Margherita's Notebook (15 page)

It did, however, irk Carla. Her day had gotten off on the wrong foot and it looked like it could only get worse.

Ever since she'd arrived in Roccafitta, things hadn't gone at all as expected, and now, prey to her ever-growing anger, she kept wondering how she could possibly convince the guy at the agency to solve the problem.

“I've already told you. We want that cook, my boss made it very clear, money is no object. Make up some excuse. Do whatever it takes, but send us Ms. Carletti! She's the one we want.”

Matteo raised his arms disconsolately. He'd tried to convince Margherita, but she was adamant.

“I'm sorry, it can't be done. But I could send you Vincenzo Guidi, winner of the 2011 Rookie Chef Award. Or if you prefer a woman”—he checked his Rolodex—“there's Mirella Doggio, winner of her fourth Tuscany Region Trophy 2012 . . .”

Carla gave him a fiery look. That was all she needed—another woman served up to Nicola on a silver platter!

“We're not interested in anyone else. We want Ms. Carletti. Convince her,” she replied categorically. “We could be excellent clients; it would be a shame if we were forced to turn to another agency,” she concluded, raising her voice so that Matteo's boss could hear her in the next room.

Then she stomped out of the office hoping she'd been convincing enough. She could not,
would
not, disappoint Nicola again.

M
atteo, there's absolutely no way I'm going to work for them again. Let them find another chef!” These were the words Margherita kept repeating into her cell phone. “And you can tell your boss that he's better off without clients like these.”

She was walking briskly toward the bank. Matteo had played every trick in the book to make her feel remorseful, but all to no avail: she had helped him out once, and that had been more than enough.

Let him deal with it!

Trying to regain her good mood, Margherita entered the bank. As she bent over to lock her personal items in one of the safe-deposit boxes, a tall man wearing a blue suit and a bright white shirt and talking on his phone came out of the revolving door and rammed right into her. Before Margherita could fall to the ground, a muscular arm grabbed her and helped her up, and a voice that was not unfamiliar to
her said apologetically, “I'm so sorry, I didn't see you.”

As Margherita lifted her head, her eyes met the same dreamy brown eyes that hadn't left her a single second the day before.

Him again!

She tried to ignore the shiver when her body came into contact with Nicola's. She wriggled out of his grip as she tried to regain her balance.

“You don't seem to have the least concern for others!” she couldn't help saying.

Nicola's eyes lingered on the long, shapely legs revealed by Margherita's skirt, which had risen up above her knees. “That's not always the case,” he replied, without shifting his gaze.

Margherita realized what he was looking at, blushed, and quickly pulled her skirt back down.

Nicola looked at her with an amused expression on his face. Then he bent over and picked up her phone. Margherita jumped out of his way to avoid his coming too close to her.

Why do bank architects always seem to design places that are too small?

An instant later, that gaze, soft and dark and thick as molasses, was upon her again.

“What a coincidence. I was just talking about you on the phone,” he said.

“About me?”

“My assistant was telling me that you have other plans for tomorrow evening,” Nicola continued. “Call it off, send a replacement. I'm even willing to pay you twice as much, but tomorrow night I need you at my house.”

His house. He needs me at his house.

You've got to cut it out, Margy!

His voice oozed the confidence of someone who always gets what he wants.

“It's always just a matter of money for you, isn't it?” Margherita retorted, forcing herself to sound as sardonic as she possibly could. “My answer is no. And if you really want to know the truth, I wouldn't work for you again even if, even if . . .”

But before his hostile yet incredibly sensuous gaze, Margherita lost all her boldness, and the rest of the sentence slipped from her mind.

“You've made yourself very clear,” he replied. “No need to say another word.”

And before she could say anything else, he was gone.

He could at least have said good-bye!

Margherita felt that their encounter wasn't supposed to end that way.

What could I be thinking? I hope I never see him again!

Determined to turn over a new leaf, she went into the bank.

The director hadn't come in yet and the secretary invited her to take a seat in his office. Alone in the room, Margherita looked around. She hadn't met the new director, and to pass the time she played a game her mother had taught her. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine him. Who's to say he wasn't a vanilla pudding? The figure of a short, stocky man with unsteady movements wearing a jacket and tie began to take shape in her mind. Or what about a
castagnaccio
? She conjured up the image of a tall and lanky type. Or maybe . . . he was a fancy cream puff filled with whipped cream and drizzled with chocolate sauce? This time, however, the image in her mind was of Nicola Ravelli. She couldn't
deny it, her fascination with that man was inversely proportional to his awful personality. How could anyone so handsome be so obnoxious? So sexy and so arrogant?

Even at his most formal and apparently detached, in his perfectly tailored suits, there was an animal magnetism about him that Margherita could feel in every fiber of her being and that filled her senses with desire and her mind with thoughts that made her blush . . .

