The Italian's Pregnant Mistress(15)

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?'

'You are being paranoid.' He had forgotten how much he liked the way she  stripped all the outer layers from a conversation and got to the honest  core of it. Of course, now would be the perfect time to tell her that  he and Georgina were no longer going to be married, that the big wedding  catering job was not going to materialise, but he didn't. Instead he  smiled lazily at her.

'If it stresses you out cooking for me, then of course I would not want you to feel obliged … '

'It doesn't stress me out.' She shuffled a few inches forward with her trolley.

'Good. Then no problem. Is it always this busy at a supermarket?'

Distracted, Francesca looked at him with an appalled expression.  'Angelo, could you keep your voice down when you make remarks like that?  Of course supermarkets are busy places. When was the last time you set  foot inside one?'

'Ah. Now let me think.' He began helping her take things out of the  trolley, watching with amusement as she restructured his untidy piling  up of items on the belt. 'I think I may have once gone into a very small  one close to where I live.'

'And you don't want me to call you a dinosaur?' Francesca hissed. 'Look,  please let me offload this trolley. Half the stuff you're cramming on  is trying to fall off the sides.'

'Hence my argument for paying someone else to do the shopping for you.'

'Yes. If you have more money than sense.' And, of course, for most  women, more money than sense in a man would be a very redeeming feature.  He might be marrying Georgina because she fitted the bill, but how  would he feel if perhaps she was marrying him because he fitted the  bill?

'Or not enough time on your hands to wage World War Three in pursuit of a few items of food.'

'It's not always like this.' She grinned reluctantly at him. 'If you  come at weird hours it's quite empty and you can fly around and get what  you want without having to queue at the tills.' Walking at a snail's  pace and insisting on looking at every jar and bottle didn't help either  when it came to speed. She realised that they had been shopping for  well over an hour. Time was ticking past. There was a meal to cook. The  chances of him being out of her house by nine were beginning to look  remote.                       
       
           



       

She was aware of him chatting to her, nothing that would put her on the  defensive. Once or twice, as she was filling the bags while he stood  next to her, under orders to let her handle the packing, he referred to  their past. Little droplets of memories that warmed her inside. The  bread shop they would go to in Venice. The patisseries in Paris, where  they had occasionally stayed in her apartment when it had been more  convenient with their overlapping schedules.

He insisted on taking the bags into the house. 'I'm more than competent  when it comes to lifting heavy things,' he informed her seriously. 'Why  don't you go and stick the wine in the fridge and put on some of that  modern English music a dinosaur like myself has not heard of?'

There was no point arguing. She stuck the wine in the fridge, wondered  what she was doing, put on some R&B music, wondered a bit more what  she was doing, and then there he was, piling bags on to the kitchen  table and hunting in the cupboards for a couple of glasses for the wine.

And still talking to her, as though they were the friends they no longer were.

'Let me help you,' Angelo said, pouring them both a glass of wine.

'What's the good of that if the point is to see whether I'm capable of producing good food?'