Best of Bosses 2008: In Bed With Her Italian Boss\Taken by Her Greek Boss\Blind Date With the Boss (14 page)

He stroked her hair. ‘You OK?'

‘Yes. Well, no,' she admitted, and leaned her head against his shoulder. ‘It didn't feel like my flat any more.'

‘It will do. When it's dried out, the ceiling's fixed, there's a new carpet and we've painted the walls. It'll be fine.'

She damped down the surge of disappointment. Honestly, how ridiculous could she get? Of
course
she was going back to her own place when it was habitable again. Moving in with him
was only temporary; and, had he not sleepwalked the previous night, they wouldn't have shared a bed either.

‘But until then,' he said softly, ‘I hope you stay with me. And I know I'm being selfish, but I hope they take absolutely ages to fix everything.'

Oh-h-h. If he'd asked her to walk to the moon and back for him, right at that moment, she would've said yes.

‘Thank you.' And please don't let him notice that her voice had just gone all croaky.

He kissed the hollow of her collarbones. ‘What do you want for dinner tonight? I'll cook.'

She strove for a light, teasing note. ‘If you work as late as you usually do, that means we'll be eating at midnight.'

‘I'll come home early.'

‘Early as in a normal person's “early”?' she tested.

He laughed. ‘Probably not.'

‘How about I cook for us, then? If you trust me in your kitchen.'

‘Of course I trust you.' His smile turned wolfish. ‘But there's a condition attached. I get to sleep with the chef tonight.'

‘Sleep?'

He nibbled her earlobe.
‘Eventually,'
he whispered, sending a thrill of pure lust down her spine.

‘Giovanni Mazetti, just how am I supposed to get any work done when you put thoughts like that into my head?'

‘You're not.' He brushed his mouth against hers. ‘You're going out to lunch with me. And then you're going to play hookey.'

‘With you?'

He smiled. ‘I'm tempted. Seriously tempted. But, no, what I had in mind is going for a spa afternoon. The sort of thing my sisters do when they've had a rough week.'

‘A spa afternoon.'

‘Massage, facial, something like that. Bella swears by it. It'll de-stress you.'

She shook her head. ‘I'm fine.'

‘No, you're not.' He held her just a little bit closer. ‘Maybe I'll give you that massage myself, then. I told you to take today
off, and I meant it. Go and do something to relax you. Rent some DVDs and spend the afternoon watching films, or what have you. And that,' he added, ‘is an order.'

‘Maybe.'

 

But when they'd had lunch out—a bacon, mozzarella and avocado salad in a little restaurant on the South Bank—and Gio had gone back to work, Fran decided to take his advice to do something to relax her. A wander through Kew Gardens went a long way to restoring her equilibrium. Then she went back to Gio's flat via the supermarket, texted him to remind him that she was cooking dinner and it would be ready at half past seven, and enjoyed herself cooking in a decent-sized kitchen for once.

 

‘I might have to change your job,' Gio said when he walked in at quarter past seven. ‘Forget being my office manager. You can be my personal chef instead.'

She raised an eyebrow. ‘That's a bit rash. You haven't tasted dinner yet.'

‘It smells fabulous, so it'll be gorgeous.' He stood behind her and slid one arm round her waist, pulling her back against him. ‘And so are you.'

‘Behave,' she admonished, though she was smiling.

‘Oh, yeah. That reminds me. These are for you.' He brought his other hand round, and gave her a bunch of bright pink gerberas.

He'd bought her flowers. Again. Completely unexpectedly. Her throat closed and she had to blink back the tears. ‘Thank you. They're beautiful.'

‘Do I get a kiss, then?'

She smiled. ‘After you've eaten. I need to put these in water.'

‘Ah. There might be a problem.'

‘What?'

‘I don't actually own a vase.' He rummaged in the kitchen cupboards and came up with a couple of pint glasses. ‘That'll teach me to make a romantic gesture without thinking it through first.'

She put the flowers into water and stood them in the middle of the table, then slid her arms round his neck and kissed him lightly. ‘Thank you, Gio. The vase doesn't matter. It's…'

‘Hey. They were meant to make you smile, not cry.' Gently, he brushed away the single tear with the pad of his thumb.

‘I'm being wet.'

‘No. You've just seen your personal space ruined. And you've been putting a brave face on it.' He hugged her. ‘Everything will be fine. I promise.'

She swallowed hard. ‘Go and sit down. I'll serve dinner.'

By the time she'd put the bowl of salad on the table and spooned the chicken arrabbiata over the pasta, she'd managed to choke back the tears again.

‘I'm not sure if I dared cook pasta for an Italian,' she said, placing the plate in front of him.

He laughed. ‘You can't exactly ruin pasta.'

