Passionate Affairs: Breakfast at Giovanni's

‘And how do you know I’m not James Bond?’ he retorted. ‘I could be sending out hidden messages in those lattes. Those rosettas could be a special secret-agent code.’

She laughed, and tucked her arm through his. ‘So you’re telling me your car is really super-turbocharged, instead of cornering like a tank and doing zero to sixty in about half a day?’

‘That’s below the belt,’ he reprimanded her, laughing. ‘So where did you say we were going?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘No clues whatsoever?’ he wheedled.

‘Nope.’

He gave in, and just enjoyed the experience of walking through London with her, arm in arm. She switched the conversation to favourite movies, and he hadn’t really noticed where they were going until she stopped outside Netti’s pizzeria.

‘Here?’ Talk about bearding the lion in its den.

‘It’s the best pizzeria in London. And it’s where you told me you celebrate red-letter days. So as today is your birthday—which I would say is a red-letter day—it seemed appropriate.’

The second he walked through the door, the room seemed to erupt with party poppers—and then there was a rousing chorus of ‘Happy Birthday to You’.

As the paper streamers began to settle, he could see that the middle part of the restaurant was full, the usual small tables pulled together to form one enormous long table. All the staff from the four branches of Giovanni’s were there, along with his parents, his sisters and their partners, and Nonna. There were two spare places at the far end; one of the chairs had a helium balloon attached, with the number twenty-nine emblazoned on it.

Marco gave him a hug. ‘Buon compleanno, cugino mio,’ he said.

Gio was still too surprised for any words to come out. When Netti emerged from the kitchen to give him a hug and a kiss, he submitted gracefully. And then he let Fran lead him over to his seat.

‘I had absolutely no idea you were planning this,’ he said. She’d already made a fuss of him that morning. He really hadn’t expected her to plan a surprise for the evening, too.

‘That was the plan.’ She smiled. ‘Though I can’t take all the credit. It wasn’t just me.’

‘Fran is a girl after our hearts,’ Nonna said, patting Fran’s hand. ‘It was all her idea. We just helped a bit.’

‘Happy birthday, boss.’ Amy produced a large envelope and a box at the far end of the table, and it was handed down to him.

He opened the card to discover that all the staff of Giovanni’s had signed it. And the present was the new boxed set of remastered CDs by his favourite band—a gift that only someone who noticed things the way Fran did would’ve thought to buy him. ‘I…this is fantastic. I’m a bit lost for words.’ Understatement of the year. It had completely thrown him. ‘Thank you—all of you. I had absolutely no idea.’ He looked at Fran. ‘How did you organise this?’

‘Same way anyone would organise an office party.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s not a big deal.’

Oh, yes, it was. She’d gone to a lot of trouble to organise this, in an incredibly short space of time and in utter secrecy.

‘People think a lot of you, Gio,’ she said softly. ‘And they want to make a fuss of you, once in a while.’

A fuss he didn’t normally let people make.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent an evening like this. Although the staff at Giovanni’s always had a Christmas party, he usually stayed long enough to be sociable but left early, reasoning that they wouldn’t want the boss around to put a dampener on festivities. Tonight, they were definitely letting their hair down—but they were all there because they wanted to celebrate his birthday with him. Share his special day.

Just before coffee was served, he said quietly to Fran, ‘This is the best birthday I’ve had in years. It’s been really wonderful. Because of you.’

‘My pleasure.’

For a moment, their gazes meshed and held. Was he seeing what he wanted to see, or did that expression in her eyes mean…?

The moment was lost when Marco brought round the coffee.

‘And Amaretti for luck,’ Nonna added, fishing a box from under the table and handing it to Marco so he could share them out.

‘Why for luck?’ Fran asked.

‘You don’t know the story? About three hundred years ago, the cardinal of Milan went to pay a visit to Saronno, a poor town where two lovers worked, but they had little chance of marrying. In honour of the cardinal, they invented the Amaretti biscuit, and wrapped them in pairs to symbolise their love. The cardinal took pity on their plight—he blessed them, allowed them to marry and presided over the wedding feast. And Amaretti biscuits have always been wrapped in pairs, ever since, to remind people of the importance of true love.’

True love.

What Nonna and his family thought was happening between him and Fran.

