One-Click Buy: November Harlequin Presents (86 page)

‘Well, maybe I am not a very twenty-first century man.' He shifted down a gear at the traffic lights and glanced sideways at her. She was making a point of not looking at him but she would look at him eventually. There was no rush. He felt the same warm satisfaction spread through him as he had felt earlier on in the week, when he had made the decision to break off his engagement and to do what his gut instincts had been telling him he needed to do from the very first time he had set eyes on her in that restaurant in Covent Garden. He was no twenty-first century man.

Telling himself that he was civilised enough to restrict his responses to a casual shrug over an unfortunate episode in his past had been a vast misjudgement of his own character. His relationship with her had never, for him, been casual enough to warrant such indifference.

Revenge was an ugly notion, and no, he was not out to get revenge. He needed to remove her from his system and the only way he could achieve that, he had realised in one of his brutally honest moments, would be to have her once again. The fact that she was involved with someone else was an irritating technicality. As far as he was concerned, she and Jack were a ridiculous and improbable match and he would be doing her a favour by divesting her of that particular relationship.

The thought that Jack might once have been a rival on the side would make it all the sweeter.

He would have her and then, when it suited him and suit him it would, he would dismiss her but at least she would cease to haunt him. He would not consider her feelings because, as she would be the first to agree, surely, wasn't all fair in love and war?

The wheel, at last, would turn full circle and it would be a thoroughly enjoyable process. Better still, he would be the one steering it.

‘What sort of meal do you have in mind?' Francesca asked, breaking into his pleasurable train of thought, and he shot her a brief glance.

‘Something interesting involving fish and chicken,' he said. ‘You're the expert. What would you advise?'

Francesca looked at him suspiciously. He seemed in remarkably high spirits considering she was the one in the passenger seat.

‘I could do prawns in garlic for starters. It's pretty simple and quick to do. And then, I suppose, chicken with green olives and we could have that with fresh pasta. I do know how to make my own pasta but I won't have the time to do that.'

Maybe another day
, he was inclined to say.

‘Do you limit yourself to Italian cooking in your catering?' he asked, slowing down as they approached the supermarket on their left.

‘Why are you being so nice to me, Angelo?'

‘So suspicious, Francesca. I wouldn't want to rub you up the wrong way and discover that the secret ingredient in my food was a touch of arsenic, would I?'

Francesca felt her mouth twitch in amusement but there was no way that she was going to indulge his sense of humour. She was suspicious and she had every right to be in view of his attitude towards her since they had met again. She had a sudden, vivid memory of the laughter they used to share. His wit had always extended beyond amusing surface charm. He could be funny enough to have her holding her sides. She shut the door firmly on that memory.

‘I'm fresh out of arsenic, as it happens, and I don't believe it's stocked in supermarkets.'

Angelo grinned and manoeuvred his car into one of the free parking spaces. ‘So I'm safe for now. Good. Life is…sweet at the moment. I wouldn't—' he killed the engine and turned to her ‘—want to give it up just yet.'

Francesca suddenly realised just how small the confines of his car were and she felt a lick of nervousness.

‘You haven't answered my question. Why are you being so nice?'

‘Let's just say…' his black eyes locked on hers ‘…that I have discovered all sorts of challenges where there were none before. A very exciting prospect to a jaded soul like mine.' He smiled slowly and Francesca, suddenly drowning in nectar, opened her car door and shot out.

Challenges? What challenges? Something to do with work, she supposed. He had once told her that the compulsion to work was driven not for love of money, or status, or power, but for the excitement of closing a difficult deal.

If not work, then maybe he was beginning to truly appreciate the anticipation of his impending marriage and the challenges that would inevitably offer.

It didn't matter. She didn't want to waste time unravelling his enigmatic statement. What she wanted was to cook him his meal, prove herself capable of the job they had given her and get him out of her house.

A
S PLANS
went it was fine but its execution got off to a grindingly slow start. Francesca, having had the trolley manoeuvred out of her grasp, was inclined to circumnavigate the Saturday evening crowds and do the equivalent of a trolley dash. She very rarely browsed in supermarkets. She came with a long list, usually shopped during antisocial hours and always bought what had to be bought in record time.

Angelo, on the other hand, appeared to be in no rush. The first five minutes found him thumbing through the CDs on sale just beyond the rows of magazines by the huge opening doors.

He could feel her steaming behind him and let his fingers travel along the rack of CDs, pulling out another one and reading the index of songs at super slow speed.

‘What,' he asked, turning to her, ‘do you think of this one? I live over here now, but regrettably I have not managed to get into the music.' He handed her the CD and watched as she impatiently scanned it.

‘Have you any intention of buying a CD?' Francesca asked. ‘I thought we came in here to buy food so that I could cook you a meal and prove that I'm capable of meeting your standards.' She handed him back the CD and folded her arms.

