Summer with the Millionaire

The challenge was thrown down.

Minty didn’t intend to look at Luca at this point but she felt his gaze on her and, like a magnet, it drew her in. He was no longer leaning back, no longer simmering. He sat bolt-upright, those disquieting eyes fixed on her face, a tiger ready to pounce. Her mouth dry, she carried on, moistening her lips with her tongue, resisting the instincts that screamed at her to back away slowly. To stop right now.

Too bad she always ignored her instincts.

‘Supplying ready-made gelato and Italian-made puddings to the UK is the right course,’ she said. ‘Although we love to talk about cooking, to watch cooking programmes and to buy vast libraries of cookbooks, most people in the UK don’t really enjoy cooking. Not day-to-day. Or people are too just too busy to cook properly. Also, at weekends they feel like they deserve a treat, a break from the kitchen, but the recession has meant that the old staples of going out or ordering takeaways are no longer weekly treats but monthly indulgences.’

Minty took a deep breath. ‘This in turn has given rise to the gourmet ready-meal. Dine in for ten pounds for two, or kits that you put together in your kitchen and that take five minutes to cook but make you feel like you actually made the meal.’

There were a few murmurs at this. Minty looked round the incredulous-looking people who sat opposite her and had to restrain a laugh. They could as little comprehend a world where people bought their lasagne ready-made as they could imagine a talking dog. Which was exactly why they needed her; they just didn’t know it yet.

‘Some gourmet food shops do provide ready meals,’ she continued. ‘But the people who shop there have different values. They care about food, which is great for us, but they also care about origin. A York deli will want to sell ice cream made with cream from Yorkshire cows, not Italian cows, to cut down on food miles and support local economies. And the food miles will be exorbitant; supplying a few delis here and there will cost a fortune, eating into our margins.’

Minty took a deep breath. The table was silent, every person hanging on her every word. Excitement surged but she ruthlessly dampened it down. She wasn’t there yet.

‘One solution would be to concentrate on London, which has a huge amount of delis and a sizeable Italian population. But then we haven’t really tapped into the UK, just a tiny part of it.

‘So we should consider the supermarkets.’

There. It was said.

There was a stunned silence. Minty pressed on, ‘Not every supermarket, not even the most popular supermarkets, but the most up-market supermarkets, to fit in with the aspirational and fresh appeal of the brand. There are two who will manage our prices, sell-by dates and image without cheapening and demeaning our brand. Their endorsement will make us desirable to the delis and specialist food-outlets you prefer and, crucially, raise our profile with the consumer.’

Minty looked up at the last slide, a stock image of a laughing, loving nuclear family gathered around a table, bowls of ice cream in front of them.

What would it be like to be part of such a family?

She thrust the thought aside and lifted her chin. ‘Any questions?’

She risked a look over at Luca’s chair opposite. He was leaning back again, relaxed. To all appearances, open to ideas and opinions.

Unless you looked closely at his eyes. A chill shivered down Minty’s spine. She was no coward but she couldn’t sustain eye contact of any length with such contemptuous anger blazing out at her. She wanted to challenge him, to sustain the advantage her height and position gave her as she stood at the front of his boardroom, but she quailed before him and lowered her eyelids, blocking out the unleashed fury.

Submitting.

Idiot; coward, she admonished herself. You have a right to be here, to make your point.

But when she steeled herself to take him back on, plastered on her most guileless expression and raised innocent eyes back to his face, it was too late. His expression was bland, his eyes hooded. Emotionless.

Maybe she had made up the earlier anger, seen only what she was expecting to see. But the hairs still stood up on her arms; a disquieting prickle at the back of her neck was a reminder. Luca could have been a formidable ally. Instead she had made a dangerous enemy.

There was no time to dwell on her tactics as the questions began. If Minty had thought she could get away with making her presentation unchallenged, she was wrong. The board members might not have had a chance to prepare their questions but that didn’t stop them. Which supermarkets? Prices, margins, market penetration, rival brands? Minty had done her homework, had spent the past two weeks preparing, but the level of detail they wanted at this stage astonished her. Frightened her.

