Under The Tuscan Sun...: A Bride for the Italian Boss / Return of the Italian Tycoon / Reunited by a Baby Secret

Emory cast him a condemning look. “You yelled at him.”

Rafe yelled, “I yell at everybody.” Then he calmed himself and shook his head. “I am the chef. I am Mancini’s.”

“And you must be obeyed.”

“Don’t make me sound like a prima donna. I am doing what’s best for the restaurant.”

“Well, Mr. I’m-Doing-What’s-Best-for-the-Restaurant, have you forgotten about our upcoming visit from the Michelin people?”

“A rumor.”

Emory sniffed a laugh. “Since when have we ever ignored a rumor that we were to be visited? Your star rating could be in jeopardy. You’re the one who says chefs who ignore rumors get caught with their pants down. If we want to keep our stars, we have to be ready for this visit.”

Rafe stifled a sigh. Emory was right, of course. His trusted friend only reminded him of what he already knew. Having located his business in the countryside, instead of in town, he’d made it even more exclusive. But that also meant he didn’t get street traffic. He needed word of mouth. He needed every diner to recommend him to their friends. He needed to be in travel brochures. To be a stop for tour buses. To be recommended by travel agents. He couldn’t lose a star.

The lunch crowd left. Day quickly became night. Before Rafe could draw a steady breath the restaurant filled again. Wasn’t that the way of it when everything was falling apart around you? With work to be done, there was no time to think things through. When the last patron finally departed and the staff dispersed after the kitchen cleaning, Rafe walked behind the shiny wood bar, pulled a bottle of whiskey from the shelf, along with a glass, and slid onto a tall, black, wrought iron stool.

Hearing the sound of the door opening, he yelled, “We’re closed.” Then grimaced. Was he trying to get a reputation for being grouchy rather than exacting?

“Good thing I’m not a customer, then.”

He swiveled around at the sound of his friend Nico Amatucci’s voice.

Tall, dark-haired Nico glanced at the whiskey bottle, then sat on a stool beside Rafe. “Is there a reason you’re drinking alone?”

Rafe rose, got another glass and set it on the bar. He poured whiskey into the glass and slid it to Nico. “I’m not drinking alone.”

“But you were going to.”

“I lost my maître d’.”

Nico raised his glass in salute and drank the shot. “You’re surprised?”

“I’m an artist.”

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“That, too.” He sighed. “But I don’t want to be. I just want things done correctly. I’ll spread the word tomorrow that I’m looking for someone. Not a big deal.” He made the statement casually, but deep down he knew he was wrong. It was a big deal. “Oh, who am I kidding? I don’t have the week or two it’ll take to collect résumés and interview people. I need somebody tomorrow.”

Nico raised his glass to toast. “Then, you, my friend, are in trouble.”

Didn’t Rafe know it.

CHAPTER TWO

THE NEXT MORNING, Daniella and Louisa found a tin of tea and some frozen waffles in a freezer. “We’re so lucky no one had the electricity shut off.”

“Not lucky. The place runs off a generator. We turn it on in winter to keep the pipes from freezing.”

Daniella and Louisa gasped and spun around at the male voice behind them.

A handsome dark-haired man stood in the kitchen doorway, frowning at them. Though he appeared to be Italian, he spoke flawless English. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’ll let you finish your breakfast, but this is private property.”

Louisa’s chin lifted. “I know it’s private property. I’m Louisa Harrison. I inherited this villa.”

The man’s dark eyes narrowed. “I don’t suppose you have proof of that?”

“Actually, I do. A letter from my solicitor.” She straightened her shoulders. “I think the better question is, who are you?”

“I’m Nico Amatucci.” He pointed behind him. “I live next door. I’ve been watching over this place.” He smiled thinly. “I’d like to see the letter from your solicitor. Or—” he pulled out his cell phone “—should I call the police?”

Louisa brushed her hands down her blue jeans to remove the dust they’d collected when she and Daniella had searched for tea. “No need.”

Not wanting any part of the discussion, Daniella began preparing the tea.

“And who are you?”

She shrugged. “Just a friend of Louisa’s.”

He sniffed as if he didn’t believe her. Not accustomed to being under such scrutiny, Daniella focused all her attention on getting water into the teapot.