Guilt throbbed through him. He was lying to them. For the best of reasons, but still lying to them. And that wasn’t who he was.

It wasn’t who Fran was, either.

Nonna cleared her throat, and it was clear everyone was expecting him to kiss the girl who’d made it all happen, because they were all looking at him and Fran with the most soppy expression on their faces.

So what else could he do?

He leaned over towards her and touched his mouth to hers. It felt as if the room was full of erupting party-poppers again, a mass of glittering tinsel strands. And when he broke the kiss and opened his eyes, Fran looked as shell-shocked as he felt, with wide eyes and a white face. But all he could focus on was her mouth. A perfect rosebud. Lips he wanted to feel against his again.

Except they weren’t alone, and he could hear catcalls and whistles in the background.

Just how long had he been kissing her?

Oh, lord. This was starting to get really complicated.

The next morning, Fran was still shell-shocked. That kiss should’ve been for show. So why had it felt so real? Why had it felt as if the stars were dancing when Gio’s mouth had moved against hers—even more so than the time when he’d kissed her on her sofa?

But she pulled herself together and headed for work as usual.

‘It was a good night, last night,’ Sally said, handing her a mug. ‘Though you look distinctly hung over this morning, Frannikins.’

‘I feel it,’ Fran said. Not that she’d drunk a huge amount; she just hadn’t slept well, the previous night. Hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Gio. Hadn’t been able to get the fantasies out of her head.

‘Gio said to tell you he’s in Docklands this morning, but he’ll call you later,’ Sally added. ‘You know, I’ve never seen him look this happy before, and I’ve worked with him for five years now. When I realised you two were an item, I was a bit worried at first—relationships at work normally make things a bit sticky. But you’ve changed him, Fran. Made him relax.’

‘Good,’ Fran replied, pinning a smile to her face. At first, she’d worried about how her colleagues would react to the idea of a relationship between herself and Gio, but they’d all seemed really positive about it. Now, Fran was more worried about what was going to happen once she and Gio had ‘split up’, how they’d react to that.

But there was nothing she could do about it right now, so it was pointless fretting about it. She’d deal with it when it happened.

She was busy with a set of figures when there was a knock on the office door. She swivelled round in her chair, and stared in surprise when she saw a man carrying the most beautiful hand-tied bouquet of flowers. ‘Fran Marsden?’ he asked.

‘Er, yes.’

‘Sign here, please.’

Flowers? Who on earth would be sending her flowers? But she signed for them and set them on her desk. They were absolutely stunning: sugar-pink roses, white lisianthus, pink freesias and tiny white matricia. She couldn’t resist putting her nose into them and inhaling deeply; the scent was beautiful.

She opened the envelope that was tucked into the cellophane, and recognised the handwriting instantly.

Thank you. For everything. Love, Gio.

Love.

Her stomach clenched. Except this wasn’t, was it?

When Gio walked into the office, he could see that Fran’s eyes were slightly red. The flowers were on her desk, just as he’d hoped—but why did she look as if she’d been crying?

Or maybe…‘Oh, no. I should’ve checked before I had them delivered. I didn’t realise you suffered from hay fever.’

‘I don’t.’

He leaned against the edge of her desk. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I have three sisters. So I know that “nothing” never really means that, especially when a woman looks as if she’s been crying,’ he said softly, and gently tilted her chin with one finger so she was facing him. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked again.

‘I’m just being silly. I can’t remember the last time someone sent me flowers,’ Fran said, ‘and I wasn’t expecting these.’

‘My intention wasn’t to upset you,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to say thank you.’

‘And it’s appreciated.’

There was the tiniest wobble in her voice. He wanted to pull her into his arms, hold her close and tell her everything was going to be fine, because he was there—because he’d always be there and he’d never let anything hurt her.

But that was the whole problem.

He didn’t trust himself not to let her down, the way he’d let his family down all those years before—the way he’d been selfish and stupid enough to put himself first, and they’d nearly lost his father as a result. How could he make her a promise he didn’t know he could keep? So instead he kept things light. Ruffled her hair. ‘I’m off to Islington. I only popped in while I was passing to see if there was anything you needed here.’

‘No, we’re fine.’

‘And these aren’t in lieu of the chocolates, by the way—Sally’s already checked. We’ll be getting those tomorrow.’

