Best of Bosses 2008: In Bed With Her Italian Boss\Taken by Her Greek Boss\Blind Date With the Boss (6 page)

‘Thank you.'

‘When you've done your food hygiene course, you can practise on some customers. In the quiet spots of the day, that is; I wouldn't expect you to handle the morning, lunchtime or midafternoon rush, first off.' He smiled at her. ‘And now I ought to let you go home.' He didn't want her to go—but on the other hand, it was probably better for his rapidly unravelling self-control that she did. ‘Your family's going to be beating my door down and yelling at me for making you work too hard.'

‘I doubt it. They know I'm a big girl and I can look after myself.'

She'd clearly aimed for a flippant note, but he could hear the underlying hurt. What was wrong? He fished in the tub on the
counter, drew out a chocolate dipper and handed it to her. ‘Spill the beans.'

‘I don't know what you mean.'

‘Yes, you do. You're the eldest of four, but you've hardly mentioned a word about your family. Whereas mine are always around—if not in person, then on the phone or texting or emailing.' She'd met more than one of them, too. ‘Sally said my mum dropped by this afternoon. Gave you the third degree, did she?'

‘She was lovely.'

‘Yeah. She's bossy and she's interfering and she drives me absolutely bananas,' he said with a grin, ‘but I still wouldn't change her for anything. I
knew
she'd come and check you out. I bet she'd been skulking in the street, wearing dark glasses and hiding behind bay trees in big pots, until she saw me leave and knew the coast was clear to come and vet you.'

Fran laughed, but he could still see the sadness in her eyes. ‘Tell me about your family,' he said softly.

She took a deep breath. ‘I'm adopted. My parents didn't think they could have children. So they adopted me…and then the twins came along. And then Suzy.'

He reached out slid his hand over hers. Squeezed it. ‘Hey. There's nothing wrong with being adopted. It just proves your parents really wanted you to live with them. They chose you.'

She swallowed hard. ‘That's what they said, when they told me the truth about my parentage. That I'm special because they chose me.'

‘And then being able to have more children was a bonus for them. An unexpected bonus.'

‘Maybe. But I'm not like Suzy or Dominic or Ted. I…' She struggled to pull her hand away. ‘Oh, just ignore me. I'm being wet.'

‘No.' He refused to let her hand go. ‘Have you told your parents how you feel?'

She shook her head. ‘I don't want to hurt them or make them feel I don't appreciate what they've done for me over all the years. But I know I'm a disappointment to them. The others were all good at sport and exams, and I'm not.'

‘But look at what you
are
good at,' Gio said. ‘You've got tons of common sense—something a lot of highly academic people don't have. You're good with people. And you're scarily organised. I'm willing to bet you anything you choose that they don't see you as a disappointment.' He paused. ‘Something else Nonna says. You never treat your children the same, because they're all different. But you treat them equally. And you love them the same amount—just for different things.'

She gave him a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. ‘Maybe.'

‘Definitely.' How on earth could Fran not fit in to her family? She'd been here less than a week and already she was part of the team. He'd noticed a couple of times this afternoon that the Docklands team had been halfway to dialling Fran to ask for help sorting out a problem before remembering that he was there on the spot.

But maybe being adopted gave you a different perspective. Fran's birth parents had given her away, so no doubt there was a part of her that would always worry her new family wouldn't want her, either. That there was something about her that made her unlovable.

‘Have you ever tried finding your birth parents?' he asked quietly.

She shook her head. ‘I've never wanted to. I'm sure they had good reasons at the time for not keeping me.'

And if she managed to trace them and they didn't want to know her, Gio knew that a second rejection would shatter her trust in people completely.

Right now, Fran needed security—something Gio knew he couldn't give her in a relationship, given that he didn't know what he wanted from life right now. But he could definitely make her feel part of Giovanni's.

‘It's good that you're not judging them too harshly. Not bitter about it.'

‘There's no point. Being bitter isn't going to change anything or make things better.' She shrugged. ‘Besides, Mum and Dad gave me a stable home.'

