Best of Bosses 2008: In Bed With Her Italian Boss\Taken by Her Greek Boss\Blind Date With the Boss (8 page)

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Mazetti,' Fran said politely.

‘Giovanni,' he corrected, ignoring her outstretched hand and hugging her warmly. ‘It's good to meet you too,
piccolina
.'

‘My sisters, Giuditta, Isabella and Marcella—known as Jude, Bella and Marcie,' Gio said, introducing her to the three younger women Fran recognised from the photograph. They, too, hugged her in welcome.

‘And my
nonna
, Isabella Mazetti.'

‘Let me look at you, child.' Isabella—who was even shorter than Fran, with grey hair tucked into a bun and deep brown eyes—placed her hands on Fran's shoulders and peered up at her. ‘So you are the
bella ragazza
who's made my Giovanni so happy.
Bene
,' she pronounced, and hugged Fran.

‘It's nice to meet the woman I've heard so much about, Signora Mazetti,' Fran said.

‘Call me Nonna.
Everyone
calls me Nonna,' Isabella said.
‘Now, come and sit down and tell me all about yourself. Gio, don't just stand there, get the girl a drink.'

Fran didn't get the chance to ask if there was anything she could do to help prepare lunch. Just as Gio had predicted, she was in for a grilling. And by the time Gio appeared with a cup of coffee, Isabella knew just about everything there was to know about her.

‘Nonna,
dolcezza
, give Fran a break.' Gio set the mug of coffee on the side, scooped Fran out of the chair and sat in her place, drawing her on to his lap.

For a moment, Fran stiffened; he hadn't warned her he was intending to do that. But then again, Gio's family was incredibly tactile. Whenever one of them talked to you, there would be a hand on your arm, a gesture, a smile, a patted shoulder. And she was meant to be Gio's girlfriend. Of course they'd expect her to sit on his lap.

So she relaxed back against him, resting her head on his shoulder. His arms were wrapped round her waist, holding her close, and she was acutely aware of the warmth of his body. His strength. His clean scent. The steady, even beat of his heart.

And then it hit her.

This was exactly what she wanted.

Being smack in the middle of a big, warm, noisy family. Accepted as one of them. With a strong, handsome man holding her protectively.

Oh, lord. If she'd known it would be like this, she would never have agreed to this pretend-girlfriend thing. Because right now she was setting herself up for a broken heart. This wasn't for real, and there was no chance it would turn out that way either—Gio had already told her he didn't want to settle down.

As if he sensed the sudden tension in her, his arms tightened round her, a private signal that everything was going to be fine. No doubt he thought she was just a bit worried about whether his family would believe their story; and that was fine by her. Better than him guessing what she was really thinking.

Lunch was a noisy affair, with everyone chattering and laughing, the clink of glass and the tinkling of cutlery against crockery. A
typical Italian Sunday lunch, with a steaming tureen of minestrone followed by beef with crispy-edged fluffy roast potatoes, roasted peppers and aubergines, cavalo nero and all the trimmings.

And pudding…‘Oh, wow,' Fran said as she tasted the first mouthful. ‘I've never tasted ice cream this good.'

‘Nando's special. Reserved only for the family,' Angela told her. ‘Hazelnut.'

Served with a pile of tiny strawberries and a splash of wild strawberry liqueur over the top. ‘It's fantastic,' Fran said, meaning it.

And the entire table beamed at her.

After lunch, Fran insisted on helping to clear away.

‘No, you're a guest—you sit down with Gio,' Marcie said.

‘She's not a guest,' Nonna said firmly. ‘She's Gio's girlfriend. One of us.'

Fran had to blink away the tears. How easily she'd been accepted among the Mazettis. And it felt really good to be in this family kitchen, with all the women washing up or drying dishes or putting things away or making coffee, chattering away with half-a-dozen different conversations going on at once and everyone laughing and telling little anecdotes about their week—breaking off every so often to look at a photograph on a mobile phone screen and coo over assorted babies and puppies and kittens.

So different from her own, much quieter and more reserved family.

And the weird thing was, Fran thought with a pang, she felt as if she
belonged
here.

