Italian Escape. Liz Fielding

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СКАЧАТЬ beside the table as he pulled out a chair. He glanced at her, eyes mildly enquiring, no judgement on his face. Minty sank into the chair and pulled the plate over, picking up one of the tiny, perfect pastries and turning it round in her fingers, her appetite gone.

      ‘Joe thought they gave out the wrong message—elitist establishments in expensive areas charging exorbitant prices. Not at all compatible with his values. He preferred that I spent my time volunteering or helping him. So, I did.’

      She didn’t know why it was so important that Luca understood, that he didn’t think badly of her—at least, any more badly than he already did. But it did matter.

      ‘Okay, that’s what Joe wanted. What did you want?’ It was said so gently it almost hurt her. There had been too many times in the past when the only person who had shown a glimmer of understanding was Luca.

      She had usually punished him for it.

      She continued to twist the mini focaccia between her fingers. The bread was dissolving into a mass of crumbs, the aubergine and mozzarella filling sliding out onto the plate below, releasing an aroma of onions, garlic and oregano. She stared at the mess she was creating, searching for answers. What did she want?

      It was the million-dollar question. And she had no idea.

      She quite liked it here. Quite liked today, keeping busy, being useful, good at what she did even if it was just serving ice cream. And the other night, the meal, the company—she’d enjoyed that just a little too much.

      Until he had shut her out and walked away. Again.

      Minty raised her head and smiled across at Luca. He was still looking at her intently, concern etched on his handsome features. The sudden urge to sink onto him, into him, to allow him to shoulder her burdens was immense, almost irresistible.

      ‘I think I want to live life on the wild side,’ she said. ‘Have my gelato before my savoury. But I can’t decide whether to go with the fruit, the chocolate or the really decadent creamy flavours. What do you recommend?’

      * * *

      Luca was doing his best to forget about Minty. He stayed late at the office, eating dinner there or calling in at a local restaurant on the way home. Most days this week he had only seen his unwanted house guest in the mornings. She was usually just wandering into the kitchen as he left for work.

      It didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of her.

      At home he was haunted by the scent of lemons that seemed to have permeated every inch of his house, somehow even his own pillows and sheets. He woke up inhaling the fresh, spicy scent and found himself unable to get back to sleep, knowing that she was just a few metres away.

      Her stuff was everywhere. It wasn’t that she was untidy; she wasn’t, particularly, but she did have an innate gift of taking over a space and making it her own. Her fruit and yogurt concoctions were in his fridge, her magazines on his table, her cardigan hung over the back of his chair, her shoes by his door. The only places that were safe from the slow but steady encroachment were his bedroom and bathroom.

      Apart from the scent of lemons.

      And it was worse at work.

      Everybody loved her. In less than two weeks she had learnt the names of not just every member of staff, but the names of their husbands, wives, children, grandchildren, dogs, rabbits and goldfish. Wherever she went, people greeted her, stopped her. If she wasn’t discussing haircuts with Bella on reception, she was asking Mario about how his dog’s operation had gone or was admiring pictures of Maria’s newest grandchild.

      Luca thought of himself as a hands-on, informal, friendly boss; he had known some of these people all his life. Yet Minty had discovered more about their lives, their worries, their joys, in days than he had in all that time.

      Her ex was wrong, he thought. She would have made an excellent politician’s wife.

      Even in the privacy of his office her name was brought up constantly. Everyone was delighted with her hard work, her enthusiasm, her attempts to speak Italian and her ideas. The staff of Di Tore Dolce were rapidly becoming fully paid-up members of the Minty Davenport fan club.

      ‘Luca!’ And here she was: in his thoughts, his dreams, his conversations, his home. And now in his office.

      ‘Buongiorno.’ He didn’t mean to sound so formal, so aloof, every time he spoke to her.

      It just seemed safer. Twice she had got to him. Twice he had broken his resolve to keep clear, remember that she was unsafe, toxic.

      Not that she seemed to notice. She was practically shaking with excitement as she danced up to his desk, a small paper cup in her hand.

      ‘Look what I did!’ She put the cup down on his desk and took a step backwards, beaming like a proud mother hen. ‘All by myself. Well, actually, with huge amounts of help and input and advice and supervision, but practically all by myself.’

      Luca gave up. It was impossible to maintain a formal distance in the face of such all-consuming enthusiasm. ‘What is it?’ He peered into the cup. ‘It looks like gelato.’

      ‘Of course it’s gelato! You own a gelato factory, you noodle. What was I going to make, some sort of new dog food?’

      With a smile, he conceded the point.

      ‘But this is my very own recipe, mixed by my very own hands. It’s for the autumn special-editions. Tomas said to let you try it. That’s good, right? It means it’s passed the first test?’ She bit down on her lower lip with suppressed excitement, drawing his attention to its fullness. ‘Do you want me to tell you what it is?’

      Luca dragged his eyes away from her sparkling eyes and the sensual curve of her mouth. They were too distracting.

      ‘No, no, I’ll try it first.’

      She was jigging from foot to foot in her excitement. ‘Go on, then!’

      Some men were wine snobs, closing their eyes and inhaling before tasting. Luca enjoyed a fine wine but didn’t take it too seriously. After all, any local vineyard sold a decent table wine for just a few euros. Gelato, however; well, gelato he took very seriously, especially if it had his name on it.

      He pulled the paper cup close, took the small tasting spoon and scooped a mouthful out of the cup, examining it closely. It was a pale, creamy colour, flecked with small biscuit-coloured chunks and a streak of clear fruit puree. Cautiously, he held it close to his nose and took a deep breath. Ah... Apple and cinnamon were the most pervasive flavours, instantly filling his nostrils with the scent of home baking, country kitchens. Autumn smells. He nodded slowly. So far, so good.

      He brought the spoon to his mouth and carefully licked just a small portion of the ice cream, rolling the cold, creamy morsel round his mouth until he had savoured every flavour. The gelato base was creamier than usual; he would guess it had been made with a vanilla crème anglaise then swirled through with the apple puree and cinnamon. And the chunks...

      He slid the rest of the portion off the spoon and into his mouth: a soft, crumbly, sweet texture. Sponge; apple, cinnamon, custard and sponge. It was delicious.

      ‘Well? What do you think?’

      ‘Very good СКАЧАТЬ