Best of Bosses 2008: In Bed With Her Italian Boss\Taken by Her Greek Boss\Blind Date With the Boss (16 page)

He tried to frame the lie, but he couldn't. ‘Yeah,' he admitted, his voice cracking. ‘I miss her like hell.'

‘Because you're in love with her.'

He took a deep breath. ‘It's complicated, Mum.'

‘How? You love her. She loves you.' Angela spread her hands. ‘What's complicated about that?'

She loves you.
He'd so wanted that to be true. But it wasn't. ‘She walked out on me.'

Angela frowned. ‘Did you tell her how you felt about her?'

Ha. How could he?

At his silence, she sighed. ‘You didn't, did you?' She rolled her eyes. ‘Sometimes, I wonder how the intelligent, talented son I've always loved and been so proud of can be so
dense
. Gio, the way she looked at you gave her away. You know the reason why your little deception worked so well? Because it had all the hallmarks of truth. I could see by the way you looked at her that you were in love with her. And she most definitely felt the same about you.'

He dragged in a breath. ‘Really? So why did she leave? Why did she walk out on me?'

‘Because you made this hare-brained arrangement to split up with her when Nonna went back to Milan. And if you didn't tell her how you really felt about her, of
course
she'd leave. Because she's as proud and stubborn as you are and she wasn't going to stick around when she thought you didn't want her.' Angela started at him. ‘I can't believe you need me to spell it out for you. Have you called her since she left?'

He gritted his teeth. ‘She made it clear it was over.'

‘And you're too stubborn to fight for her? Give me strength.' Angela picked up the phone and handed it to him. ‘Take it from me, male pride is a very pointless thing. A very
lonely
thing. Call her. Tell her you need to talk to her. And when you see her, tell her how you feel. Be honest with her.'

Easy to say. ‘What if she doesn't want me?'

‘It's a risk you'll have to take. And it's about time you took it.' She dropped a kiss on his forehead. ‘Call her. And then call me later and let me know how things are, OK?'

F
RAN
didn't answer her phone. Didn't call Gio back when he left a message. Ignored his texts and emails.

He considered sending her flowers; then he remembered that she was on garden leave. So she might not even be in London. She might have gone home to see her family. Then again, he knew she didn't think she fitted in with them: so it was unlikely.

So where was she? Had she gone somewhere? Taken a break to get away from everything?

There was only one way to find out. Talk to her, face to face. He went to her flat. Pressed the intercom.

No answer.

So then he pressed her neighbour's buzzer—the one who'd flooded her flat in the first place.

‘If you're selling something, I'm not interested,' was the greeting through the intercom.

Charming. Gio resisted the urge to say something rude; if he put the guy's back up, he'd never get the information he wanted. ‘I'm not selling something. Actually, I'm trying to get hold of your neighbour.'

‘Nothing to do with me, mate.'

‘I rather think it is,' Gio said, ‘seeing as you flooded her flat in the first place.'

All the belligerence suddenly left the man's tone. ‘Oh.'

‘She was staying with—with a friend of mine. And she left some things my friend wants to return to her.'

‘Well, I can take them in, if you want,' the neighbour said, his voice slightly grudging.

‘No, they need to be returned personally.'

‘Are you calling me a thief?'

‘No, nothing like that.' Gio sighed. Poor Fran, having to put up with such an aggressive neighbour. The sort who'd fly off the handle at the least provocation. Definitely the sort who'd stomp out of his flat in a strop and forget he'd left the bath running. When Fran had had a hissy fit on him for flooding her flat, she was lucky he hadn't flattened her. ‘Look, my friend hasn't been able to get in touch with her. Do you know if she's around at the moment or if she's away?'

‘Her recycling box was out with the others, this morning. That's about all I can tell you.'

Not a great deal, but it was enough—it proved that she was still in London. She was clearly just avoiding all Gio's messages.

‘Thanks.' He stopped leaning on the intercom.

So what did he do now? She obviously wasn't going to return his calls. If his mother was right, this was a defence mechanism to stop herself being hurt, because she thought he didn't want her. Given what he knew of her background, it was understandable she'd be wary of putting herself in a situation where she could be rejected.