It was very different from sitting down with the three women who managed her cupcake cafés. From the cosy chats over coffee and cakes about new recipes, promotions, staff. Her accountant took care of the finances, the staff the social media and marketing. The shop managers were responsible for all the day-to-day issues.

She was just a trust-fund baby with a vanity business, after all.

The door was so close. She could just leave, sell the damn shares. With the money she could travel, start again, open up a new vanity project: design handbags, maybe, like many a socialite before her. She wouldn’t need her trust fund.

But Aunt Rose had left her the shares. She had believed in Minty, had wanted her to be involved. She had never believed Minty could let her down, would let her down. Maybe she’d been the only person who had ever believed that?

‘Don’t fudge; if you don’t know the answer, say you’ll find out and get back to them. Always get back to them. And never let them see you’re scared.’ Who would have thought that Joe’s ‘top ten tips on winning over the electorate’ would come in so handy? Minty squared her shoulders, turned her charm up full blast and answered the questions as best she could, as confidently as she could.

And she was winning them over; she could see it in their eyes, their demeanour.

Of course, not everyone was getting carried away. ‘Have you set up meetings with these supermarkets? Discussed pricing, volume and distribution?’ Luca, the voice of reason: cold, questioning, eyes narrowed, pen poised over paper, waiting for her answer. Like a headmaster dealing with a disappointing pupil.

‘Not yet. It seemed premature.’ Minty had considered it. She had gone as far as finding out the names of the buyers involved, but making the next step scared her. She repressed a shudder, imagining herself there like an Apprentice contestant, trying to convince the supermarkets to buy. What if she overpitched or under-pitched? What if she cost the company hundreds of thousands by negotiating too low a discount—or lost the opportunity by going in too high?

Maybe this idea of Luca’s that she spend two weeks learning the ropes had some merit after all.

Merit beyond proving him wrong, that was.

‘That sounds eminently sensible.’ The sound of Gio’s voice made her jump. He’d been silent up to now, she realised with a sense of shock. The Gio she remembered was larger than life in business, in laughter, in food, in love. Not a man to sit quietly and listen, his eyes troubled and sad. ‘I think Minty has made her case very well. Now it’s up to us to investigate the feasibility, with Minty’s input, of course. You are planning to stay, aren’t you?’

Minty opened her mouth to assure him that, yes, she was planning to stay for the time being—noncommittal agreement, her speciality. But something in his eyes made her stop. ‘I hope to,’ she said, surprising herself by the honesty in her voice. ‘I mean, I’d like to.’

‘Good.’ Gio sat up a little straighter and turned to Luca. ‘In that case, fifty per cent of the shareholders are in favour of advancing Minty’s idea to the next stage. Are you going to make it one hundred percent or will we need to put it to the board?’

It wasn’t anger in Luca’s eyes now, or contempt. It was shock. Of course, Minty thought. As a fifty per cent shareholder and CEO he had the majority vote. It was only her presence that made a tie possible. For six years he had had things all his own way.

Minty had just spoiled all his fun.

‘There’s no harm in investigating,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ll talk to our head of sales later today.’ He shot a glance at Minty. ‘You’ll need to be there.’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s just an investigation at this stage,’ he warned them. ‘It may not be feasible. But we’ll look into it. Okay, if there are no more questions on the expansion, let’s move on. Giovanna, I believe the next section is yours...’

* * *

There was no time to talk to Minty alone after the meeting. It wasn’t until Luca’s head of sales had left his office, armed with the relevant information, that Luca was able to catch her. ‘Just a minute, Minty,’ he said, his voice deceptively calm. ‘I just want a quick word.’

She was already at the door, holding on to the handle as if it were her only hope. As well she might, he thought grimly. Luckily for Minty, several hours had given him the chance to cool down. A little bit.

‘Sit down,’ he invited, still silkily calm. For a moment he thought she might defy him, insist on standing just because she could, just because she was Minty Davenport and always had to be contrary. But, after a long moment’s silent contemplation, she folded herself gracefully into a chair, limpid eyes fixed on his.

He continued to look at her levelly and had the satisfaction of seeing her squirm under his regard. Minty loved a bit of drama; a good argument didn’t faze her at all. But the silent treatment, ignoring her? That had always proved far more effective.

