”

Frankie panicked for a full minute. What to do with her hair, her face, goddammit, her clothes? Showering in record time, she threw makeup essentials into a much nicer handbag than the one she took to work and rushed for the tube. She tried to avoid the eye of the suited twat opposite her who was watching her exertions with the kohl liner and mascara wand. Ooh, she nearly stabbed herself there with the eyeliner, and almost smeared nude lipstick over her chin when the tube jolted. Of course she was going through the trouble to look nice. He was a physically beautiful man.

She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. No. Fuck this, she was going to shop and she was going to come out in something better than this awful jeans and too tight top business. Stupid man, springing a last-minute date on her. If he wanted to wait, he was really going to have to wait. Frankie detoured from Soho wildly and went straight to Phase Eight. An assistant came to help.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” she asked with a smile.

“Lesson 101 in sales; never ask a customer a closed question. It will never induce a conversation that will lead to a sale,” Frankie said bluntly, having spent years with crappy sales assistants bullying her into something unflattering for a commission.

“True.” The assistant laughed. “Oh I have the perfect dress for you. One second.”

She vanished like a sprite and then reappeared with an oriental-printed maxi dress in teal, hot pink and navy blue. Frankie got
the dress
tingle. She hadn’t had that sort of tingle in ages. To be fair, she hadn’t shopped for a date in years either. The assistant led her to the changing rooms and as soon as Frankie slipped on the dress, she was done for. She slipped her heels back on, which pushed her up to five ten, heaved her jacket over her arm and clasped her bag.

“Can you do me a favour? Can you cut out the label and I’ll wear it?”

The assistant clapped and laughed. “I knew it. You look amazing.”

Frankie ignored the three-figure sum for the dress and hustled out of the shop, only stopping at the Vera Wang counter to spritz on some more perfume. Now she felt ready.

The street food restaurant wasn’t big, but it was popular. Luca had a table that he dwarfed. Francesca wasn’t a small girl either. The pair of them together would look like two adults seated at the children’s table at a wedding. It did occur to him that he’d scared her off, but there was a core of steel in that woman; she wouldn’t back down over a little weirdness. She proved him right by breezing into the restaurant in the most stunning dress, braids cascading down her back.
Don’t mess this up
, he commanded himself, getting to his feet.

“Francesca,” he called, and the whole restaurant went quiet. A flush stained Francesca’s cheeks when she saw him. He held out a hand to her, and she surprisingly took it. Not allowing any of the waiting staff to help her sit, he eased her into the chair opposite him and then took his own seat.

“Scrub up well, don’t I?” she mocked. Luca winced, realising that he’d probably been just staring at her again.

“No scrubbing needed,” he insisted, catching her eyes again. “Thank you.”

“For?”

“Coming here.” The whole evening smacked of déjà vu. The familiarity of Francesca’s dress, the restaurant, and his strange certainty that she was going to tease him any minute, all scattered over him. A glance at his arms saw the gold hairs were raised.

“I’ll try anything once, Gianluca.” She shrugged, picking up her menu. Over the top he could see the smile in her eyes. “I’m guessing the same is true for you, judging by that shirt.”

He glanced down. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s got more work going on than my desk.”

He rubbed his fingers over his forehead, where the razor had caught skin rather than hair. Sometimes he could still feel the cold sting of metal. “I don’t like shopping.”

“You know you can hire people to help you.”

“You obviously have excellent taste. You can help me,” he suggested, in all seriousness.

She put her menu down. “Is that where you think you know me from? A bad shopping experience?”

He laughed. “No. Not at all. And you should call me Luca.”

“Okay, fine. Luca. So?” She circled her hand in an encouraging motion.

Like he was going to play his best card before they’d even had a drink! He leaned back and called for a waiter. “Would you like a cocktail?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I’d have a cocktail first, if I were you.”

With a sigh, she picked something that looked fruity and was probably more lethal than anything else. As soon as their order was taken, Francesca started again.

“Was it on a bus? Did I fall over in a gym? Did you fall over in a gym? Was I roasted at a comedy gig? Did I throw popcorn at you in the cinema?”

“You do that? On a regular basis? That’s how you generally meet people?”

She shrugged. “More sociable that way.” Her eyes suddenly narrowed on him with a thought. “Are you a police officer?”

Luca wondered if he’d visibly paled. “No. Why?”

“Then maybe you saw it in the paper.”

“What?”

Francesca accepted her tall pink-coloured glass and stirred it aimlessly with her straw. “My ex-boyfriend tried to have me convicted for smashing a glass bowl over his head...”

Of course I’m in love with a woman who has a violent temper. Why wouldn’t history repeat itself?

“...only seven stitches and in my defence, he was going to hit me again, so...” She paused and took her bottom lip into her mouth. “It’s best you know now.”

“You defended yourself and you think I’m going to leave?” he asked. “Did any of that glass hit you in the head?”

She gawped at him for a moment before bursting out laughing. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. “It, er,” she swallowed a giggle, “it tends to send normal men running screaming into the night. They think I’m going to emasculate them.”

“With a glass bowl,” he added. “What makes you think I’m not normal?”

“You’re still here, aren’t you?”

“I am. That would be because I have no intention of laying a finger on you in anger.”

He felt her gaze on him. “I’m not into BDSM. Not like that anyway. I don’t like blood. Just in case you thought the hitting with the glass bowl was a regular thing. I used to own some pretty dodgy things, but before professionals started digging around, it was best I got rid. Jesus, lord, what the hell is in this drink?”

“Truth serum apparently,” Luca drawled, taking the cocktail from her, placing his lips exactly where her lipstick had left an earthy rose stain to take a drink. For a moment, he had the briefest vision of her leaving the same rosy stain on his cock. He sipped a little faster than intended to calm himself. It was a girly drink. Too much fruit and sugar…oh, and the alcohol punched him in the back of the throat. “Vodka. And a lot of it.”

“Unintentional drunk,” Francesca said brightly. “You can add that to your list when you name this as the disastrous date of all disastrous dates.”

“Francesca, I’m going to ask you this only one time. Stop it. You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he talked over her when she parted her lips to protest. “I think you are beautiful and sharp and your sense of humour is more than fucked up. If no one else finds that attractive, that’s all the better for me. It’s saving lives.”

She shook her head. “I’m serious—where did you come from? Where have you been hiding? I could’ve done with that pep talk last year.”

Her little outburst gave him free reign to take her hand in his and squeeze gently. “Hiding in a kitchen. Perfecting cooking
sud vide
.”
Trying not to go mad.
“Can we eat now? I’m starving. I feel food is a good idea.”

“I tend to be more sensible after food,” she replied, rubbing her thumb over his fingers.

“I doubt that, nice try though.” The smile she sent him was a reward that could never be given any financial value.

“Do you want to talk about normal stuff then?”

“How will we talk about you then?”

“Oh ho, comedian in the house! You won’t find it so funny when we’re talking about what TV show you’re most likely to end up on.”

“Easy, BBC News.”

She nodded. “Same.”

He lifted her hand and gave it a lingering kiss. “Best date ever.”