Angelo stifled the urge to inform her that producing good food, or food of any kind, was not the point of the evening for him. He also stifled the urge to tell her that she looked as sexy as hell kitted out in a black and white checked apron, that he would be interested in seeing how the apron looked without anything worn under it.
'I like the music,' he said, dropping his eyes and swirling his wineglass gently around. 'Sexy.'
The word dropped into the silence and rested there for a few moments. 'Where's Georgina this evening?'
'Paris, I believe.' Exhausting her rage through some retail therapy. Her mother would, no doubt, already have sympathised with her daughter that he was no good for her, a foreigner without any knowledge of how the British operated. The accusation had been one of the more choice ones from his ex-fiancée.
'You believe? That's a bit indifferent, Angelo. You should have asked her over here with you to sample my cooking.'
'I prefer to savour the revelation on my own.' He sipped some of his wine and caught her eyes over the rim of his glass.
The smoky intensity in his eyes went to her head like a bolt of lightning-a few heated seconds, plenty long enough for the sharply honed knife she had been wielding with such expertise to slice through skin.
With a little yelp, Francesca yanked her finger and dashed to the sink.
'Let me see it!' Angelo was next to her before she was even aware of him leaving the chair.
'It's nothing.' She gave him a wobbly smile. 'I don't normally chop my finger to bits when I'm slicing onions.'
'It's pouring blood. Where is your first aid box?'
'It's not pouring blood. It's … ' The remainder of her sentence was lost in sheer shock as he raised her finger to his mouth and sucked it.
'Antiseptic,' he murmured as her body temperature rocketed upwards at an alarming rate. 'Did you know that? Let's go and find some plaster.'
'I have some in one of these drawers,' Francesca mumbled.
'Leave it to me.' He began pulling open drawers while she stood, transfixed, staring, heart racing. He found the right drawer eventually and carefully began putting the plaster over the cut. His touch was electrifying.
'There's no need for you to do that, Angelo. I'm perfectly capable of putting on a piece of plaster myself.' Fat lot of good the protest was, she thought, when she was passively allowing him to do what he wanted.
'Nonsense. All women feel faint at the sight of blood. It's a well documented fact.' He looked at her and grinned. 'Fortunately I'm a man and therefore very good at dealing with situations like this.'
'That is the most … the most … '
'Truthful thing you have ever heard spoken?'
'The most ridiculous nonsense I've ever heard in my life.' The plaster was on but he was still standing right there in front of her, making it very difficult for her to breathe and impossible for her to move, with her back to the counter.
'You remember I once told you that for a while I toyed with the idea of studying medicine at university … '
'And you remember that I once replied that thinking about studying medicine didn't actually qualify you as a doctor?'
'I always thought that that was a particularly harsh response,' Angelo said piously, 'especially considering that I had just successfully diagnosed your stress-induced stomach ulcer as indigestion.'
For a few breathless seconds Francesca didn't say anything, then she muttered, looking away, 'I'll get on and do the cooking, then, if you don't mind. Thanks for putting on a piece of plaster for me and I don't mean to have the last word but I could have done it myself.' She turned away, waiting for him to return to his chair, which he did. She failed to hear his exasperated sigh. 'Actually,' she carried on, papering over her chaotic feelings with small talk, 'the catering course I went on was very good. We didn't just learn how to cook. We also learnt quite a bit about nutrition and how what we eat affects our health and well-being, and also some basic first aid measures for dealing with the sort of accidents that can happen in a kitchen. You know, cuts, burns, that sort of thing.' With her back to him, she could gather herself, get some kind of self-control going.
'Really. Interesting.' For a moment back then, he'd known that she was his, as dramatically turned on by him as he was by her. It hadn't lasted.
'Yes. Yes, it was. Very.' Prawns were cooked rapidly, dressing was made for the salad to accompany them.
'And was this the same course that your … boyfriend did?' Angelo drawled.
'Jack … no, Jack did another one, different place.'
Another brick wall. He decided to drop the subject. Damned if he was going to let her get away with an endless but safe conversation about the various methods of skinning tomatoes, though.
'You are making me feel guilty, sitting here, doing nothing.'
'You could always go for a walk and leave me here to get on with it,' Francesca suggested. 'I work better without an audience and you're right, it's boring for you just sitting down and watching.'
'I never said that I was bored. You're not drinking your wine.'
Francesca stopped what she was doing and took a long swig of the wine. Very expensive indeed. Light, crisp, dry with a nicely smoked flavour. 'There,' she said, looking at him. 'Satisfied?'
'Not quite yet,' Angelo murmured, finishing his wine and rising to pour himself another. He would definitely have to get a taxi back to his apartment-if he needed to leave.
'Don't worry. The food won't disappoint but if you guzzle too much of that stuff you won't be able to appreciate it.' Back to the safety of the chicken and the olives and the frying. 'If you're bored, you can choose some different music to put on. My CDs are all in the rack behind you.'
Angelo could feel irritation starting to get the better of him. He swallowed it down and began looking through her collection of music, extracting random CDs, which he stockpiled on the kitchen table in a spreading, untidy heap.
Out of the corner of her eye, Francesca witnessed the encroachment of mess over the previously pristine surface and was not at all nonplussed. She had discovered early on in their relationship that, although Angelo was highly organized in his work life, in fact the most organised man she had ever come across, he was spectacularly untidy in his private life. Clothes were dropped and stepped over, ties were hung in gathering piles over any convenient surface, jackets were draped over backs of chairs with absolutely no thought to preserving their longevity. She had found it exasperating and curiously endearing at the same time.
'I hope you intend to put back all those CDs you've dumped on my kitchen table,' she said, covering the pan that held the chicken and taking time out to sit down with her glass of wine.
'Of course.' He paused in his frowning inspection of cases to shoot her a surprised look.
'Because your ability to be messy is legendary and I have no intention of clearing up behind you.'
Angelo frowned.
'And there's no need to look annoyed. I don't have to tiptoe around you.'
'When did you ever do that?' he demanded. 'I don't recall you ever doing that!'
'Oh. I forgot.' She drained her glass and stood up to fetch some plates from the cupboard. 'That was one of my faults. Lack of appropriate respect for the great Angelo Falcone!' Somewhere in her head she thought, Oh, dear, shouldn't have said that, but then why should she be on her agonisingly best behaviour? He was in her house, and not by her invitation. She would tell him that, should he want to pursue the conversation!
He didn't.
'Let us not argue,' he said mildly. He refilled her glass. 'Although, getting back to your accusation that I am a messy person, I challenge you to come to my apartment and test it for cleanliness.'
'Your housekeeper. Just like the one you employed in Venice. There's no point in arguing with evidence, Angelo.' She indicated the CDs on the table with a nod of her head and began laying the table, containing a sigh when he gathered up the cases and stacked them unevenly at the bottom of the table, meaning that he would sit far too close to her for her liking.
He shrugged and slipped on one of her classical CDs, beautiful, soothing music that rippled through the small kitchen like water trickling gently over stones. Soft, romantic music. Music to dance to in a flowing dress, in the arms of a lover. All wrong, she thought, for this particular situation. She had to keep reminding herself that the man was engaged, that he had treated her pretty badly, never mind his super-polite behaviour now.
She served the prawns while the chicken was still simmering and reddened with pleasure at the appreciative noises he made. When he poured her another glass of wine, she accepted.