‘Thank you.’ And please don’t let him notice that her voice had just gone all croaky.
He kissed the hollow of her collarbones. ‘What do you want for dinner tonight? I’ll cook.’
She strove for a light, teasing note. ‘If you work as late as you usually do, that means we’ll be eating at midnight.’
‘I’ll come home early.’
‘Early as in a normal person’s “early”?’ she tested.
He laughed. ‘Probably not.’
‘How about I cook for us, then? If you trust me in your kitchen.’
‘Of course I trust you.’ His smile turned wolfish. ‘But there’s a condition attached. I get to sleep with the chef tonight.’
‘Sleep?’
He nibbled her earlobe. ‘Eventually,’ he whispered, sending a thrill of pure lust down her spine.
‘Giovanni Mazetti, just how am I supposed to get any work done when you put thoughts like that into my head?’
‘You’re not.’ He brushed his mouth against hers. ‘You’re going out to lunch with me. And then you’re going to play hookey.’
‘With you?’
He smiled. ‘I’m tempted. Seriously tempted. But, no, what I had in mind is going for a spa afternoon. The sort of thing my sisters do when they’ve had a rough week.’
‘A spa afternoon.’
‘Massage, facial, something like that. Bella swears by it. It’ll de-stress you.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m fine.’
‘No, you’re not.’ He held her just a little bit closer. ‘Maybe I’ll give you that massage myself, then. I told you to take today off, and I meant it. Go and do something to relax you. Rent some DVDs and spend the afternoon watching films, or what have you. And that,’ he added, ‘is an order.’
‘Maybe.’
But when they’d had lunch out—a bacon, mozzarella and avocado salad in a little restaurant on the South Bank—and Gio had gone back to work, Fran decided to take his advice to do something to relax her. A wander through Kew Gardens went a long way to restoring her equilibrium. Then she went back to Gio’s flat via the supermarket, texted him to remind him that she was cooking dinner and it would be ready at half past seven, and enjoyed herself cooking in a decent-sized kitchen for once.
‘I might have to change your job,’ Gio said when he walked in at quarter past seven. ‘Forget being my office manager. You can be my personal chef instead.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s a bit rash. You haven’t tasted dinner yet.’
‘It smells fabulous, so it’ll be gorgeous.’ He stood behind her and slid one arm round her waist, pulling her back against him. ‘And so are you.’
‘Behave,’ she admonished, though she was smiling.
‘Oh, yeah. That reminds me. These are for you.’ He brought his other hand round, and gave her a bunch of bright pink gerberas.
He’d bought her flowers. Again. Completely unexpectedly. Her throat closed and she had to blink back the tears. ‘Thank you. They’re beautiful.’
‘Do I get a kiss, then?’
She smiled. ‘After you’ve eaten. I need to put these in water.’
‘Ah. There might be a problem.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t actually own a vase.’ He rummaged in the kitchen cupboards and came up with a couple of pint glasses. ‘That’ll teach me to make a romantic gesture without thinking it through first.’
She put the flowers into water and stood them in the middle of the table, then slid her arms round his neck and kissed him lightly. ‘Thank you, Gio. The vase doesn’t matter. It’s…’
‘Hey. They were meant to make you smile, not cry.’ Gently, he brushed away the single tear with the pad of his thumb.
‘I’m being wet.’
‘No. You’ve just seen your personal space ruined. And you’ve been putting a brave face on it.’ He hugged her. ‘Everything will be fine. I promise.’
She swallowed hard. ‘Go and sit down. I’ll serve dinner.’
By the time she’d put the bowl of salad on the table and spooned the chicken arrabbiata over the pasta, she’d managed to choke back the tears again.
‘I’m not sure if I dared cook pasta for an Italian,’ she said, placing the plate in front of him.
He laughed. ‘You can’t exactly ruin pasta.’
‘Yes, you can. You can overcook it so it’s soggy. Or not drain it properly.’
He took a mouthful. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is textbook al dente—absolutely perfect—and that arrabbiata sauce has one hell of a kick.’