Louisa returned with the letter. When Nico reached for it, she held it back. “Not so fast. I’ll need the key you used to get in.”

He held Louisa’s gaze. Even from across the room, Daniella felt the heat of it.

“Only if your papers check out.” His frosty smile could have frozen water. “Palazzo di Comparino has been empty for years. Yet, suddenly here you are.”

“With a letter,” she said, handing it to Nico.

He didn’t release her gaze as he took the letter from her hands, and then he scanned it and peered at Louisa again. “Welcome to Palazzo di Comparino.”

Daniella let out her pent-up breath.

Louisa held his gaze. “Just like that? How do you know I didn’t fake this letter?”

Giving the paper back to her, he said, “First, I knew the name of the solicitor handling the estate. Second, there are a couple of details in the letter that an outsider wouldn’t know. You’re legit.”

Though Daniella would have loved to have known the details, Louisa didn’t even seem slightly curious. She tucked the sheet of paper into her jeans pocket.

Nico handed his key to Louisa as he glanced around the kitchen. “Being empty so long, the place is in disrepair. So if there’s anything I can do to help—”

Louisa cut him off with a curt “I’m fine.”

Nico’s eyes narrowed. Daniella didn’t know if he was unaccustomed to his offers of assistance being ignored, or if something else was happening here, but the kitchen became awkwardly quiet.

When Daniella’s teapot whistled, her heart jumped. Always polite, she asked, “Can I get anyone tea?”

Watching Louisa warily, Nico said, “I’d love a cup.”

Drat. He was staying. Darn the sense of etiquette her foster mother had drilled into her.

“I’ll make some later,” Louisa said as she turned and walked out of the kitchen, presumably to put the letter and the key away.

As the door swung closed behind her, Nico said, “She’s a friendly one.”

Daniella winced. She’d like to point out to Mr. Nico Amatucci that he’d been a tad rude when he’d demanded to see the letter from the solicitor, but she held her tongue. This argument wasn’t any of her business. She had enough troubles of her own.

“Have you known Ms. Harrison long?”

“We just met. I saw someone mistakenly take her bag and helped because Louisa doesn’t speak Italian. Then we were on the same bus.”

“Oh, so you hit the jackpot when you could find someone to stay with.”

Daniella’s eyes widened. The man was insufferable. “I’m not taking advantage of her! I just finished a teaching job in Rome. Louisa needs an interpreter for a few weeks.” She put her shoulders back. “And today I intend to go into town to look for temporary work to finance a few weeks of sightseeing.”

He took the cup of tea from her hands. “What kind of work?”

His softened voice took some of the wind out of her sails. She shrugged. “Anything really. Temp jobs are temp jobs.”

“Would you be willing to be a hostess at a restaurant?”

Confused, she said, “Sure.”

“I have a friend who needs someone to fill in while he hires a permanent replacement for a maître d’ who just quit.”

Her feelings for the mysterious Nico warmed a bit. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all? “Sounds perfect.”

“Do you have a pen?”

She nodded, pulling one from her purse.

He scribbled down the address on a business card he took from his pocket. “Go here. Don’t call. Just go at lunchtime and tell Rafe that Nico sent you.” He nodded at the card he’d handed to her. “Show him that and he’ll know you’re not lying.”

He set his tea on the table. “Tell Ms. Harrison I said goodbye.”

With that, he left.

Glad he was gone, Daniella glanced at the card in her hands. How could a guy who’d so easily helped her have such a difficult time getting along with Louisa?

She blew her breath out on a long sigh. She supposed it didn’t matter. Eventually they’d become friends. They were neighbors after all.

Daniella finished her tea, but Louisa never returned to the kitchen. Excited to tell Louisa of her job prospect, Dani searched the downstairs for her, but didn’t find her.

The night before they’d tidied two bedrooms enough that they could sleep in them, so she climbed the stairs and headed for the room Louisa had chosen. She found her new friend wrestling with some bedding.

“What are you doing?”

“I saw a washer and dryer. I thought I’d wash the bedclothes so our rooms really will be habitable tonight.”

She raced to help Louisa with the huge comforter. “Our rooms were fine. We don’t need these comforters, and the sheets had been protected from the dust by the comforters so they were clean. Besides, these won’t fit in a typical washer.”