‘Gio’s offered to give me a lift back to the house,’ she said at last, caving in, breaking the silence first. ‘He’s going to let me have his keys for now, and he still has your old Fiat, which he’s happy for me to borrow while I’m here. I wouldn’t want to be dependent on you—I mean, I’m sure you would find that annoying.’

‘He’s pleased to see you. He always wanted you to be involved.’ The rebuke was subtle but as pointed as he could make it, and by the flush that crept over her cheeks it had hit home.

Good.

‘It’s lovely to see him, although a bit of a shock; he seems so much older.’ An anxious expression shadowed her face. ‘In some ways I barely recognised him. Is he okay?’

Luca didn’t reply. If she really cared about Gio she would have written. Or phoned, emailed, faxed, texted, tweeted. In this day and age there were no excuses for six years’ silence. She could have hauled her party-going ass onto a plane and come to visit. The righteous anger fuelled him, made it easy to ignore the concern in her eyes.

‘I don’t know why you are here or what you want,’ he said finally. ‘Regardless of your little stunt in the boardroom, my conditions still stand. I have your schedule here.’ He passed her a sheet of paper and she took it wordlessly, her blue eyes huge as she stared across at him. She looked tired, vulnerable, every bit the penniless adventurer who had risen at the crack of dawn to try to seek out her fortune.

She was quite the actress.

‘I’m sorry if you didn’t like what I had to say—’ she began. Luca cut her off ruthlessly.

‘No you’re not.’

She blinked at him. ‘Not what?’

‘You’re not sorry. Not at all. You wanted to come in here and make a big splash. Minty Davenport wins the day. Your clothes, your hair...’ His words were tumbling out now in anger, frustration, all the negative emotions this dammed woman stirred up in him. ‘It’s just the same as when we were kids. You always had some new role, some new drama. Remember the summer you decided to be an eco-warrior? Lectured us the whole time on our food, our cars, our clothes. Then you turned up again nine months later, clad in leather and guzzling up as much hot water as possible.’

‘I was fifteen...’

‘Your artist stage,’ he continued ruthlessly. ‘How much did you spend on lessons and supplies? I bet you haven’t picked up a brush in years.’

‘That has got nothing to do with—’

‘And this is your latest fantasy: running a company, making presentations, wearing a suit and coming into an office every day? Not in my company, Minty. I will not allow my hard work to be a backdrop for your latest role. I will not allow it.’

When had he risen to his feet? Leant over his desk? Why was it he only lost control of his emotions when she was around? Luca took a deep breath, tried to still the adrenaline swirling around his body, the blood thumping in his ears. She was staring at him, eyes still wide but now with shock. ‘Your points were valid, Minty,’ he said more calmly. ‘If you had come to me earlier, told me your thoughts, I would have listened, incorporated them. We could have gone to the board together with a final plan, costings. You didn’t need to make such a drama out of it. You don’t need to make such a drama out of everything.’

Were those tears swimming in her eyes? She blinked rapidly and the shine was gone. Maybe he’d imagined it, had seen what he wanted to see.

She had always played him—as a child, a teenager. It looked like nothing had changed. ‘It ends here,’ he added more calmly. ‘Understand? Or you can leave right away. You have something to say? Talk to me. Work with me. I’m open to suggestion, ask anyone.’

His eyes continued to bore into her, to pin her down. ‘But if it’s not business then I don’t want to hear it. Gio may be glad you’re back.’ He leaned on his desk, eyes boring into hers. ‘But I’m not. Stay out of my way, Minty. That’s a warning.’

CHAPTER THREE

EVERY LIMB WAS HEAVY; her head was not just foggy but filled with a traditional London pea-souper straight from the nineteen-thirties. Minty wasn’t sure she could even stagger down the driveway, let alone open the front door and flop her exhausted body inside when she got there.

‘Ciao, Gianni; ciao Alfonso. Grazie; a presto,’ she said, feebly pushing the heavy lorry door shut, managing a small wave at the grinning drivers as she did so. How did they manage to stay awake? And so cheerful. Forty-eight hours of helping to deliver ice cream and other frozen desserts to restaurants, on a circular route that had taken in three countries and given very few opportunities for sleep, had taken every ounce of zest out of her.