But unless he could talk to her, he wasn't going to be able to tell her how he really felt about her. That he wasn't going to reject her.

Flowers weren't going to work. Or chocolates. He needed something to show her he was absolutely serious about this. That the stakes were as high for him as they were for her.

But how?

He spent the evening brooding about it. And then he remembered her suggestion. Expanding the café chain by adding another branch would mean additional premises costs; whereas if they kept the same number of branches, but opened in the evening, the costs would all be marginal. Starting with the book group in Holborn.

So far, so sensible.

And then she'd suggesting opening the Charlotte Street café once a week.

For an evening of classical music.

With him as the performer.

Her voice echoed in his head:
play the music you love for people
.

And she'd told him to take a sabbatical. Be a musician. His old dream—the one he thought he'd stamped on and crushed years go. But the yearning was still there.

Maybe, he thought, it was time he did.

And maybe, just maybe, if he did it, it would convince her that he was serious.

 

Courier delivery? She hadn't ordered anything that was likely to be delivered by courier. Fran frowned, but signed the courier's form.

The envelope held no clues whatsoever to the contents. It was just a plain A5 cardboard-backed envelope. Her address was printed on a label, and the postmark was central London. Odd. At first glance, she would have said it was junk mail. But junk mail didn't usually come in a cardboard-backed envelope—and it definitely didn't come by courier.

She opened the flap, and took out the folded A4 sheet.

And blinked as she read the poster.

An evening of music at Giovanni's of Charlotte Street
.

She blinked even harder as she read who was playing.

He was taking up her suggestion?

And he'd written something on one of the blank spaces on the poster.
Please come. Gio.

His handwriting was spikier than she remembered it. As if it was an effort for him to write the note. But the words themselves were so sparse, told her nothing about how he was feeling or why he'd invited her. Was it out of some sense of obligation, because she'd been the one to suggest it? Or was it because he really wanted her there?

Just ‘Gio'.

Not ‘love, Gio', as his flowers had been.

Just ‘Gio'. Impenetrable.

Fran thought about it. Very hard. And she didn't make her final decision until the evening of the concert.

She'd go.

But she'd slip in very quietly. Merge into the background. Once she could judge the situation, she'd know whether to go and talk to him—or whether to leave again, just as quietly.

 

She wasn't going to come. Gio paced his office. This was the most stupid, stupid idea he'd ever had. He should've called the whole thing off when she hadn't replied to his invitation. He knew she'd definitely received it—he'd sent it by courier so he could check whether it had been delivered and who signed for it. But she'd stayed silent.

She wasn't going to come.

And he had a café full of people out there, waiting to hear him play.

How the hell was he going to do this?

Because it wasn't his reputation on the line, at the end of the day. It was the café's. If he made a fool of himself, so be it. He could live with that. But he didn't want to undermine all the work his father had put in to Giovanni's. Or the ten years he'd dedicated to it himself.

He should have booked other acts, too. So if his own set was a complete waste of time, at least the audience would remember something good from the evening. A string quartet, a small jazz trio, a folk singer. But, no, he was doing this solo. Putting his heart and soul on the line.

And for what?

Because she wasn't going to be there.

Maybe he should've done this as a private performance. Just for Fran. And then if she hadn't turned up he wouldn't have made such a fool of himself.

Why
had he been so stupid?

‘Gio. You'll be fine, honey,' Angela soothed, coming in and
patting his shoulder. ‘This is a little bit of stage fright. Perfectly normal. Just relax.'

It wasn't stage fright. At all. ‘Is she there? Could you see her?'

‘You'll be fine.'

The evasion was all too obvious. She didn't want to say no because she didn't want the knowledge to hurt him. But he knew anyway, and his stomach felt hollow. Adrenalin made his fingers feel heavy and buzzy—no way could they work with the precision he needed to play Bach and Dowland and Tarrega. He was going to screw this up. Seriously screw this up.

He took a deep breath. The last night he'd played a classical concert had been the night his father almost died.

He couldn't do this.