Dressed casually, she was even more of a knockout than in the neatly tailored suits he had seen her in previously. Her jeans were faded to the palest of blues and fitted her like a second skin, flaring slightly at the bottom, revealing slender feet tucked into workmanlike sandals that would have looked ungainly on any other woman. Models, even ex-models, were built to be put into anything and still look good. Francesca was no exception. Where she differed was that she carried just sufficient weight to look feminine, even though her expression now was anything but.

Undeterred, Angelo surveyed her blandly, although he could feel the adrenaline pumping through him at the thought of his seduction and its inevitable success. A part of him marvelled at the fact that less than a week previously he had been engaged to be married to someone else. Of course, he had always known that he had chosen Georgina because of her credentials, had known that his fondness for her had never extended to love, had willingly accepted that her own feelings for him had been wrapped up in the tremendous ego boost of having landed someone as eminently eligible as he was…but, amazingly, he had given her no more than a passing thought since he had broken off their engagement.

Would he tell Francesca of that little development? he wondered.

Or would he bed her knowing that even the thought of him being betrothed to another woman would not be enough for her to resist him? How fitting for her to plead for him when she had once walked away.

‘We need music to listen to while we eat,' he said, infuriatingly turning round to reach for another CD. At this rate, Francesca worked out that they wouldn't make it to the fresh meat section before closing time.

‘I have music.' She relieved him of what he was holding and pointedly returned it to the rack.

‘But do you have music that I would like?'

‘Well, since you haven't got into English music you'll just have to trust my taste. Okay? Because we can't dawdle here for hours sifting through CDs. You want me to cook for you—fine. I mean, it's not something any other client has ever requested…'

‘But then, I am unique,' Angelo pronounced with such staggering arrogance that Francesca raised her eyes skywards and sighed elaborately. ‘Okay, okay.' He raised both hands in mock surrender. ‘I'll trust your taste in music and we'll get down to the business of buying food.'

And no chat. It was the message he was reading loud and clear from her body language. He let her have it her way for the first ten minutes, obediently looking on in silence while she frowned over the cuts of meat and inspected the vegetables for freshness.

Supermarket shopping was not something Angelo did on a regular basis, or any kind of basis for that matter. He had a housekeeper who took care of keeping his fridge stocked up and, if he ever needed anything beyond the usual, he simply took himself off to the nearest delicatessen and paid over the odds for the privilege. And, of course, for the past few months Georgina had cooked for him, basic English food that was unadventurous but edible.

For a short while he was content to eye the shelves and watch Francesca at work. Just for a short while, though.

‘Tell me what sort of music you like listening to,' he said while she was frowning over the fresh pasta, and Francesca jumped because suddenly he was a lot closer to her than she had thought.

‘Why?'

‘Because I am interested.' Sinfully black eyes roamed over her face, taking in her consternation. So desperate to keep him at arms' length. Because of Jack? Something was missing from that relationship, whatever she said about love and perfect bonding, but he couldn't quite work out what. Still, in his head, Jack was no longer a rival. In fact, he was fast becoming a ghost so he stifled the surge of jealousy and smiled sincerely at her.

‘In Venice, we always used to listen to classical music. Do you remember?' He took a packet of fresh tagliatelle from the chilled counter and tossed it into the trolley, then he began weaving slowly towards the aisles of tinned food. Much quieter there. He paused and spent an inordinately long time staring at various sauces while she stood hesitantly next to him and wondered what to say.

‘Somehow that always felt right in Venice. It's a classical music sort of place.'

‘It never occurred to me that you might actually dislike that kind of music…'

‘I don't.'

‘So tell me what you will be playing for us tonight over our wonderful meal, hmm?'

Francesca forced herself not to be rattled at his determination to chat to her. It was only natural. After all, they could hardly walk round a supermarket in total silence or else spend the entire evening conversing on the subject of food, fascinating though that was. There was just so much anyone could find to say about the merits of fresh shaved parmesan cheese over the mass produced grated variety. He was chatting because by nature he was an adept social mixer.

If she was jittery then it was entirely her fault. She couldn't seem to stop him affecting her.

‘I have quite a good jazz collection.' She guided the trolley away from the pointless jars and towards the checkout tills.

‘Not exactly new and modern, though, is it?'

‘You'd hate new and modern, Angelo.' The queues were long. Francesca could see the woman in front glancing surreptitiously at Angelo, probably trying to work out whether he was famous, whether she should recognise him.

‘Try me.'

‘I think you're confusing me with your fiancée. Shouldn't she be the one opening you up to the joys of modern English music?'

Angelo's eyes became veiled. ‘Georgina only does easy listening. Oh, and classical, of course, because that has always been my preferred taste.'

