Would he tell Francesca of that little development? he wondered.
Or would he bed her knowing that even the thought of him being betrothed to another woman would not be enough for her to resist him? How fitting for her to plead for him when she had once walked away.
‘We need music to listen to while we eat,’ he said, infuriatingly turning round to reach for another CD. At this rate, Francesca worked out that they wouldn’t make it to the fresh meat section before closing time.
‘I have music.’ She relieved him of what he was holding and pointedly returned it to the rack.
‘But do you have music that I would like?’
‘Well, since you haven’t got into English music you’ll just have to trust my taste. Okay? Because we can’t dawdle here for hours sifting through CDs. You want me to cook for you—fine. I mean, it’s not something any other client has ever requested…’
‘But then, I am unique,’ Angelo pronounced with such staggering arrogance that Francesca raised her eyes skywards and sighed elaborately. ‘Okay, okay.’ He raised both hands in mock surrender. ‘I’ll trust your taste in music and we’ll get down to the business of buying food.’
And no chat. It was the message he was reading loud and clear from her body language. He let her have it her way for the first ten minutes, obediently looking on in silence while she frowned over the cuts of meat and inspected the vegetables for freshness.
Supermarket shopping was not something Angelo did on a regular basis, or any kind of basis for that matter. He had a housekeeper who took care of keeping his fridge stocked up and, if he ever needed anything beyond the usual, he simply took himself off to the nearest delicatessen and paid over the odds for the privilege. And, of course, for the past few months Georgina had cooked for him, basic English food that was unadventurous but edible.
For a short while he was content to eye the shelves and watch Francesca at work. Just for a short while, though.
‘Tell me what sort of music you like listening to,’ he said while she was frowning over the fresh pasta, and Francesca jumped because suddenly he was a lot closer to her than she had thought.
‘Why?’
‘Because I am interested.’ Sinfully black eyes roamed over her face, taking in her consternation. So desperate to keep him at arms’ length. Because of Jack? Something was missing from that relationship, whatever she said about love and perfect bonding, but he couldn’t quite work out what. Still, in his head, Jack was no longer a rival. In fact, he was fast becoming a ghost so he stifled the surge of jealousy and smiled sincerely at her.
‘In Venice, we always used to listen to classical music. Do you remember?’ He took a packet of fresh tagliatelle from the chilled counter and tossed it into the trolley, then he began weaving slowly towards the aisles of tinned food. Much quieter there. He paused and spent an inordinately long time staring at various sauces while she stood hesitantly next to him and wondered what to say.
‘Somehow that always felt right in Venice. It’s a classical music sort of place.’
‘It never occurred to me that you might actually dislike that kind of music…’
‘I don’t.’
‘So tell me what you will be playing for us tonight over our wonderful meal, hmm?’
Francesca forced herself not to be rattled at his determination to chat to her. It was only natural. After all, they could hardly walk round a supermarket in total silence or else spend the entire evening conversing on the subject of food, fascinating though that was. There was just so much anyone could find to say about the merits of fresh shaved parmesan cheese over the mass produced grated variety. He was chatting because by nature he was an adept social mixer.
If she was jittery then it was entirely her fault. She couldn’t seem to stop him affecting her.
‘I have quite a good jazz collection.’ She guided the trolley away from the pointless jars and towards the checkout tills.
‘Not exactly new and modern, though, is it?’
‘You’d hate new and modern, Angelo.’ The queues were long. Francesca could see the woman in front glancing surreptitiously at Angelo, probably trying to work out whether he was famous, whether she should recognise him.
‘Try me.’
‘I think you’re confusing me with your fiancée. Shouldn’t she be the one opening you up to the joys of modern English music?’
Angelo’s eyes became veiled. ‘Georgina only does easy listening. Oh, and classical, of course, because that has always been my preferred taste.’
‘And, naturally, she would never want to have an opinion on anything that contradicts her lord and master.’ Flustered at the outburst, Francesca stared down into the trolley and took a deep, calming breath. ‘Sorry. Out of order and, before you ask, no, I’m not saying that you two aren’t suited. But you have to admit that it’s a bit strange. You coming to my house, getting me to cook for you. I can’t help but think that Georgina wouldn’t be exactly over the moon at that, and I don’t care how many un-jealous bones she’s got in her body.’ She looked at him seriously and lowered her voice. ‘You must know that you’re putting me in a very uncomfortable position just by hiring me to cater for your wedding, never mind this—you being here. Is that why you’ve come? Because you enjoy seeing me uncomfortable?’