She turned away from the lorry and, on the third attempt, hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and set off along the cypress-tree-lined path that led to the farmhouse.

Minty had spent every summer in Oschia since she’d turned seven and yet, on evenings like this, with the sunset beginning to turn the countryside red-gold, the landscape still had the power to make her stop and stare, drink it in. It was an idyllic setting.

The old stone house was positioned in the middle of a row of terraced plateaux that climbed down the hillside. At the top of the hill the small Oschian town clung on precariously. To one side she saw the medieval town walls gleaming gold in the evening sun, the tower of the medieval church jutting high above; in every other direction were a hundred different shades of green, as far as the eye could see.

It was only a couple of hundred yards down the driveway yet every weary step felt like a mile. Luckily the front door wasn’t locked. Minty didn’t think she was capable of finding her keys, hidden as they were somewhere amongst the tangle of essential toiletries, changes of underwear, sweet wrappers and other items she had considered necessary for her road trip. She turned the big wooden doorknob and almost fell into the large, marble-tiled hallway, dropping her bag with a relieved sigh.

‘Honey, I’m home,’ she called out, then sniffed. What was that smell? Onions, garlic, tomatoes, herbs, some kind of fish: the smell of a proper Italian kitchen. Her stomach rumbled painfully. It had been a while since the last food stop. At least that one had been over the Italian border; their journey through Austria, Slovenia and the tip of Germany had required more stop-offs at bratwurst stalls than Minty cared to remember.

The currywurst at the second one had definitely been a mistake; having two, an even bigger mistake.

Minty stayed in the hallway for a second, leaning against the panelled wall. Ahead was the staircase. All she had to do was somehow get herself up those stairs and she would be just one door away from her bed. Her gloriously comfortable bed with all the trimmings. What a beautiful contrast to the past two days, trying to nap squeezed into the front seat of the lorry between Gianno and Alfonso. Charming men, but not her sleeping companions of choice.

Minty swayed, torn between hunger and tiredness. Another enticing waft of garlic floated through the air and, with a regretful look up the stairs, Minty pulled herself together and went through the door to the kitchen to find the source of the heavenly smell.

The house was exactly the same as it had always been, unpretentious and homely with the large kitchen at its very heart. Taking up the whole back of the house, the combination kitchen, dining and family room was a warm, spacious area, the separate parts divided by a long tiled counter. On one side was the kitchen area, simple, with wooden doors and shelves, a marbled worktop and a huge range cooker. On the other a large table was set about with assorted, mismatched chairs. Further back, cosily clustered around the fireplace, were two old sofas. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered one wall, filled with an assortment of battered, well-read Italian and English paperbacks, ancient board games and several incomplete packs of cards.

Minty had been raised in one of England’s oldest and finest houses but she had never felt as at home there as she did here, had never loved it as much as she loved this room with its simple charm. Every piece of furniture had been lovingly chosen and pieced together. It was a much-loved home, far more appealing than the stunning, architecturally remodelled places she usually holidayed in.

Luca stood at the stove stirring the source of the heavenly smell with a spoon. At the sight of him Minty rocked back on her heels. There was something so inherently sexy about a handsome man cooking. It really wasn’t fair; like a man holding a puppy or a baby, or taking his granny to church, the act added an extra glow, a sweetness to the sensuality.

He was dressed in snug-fitting, worn black jeans, in parts so faded they were grey, and a simple black T-shirt. The lack of colour should have been austere, especially teamed with his dark hair, but he looked good, the jeans showcasing long, powerful legs; the T-shirt skimming the smooth stomach; the short sleeves defining the muscles on his olive-skinned arms. Yep, he looked good, Minty thought dreamily.

She shook her head angrily, clearing the fog as best as she could. Goodness, she must be tired, standing here mooning over Luca, of all people! She was hungry, that was all; her brain was confusing the cook with the food.

‘That smells delicious.’

Luca didn’t bother to look round. ‘Separate meals, remember?’

‘I’ll make the spaghetti,’ she said as coaxingly as she could.