She hadn't mentioned love, Gio noticed, something he'd always
taken for granted in a large and noisy family where you got hugged and kissed every day and told how special you were. And even though the demonstrativeness had been excruciatingly embarrassing during his teens—especially when his parents insisted on showing all his baby photos to any girl he brought home—he'd always known he fitted in, that he was part of the family.

‘Your family's proud of you,' he said softly. ‘Maybe they're not good at telling you—maybe they're English and reserved instead of Italian and over-demonstrative like my lot. But my guess is they're proud of you. And they're going to get even prouder when Giovanni's expands and your parents realise that their daughter is the number two in the company.' He squeezed her hand again, and this time let it go. ‘Want my advice? Go home, ring them and tell them you love them.'

‘I might just do that.'

‘No “mights”. Do it. It'll make you feel better.' He smiled at her. ‘Go home. I'm not going to make you stay really late on a Friday night.' Even though what he wanted to do with her would take the rest of the weekend, let alone the night. Because he was going to be sensible about this. ‘I'll see you on Monday, OK?'

‘Sure. Have a nice weekend.'

He laughed. ‘You'll never know how glad I am that you didn't say, “Giovanni Mazetti, don't you work
too
hard”…'

‘M
ORNING
,
Fran. How was your weekend?' Gio asked as she walked into the coffee shop on the Monday morning.

‘Fine, thanks. Yours?'

‘Fine.'

She'd just sat down when he brought a latte in to her. This time, there was the shape of an apple floating on the crema. ‘You're definitely showing off. Flowers, hearts, apples…'

‘Just you wait. Tomorrow I'll do you an ammonite,' he said with a grin.

She scoffed, ‘No
way
can you free-pour an ammonite.'

‘I didn't actually say I'd free-pour it. I said I'd do you one.' He looked thoughtful. ‘But as challenges go…that's a good one.' He leaned against her desk. ‘Did you do what I suggested, on Friday?'

She nodded. ‘Thanks for the advice.'

‘Don't thank me—it's Nonna's wisdom, not mine. She says you can never tell people too often that you love them. And no doubt, as she's coming over from Milan soon, you'll get to thank her in person.' Gio sighed. ‘I have this feeling she'll be “just passing” the café, like Mum was. And when she's finished grilling you, she'll start on me. Telling me that I work too hard, and I need to find myself some
bella ragazza
and settle down and produce a great-grandchild for her to spoil.' He rolled his eyes. ‘I'm really hoping that she gets distracted by her newest great-granddaughter. Lorena's absolutely gorgeous.' He pulled his
mobile phone from his pocket and flicked through the photographs. ‘See?'

For someone who was so adamant that he didn't want babies, Fran thought, Gio had a very soppy look on his face. She'd bet he had a picture of every single child in his family on his mobile phone. Not that she was going to take him to task for being a fraud. ‘She's lovely,' she said.

‘Nonna will enjoy cuddling her. But then again, it'll probably make her worse. Once she gets started on this settling-down stuff…'

‘You can always try distracting her with latte art,' Fran said, laughing and gesturing to her mug.

‘I could even draw her a bat with a long nose, to make the point. But she'd only laugh and say I was trying to get her off her favourite subject. Like when is her youngest grandson going to settle down,' he said ruefully.

 

The week got better and better. Gio switched to etching pictures in her coffee, from the promised ammonite through to a lion with a shaggy mane and a spider in a web, making her laugh. Fran teased him back by making a rosetta in his latte with chocolate syrup and ignoring his demands to see a proper free-poured rosetta—she was still a long way from being ready for that. Though she'd been practising in secret, coached by Sally in return for a promise of half-share in the chocolates Gio had bet her.

Even the food hygiene course on the Thursday wasn't that bad; everything was practical, common sense, and the multiple-choice exam wasn't as scary as the exam papers she remembered from her schooldays. Thirty questions in forty-five minutes—and, as Gio said, she was organised and practical, and most of it was simple common sense. She just had to wait a fortnight for the results. A fortnight that just sped by so she actually forgot about the wait.

 

The post hadn't arrived before Fran left for work on the Thursday morning, but Fran came home to find a large envelope on the doormat. An envelope with the logo of the college on it.