She'd marry Gio tomorrow, just for his family.

And the sudden realisation made her dizzy. If he asked her, she'd marry Gio tomorrow.

For himself
.

If Gio's family noticed that she'd gone a bit quiet, they clearly assumed that she was a bit overwhelmed by the experience of meeting the Mazettis, because nobody made a comment. They simply included her in the conversation and asked her opinion on things.

They'd just finished clearing away when the doorbell went. A few moments later, Ric and Angela came in with the twins, who were clearly used to the Mazetti way of doing things because they came to everyone for a hug and a kiss—including Fran.

With their mop of curly dark hair and huge brown eyes, they were irresistible; before she knew it, she was sitting in a chair with both children on her lap, cuddling them and telling them a story.

 

‘She's perfect,' Isabella said softly to Gio.

‘Sorry, Nonna?'

‘Fran. She's perfect. When you look at her, the emptiness disappears from your eyes.'

‘My eyes aren't empty.'

‘Sweetheart, they have been for years. I know you've been unhappy. That's why you work so hard, to make sure you don't have time to feel.'

Since when had his grandmother known that?

‘But she's the one for you—and she'll make you happy,' Isabella said. ‘I like her very much.'

‘Good,' Gio told her, striving for lightness. But every muscle felt tight with guilt. He was lying to his family about his relationship with Fran. Worse still, he had a suspicion that Nonna was right—that Fran was the one for him. That she was the one who could make him happy, fill the emptiness.

But on her part this was just for show.

And he'd always said he didn't want to settle down.

So much for his promise that nobody would get hurt. Fran was right: this was going to end in tears. But it was much too late to go back now.

‘I
REALLY
like your family,' Fran told Gio on the way home.

‘They're a bit intense.'

‘Gio, they're so warm and welcoming. They're lovely.'

Which was what his family said about her, too. His parents and sisters had grabbed him the same way that Nonna had, to tell him privately that they approved of his choice.

No way could he have hurt them by telling them she was just acting a part.

But maybe she hadn't been acting. The way she'd read stories to Ollie and Pat and cuddled baby Lorena…He'd seen a certain softness in her face. A softness that should have made him want to run as hard and as fast as he could, given that he wasn't ready to settle down and have kids—but instead it had made him feel some weird kind of pull. Made him want something he didn't dare put a name to.

‘They adore you, Gio.'

And he adored his family right back. He just didn't want them running his life for him. ‘They liked you.'

‘Good.'

When he pulled up in the road outside her flat, she asked, ‘Would you like to come in for a coffee?'

It was a suggestion he couldn't resist. Particularly as he hadn't yet seen further into her flat than her front door. Her home would tell him a lot about her, he was sure. And he wanted to know
more—a lot more—about the things she never talked about at work. Personal stuff. What made Fran Marsden tick?

‘Thanks. I'd love a coffee.'

‘It's not going to be like the stuff you serve at the café,' she warned, ‘so don't expect it.'

He laughed. ‘If you had a café-standard espresso machine at home, I'd be a bit surprised.'

‘And my flat's very small.'

‘Stop apologising. It doesn't matter how big your home is—only how big your welcome is.'

It was her turn to laugh. ‘Why is it I can hear Nonna's voice saying that?'

‘Probably because it's one of her favourite phrases,' he admitted.

Fran's ground-floor studio flat was very neat and tidy, as he'd expected. The sofa obviously converted to a bed; there was enough room for a few shelves stacked with books and scattered with framed photographs, a small TV and a micro stereo, and a tiny kitchen in one corner with a bistro table and two chairs next to it. There was a small dragon tree in a white pot on the table.

‘It's very nice,' he said.

‘But it's still very small,' she said ruefully. ‘It was either sharing a house or renting a studio flat.' She wrinkled her nose. ‘And I wanted my own space. So I chose this.'

Fran didn't like sharing her space? Given the way she'd fitted in so well with the Mazettis this afternoon, that surprised him. Or maybe not—like him, she was part of a large family where having your own space was a luxury. This would be a bolthole for her. Just like his flat was, for him.

He walked over to the window. ‘Nice gardens.'