“Good morning. Pardon me for being late.”

Margherita was startled. Embarrassed, she stood up so quickly that she knocked over her chair.

The manager looked at her, puzzled.

“Oh, I'm so sorry . . .” Margy picked the chair up and put it back in its place.

“No problem.” The man sat down behind his desk. “How can I help you?”

Margherita quickly pushed her wicked thoughts about Nicola Ravelli out of her mind and began explaining everything enthusiastically to the manager. She told him about her plan in detail, her idea to refurbish the old family restaurant so that she could start it up again, and then finally came to her request for a loan.

“. . . by way of security, I can mortgage the place.” As Margherita said these last words she smiled hopefully.

The manager was tapping his fingers on the desk. Now he was the embarrassed one.

“Forgive me if I seem indiscreet, but have you talked to your father about this?”

Margherita looked at him, rather taken aback.

“Well, actually, I haven't, it's my idea. I was hoping to surprise him, but if you need his signature, the two of us can come back here together.”

“You see, there's a problem . . .”

“Isn't a
mortgage on the place enough security? After all, I'm not asking for much.”

“The fact is, there already is a mortgage on your restaurant.”

For a moment, Margherita felt as though she was on the edge of a precipice.

“It can't be . . . I think you're wrong . . . there must be some mistake,” she said, half whispering.

The manager smiled politely.

“Unfortunately, there isn't. I thought your father had talked to you about it. The bank gave him a loan a year ago. It wasn't much really, but he's six months behind in his payments. In fact, I thought that was what you'd come to see me about.”

It was as if a bucket of ice-cold water had been thrown at her. Why hadn't Armando mentioned any of this?

“How much are we talking about?” Margherita managed to say in a feeble voice.

The director flipped open the file and found the dossier. He tapped on it a few times with his pen.

“Thirty thousand euros.”

“Thirty thousand euros!” Margherita repeated, struggling to understand. What the hell had Armando done with all that money?

“I also need to ask you to pay off what's due,” the manager continued. “Until now, I've turned a blind eye. But the main office has sent me some very clear guidelines on the matter, and I can't put it off any longer. If you don't pay, we'll have to put the place up for sale. And that would be a shame for such a small amount of money.”

Margherita stood up unsteadily from the chair. In just
a few minutes, her dream of reopening the restaurant had been shattered.

“How much time do we have?”

“A month, two at the very most.”

She left the bank on autopilot. How could she save her mother's restaurant? The closer she got to home, the more she felt the anger brewing.

The scent of wild orchids in full bloom filled the air. Giulia stopped at the edge of the thick vegetation, right where the long sandy expanse of the Feniglia began.

“What a wonderful idea you had bringing me here!” she exclaimed to Armando, smiling.

Although summer was just around the corner, that day the beach was deserted. Without thinking twice, Giulia took off her shoes. Then she turned to him.

“Go on, take yours off, too. Let's see who gets to the water first!”

Armando was completely caught off guard. He had a different approach in mind. Something he was better at—the kind of thing that had always worked with the ladies. But Giulia was different from all the rest. Before her warm, infectious smile, he couldn't resist the invitation and did exactly as she did.

Giulia ran wildly and Armando struggled to keep up with her.

“I win!” she shouted, soaking her feet in the clear water.

Armando caught up, trying not to show that he was out of breath.

“I let you win,” he said with emphasis, “otherwise, what kind of a gentleman would I be?”

Giulia laughed. “Go on, admit it—you're not as fit as I am!”

He raised his arms, pretending to be dejected. “All right, I admit it!”

Giulia gave him the once-over with approval. “All the same, you're not bad at all!”

Once again, Armando was taken aback by her direct manner. As they stood there, he wondered what he should do, trying to figure out if Giulia's words were an explicit invitation or just an expression of their close friendship. She grabbed him by the hand and began wading through the water.

Armando opened his mouth as if to protest, but Giulia stopped him with a kiss.

And with that, all thoughts of resistance left Armando's mind. He simply took her in his arms and led her back to the beach.

The ball was now in his court.

Later, they headed home, wet and covered with sand like two kids. Armando should have felt satisfied with this easy conquest, but he didn't. And he hadn't given a second thought to Salvatore and his haircut, either. Because Giulia wasn't just an exciting prize to be won in a bet, or the latest name to add to a list that was already quite long. She was different.

She was more. It was the first time Armando had felt this way about a woman since Erica's death. He'd had a few flings since then, one- or two-night stands, short-lived affairs to reinvigorate his ego, to make him feel alive, masculine, to prove to himself he hadn't lost his touch. But none of them had mattered much. With Giulia it was different. He couldn't quite put his finger on the reason why, but she had
become a part of him. And he was sure that Erica would have liked her, too.