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“Much later,” he grumbled.
“Now, what do you think of the menu?” She pushed a sheet of paper across the table. “I need some help with wine pairings.”
He studied the suggestions. At least wine he understood. “I’ll okay it with the sommelier, but personally, I think the ’96 chardonnay was excellent with the fettuccine and scallops last night, so that’s a definite yes. Adding shrimp, mussels and basil is a nice touch.”
“I’m thinking we’ll use that dish for the cooking classes, too.”
“Mmm. Good idea. The grilled teriyaki salmon and asparagus could also take a chardonnay. Maybe a younger one—the ’99, I think.
“Of course, the Italian trio of spaghetti, baked ziti and lasagna has to go with the Chianti—really any year. We haven’t made an unremarkable one yet.”
Finished, he glanced at Francesca and found her smiling at him.
“I couldn’t do this without you, you know.”
“Without my money, you mean.”
She blinked in surprise. Tony longed to call his bitter words back. He didn’t resent his family money. He knew he was immensely blessed, and it was selfish and childish to think otherwise. He just wished he’d made some kind of contribution to his by-birth windfall.
Francesca slid her hand over his. “Without you.”
He gripped her hand. “You know I don’t mean to complain. I’m just—Commitment isn’t my strong suit.”
Her blue eyes went soft, and maybe a bit regretful, as if she realized they weren’t just talking about the resort anymore. “I know.”
He’d vowed just minutes ago to forget all about her and that pink silky thing, and he would, just as soon as he made sure they were on the same page in this. “Last night was an honest mistake, right? We’ve both been working a lot, keeping late nights and stuff.”
She looked relieved. “Exactly.”
“Your faith in me and your friendship mean everything. I’m not going to do anything to risk that.”
“Me either.”
Whew. He should have known he didn’t have to worry about practical Francesca getting all caught up in the emotion of last night—as he had.
But not anymore. He reminded himself if he hadn’t bailed out on working last night, everything would have turned out very differently. “I’m determined to help this resort succeed. We’re going to make this work.”
“Of course we are.” She let go of his hand, then directed her attention to the legal pad in her lap. “You have to last at least through the summer, so I can win the pool from Sonny Compton.”
“Ha, ha.”
She stood, tucking her pad under her arm. “Let’s take a walk outside. The concrete people are pouring the swimming pool deck this morning, and I want to see how it’s going.”
He rose as well. “That’s my kind of pool. I’ll even volunteer to be the first one to take a dip.”
She linked arms with him, and her old, easy smile returned. “Let’s wait a couple of days until the deck dries, okay?”
“Since I don’t want to be a permanent fixture at the pool, I think I’ll take that advice.”
They strolled across the lobby, through the French doors to the veranda. In the last week, the landscaping company had added huge terra-cotta urns filled with ferns, ivy and bright geraniums. The scent of rosebushes and fruit trees filled the air. Their perfume washed over him, reminding him of the delicate fruity fragrance that always clung to Francesca.
Oh, no, you don’t. If you have to think of a woman, think of Barbie, her broken engagement, her big blue eyes, the sway of her jeans-clad backside as she wandered over to one of the roses and inhaled the—
No, no. Francesca had blue eyes; Barbie had—
Actually he had no idea what color Barbie’s eyes were. He’d find out. Yes. Absolutely.
And Francesca’s curvy backside was off-limits. Strictly.
He forced his gaze from Francesca and focused on the truck churning out mushy cement near the still-empty pool. Men in work boots and shovels spread the mixture of cement and smooth stones in between wooden rails that laid out the path of the deck, then the sidewalk that would wind through the flower and herb garden.
Off to the side stood a familiar figure wearing worn overalls, his silver hair glinting in the sun. Uncle Joe.
Pride filled Tony at the realization that he was going to earn his uncle’s respect and help fulfill his long-held dream to reach even more people with the Galini family hospitality. Tony knew he’d inherited his ease with people and his love of socializing from Joe. He respected his uncle as he did no one else and yearned for Joe’s admiration in return.