Luca spun round, horror on his face, tomato sauce splattering everywhere from the spoon he still held. ‘Mio Dio, do you still know nothing about food?’ he said. ‘‘First of all this is cioppino—a soup. A simple salad and some ciabatta are all it needs. Secondly, if you think I would trust you with cooking pasta, you are delusional—unless at some point in the last six years you learned what al dente means, which I doubt very much. Thirdly, if it was a stew I would team it with something heartier than spaghetti: farfalle or maybe bucatini.’ The amber eyes glazed over as he considered his options.

‘I have done several cooking courses, you know,’ Minty said, ignoring Luca’s outburst. He couldn’t help himself. Gio was just the same, convinced that nobody could cook as well as he did, especially not someone unfortunate enough to be English. ‘I can even make pasta, not just cook it. How about I cut the bread?’

Luca’s withering glare would have wilted a lesser mortal. Luckily Minty was made of sterner stuff—and had been weathering his glares for years. ‘So it can go stale? No, thank you.’

‘Wash the salad? Or will I make the lettuce leaves too wet? Be too rough with the cucumbers?’

Luca continued to stare for a few seconds longer then shrugged, turning back to the stove to resume stirring. Minty, taking silence for acquiescence, padded over to the large American-style fridge and opened it, surveying the huge array of contents. ‘Only four types of lettuce leaves; Luca, your standards are slipping,’ she said. Suddenly she felt far more awake, either from the prospect of dinner or rediscovering the old joy of baiting Luca. Or both. ‘I’m not sure I can work with such ingredients,’ she continued, throwing a provocative glance over her shoulder. He was standing ramrod-straight, radiating disapproval.

She removed the salad leaves, by the look of them picked fresh that day, and carried them over to the sink to wash. For a few minutes there was silence as they worked side by side. Minty had never really cooked with anyone else before. It was oddly comfortable.

‘Can you pass the garlic?’ she said after a while.

Luca eyed her suspiciously. ‘Why?’

‘Well, I could put it at the door and ward off vampires, but I was thinking of making a vinaigrette for the salad and to dip the bread into. Your call.’

The corners of Luca’s mouth curled in a reluctant smile and he tossed a small white bulb over to Minty, who caught it one-handed with an elaborate flourish. Standing there, knife in one hand, chopping board in front of her, no small talk, Minty was aware of an odd sensation.

She was almost content.

* * *

Dinner tasted as good as it smelt, helped, Minty was at pains to point out, by her perfectly seasoned vinaigrette. Afterwards, she collected the dishes and took them into the kitchen, waving Luca away when he came to help. ‘Although I still think both my salad and the dressing were masterpieces,’ she said, ‘I do have to concede that you did the bulk of the cooking. It’s only fair I clear up.’

Luca wasn’t going to argue. He took his wine and a small plate of grapes and cheese over to the sofa and opened up his laptop, pulling up the spreadsheet Alessandro, his head of sales, had emailed over earlier that evening. He usually put at least an hour in after dinner; working from home sometimes gave things a different perspective.

Five minutes later it was as unread as when he had opened it. His eyes kept wandering over to Minty, who was industriously rinsing out pans. She looked tired; her hair was pulled back in a knot and she was still wearing the light trousers and simple knitted top she had put on two days ago when she had left to do the deliveries. But she hadn’t come in complaining about how exhausted she was, how achy her limbs were—and he knew they would be, after two days in such a confined space.

It was almost impossible to work, to concentrate, with Minty so visible, so present. Since she had arrived she had kept her word and had stayed in her room at night, eaten separately and kept out of his way. They had barely seen each other to exchange a muttered greeting. Just as he wanted, as he had insisted.

And yet tonight he found himself moved by the weariness in her eyes. It was the same old story. He couldn’t resist being her knight in shining armour, whether she wanted him to or not.

They might have spent most of their lives at loggerheads, but occasionally an unofficial, unacknowledged truce would be called. That first summer she’d come to stay, Luca had spent one memorable day playing old board games with the broken-hearted small girl after she’d discovered her father had chosen to go to St Tropez with his latest girlfriend instead of making a promised visit to Oschia.

Luca still had a fondness for Cluedo.