‘Yes, you can. You can overcook it so it's soggy. Or not drain it properly.'

He took a mouthful. ‘This,' he said, ‘is textbook
al dente
—absolutely perfect—and that arrabbiata sauce has one hell of a kick.'

‘Too hot?'

‘Nope. Just perfect. And the wine's good, too. Barolo, yes?'

Trust him to know. She smiled. ‘Of course. I can just imagine your face if I'd served you French wine.'

He laughed. ‘My favourite wine's French, actually. Margaux. It tastes of vanilla and blackcurrant. Oh, and talking of tasting—want to come with me to a cupping? I normally go with Dad, but he asked me if you'd join us next time. I think he's planning to teach you some of the stuff he's taught me.' He grimaced. ‘Sorry. My family really takes over.'

‘No, I'd love to.' And it still stunned her how quickly the Mazettis had taken her to their hearts. Made her feel part of them. Her phone had been beeping all day with texts from them. From his sisters, suggesting a night out to see a really girly film with lots of popcorn to cheer her up—and Marcie had also offered to go with her when she needed to buy new furniture. From Angela,
saying that her friend could repair all the damage to Fran's clothes. From Nonna, just sending her a hug.

She
belonged
.

Much more than she did in her own family. Here, she fitted in.

After dinner, they washed up together. Something she wasn't used to, and it felt weirdly domesticated. Even more shockingly, she realised that she actually liked it. The whole domestic routine.

Which Gio definitely didn't want.

She was going to have to be really careful here. Gio wasn't offering her for ever. ‘For now' was as good as it was going to get. And if she let herself fall too deeply for Gio and the warm, noisy, loving family that came with him as a package deal, she was going to end up with a broken heart.

She needed to keep a distance between them, however small.

‘You've gone quiet on me. What are you thinking?' Gio asked.

She shook her head. ‘Nothing important.' Nothing she'd admit to. ‘Would you play your guitar for me again?'

He leaned against the worktop and stared at her. ‘Are you in a conspiracy with Nonna and my mum to make me go to college?'

‘No. I just like it when you play.' She smiled. ‘As long as it's something pretty and not that tonal harmonics stuff.'

He laughed, but fetched one of the guitars from his spare room, perched on the arm of the sofa and played Mozart to her. She watched him, taking in every detail. How his beautiful hands moved. The passion in his face as the music took over—so similar to the expression on his face when he made love.

Then he looked up, gave her a slow, sweet smile, and played a tune she recognised: an arrangement of ‘I Can't Help Falling in Love with You'.

Was he trying to tell her something?

Her heart missed a beat. No, of course not. And she had to remember not to fall for him. Though the song was way, way too appropriate. ‘So you're turning into Elvis now?' she said lightly.

He smiled. ‘Hardly. And, for your information, two of the three composers of that song were Italian.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Yeah.' He played it again, but this time instead of picking out the melody he strummed chords and sang it to her.

Lord, he had a gorgeous voice. A voice that made her melt.

‘The simplest tunes are the best ones,' he said when he'd finished, and replaced the guitar in its case. ‘So. I've played for you.'

‘Sung for your supper.'

He lifted his forefinger. ‘Ah, but all good musicians expect payment as well as supper.' He paused. ‘A kiss will do.'

‘A kiss.' She stood up, reached up to him and brushed her mouth against his.

‘Call that a kiss?' Gio tipped her back on to the sofa and gave her a wicked smile. ‘Let me show you how it's done…'

T
HE
next two weeks were the happiest Fran had ever known. Her days were spent in a job she loved, and her nights in Gio's arms. He taught her about every erogenous zone in her body, including some she hadn't even known existed; the way she responded to his touch scared her, because she'd never felt anything this intense before.

And then Gio really shocked her.

‘You're going to be late for work,' she said—her body clock now used to the time he got up to leave for the coffee shop.

‘Nope.' He smiled at her. ‘Not today.'

She frowned. ‘You're in late?'

‘Day off.'

She blinked. ‘Run that one by me again.'

He laughed. ‘You heard.'

‘Are you ill?'

He rolled his eyes. ‘I just have plans.'

She tried to douse the spark of disappointment that those plans obviously didn't include her. Of course he needed her to be there in the office. That was her job. Running the café chain when he wasn't around.

He didn't offer to meet her for lunch, either. But she shoved it out of her mind and just got on with work, staying late to help Sally lock up the Charlotte Street café.

 

When she opened his front door she discovered what Gio's mysterious plans were. Something smelled fantastic, and explained the little bistro table in the living-room alcove set with a white damask table cloth and proper silver; there were scented tea-light candles in the middle of the table and the tablecloth was scattered with rose petals.