During the resort’s construction, Joe had arranged to incorporate the new venture into the advertising campaign he’d recently launched with Matt and Jillian Davidson to promote the Galini-label wines along with their century-old Tribiletto label worldwide. Throughout it all, Joe had never stopped running the winery and gift shop in the old farmhouse on the vineyards’ west side.
His energy was boundless, a quality Tony knew he should take note of and remember the next time he had the urge to complain about his own schedule.
“Oh, there’s Joe,” Francesca said, waving. “Hey, Joe!”
Joe waved back, then slogged through the mud toward them. “Ciao,” he said, kissing Francesca on the cheek. He pulled Tony to his chest for a brief hug. “I got your message, bella. Pierre von Shalburg, eh? Quite a triumph.”
Smiling, Francesca shook her head. “I can’t imagine who could have managed to arrange such a thing.”
Joe winked. “Somebody powerful, I’ll bet.”
“Handsome, too,” Tony added.
Joe laughed. “Don’t forget charming.”
“And with an irresistibly sexy nephew.”
Francesca rolled her eyes. “Good grief.”
“So, bella, what do you have planned to knock off Mr. von Shalburg’s shoes?”
“That’s socks, sir,” Tony said. Joe was forever getting American expressions mixed up.
“Socks?” he asked with a confused frown.
“You step into someone’s shoes, and knock someone’s socks off.”
Joe waved his hand. “Sì. So, where’s the menu?”
Francesca handed a paper to him, and he took a few moments to examine the dishes. “Excellent, though you may want to add an exotic or expensive ingredient or two—maybe caviar or truffles with the salad course. That Shalburg fellow is something of a snoot-head.”
Francesca frowned. Tony laughed.
“I got that one wrong, too, eh? Hmm, I meant aristocratic, high and mighty—”
Tony stopped laughing long enough to say, “No, you got it right, Uncle Joe. Snooty is, in fact, exactly the right description for good ole von Shalburg.”
Francesca planted her hands on her hips. “You’re not helping, Joe.”
“What did I say?”
Tony laid his arm across his uncle’s shoulders. “She’s just a little uptight about von Snoothead’s visit.”
“I didn’t get much sleep last night either,” she added before thinking, then glanced at Tony. Her face flushed to the roots of her hair.
Tony couldn’t help remembering the image of her stretched out on the bed, one silky, perfect breast exposed, her curvy body and olive-toned skin enticingly set off by her pink satin camisole. Desire slammed into him with the force of a stormy wind off Long Island Sound. He swallowed. “Yeah. There’s a lot of that going around.”
“Let’s go over by the pool and see how the pouring is coming along.” Not looking at Tony, she stepped out of her heeled sandals and into a pair of rubber boots that looked as if they’d just fallen from the pages of the L.L. Bean catalog. Tony glanced down at his Italian leather loafers and winced.
“Where are your work boots?” Joe asked.
“What would I want a pair of work boots for?” He pointed at Francesca’s feet. “Especially ones as ugly as that.”
Francesca and Joe exchanged an exasperated look.
Tony just shrugged, then rolled up his black pants. He balanced himself on the wooden frame for the sidewalk and used it like a tightrope to walk to the pool.
He, Joe and Francesca introduced themselves to the site foreman, but as the others discussed the mix ratio of concrete to stone, Tony gazed at the still-empty pool. Francesca would look great stretched out by the pool, wearing nothing but a bikini, sunglasses and a smile. What color would her bikini be? He recalled a red one from last summer when he and a bunch of their friends had rented a house on Martha’s Vineyard.
Or maybe pink, like the now-infamous nightie.
She’d smile and turn toward him, sliding her hand up his bare thigh.
No, she’d probably just glare at him. No that’s what she’s doing now, you idiot.
He rubbed his hands together, as if he’d be glad to volunteer to spread the concrete himself—if only he was properly dressed. “Well, it looks great to me.”
Francesca promptly turned back to the concrete conversation, and he fought against the provocative images of her and her bikini. He stared—hard—at her white turtleneck.