She nodded. ‘I'm really lucky that I'm this side of the building and not on the street side. The gardens are communal so the landlord deals with it all—the nearest I have to a garden of my own is my
dracena
.'

He noticed that she used the Latin name—so, was Fran a gardener at heart? Did she have a secret yearning for a house with a garden of her own?

But if he asked her she'd simply deflect the question. He'd already noticed she was very good at that; she rarely gave anything away about herself. He knew next to nothing about her family, other than that she had twin brothers and a sister and they were all academic.

‘Go and sit down.' She motioned towards the sofa. ‘I'll make the coffee.'

He sat down and watched her as she switched the kettle on and began shaking grounds into a cafétière. Every moment was efficient, economical. Beautiful to watch. But what shocked him was how much he wanted to go and stand behind her, slide his arms round her waist, hold her close and bury his face in the curve of her neck.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

If he wasn't careful, he'd end up believing their relationship was for real instead of a fiction to keep his family happy.

To stop himself thinking about touching her, he twisted round to look at the shelves behind the sofa. There were several framed photographs propped against the books. ‘These are your family?' he asked.

‘Yes.'

There was one of them all together, very similar in style to the one he had on his computer screen at work—but he noticed immediately that Fran wasn't in it. ‘Where were you?' he asked.

‘Behind the camera. Which is where I prefer to be.'

‘You're worried about posing for a photograph?' Without giving her the chance to answer, he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket, flicked it into camera mode and took a snap of her. He looked at the screen critically. ‘It's perfectly OK. You don't take a bad photograph.'

She rolled her eyes. ‘I don't have a phobia about having my picture taken, Gio. I just prefer being behind the lens, not in front of it.'

On the outside, looking in? Or was he reading too much into it? He changed tack. ‘Is that what you thought about doing when you were a kid? Being a photographer?'

‘No, I'm not that arty.' She shrugged. ‘I take reasonable snaps, but I'm not under any illusions that I'm the next David Bailey.'

‘So what did you want to do, when you were at school?'

‘Can't remember.'

Her back was to him so he couldn't read her expression. He had the feeling that she was fibbing, but he didn't want to push her too hard, so he let it go. Instead, he picked up the group photograph and settled back against the sofa to study it more carefully. ‘You've met my family. They're going to grill me about yours—and if I say I don't know, they'll smell a rat. Come and tell me about them,' he invited.

‘There's not that much to tell.' She brought the coffee over and handed him a mug. ‘Obviously that's my mum and dad—Dad's head of the local middle school and Mum's a geography teacher at the local high school.'

Again, he noticed, she'd given him the least information she could get away with. ‘Honestly, getting details out of you is like pulling teeth! I ought to take lessons from Nonna. What are their names?' Gio prompted.

‘Carol and Warren.'

They looked pleasant enough. Physically, they were nothing like Fran; they were both tall, and, although Warren's hair was graying, he'd clearly been fair, as had Carol. Her siblings were tall and fair, too. So he could see why Fran, being little and dark-haired, felt the differences so keenly.

‘Did you take this in your parents' back garden?'

‘Yes.'

It was incredibly neat and tidy; clearly someone in the family loved gardening and took pride in the flowers. Something Fran had had in common with them? But he couldn't think of a way to ask without risking her clamming up on him.

‘Tell me about the others,' he invited.

She put her mug on the floor, then pointed to the younger woman in the photograph. ‘This is Suzy—she's the baby of the family. She's training to be a dentist.'

Again, the bare minimum of detail. What was Suzy like as a
person? If anyone had asked him to describe Marcie, the baby in their family, he would've said she was little and funny and noisy and arty—she worked in a gallery and, although she could barely draw a straight line with a ruler, she had a real eye for colour and detail, and the pieces she bought for herself were already worth at least three times what she'd paid for them.

‘Does she get more information out of you than anyone else?' he asked.

She frowned. ‘How?'

‘By pulling…' He stopped. ‘Never mind.' It was a poor joke, and he didn't want to annoy her so that she clammed up again. ‘What about the twins?' he asked. They were definitely identical; he couldn't tell them apart.