Gio came to stand behind her and wrapped his arms round her, resting his cheek against hers. ‘Good day?'

She nodded. ‘And everything's ticking over fine, so you don't need to worry about anything.' She indicated the table. ‘You've gone to a lot of trouble.'

‘Well, you've done nearly all the cooking while you've been staying here. I thought it was time to even up the balance a little.' He nuzzled the curve of her neck. ‘Go and sit on the sofa. I'll bring you a glass of wine.'

Perfectly chilled pinot grigio. Then he fetched one of his guitars and played her some of the pretty Italian divertimenti he knew she liked.

‘I feel thoroughly spoiled,' she said with a smile.

And the food was even better. Grilled scamorza, followed by grilled salmon on a bed of garlicky spinach with polenta, and then the most fantastic white chocolate cheesecake.

‘This,' Fran said, ‘is to die for.'

‘I had a rather more, um,
interesting
reward in mind,' Gio said. She grinned. ‘Oh, really?'

‘Uh-huh. Food of love. I've played to you, I've fed you, we're going to ignore the washing up, and you're going to have to wait for your coffee.' He took her hand and tugged her to her feet, then drew her into the bedroom.

Fran's eyes widened when she saw the rose petals scattered on the bed.

‘I told you I had plans,' Gio said, sliding his fingertips under the hem of her top and drawing tiny circles against her skin.

It took him a long, long time to undress her. Every inch of skin he uncovered had to be stroked. Kissed. Licked. And by
the time he finally laid her down on his bed of rose petals, Fran was shivering.

‘Now. Please, now,' she whispered. Begged. She needed him inside her—right here, right now.

Gio shook his head. ‘Tonight,' he told her, his eyes a sultry deep blue, ‘we're taking it slowly.'

So slowly that she thought she was going to go crazy. Time and again, Gio brought her just to the edge of climax—then paused for just long enough to keep her on the brink. Her whole body had turned into a mass of sensation, aware of his tiniest movement.

And when he finally entered her—still keeping the pace slow and measured—she came instantly.

‘I haven't finished yet,' he whispered in her ear. ‘And neither have you.'

She didn't believe him. But when the aftershocks had died away, he began to move again. Stoking her pleasure higher and higher.

‘This—' She shook her head. ‘I can't…I've never come twice. It's not poss…Oh-h-h.'

He brushed his mouth against hers. ‘Something you should know,
tesoro
. I'm aiming for three.'

 

Fran's look of shock mingled with disbelief and sheer pleasure gave Gio a real kick. He'd thought it would be good between them, but this was something else. He loved the way she responded to him. The way her body was so in tune with his. The flare of passion in her eyes. The scent of the roses mingled with the musky scent of her arousal. The sound of her little sighs of pleasure. And when his own climax rippled through him, he felt Fran's body quiver in answer. Each beat of her heart matched his own. Two as one.

He wasn't ready to say the words.

But he hoped to hell she knew exactly what his body was telling her.

And that she felt the same way.

 

‘Can I speak to Fran Marsden, please?' the breezy voice asked when Gio answered the phone.

‘Sorry, she's not available at the moment.' Jude had annexed her for lunch. Which was how come Gio was left with a panini, a chocolate brownie and a sense of disappointment. Weird how he'd got used to actually taking a proper break. Going for a stroll with Fran in Regent's Park at lunchtime and enjoying the sunshine he hadn't really noticed in years; sitting by the lake, watching the swans and the squirrels with his arm round his girl. Perfect.

‘Can I help?' he asked.

‘It's London Lets. Can you tell her that the flat's finished? The repairs have been done and checked, the utilities have all been tested, there's a new carpet down and she can move back in again whenever she likes.'

So soon? He carefully schooled his voice to neutral. ‘Sure. I'll tell her. Thanks for calling.'

But when he replaced the receiver he sat for a while with his elbows propped against his desk and his chin resting on his hands, staring into space.

Fran could move back home again.

Out of his flat.

He didn't actually
have
to tell her about the call. He could just ‘forget'. But she'd find out anyway because the letting agency was bound to ring again to see when she was planning to move back in.

Part of him wanted to give her the message—and then ask her not to go. To stay with him, to move in to his flat properly.

The more sensible part of him knew it was a bad idea. For a start, he didn't know if she'd say yes: Fran had already made it clear that she liked having her own space, and she took up so little room in his flat that you'd hardly know she was staying. Even in the bathroom, her things were kept neatly and separately from his, and could be packed in about three seconds.

But even if she did say yes…he still wasn't sure. Was he simply trying to fit into the role his family wanted for him, settling
down at last? Or did he want Fran for himself? And was he the right one for her in any case? Would he end up letting her down, the way he'd screwed up with his family all those years ago?

He didn't have the answers. Needed time to work it out.