Her results.

It had been nearly eight years since she'd taken an exam. And she'd been physically sick afterwards, knowing she'd done badly and furious with herself because the second she'd walked out of the exam room all the knowledge had come flooding back again and she could've answered all the questions after all.

And when she'd opened the envelope containing her results—proof in black and white that she'd messed up her A levels and let everyone down—she'd spent the whole day crying, because she was such a failure. Despite the fact her parents had tried to comfort her and said it didn't matter, she knew she was a disappointment to them. They were academics, living in Oxford: how could they not be disappointed that she'd failed her A levels and wouldn't go on to university?

Would she be a disappointment to Gio, the same way?

On the day of the course, she'd felt she'd done OK. The exam hadn't thrown her.

Now…she wasn't so sure. Not with her track record. And she couldn't bear the idea of Gio losing his faith in her. Of letting him down.

But she wasn't a coward. She took a deep breath and ripped open the envelope. Stared at the piece of paper inside. No,
two
pieces of paper. A letter and a certificate. So she didn't even have to read the letter to know.

She'd passed.

She whooped and did a Snoopy dance on the doormat.

She'd actually
passed
!

Gio's belief in her had been right. She'd come good.

And she needed to tell him. Right now. She grabbed the phone—and then replaced the receiver without dialling. He'd be in the office, she knew; although he was a stickler for sending her home on the dot, he worked until at least half past seven most nights.

Tonight, she was going to take him out to celebrate. And they were going to drink champagne. She locked her front door, took
the tube back to Goodge Street and walked down to the café. As she suspected, the closed sign was up and the front of the café was dark, but she could see the faint light from the office in the back of the shop. Gio was still there. Still working.

She banged on the door.

No answer.

She knocked again.

Still no answer.

Third time lucky?

Yes.

The frown on Gio's face dissolved as he saw her and unlocked the door. ‘Hi, Fran. What are you doing here?'

‘You sent me to learn about and understand the importance of food hygiene and hazards, plus good hygiene practice and controls based upon food safety management systems,' she said. ‘So there's something I need to talk to you about.'

‘Uh-huh. Come through to the office.' He stood aside, then locked the door behind her again.

She followed him to the office, rummaging in her handbag, then handed him the letter.

He handed it back without unfolding it. ‘I don't need to read this.'

‘Yes, you do.'

‘No, I don't.' He smiled. ‘I told you that you'd pass.'

‘Gio, it's the first exam I've taken in eight years. Last time I sat in an exam room, I screwed it up. I failed.'

‘But this time, you did well. Just as I knew you would.'

His unshakeable confidence in her made her feel warm from the inside out. She smiled wryly and tucked the letter back into her handbag. ‘Just for the record: yes, I passed.'

‘Well done. You can do the intermediate certificate next, if you want.' He shook his head. ‘Actually, no. You're on the management side, so it's probably better if you do the HACCP in Practice course.'

Was he testing her to see if she knew what the acronym stood for? Ha. No sweat. ‘Hazard Analysis Critical Control Points,' she said with a grin.

‘And you'll pass that one standing on your head because you're organised, practical and sensible. Piece of cake.' He laughed. ‘Well, a brownie, maybe—if Sally leaves us any.'

Fran smiled back. Then she noticed that his guitar was out of its case. ‘Sorry, was I disturbing you?'

He followed the direction of her gaze, then shrugged. ‘I sometimes use it when I'm thinking. Let things work in my subconscious.'

‘And you're thinking about the franchise options?'

He nodded.

‘Would you play something for me?' she asked on impulse, settling herself on the edge of the desk.

He blinked. ‘I don't play for an audience any more.'

‘I'm not an audience. I'm your office manager. And I just passed my exam, so I deserve a treat, yes?'

‘That,' he said, ‘is manipulation worthy of my mother—in fact, it's worthy of my grandmother.'

Maybe. But she had a feeling that Gio had given up his music as a penance for what he believed he'd done wrong. And maybe playing to someone else would help make him see that he'd more than paid his dues. That he could have his music back.