‘And, naturally, she would never want to have an opinion on anything that contradicts her lord and master.' Flustered at the outburst, Francesca stared down into the trolley and took a deep, calming breath. ‘Sorry. Out of order and, before you ask, no, I'm not saying that you two aren't suited. But you have to admit that it's a bit strange. You coming to my house, getting me to cook for you. I can't help but think that Georgina wouldn't be exactly over the moon at that, and I don't care how many un-jealous bones she's got in her body.' She looked at him seriously and lowered her voice. ‘You must know that you're putting me in a very uncomfortable position just by hiring me to cater for your wedding, never mind this—you being here. Is that why you've come? Because you enjoy seeing me uncomfortable?'

‘You are being paranoid.' He had forgotten how much he liked the way she stripped all the outer layers from a conversation and got to the honest core of it. Of course, now would be the perfect time to tell her that he and Georgina were no longer going to be married, that the big wedding catering job was not going to materialise, but he didn't. Instead he smiled lazily at her.

‘If it stresses you out cooking for me, then of course I would not want you to feel obliged…'

‘It doesn't
stress me out
.' She shuffled a few inches forward with her trolley.

‘Good. Then no problem. Is it always this busy at a supermarket?'

Distracted, Francesca looked at him with an appalled expression. ‘Angelo, could you keep your voice down when you make remarks like that? Of course supermarkets are busy places. When was the last time you set foot inside one?'

‘Ah. Now let me think.' He began helping her take things out of the trolley, watching with amusement as she restructured his untidy piling up of items on the belt. ‘I think I may have once gone into a very small one close to where I live.'

‘And you don't want me to call you a dinosaur?' Francesca hissed. ‘Look, please let me offload this trolley. Half the stuff you're cramming on is trying to fall off the sides.'

‘Hence my argument for paying someone else to do the shopping for you.'

‘Yes. If you have more money than sense.' And, of course, for most women, more money than sense in a man would be a very redeeming feature. He might be marrying Georgina because she fitted the bill, but how would he feel if perhaps she was marrying
him
because
he
fitted the bill?

‘Or not enough time on your hands to wage World War Three in pursuit of a few items of food.'

‘It's not always like this.' She grinned reluctantly at him. ‘If you come at weird hours it's quite empty and you can fly around and get what you want without having to queue at the tills.' Walking at a snail's pace and insisting on looking at every jar and bottle didn't help either when it came to speed. She realised that they had been shopping for well over an hour. Time was ticking past. There was a meal to cook. The chances of him being out of her house by nine were beginning to look remote.

She was aware of him chatting to her, nothing that would put her on the defensive. Once or twice, as she was filling the bags while he stood next to her, under orders to let her handle the packing, he referred to their past. Little droplets of memories that warmed her inside. The bread shop they would go to in Venice. The patisseries in Paris, where they had occasionally stayed in her apartment when it had been more convenient with their overlapping schedules.

He insisted on taking the bags into the house. ‘I'm more than competent when it comes to lifting heavy things,' he informed her seriously. ‘Why don't you go and stick the wine in the fridge and put on some of that modern English music a dinosaur like myself has not heard of?'

There was no point arguing. She stuck the wine in the fridge, wondered what she was doing, put on some R&B music, wondered a bit more what she was doing, and then there he was, piling bags on to the kitchen table and hunting in the cupboards for a couple of glasses for the wine.

And still talking to her, as though they were the friends they no longer were.

‘Let me help you,' Angelo said, pouring them both a glass of wine.

‘What's the good of that if the point is to see whether I'm capable of producing good food?'

Angelo stifled the urge to inform her that producing good food, or food of any kind, was not the point of the evening for him. He also stifled the urge to tell her that she looked as sexy as hell kitted out in a black and white checked apron, that he would be interested in seeing how the apron looked without anything worn under it.

‘I like the music,' he said, dropping his eyes and swirling his wineglass gently around. ‘Sexy.'

The word dropped into the silence and rested there for a few moments. ‘Where's Georgina this evening?'

‘Paris, I believe.' Exhausting her rage through some retail therapy. Her mother would, no doubt, already have sympathised with her daughter that he was no good for her, a foreigner without any knowledge of how the British operated. The accusation had been one of the more choice ones from his ex-fiancée.

‘You
believe
? That's a bit indifferent, Angelo. You should have asked her over here with you to sample my cooking.'

‘I prefer to savour the revelation on my own.' He sipped some of his wine and caught her eyes over the rim of his glass.

The smoky intensity in his eyes went to her head like a bolt of lightning—a few heated seconds, plenty long enough for the sharply honed knife she had been wielding with such expertise to slice through skin.

With a little yelp, Francesca yanked her finger and dashed to the sink.

‘Let me see it!' Angelo was next to her before she was even aware of him leaving the chair.

‘It's nothing.' She gave him a wobbly smile. ‘I don't normally chop my finger to bits when I'm slicing onions.'

‘It's pouring blood. Where is your first aid box?'

‘It's not pouring blood. It's…' The remainder of her sentence was lost in sheer shock as he raised her finger to his mouth and sucked it.