Louisa dropped the comforter. “I know.” Her face fell in dismay. “I just need to do something to make the place more livable.” Her gaze met Daniella’s. “There’s dust and clutter...and watermarks that mean some of the bathrooms and maybe even the roof need to be repaired.” She sat on the bed. “What am I going to do?”

Dani sat beside her. “We’re going to take things one step at a time.” She tucked Nico’s business card into her pocket. “This morning, we’ll clean the kitchen and finish our bedrooms. Tomorrow, we’ll pick a room and clean it, and every day after that we’ll just keep cleaning one room at a time.”

“What about the roof?”

“We’ll hope it doesn’t rain?”

Louisa laughed. “I’m serious.”

“Well, I have a chance for a job at a restaurant.”

“You do?”

She smiled. “Yes. Nico knows someone who needs a hostess.”

“Oh.”

She ignored the dislike in her friend’s voice. “What better way to find a good contractor than by chitchatting with the locals?”

Louisa smiled and shook her head. “If anybody can chitchat her way into finding a good contractor, it’s you.”

“Which is also going to make me a good hostess.”

“What time’s your appointment?”

“Lunchtime.” She winced. “From the address on this card, I think we’re going to have to hope there’s a car in that big, fancy garage out back.”

* * *

Standing behind the podium in the entry to Mancini’s, Rafe struggled with the urge to throw his hands in the air and storm off. On his left, two American couples spoke broken, ill-attempted Italian in an effort to make reservations for that night. In front of him, a businessman demanded to be seated immediately. To his right, a couple kissed. And behind them, what seemed to be a sea of diners groused and grumbled as he tried to figure out a computer system with a seating chart superimposed with reservations.

How could no one in his kitchen staff be familiar with this computer software?

“Everybody just give me a minute!”

He hit a button and the screen disappeared. After a second of shock, he cursed. He expected the crowd to groan. Instead they laughed. Laughed. Again, laughter!

How was it that everybody seemed to be happy that he was suffering? These people—customers—were the people he loved, the people he worked so hard to please. How could they laugh at him?

He tried to get the screen to reappear, but it stayed dark.

“Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me.”

He glanced up to see an American, clearly forgetting she was in Italy because she spoke English as she made her way through the crowd. Cut in an angled, modern style, her pretty blond hair stopped at her chin. Her blue eyes were determined. The buttons of her black coat had been left open, revealing jeans and pale blue sweater.

When she reached the podium, she didn’t even look at Rafe. She addressed the gathered crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said in flawless Italian. “Give me two minutes and everyone will be seated.”

His eyebrows rose. She was a cheeky little thing.

When she finally faced him, her blue eyes locked on his. Rich with color and bright with enthusiasm, they didn’t merely display her confidence, they caused his heart to give a little bounce.

She smiled and stuck out her hand. “Daniella Tate. Your friend Nico sent me.” When he didn’t take her hand, her smile drooped as she tucked a strand of yellow hair behind her ear. But her face brightened again. She rifled in her jeans pocket, pulled out a business card and offered it to him. “See?”

He glanced at Nico’s card. “So he believes you are right to be my hostess?”

“Temporarily.” She winced. “I just finished a teaching position in Rome. For the next four weeks I’m sightseeing, but I’m trying to supplement my extended stay with a temp job. I think he thinks we can help each other—at least while you interview candidates.”

The sweet, melodious tone of her voice caused something warm and soft to thrum through Rafe, something he’d never felt before—undoubtedly relief that his friend had solved his problem.

“I see.”

“Hey, buddy, come on. We’re hungry! If you’re not going to seat us we’ll go somewhere else.”

Not waiting for him to reply, Daniella nudged Rafe out of the way, stooped down to find a tablet on the maître d’ stand shelf and faced the dining area. She quickly drew squares and circles representing all the tables and wrote the number of chairs around each one. She put an X over the tables that were taken.

Had he thought she was cheeky? Apparently that was just the tip of the iceberg.

She faced the Americans. “How many in your party?”

“Four. We want reservations for tonight.”

“Time?”

“Seven.”

