The Italians: Rico, Antonio and Giovanni: The Hidden Heart of Rico Rossi / The Moretti Seduction / The Boselli Bride. Kate Hardy

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       CHAPTER EIGHT

      WHEN Ella’s alarm clock went off at five-thirty the next morning, she woke with a smile on her face. This was everything she’d wanted: being her own boss, organising her own work and being responsible for everything. And she didn’t mind the early starts, because she loved what she was doing.

      And she loved the way her schedule was coming together. The way she was able to work at a pace to suit her, to music she enjoyed listening to, and she didn’t have to change things to suit other people. Perfect.

      She baked the cupcake orders for the two local cafés; while the cakes were cooling, she made the fruit cakes and put them in the oven. Once she’d iced the cupcakes, she dropped off the boxes to her clients, then came back to check on the fruit cakes and start making the sugar roses. The Madeira cake was next; finally, when all the large cakes had cooled, she flat-iced them, ready for decorating.

      She’d just washed up and put the icing bowls away when her mobile phone rang.

      ‘Hi. You asked me to call you when I was done,’ Rico said.

      And how crazy it was that hearing his voice made her heart beat faster. This wasn’t good. ‘Uh-huh.’ If she had any sense left, she’d tell him she was too busy to see him. But her mouth had other ideas. ‘Are you coming over now?’

      ‘It’s a good time?’

      Tell him no, her common sense urged.

      ‘It’s fine. See you when you get here.’

      ‘I’m on my way. Ciao, bellezza.’

      Ella had just about finished tidying her kitchen when he arrived.

      ‘Wow, you made these?’ he said, looking at the sugar roses. ‘They’re incredibly delicate. And very realistic.’

      ‘They’re for a wedding cake—though it’s one that was booked in weeks ago. Normally people book cakes like this at least six weeks in advance.’

      ‘How fast can you do a celebration cake?’

      ‘If it’s just a normal-sized cake and I don’t have to do carving or armature or lots of intricate sugar-paste work, I can do one in a day—baking it, flat-icing it and basic decoration.’

      ‘Carving and armature?’ Rico asked, looking puzzled.

      ‘Shaped cakes. Some of them need support so they don’t collapse—that’s the armature bit.’ She took her display book from the shelf and flicked through it until she found the page she wanted. ‘Like my dinosaur.’

      ‘This is a million miles away from what I do in my job,’ Rico said. ‘I wouldn’t even know where to start, making something like that. And how do you get the colours on the icing?’

      ‘I hand-paint it. It’s pretty labour-intensive, but I love doing it. Creating someone’s dream out of sugar, butter, eggs and flour.’ She smiled at him, ‘So what do you want to do this evening?’

      ‘Are we talking acquaintances or benefits?’

      To her annoyance, she actually blushed. ‘Acquaintances. Rico, I hope you realise I don’t sleep around.’

      ‘Neither do I. Don’t believe everything you read in the press.’

      She stared at him, shocked. ‘The press follow you about?’

      ‘In Italy, sometimes. It depends who I’m seeing.’

      ‘I’m a nobody, so you should be safe,’ she said dryly.

      ‘That wasn’t what I meant. But the press blow things up out of proportion and twist a story to suit themselves. If everything they said about me was true, there’d be so many notches I wouldn’t actually have a bedpost left. Dating someone doesn’t necessarily mean sleeping with them.’ He leaned forward and stole a kiss. ‘Let’s start again. What do you want to do this evening?’

      Her mouth was tingling—and that kiss had been the lightest and sweetest of touches. He tempted her so badly that she could barely resist him. ‘Do you want to come upstairs for a mug of coffee while we think about it?’

      ‘Sure.’ He followed her up to her flat. ‘What sort of thing do you normally do in the evenings?’

      ‘It depends what kind of day I’ve had.’ She switched on the kettle and shook grounds into a cafetière. ‘I might go to the cinema or out for a drink with friends; I might just go for a walk by the river; or I might collapse on the sofa in front of the telly.’ She gave him a wary look. ‘I should perhaps warn you I’m really not into clubbing.’

      ‘Good. Me, neither.’ He looked at the photographs pinned with magnets to her fridge. ‘That must be your mum.’

      ‘Yes.’ She had to swallow hard. Even now, a year later, she still missed her mother badly. Missed her smile, her gentle calmness, her common sense.

      ‘She’s very like you,’ he commented.

      ‘I hope so.’ She definitely hoped she hadn’t inherited any of her father’s genes. Pushing the thought away, she suggested, СКАЧАТЬ