Nope. That didn’t help. He knew what was under there. He’d touched and sampled what was under there. If only he could get under there again…
“Ms. D’Arcy!” someone called from a distance.
They all turned toward the veranda.
The housekeeping manager, Mabel, waved, but she wasn’t smiling. “It’s Chef Carlos.”
Now that man would put just about anybody off their pleasant thoughts.
FRANCESCA had barely cleared the kitchen door when the resort’s prized, can’t-run-the-place-without-him chef jabbed his knife into the chopping block.
“I will not work with that, that imbecile, that klutz, that…food masochist!”
Chef Carlos was half Cuban and half Puerto Rican, so to describe him as passionate was an extreme understatement. He was also highly respected, a perfectionist, well-traveled, sophisticated, and a Ricky Martin lookalike.
Since Francesca had known him only by reputation before interviewing him last month, his appearance had been something of a shock, but that was nothing compared to actually dealing with him and his…problem on a daily basis. In public, “fans” followed him around, they screamed, they tore at his clothes. Explaining he was not the internationally known entertainer was useless.
Even in the privacy of the resort, the problems continued. Francesca had gone through endless interviews with housekeeping managers before she’d found practical, sixty-something Mabel, who didn’t want to jump him, just mother him. And Carlos himself didn’t help much. Personality-wise he had little in common with the butt-shaking performer—he was a grouch, and his perfectionist nature had everyone jumpy and irritable.
“My art requires at least a minute bit of assisted skill. As much as I’m able to juggle, I cannot withstand the pressure entirely alone.”
“Of course, Chef,” she said, though she didn’t agree with his assessment of Kerry, whom she thought was a talented, even-tempered sous chef.
Chef Carlos heaved a deep sigh. “What do I expect with such a child?”
“Kerry is twenty-three, Chef. He’s an adult.” Carlos hadn’t had such a prestigious job at that age. Maybe there was a bit of jealousy here as well.
“I want him out.”
But she couldn’t get rid of Kerry. He had the secret stash of Hawaiian gourmet chocolate to make her favorite midnight snack—chocolate-covered marshmallows. He refused to reveal his source, and she couldn’t make it through the night without those marshmallows. “No,” she said simply.
“No? Did you say no? No one tells the great—”
“Oh, come on, Chef.” Francesca tapped her foot. “What did he do—specifically, without histrionics?”
Francesca figured very few people ever argued with the talented chef, but if she didn’t let him know early on that she wouldn’t be bullied, she’d be dealing with scenes like this every week, hell, maybe every day. With von Shalburg’s visit as well as their opening round of guests just a few days away, she had to establish leadership and strength now or she wouldn’t ever be able to. Still, her heart pounded with the idea that Chef Carlos might pack up his knives and go home.
“He…he cut the carrots for the pasta primavera a quarter-inch too short.”
“He—” Francesca leaned against the counter for support. Life had really been okay at the Hilton. She’d had a perfectly nice job, a perfectly nice paycheck…distance from an unreasonable attraction to her best friend.
This is your dream, angel. Make it work.
She could all but hear her father whisper encouragement in her ear.
“Where is he?” she asked after a bracing roll of her shoulders.
“Here, Ms. D’Arcy,” a low voice answered from the back door. Kerry held a cardboard produce box in front of his body like a shield. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. It just sort of happened.”
Francesca hurt for him. He was so quiet and tender-hearted. The food business was tough, and she worried about him being able to survive in a world where Pierre von Shalburgs and Chef Carloses flourished.
“Let’s see if we can’t work this out,” she said.
Encouraged, Kerry took a few, halting steps forward. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Food is as much about presentation as it is taste. Chef Carlos is well known for his perfectionism. If you have to pull out a ruler to make the cuts exact, then do it.”
Kerry nodded and made a small mewing sound. Carlos lifted his chin.
“And, Chef Carlos, remember, these last few days before opening are for practice. There’s no need to berate Kerry for a small mistake. Nurture him. He’ll help you look like the genius you are.”
Carlos inclined his head. Kerry mewed again.