But then his father walked in and hugged him. ‘I'm so proud of you, son. Now go out there and show the world what Gio Mazetti is made of. Go and
shine
.'

‘We'll be right by your side,' Angela said softly.

He couldn't let his family down. And even though he knew the one person he wanted to play for wasn't there…he'd do it.

He picked up his guitar and walked into the café. Sat down on the stool at the front of the crowd. Heard the buzz of conversation dip to a murmur and then a hush.

He wasn't going to look for Fran. There was no point. But he'd play as if she were there. Play the pretty pieces she'd loved. ‘Spanish Ballad', ‘Air on a G String', the ‘Alhambra', Dowland…

And as the minutes ticked past, he realised.

He could still play.

He could still do this.

And he began to smile.

At last he came to the end of the set. ‘Thank you for listening to me tonight,' he said. ‘I'm going to play one more song for you. For someone who's very special to me. Someone I love very much, from the bottom of my heart, and I was stupid enough not to tell her so when I had the chance. She's not here tonight, but I'm going to play it for her anyway.' His voice caught. ‘Because without her I wouldn't be playing here tonight. Wouldn't be playing at all.'

 

Tears pricked Fran's eyes. Someone he loved very much, from the bottom of his heart. Did he mean her? But she
was
here. She frowned. OK, she'd slipped quietly into the back, but surely he'd seen her?

And then he began to play. The most beautiful arrangement of a song she knew well—her parents adored musicals and her mother's favourite was
South Pacific
. ‘This Nearly Was Mine' was a song that made her mother cry, about the man who was in love with a woman who didn't return his love. And this instrumental version would definitely have her mother in tears. A minute and a half of sheer wistfulness.

It practically had Fran in tears, and she could see how moved the audience was, too.

‘Thank you for coming,' Gio said when the last notes died away. ‘Goodnight.' And he left the café to wild applause.

Fran stayed where she was, unable to move. That song…had it been for her? A song about nearly having paradise, about the one girl he dreamed of, about kisses he remembered—did he mean her?

She dragged in a breath. Gio had played tonight. A proper classical performance, in front of an audience, for the first time in more than ten years. And he'd asked her to be here.

Maybe she was reading too much into this.

But if she didn't go to see him, here and now, she knew she'd regret it for the rest of her life.

Slowly, she made her way over to the corridor that led to the office.

Gio's parents were there. And when they saw her, Gio's father held out his arms. Hugged her.

‘Go to him,' Angela said softly, and pointed to the office.

Fran nodded, swallowed hard, and opened the door.

‘Hello, Gio.'

Gio's head whipped round. ‘Fran? But…I thought you weren't…' His voice trailed off.

He didn't think she'd been there? ‘I was there,' she confirmed. ‘I saw you play. Heard you.'

‘All of it?'

She nodded. ‘That last song—was it for me?'

He dragged in a breath. ‘Don't you know that?'

‘I wouldn't be asking if I did.'

‘Yes. It was.' He looked her straight in the eye. ‘I played here tonight, because you suggested it. Because you're right—it's time I forgave myself and played again. Without you, I wouldn't have done this.'

‘That wasn't
all
you said.'

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘Ah. The bit about the fact I love you from the bottom of my heart, you mean? I do.' His expression became bleak. ‘And when you walked out on me…that was when I realised how stupid I'd been. That I should've told you before. Taken the risk.'

‘So why did you let me leave?'

‘Because you were so keen to get your own space back.'

She frowned. ‘Hang on. You couldn't wait to get rid of me. You even offered to help me paint my flat.'

‘Only so you'd stay with me for at least two more days—one while we painted, one for the fumes to go. Maybe one more for luck.'

‘So you wanted me to stay?'

He nodded.

And now he was telling her how he felt. Taking the risk. Like he'd taken the risk tonight and played for an audience.

He'd asked her to come along.

He'd said he loved her.

Maybe it was time she took a risk, too. ‘I wanted to stay.'

‘So why didn't you say something?'

‘Because I thought you wanted to stick to your original plan. That as soon as Nonna went back to Milan, we'd end the fake relationship.'