Flipping the tablet page, she wrote their name and the time on the next piece of paper. As the Americans walked out, she said, “Next?”

Awestruck at her audacity, Rafe almost yelled.

Almost.

He could easily give her the boot, but he needed a hostess. He had a growing suspicion about the customers laughing when he lost his temper, as if he was becoming some sort of sideshow. He didn’t want his temper to be the reason people came to his restaurant. He wanted his food, the fantastic aromas, the succulent tastes, to be the draw. Wouldn’t he be a fool to toss her out?

The businessman pushed his way over to her. “I have an appointment in an hour. I need to be served first.”

Daniella Tate smiled at Rafe as if asking permission to seat the businessman, and his brain emptied. She really was as pretty as she was cheeky. Luckily, she took his blank stare as approval. She turned to the businessman and said, “Of course, we’ll seat you.”

She led the man to the back of the dining room, to a table for two, seated him with a smile and returned to the podium.

Forget about how cheeky she was. Forget about his brain that stalled when he looked at her. She was a very good hostess.

Rafe cleared his throat. “Talk to the waitresses and find out whose turn it is before you seat anyone else.” He cleared his throat again. “They have a system.”

She smiled at him. “Sure.”

His heart did something funny in his chest, forcing his gaze to her pretty blue eyes again. Warmth whooshed through him.

Confused, he turned and marched away. With so much at stake in his restaurant, including, it seemed, his reputation, his funny feelings for an employee were irrelevant. Nothing. Whatever trickled through his bloodstream, it had to be more annoyance than attraction. After all, recommendation from Nico or not, she’d sort of walked in and taken over his restaurant.

* * *

Dani stared after the chef as he left. She wasn’t expecting someone so young...or so gorgeous. At least six feet tall, with wavy brown hair so long he had it tied off his face and gray eyes, the guy could be a celebrity chef on television back home. Just looking at him had caused her breathing to stutter. She actually felt a rush of heat careen through her veins. He was that good-looking.

But it was also clear that he was in over his head without a maître d’. As she’d stood in the back of the long line to get into the restaurant, her good old-fashioned American common sense had kicked in, and she’d simply done what needed to be done: pushed her way to the front, grabbed some menus and seated customers. And he’d hired her.

Behind her someone said, “You’d better keep your hair behind your ears. He’ll yell about it being in your face and potentially in his food once he gets over being happy you’re here.”

She turned to see one of the waitresses. Dressed in black trousers and a white blouse, she looked slim and professional.

“That was happy?”

Her pretty black ponytail bobbed as she nodded. “Sì. That was happy.”

“Well, I’m going to hate seeing him upset.”

“Prepare yourself for it. Because he gets upset every day. Several times a day. That’s why Gino quit. I’m Allegra, by the way. The other two waitresses are Zola and Giovanna. And the chef is Chef Mancini. Everyone calls him Chef Rafe.”

“He said you have a system of how you want people seated?”

Allegra took Daniella’s seating chart and drew two lines dividing the tables into three sections. “Those are our stations. You seat one person in mine, one person in Zola’s and one person in Gio’s, then start all over again.”

Daniella smiled. “Easy-peasy.”

“Scusi?”

“That means ‘no problem.’”

“Ah. Sì.” Allegra smiled and walked away. Daniella took two more menus and seated another couple.

The lunchtime crowd that had assembled at the door of Mancini’s settled quickly. Dani easily found a rhythm of dividing the customers up between the three waitresses. Zola and Gio introduced themselves, and she actually had a good time being hostess of the restaurant that looked like an Old World farmhouse and smelled like pure heaven. The aromas of onions and garlic, sweet peppers and spicy meats rolled through the air, making her confident she could talk up the food and promise diners a wonderful meal, even without having tasted it.

During the lull after lunch, Zola and Gio went home. The dining room grew quiet. Not sure if she should stay or leave, since Allegra remained to be available for the occasional tourist who ambled in, Daniella stayed, too.

In between customers, she helped clear and reset tables, checked silverware to make sure it sparkled, arranged chairs so that everything in the dining room was picture-perfect.

But soon even the stragglers stopped. Daniella stood by the podium, her elbow leaning against it, her chin on her closed fist, wondering what Louisa was doing.

“Why are you still here?”