That at least made her smile. Which in turn made him feel less panicky. ‘Catch you later,’ he said, and left the office before he did something stupid.

Like give in to the urge to scoop her up in his arms, kiss her properly, and carry her to his bed.

CHAPTER TEN

AND then it was Saturday. The day of the party.

Fran rang Angela in the morning to see if she could do anything to help.

‘Sweetheart, that’s so kind of you to offer. But there’s no need—Nonna, the girls and I have everything under control,’ Angela said. ‘We’ll see you tonight. And the idea is that you and Gio have fun, OK?’

‘OK,’ Fran promised.

Which left her with nothing to sort out except what she was going to wear. Although she had a perfectly serviceable little black dress—one she’d worn to functions when she’d worked at the voiceover studio—it didn’t feel quite right for the Mazetti party. She wanted something a little dressier. The kind of thing that Gio Mazetti’s girlfriend would wear, not his office manager.

She was browsing in the clothes shops in Camden when her eye was caught by a dress. It was a deep cornflower blue, in floaty organza over taffeta. Absolutely nothing like what she’d intended to buy—she’d always thought herself too curvy to wear a strapless dress—but some impulse made her try it on.

She was looking at herself in the mirror and wondering if she had the nerve to wear it when the sales assistant appeared with a lapis-lazuli necklace.

‘I don’t normally bother with jewellery,’ Fran said, eyeing it dubiously.

‘Try it on and see what you think,’ the assistant suggested. ‘I reckon it matches the dress perfectly. Here—do you want me to do it up for you?’

Ten seconds later, Fran stared at herself in the mirror. The necklace really was the finishing touch, skimming across the middle of her collarbones and throwing the paleness of her skin into relief.

And the bulges she’d feared she’d see weren’t visible. Just curves.

‘It’s perfect. Don’t wear anything else, not even a watch,’ the assistant said. ‘What about shoes?’

‘I was thinking black high heels,’ Fran said.

‘Patent or suede?’

‘Suede.’

The assistant nodded. ‘Perfect. You’re going to blow his mind when he sees you.’

Not when she wasn’t his real girlfriend. ‘Maybe,’ she hedged.

‘There’s no maybe about it,’ the assistant said with a smile. ‘That dress was made for you.’

‘I was planning to get a little black dress. Something practical that I could dress up or down.’

‘You could,’ the assistant said, ‘but, believe me, nothing’s going to be as perfect as what you’re wearing right now.’

And Fran knew the assistant was right when she opened her front door to Gio and his jaw dropped.

‘Wow.’ Then he seemed to recover fast and go back to their usual teasing relationship. ‘You scrub up nicely, Francesca Marsden.’

So did he. In dark trousers and a silk shirt, he looked stunning. And very, very touchable.

He reached out and traced a fingertip just below the line of her necklace. The feel of his skin against hers made every nerve end quiver and her pulse speeded up.

‘Your dress is the same colour as your eyes. It’s fabulous,’ he said softly.

And she knew he meant it.

He wasn’t paying his pretend girlfriend a compliment in front of his family.

He was telling her this, here and now. In private.

‘Not just the dress. You look fabulous.’ Then he held out his hand. ‘We’d better go. The taxi’s waiting.’

She locked up and followed him out to the taxi. He held the door open for her—the perfect manners were typical of Gio—and it seemed as if hardly a minute passed before they were there.

‘Are you really sure you’re up to this?’ Gio asked. ‘The Mazetti clan is pretty big. It’s not too late to back out.’

‘I’ve already met Nonna, your parents and your sisters, your aunt and some of your cousins,’she reminded him. ‘It’ll be fine.’

‘Then let’s do it.’ He slid his arm round her shoulders, and they walked into the hall together.

He’d said his family was big. But she hadn’t expected the place to be so utterly packed. Gio introduced her to person after person; although she was normally good with names, there were so many that she simply lost track.

And she had no idea who was topping up her glass, but the level of champagne never seemed to go down. It would be way too easy to drink too much and make a mistake—say something she shouldn’t. She made a mental note to put her glass down and forget about it.

‘Francesca, cara!’ Nonna came over to her, hugged her and kissed both cheeks. ‘You look lovely.’

‘So do you,’ Fran responded politely.