So she simply sat there. Waiting.

He sighed. ‘I should warn you, I'm out of practice. Not like I used to be.'

‘I've never heard you play before, so I don't have anything to compare it with,' she pointed out.

‘Even so.'

But he was wavering. She could see it. ‘Just one piece? Something short and simple.'

He was silent for what seemed like a long, long time. To the point where Fran thought maybe she'd pushed him too far.

She was about to slide off the desk, apologise and leave him be, when he picked up the guitar.

The notes rang out, sweet and clear, in the office—a slow, pretty tune that Fran half-recognised. And then he changed it; it was the same tune, but this time it sounded incredibly different,
as if it were being played by a Venetian gondolier on a mandolin. Then he switched back to the slow, sweet version.

‘Wow,' she said, when he'd finished. ‘I've heard that before, but I've got no idea what it's called.'

‘“Spanish Ballad”.'

‘Spanish? That middle bit sounded more Italian than Spanish.'

He shrugged. ‘It's a technique called tremolo—and it's used in Spanish music as well as Italian. Tarrega's “Alhambra” is probably the best-known example.'

Not one she knew—at least, not by name. ‘You didn't sound rusty to me. I liked it.' She paused. ‘Can I be really greedy? More, please?'

He blew out a breath. ‘As long as you don't ask me to play “Cavatina”. I
loathe
that piece of music. My sisters used to warble it around the house just to annoy me.'

She shook her head. ‘I don't mind what you play. Pick something you like.'

He played Bach's ‘Air on a G String', and she ended up closing her eyes and letting the music flood through her senses; the sound was so beautiful that it brought her close to tears. She didn't recognise the next two pieces, though the style reminded her of the Mozart piano pieces Suzy used to practise as a teenager; and then Gio launched into a fast, flamenco-sounding piece. It sounded as if there were two people playing different guitars, though she knew that was a crazy idea. She opened her eyes just to check that someone hadn't just appeared out of thin air to accompany him—but, no, it was just Gio.

And he looked as if he were enjoying himself, as if the speed and sudden loud flamenco licks were releasing all the tension that had built up inside him.

‘That was incredible,' she said when he'd finished. If this was what he called ‘out of practice', he must've been a truly fantastic musician in his late teens. Gio had a real talent for music, she thought; but he'd sacrificed it for the sake of his family.

‘That was Albéniz's “Asturias”,' he said. ‘A bit showy-off.' He
grinned. ‘But since I'm being a show-off…' He launched into another piece, slightly jazzy.

‘I really like that. What is it?'

‘“Verano Porteño”. It's by an Argentinean composer, Piazzolla.'

The mischievous twinkle was back in his eye, Fran noticed with pleasure. Music definitely brought out the best in Gio. ‘Should I have heard of him?'

‘Probably not—unless you dance the tango.'

She laughed. ‘Not with my two left feet.'

‘Dancing a tango's easier than making latte art.' He gave her a speculative look. ‘Maybe I'll teach you.'

Being musical and having a good sense of rhythm, Gio would probably be a superb dancer. And the idea of dancing a tango with him—breast to breast and cheek to cheek, their bodies moving as one—sent little ripples of desire down her spine.

‘In Argentina, there's a saying that everything may change except the tango…but Piazzolla changed it,' Gio said. ‘He fused the old-fashioned style with jazz, to make something called
nuevo tango
.'

Given that saying…‘And it went down badly?' she guessed.

‘At the time, yes—though nowadays most people think of him as the Tango King. He ended up living in Italy, where his parents' family came from, in the late nineteen-seventies. Nonna actually saw him play in Rome, and said he was completely amazing.' He smiled wryly. ‘I normally only play Piazzolla for Nonna.'

‘Then I consider myself honoured,' Fran said. ‘What does “Verano Porteño” mean?'

‘Summer—well, it's meant to be an evocation of summer in Buenos Aires. It's from his
Four Seasons
,' he said, ‘which is sadly not as well known as Vivaldi's.' He played a couple of bars she recognised from ‘Spring', then put his guitar back in the case. ‘Enough for now.'