But first he would have to break down the barriers between them. Swallowing back a sigh of frustration, he embarked on the least provocative line of conversation he could think of, asking her questions about the catering business generally, watching as she transferred food from saucepans and pots to basic white casserole dishes.
‘Do you keep in touch with anyone from the modelling world?’ he asked, when she had finally sat down and indicated to him that he should help himself.
Francesca laughed. ‘Lord, no! I couldn’t wait to get out of it in the end. For a start I was beginning to be the mother figure to a new crop of girls, all still in their teens. Some of them even had the adolescent spots to show for it!’
‘I thought spots weren’t allowed on models.’ He didn’t remind her that his offer for her to quit modelling, to move to London with him, had met with blank refusal.
‘They’re not. Hence the army of make-up artists who follow in the wake of every model. I’ve never met any spot that can’t be successfully camouflaged under some expert face paint.’ He was listening to every single word she was saying, giving her nonsense small talk his undivided attention. She had forgotten what a huge part of his charisma that was—the ability to listen.
‘That used to irritate you, if I remember.’
Francesca’s eyes skittered away from his dangerously good-looking face. ‘I didn’t miss it when I left. My face probably did, though!’
‘You look better than you did then, if anything.’ He willed her to actually look back at him and she did. ‘Your hair suits you shorter. This chicken is very good, by the way. You do yourself a disservice when you say that Jack is the talent behind the cooking.’
‘He thinks up unusual combinations. I know my limits. I stick to the things I know.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Angelo murmured. ‘Only cowards stick to what they know. The predictable path is always the boring one.’
His voice was mesmerising. She tried to break the spell by eating, but, as always, the business of preparing the food had left her without any particular desire to sample it.
‘I don’t always stick to what I know,’ Francesca retorted. ‘But if the business is to succeed I can’t just do exactly what I want, when I want!’
‘And what would that be if you could?’
‘What would what be?’
‘What would you like to do if you weren’t buttoned down chopping onions and preparing the same recipe over and over again because you’ve decided to leave the imaginative stuff to your boyfriend?’
‘I am not buttoned down!’ She jumped up from the table and began clearing up some of the used pans, her movements jerky. ‘I might have known it wouldn’t last!’
‘What?’ Angelo said tightly. He knew what. He had blown it. Just when he had actually got her to the point of dropping some of those damned defences, he had put her back up all over again. He should just drop this crazy idea, just realise that some challenges were a little too challenging.
‘The politeness!’ She folded her arms and glared at him.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ He raked his fingers through his hair and glared right back at her. ‘Being rooted in one place seems to have given you a keen sense of paranoia.’
‘Paranoia?’ She felt fired up with anger and safe within it. ‘I’m not attacking you! I’m asking you if there are things that you still miss.’
You! The word shrieked in her head and she blanched. ‘Like what?’
‘Like travelling. Seeing the world.’
‘I’m building a business. I haven’t got the time or the finances to travel and see the world. Anyway, I did all that when I was younger.’ She turned away abruptly and began filling the sink with soapy water for the dishes. She missed him. Yes, she had always known that, had always felt a little opening there in her heart, like a crack in the door just big enough to let a breeze laden with old memories blow through. What she hadn’t realised until now was that the breeze was really a gale just waiting for the crack to get bigger.
‘So now you’ve sampled my cooking, it’s time you left.’
Maybe, just maybe, he would take the hint and actually do what she asked, so that without looking around she would simply hear the click of the front door closing and know that he had gone.
She wasn’t aware of him approaching her until she was caged in by the sink, one strong, muscular bronzed arm on either side of her.
‘You mean maybe it’s time I left before I can say anything that you might not want to hear,’ Angelo grated. ‘And turn around and look at me when I’m talking to you!’