Nonna chuckled. ‘Ah, but I don’t have that extra sparkle—the look of a young woman in love.’

Maybe Gio’s family were seeing what they wanted to see, Fran thought. Or maybe after all these years she’d finally found her hidden talent: acting. Because she wasn’t in love with Gio.

Was she?

Before Nonna could say anything else, the band on stage played a fanfare.

Gio groaned. ‘Why do we have to do this every year?’

‘Because it wouldn’t be a birthday party without it, figlio mio,’ his father said, laughing and patting his shoulder.

‘You know the song,’ the singer said into the microphone. ‘Four times. Giovanni, Isabella, Giuditta and Marcella.’

The band played the introduction to ‘Happy Birthday to You’, and then were drowned out by the entire room singing in Italian. ‘Tanti auguri a te, Tanti auguri a te, Tanti auguri Giovanni, tanti auguri a te!’ The song was repeated for Gio’s sisters; and finally, there was a rousing set of cheers.

‘Your family definitely knows how to party,’ Fran said, smiling at Gio when the cheers had died down and the band was playing again.

‘Years of practice,’ Gio said. ‘Let’s get some food and escape outside. It’s boiling in here.’

Once he’d piled a plate with assorted canapés and dips, they found a quiet corner in the grounds. Gio looked at the bench, then at Fran’s dress. ‘Some of that varnish is peeling. I don’t want it ruining your dress. Better sit on my lap.’

From another man, it would be a cheesy excuse. From Gio, it was practical common sense. So when he set the plate down on the bench beside them, she acquiesced without making a fuss, settling herself on his lap and resting one hand on his shoulder for balance.

The fact that his hand was resting on the curve of her waist really shouldn’t be sending these little shivers through her body, she thought. He’d only done it to make sure she didn’t accidentally slide off his lap. And she really shouldn’t get used to being close to him like this. Close and personal.

Striving to keep her voice normal, she said, ‘It’s quite an evening.’

‘When we were kids, we used to have a bouncy castle and a barbecue in the back garden. But as we grew older and the family’s grown bigger, Mum decided to hire a hall and a band.’ He sighed. ‘To be honest, I’d much rather have a quiet night out somewhere. See a good film or a show. But Mum, Nonna and the girls really enjoy it. They love planning the party and getting dressed up and having an excuse to get everyone together and talk so much that they end up with sore throats the next day.’

‘So you put up with it for their sake?’ Fran guessed.

‘Yeah.’ Gio shrugged. ‘Just call me Saint Giovanni.’

She gave in to the temptation to stroke his cheek. Freshly shaven. Smooth and soft and sensual. ‘You’re a good man,’ she said.

He turned his head slightly and pressed a kiss into her palm—like the way she’d pressed a kiss into his palm that afternoon when he’d kissed her on her sofa. ‘Not really. I let my family down once—at the time when they needed me most. I promised myself I would never do that again.’

‘Everyone else forgave you long ago—if they ever blamed you in the first place.’Which, having met his family, she very much doubted. ‘Your dad’s heart attack wasn’t your fault. When are you going to forgive yourself, Gio?’

‘I don’t know.’ He sighed. ‘Can we change the subject, please?’

This wasn’t the time or the place to push him. ‘Sure. What do you want to talk about?’

‘Dunno.’

He looked utterly lost, and it made her heart ache. She leaned forward and kissed the tip of his nose.

He looked up at her, his eyes dark, and his hands tightened round her waist. ‘Why did you do that?’

She opted for honesty. ‘Because you’re hurting, Gio, and I want to make you feel better.’

She couldn’t help staring at his mouth. Even though he was in a bleak mood, right now, there was still a tiny curve upwards at the corner of his lips. That irrepressible, funny man she’d grown to l—

Whoops. She was getting too much into this role of being Gio’s girlfriend. Better remember she was just his office manager, and this was just for show. ‘Talk to me,’ she said softly. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’

He shook his head. ‘Just ignore me. I’m in a funny mood.’

She stroked his face again, and her skin tingled at the contact. ‘I’m going to quote Nonna back at you. “A problem shared is a problem halved.” You helped me when I hit a bad patch. Now you’re having a bad patch and it’s my turn to help you. So tell me what’s put you in that mood. Is it work?’