‘This is Ted and this is Dominic.' She pointed them out in turn. ‘Ted's a forensic scientist and Dominic's doing a PhD in history—he'll probably go on to teach at uni because he runs a few tutorials and lectures already.'

Again, very little detail. But one thing he had noted: her family were all academic, with three teachers and two scientists among them, and he already knew Fran felt bad about the fact she'd failed her exams. No wonder she felt so out of place—but he'd just bet her family appreciated her other qualities: the way she was unflappable, dealt with things coolly and calmly and was so neat and organised.

And he told her so.

She scoffed. ‘There's really nothing to being organised.'

‘There is, when you're trying to juggle six things at once.'

She looked at him. ‘Gio Mazetti, are you trying to tell me you haven't sorted out your sisters' birthday presents yet?'

How the hell had she guessed that? He hadn't even discussed it with her. ‘I'll get there—' he paused ‘—unless, that is, you're offering help? Because they're at a difficult age.'

She laughed back. ‘Rubbish. There's nothing difficult about twenty-seven, twenty-five or twenty-three.'

‘Oh, yes, there is. I have no idea what's trendy and what's completely unfashionable.'

‘And you think I do?'

He smiled. ‘You have a better idea than I have, anyway. Come shopping with me?'

She gave him a searching look, as if trying to work out if his offer was for real; then clearly she decided to take it at face value, because she said, ‘Sure, I'll help you find something.'

‘Thanks. I appreciate it.' He finished his drink. ‘Nice coffee, by the way.'

‘Thank you.'

‘In cupping terms, I'd say this has a perfect body.' Just like her. Soft and curvy and incredibly sexy. ‘I haven't told you about the cupping, have I?'

 

Cupping.

Little shivers of desire went all the way down her spine. The way he'd held her on his lap this afternoon, with his hands at her waist—if they'd been alone, how easily his hands could have slid up her ribcage to cup her breasts.

Her mouth went dry. ‘Cupping.'

His eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘It's the coffee world's equivalent of wine tasting.'

Fran could actually feel the colour flooding into her face. Oh, lord. How embarrassing could she get?

Gio's voice deepened slightly. ‘Though there is another definition.' The amusement in his gaze was replaced by sheer heat. ‘Fran, if I embarrassed you this afternoon when I pulled you on to my lap like that, I'm sorry.'

She
wasn't.

He moistened his lower lip. ‘My family is…tactile.'

Yes. And she really wanted him to touch her, right here and now. She could see in his face that he was going to touch her. And when he reached out and stroked her cheek, she couldn't help herself. She turned her face into his palm and pressed a kiss into it. ‘It's OK.'

‘No, it's not.' She could actually feel his hands trembling. ‘Because right now I really need to…' In one swift movement,
he'd pulled her on to his lap. Except this time she was sitting facing him. He leaned forward and caught her lower lip between his. Nibbled gently until she opened her mouth and slid her arms round his neck, leaning closer. His hands were pressed flat against the curve of her waist. And then his fingers dipped under the hem of her shirt. She quivered as his fingertips brushed her skin, moving slowly upwards. And then somehow he'd unsnapped her bra, pushed the material aside and was cupping her breasts.

And it was even better than she'd imagined, a few moments before.

When he broke the kiss to trace the curve of her neck with his mouth, she made a little noise of pleasure.

And Gio stopped.

Stared at her, shock blanching his face.

‘I…Fran. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be doing this.'

Before she could protest that it was OK, that she was there all the way with him, he restored order to her clothes and gently moved her off his lap.

‘This wasn't…Fran, I don't do relationships. And I respect you too much to sleep with you and push you out of my life.'

Respect.
What was it about her that made men want to respect her, be her friend, instead of seducing her? Most of the time it didn't bother her.

Right now, it did.

Especially because it would be all too obvious how aroused she was.

The only thing she could salvage from this was pride. So she made the effort to sound like the cool, efficient office manager she was supposed to be. This girlfriend business was just for show and what had just happened between them was—well, they'd both been under pressure. ‘No worries. We'll just pretend it never happened.'

‘Thank you.' He stood up. ‘I, um—see you tomorrow.'