The sound of Rafe’s voice sent a surge of electricity through her.

She turned with a gasp. Her voice wobbled when she said, “I thought you’d need me for dinner.”

“You were supposed to go home for the break. Or are you sneakily trying to get paid for hours you really don’t work?”

Her eyes widened. Anger punched through her. What the hell was wrong with this guy? She’d done him a favor and he was questioning her motives?

Without thinking, she stormed over to him. Putting herself in his personal space, she looked up and caught his gaze. “And how was I supposed to know that, since you didn’t tell me?”

She expected him to back down. At the very least to realize his mistake. Instead, he scoffed. “It’s common sense.”

“Well, in America—”

He cut her off with a harsh laugh. “You Americans. Think you know everything. But you’re not in America now. You are in Italy.” He pointed a finger at her nose. “You will do what I say.”

“Well, I’ll be happy to do what you say as soon as you say something!”

Allegra stopped dropping silverware onto linen-covered tables. The empty, quiet restaurant grew stone-cold silent. Time seemed to crawl to a stop. The vein in Rafe’s temple pulsed.

Dani’s body tingled. Every employee in the world knew it wasn’t wise to yell at the boss, but, technically, she wasn’t yelling. She was standing up to him. As a foster child, she’d had to learn how to protect herself, when to stay quiet and when to demand her rights. If she let him push her around now, he’d push her around the entire month she worked for him.

He threw his hands in the air, pivoted away from her and headed to the kitchen. “Go the hell home and come back for dinner.”

Daniella blew out the breath she’d been holding. Her heart pounded so hard it hurt, but the tingling in her blood became a surge of power. He might not have said the words, but she’d won that little battle of wills.

Still, she felt odd that their communication had come down to a sort of yelling match and knew she had to get the heck out of there.

She grabbed her purse and headed for the old green car she and Louisa had found in the garage.

Ten minutes later, she was back in the kitchen of Palazzo di Comparino.

Though Louisa had sympathetically made her a cup of tea, she laughed when Daniella told her the story.

“It’s not funny,” Dani insisted, but her lips rose into a smile when she thought about how she must have looked standing up to the big bad chef everybody seemed to be afraid of. She wouldn’t tell her new friend that standing up to him had put fire in her blood and made her heart gallop like a prize stallion. She didn’t know what that was all about, but she did know part of it, at least, stemmed from how good-looking he was.

“Okay. It was a little funny. But I like this job. It would be great to keep it for the four weeks I’m here. But he didn’t tell me what time I was supposed to go back. So we’re probably going to get into another fight.”

“Or you could just go back at six. If he yells that you’re late, calmly remind him that he didn’t give you the time you were to return. Make it his fault.”

“It is his fault.”

Louisa beamed. “Exactly. If you don’t stand up to him now, you’ll either lose the job or spend the weeks you work for him under his thumb. You have to do this.”

Dani sighed. “That’s what I thought.”

Taking Louisa’s advice, she returned to the restaurant at six. A very small crowd had built by the maître d’ podium, and when she entered, she noticed that most of the tables weren’t filled. Rafe shoved a stack of menus at her and walked away.

She shook her head, but smiled at the next customers in line. He might have left without a word, but he hadn’t engaged her in a fight and it appeared she still had her job.

Maybe the answer to this was to just stay out of his way?

The evening went smoothly. Again, the wonderful scents that filled the air prompted her to talk up the food, the waitstaff and the wine.

After an hour or so, Rafe called her into the kitchen. Absolutely positive he had nothing to yell at her about, she straightened her shoulders and walked into the stainless-steel room and over to the stove where he stood.

“You wanted to see me?”

He presented a fork filled with pasta to her. “This is my signature ravioli. I hear you talking about my dishes, so I want you to taste so you can honestly tell customers it is the best food you have ever eaten.”

She swallowed back a laugh at his confidence, but when her lips wrapped around the fork and the flavor of the sweet sauce exploded on her tongue, she pulled the ravioli off the fork and into her mouth with a groan. “Oh, my God.”

“It is perfect, sì?”

“You’re right. It is probably the best food I’ve ever eaten.”

Emory, the short, bald sous-chef, scrambled over. “Try this.” He raised a fork full of meat to her lips.