‘No.’ He sounded very definite.

‘What, then?’

‘I don’t know. It’s just this feeling of something…’He shook his head in obvious frustration. ‘Something missing, I suppose. I can’t explain it. If I knew what it was, I could do something about it. But there’s just this black hole staring at me.’

‘Your music?’ she guessed.

‘No. I still play, for me.’

And he’d played for her, too.

‘You could go back to it. You don’t have to expand the café chain—it’s doing fine as it is. Take a sabbatical,’ she suggested. ‘Be a musician.’

‘How? Busking on street corners?’

She shook her head. ‘There’s nothing to stop you playing a concert once in a while. An arts centre, a gallery—even in Giovanni’s. You’re thinking of opening one evening a week in Holborn for the book group. Why not open another evening a week as a classical music night, maybe at Charlotte Street? Play the music you love for people?’

He took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m good enough, any more.’

‘What you played for me was good,’ she said. ‘OK, so I’m not a music critic and your technique could’ve been all over the place, for all I know—but none of the notes sounded wrong. I liked it. And there are plenty of people out there who’d like to relax with a decent cup of coffee and one of Ingrid’s fabulous cakes and listen to something to help them chill out.’

‘Be a musician.’ He stared at her, though it was as if he wasn’t seeing her. As if he was some place far, far away. ‘I don’t know, Fran. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure that being a musician wouldn’t have been the right life for me. I don’t want to be constantly on the road, or doing bits and pieces and trying to scrape a living. I know I wouldn’t have had the patience to teach.’

‘Are you sure about that? You did a good job of teaching me to make espresso.’

‘Which is not the same thing at all as teaching someone who can either sing in tune, but has no sense of rhythm, or can sing with the beat, but is completely tuneless. That’s more like nails scraping down a blackboard, and I’m not noble enough to pretend it doesn’t matter and gently guide whoever it is into a better technique.’ He sighed. ‘I just feel I’m looking for something, Fran. Searching. And I don’t know what I’m looking for or even where to look.’

‘Maybe you’ll know when you find it.’

‘Maybe. But right now I feel like the most selfish man on earth. I have so many good things in my life. I love my family, I have free rein in my job, I like where I live. So why can’t I be satisfied with what I have?’

She held him close. ‘I can’t answer that. But I do know your family love you, your employees respect you, and you’re a good man. Don’t be so hard on yourself.’

‘Hard on myself? That,’ Gio said wryly, ‘is most definitely the pot calling the kettle black.’

‘But that’s not up for discussion.’

He rested his forehead against her temple. ‘Now who’s being difficult?’

His breath fanned her cheek, and it was, oh, so tempting to turn her head slightly, let her mouth brush against his. Kiss his blues away. But that wouldn’t solve anything: that would just put off the problem. Right now, he needed her to keep this light. ‘Not me,’ she said with a smile. ‘Come on. Let’s go and dance your blues away.’

After a few minutes of throwing themselves into the music, she was relieved to see that his bleak mood lifted slightly and he was starting to smile again. But somehow they’d moved near to the stage, and the singer had caught sight of them.

‘Gio! Come up and play with us, my friend,’ he called when the song had finished.

Gio shook his head. ‘No, I’m fine in the audience, thanks.’

‘Come on,’ the singer wheedled. ‘You know everyone would love to hear to you play. And sing.’

‘I’m fine right here,’ Gio repeated.

The singer refused to let it drop, and Gio’s face darkened. Considering the conversation they’d just had, for a moment, Fran thought that he was going to walk out.

And then Nonna placed her hand on his arm. ‘Gio, piccolino, do it for me. Or if you won’t do it for me, sing for Francesca,’ she said softly.

Tension was coming off him in almost visible waves. But then he nodded. ‘All right. I’ll do it for Fran.’

He climbed up on the stage, to loud applause and cheers from the audience. ‘OK, so it’s August and not October, but there’s a certain song I want to sing tonight. For Francesca.’ He winked at her, as if telling her that it was going to be OK, he wasn’t going to make a scene; then he turned and mouthed something to the pianist, who nodded. And Gio made no protest when the guitarist handed him an electric guitar—just checked the tuning.

And then he counted the band in to a soft, jazzy number Fran recognized: ‘Moondance.’