Which meant letting her go back to her own place.

And didn't they say that if you wanted someone to stay, you had to give them the freedom to go?

Lord, he hoped she'd decide to stay.

 

When Fran returned from lunch with Jude, full of smiles and laughter, he couldn't bring himself to tell her the news straight away. It took him an hour to work up to it. And then, keeping his voice light, he said, ‘Sorry, I meant to tell you. The letting agency rang while you were at lunch. Your flat's ready.'

‘Right.' Her expression went straight into neutral. Which meant he hadn't a clue what was going on in her head. Couldn't read a single signal.

‘So I wondered if you wanted a hand. Maybe paint the place the colour you like, before you move back in.' In other words, stay with him a bit longer.

‘I…Thanks. That'd be nice.'

He wasn't sure if her smile reached her eyes, because she'd turned away.

‘I need to get a new sofa bed, too. And shelving. And curtains.' She shrugged. ‘Though the colour's going to depend on what colour carpet they've put in. Something neutral, I hope.'

‘Why don't you take the rest of the afternoon off and go have a look?' he suggested. ‘You've put in more than enough hours lately to make up the time. And it'd be better to see it in daylight than evening light.'

‘Yeah, you're right.' She nodded. ‘Thanks.'

He smiled. ‘I'll see you later.'

‘Sure.'

Though he noticed she didn't kiss him goodbye.

He really, really hoped that wasn't a bad sign. But he had a nasty feeling that everything was unravelling around them.

 

Well, what did you expect? Fran asked herself as she got on to the Tube. That he'd ask you not to go—that he'd suggest moving in with him properly?

How stupid could she get?

Number one, this had all started off as a fake relationship, to keep his family happy.

Number two, what had happened between them since her flat had been flooded—well, despite that amazing night where he'd cooked for her and made love with her in a bed of rose petals, to the point where she'd felt as if their souls had connected, it was still early days. And the fact that Gio was prepared to let her go so easily showed that he wasn't ready to make their relationship a real one.

He might
never
be ready.

It wasn't necessarily her—if she thought about it rationally, she knew Gio probably wouldn't be ready to commit to anyone for a long, long time, because nothing was going to tame his restlessness—but it still hurt. And it was very clear to her now that once she'd moved back to her own flat and Isabella had returned to Milan, later in the week, they'd be reverting to their original plan.

Ending the ‘relationship' quietly.

She knew now that she couldn't face working with him afterwards. Not as his ‘ex'. Having to deal with the disappointment of his family and the sympathy of their colleagues would be way too messy. And the idea of watching from the sidelines when Gio was ready to let himself fall in love—with someone else…

It left her no choice.

Quite how she was going to get through Isabella's farewell dinner, she had no idea. But she was going to act as if her life depended on it. No way was she going to let Gio see how much this hurt.

When she got off the Tube again, she called the letting agency. Yes, the insurance was paying up; they had her claim in progress; and the money should be with her next week.

Which meant she could go and buy new furniture now. On her credit card. Because by the time the bill came in the insurance
money would be there. And even if it was late that wasn't a big deal, because she still had her redundancy money in a high-interest account.

Organising was what she did. Really, really well. And keeping busy was a good way of not letting herself think about the way her personal life had just disintegrated. Even so, by the time she reached her flat, Fran was thoroughly dejected. She unlocked the door and took a cursory look around.

Home.

It didn't feel like home. Wasn't her space any more. It was just a very small studio flat. The walls were magnolia, perfectly liveable with. The carpet was beige. Also liveable with. And the neutral décor meant it wouldn't matter what colour she chose for her furniture.

She didn't actually care what colour the furniture was. As long as it was delivered quickly. And there was one way to make very sure that happened. She went to one of the furniture showrooms that let you take things away there and then instead of waiting six to eight weeks for it to be made and delivered. Bought curtains and cushions, chose a sofa bed and shelving and talked the store into delivering it all the following morning.

And one night sleeping on the floor wasn't going to hurt her, was it?

She went back to Gio's flat and packed her things. Called a taxi. And was in the process of writing him a note to explain where she'd gone when the front door opened.

 

‘Fran?' Gio stared at the suitcases next to her. ‘What are you doing?'

‘Moving my stuff back home,' Fran said simply.

She was leaving already? But…‘Hang on, don't you need to sort out some furniture first?'

‘Done.'

That was the problem when someone was as efficient as Fran. They could sort things out at the speed of light. Anyone else would've had to wait at least six weeks for the furniture to be delivered. Not her. ‘What about paint? I was going to help you paint
the walls.' It would take at least a day to do that, and they'd need another day to air the place to get rid of paint fumes. That would give him two days—with any luck, enough time to work out how to get her to stay.