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‘Maybe you should consider asking to move out of admin and into a marketing role.’
‘No point. I’m going back home in a few months.’
Then why bother to be mentored? he wondered.
As if in answer to his unspoken question she turned to face him, her arms folded. ‘I want to learn as much as I can whilst I’m here, to maximise how I can help when I get back.’
It made sense, and yet he intuited it was more than that. Perhaps he should file it away as potentially useful information. Perhaps he should make a push to find something he could bring to the negotiating table.
‘Fair enough.’ A glance outside showed the autumn dusk had settled in, which meant... ‘I’m ready for dinner—what about you?’
‘Um... I didn’t realise it was so late. I’m quite happy to grab a sandwich in my room. I bet Room Service is pretty spectacular here.’
‘I’m sure it is, but I’ve heard the restaurant is incredible.’
Blue eyes surveyed him for a moment. ‘So you’re suggesting we go and have dinner together in the restaurant?’
‘Sure. Why not? The reviews are fantastic.’
‘And you’re still hoping to convince me to cut a deal and cede my claim.’
‘Yes.’
‘It won’t work.’ There was steel in her voice.
‘That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try. Hell, don’t you want to convince me to do the same?’
‘Well, yes, but...’
‘Then we may as well pitch over a Michelin-starred meal, don’t you think?’
She chewed her bottom lip, blue eyes bright with suspicion, and then her tummy gave a less than discreet growl. She rolled her eyes, but her lips turned up in a sudden smile.
‘See? Your stomach is voting with me.’
‘Guess my brain is outvoted, then,’ she muttered, and she rose from the chair. ‘I’ll be five minutes.’
True to her word she emerged just a few moments later. She’d changed back into the charcoal skirt she’d worn earlier, topped now by a crimson blouse. Her hair was swept up in an artlessly elegant arrangement, with tendrils free to frame her face.
In that moment he wished with a strangely fierce yearn that this was a date—a casual, easy, get-to-know-you-dinner with the possibility of their attraction progressing. But it wasn’t and it couldn’t be. This was a fact-finding mission.
Suddenly his father’s words echoed in his ears with a discordant buzz.
‘Information is power, Stefan. Once you know what makes someone tick you can work out how to turn that tick to a tock.’
That was what he needed to focus on—gaining information. Not to penalise her but so that he could work out a fair deal.
Resolutely turning his gaze away from her, he made for the door. But as they headed down plush carpeted corridors and polished wooden stairs it was difficult to remain resolute. Somehow the glimpse of her hand as it slid down the gleaming oak banister, the elusive drift of her scent, the way she smoothed down her skirt all combined to add to the desire that tugged in his gut.
She paused on the threshold of the buzzing restaurant, a look of slight dismay on her face. ‘I don’t think I’m exactly dressed for this.’
‘You look...’ Beautiful. Gorgeous. Way better than any of the women sitting in white cushioned chairs braided with gold, around circular tables illuminated by candles atop them and chandeliers above. ‘Fine,’ he settled on.
Smooth, Petrelli, very smooth.
But oddly enough it seemed to do the trick. She looked up at him and a small smile tugged her lips upwards. ‘Thank you. I know clothes shouldn’t matter, but I am feeling a little inadequate in the designer department.’
‘I’m hardly up to standard either,’ he pointed out. ‘I’m channelling the lumberjack look—the whole jeans and checked shirt image.’
The maître d’ approached, a slightly pained expression on his face until he realised who Stefan was and his expression morphed to ingratiating. ‘Mr Petrelli. This way, please.’
‘People are wondering why we’ve been allowed in,’ Holly whispered. ‘They’re all looking at us.’
‘Let them look. In a minute George here will have discreetly spread the word as to who I am and that should do it. Royal entrepreneurial millionaire status transcends dress code. Especially when accompanied by a mystery guest.’
‘Dressed from the High Street.’ Her tone sounded panicked. ‘Oh, God. They won’t call the press or anything, will they?’
‘Not if they know what’s good for them.’
She glanced over the menu at him. ‘You don’t like publicity, do you?’
In fact he loathed it—because no matter what he did, how many millions he’d made, whatever point he tried to get across, the press all wanted to talk about Lycander and he didn’t. Period.
‘Nope. So I think we’re safe. Let’s choose.’
After a moment of careful perusal he leant back.
‘Hmm... What do you think? The duck sounds amazing—especially with the crushed pink peppercorns—but I’m not sure about adding cilantro in as well. But it could work. The starters look good too—though, again, I’m still not sure about fusion recipes.’
A small gurgle of laughter interrupted him and he glanced across at her.
‘What?’
‘I didn’t have you down as a food buff. The lumberjack look didn’t make me think gourmet.’
‘I’m a man of many surprises.’
In truth, food was important to him—a result of his childhood. Alphonse’s toughening up regime had meant rationed food, and the clichéd bread and water diet had been a regular feature. His stomach panged in sudden memory of the gnaw of hunger, the doughy texture of the bread on his tongue as he tried to savour each nibble. He’d summoned up imaginary feasts, used his mind to conjure a cacophony of tastes and smells and textures. Vowed that one day he’d make those banquets real.
Whoa. Time to turn the memory tap off. Clearly his repressed memory banks had sprung a leak—one he intended to dam up right now.
The arrival of the waiter was a welcome distraction, and once they’d both ordered he focused on Holly. Her cerulean eyes were fringed by impossibly long dark lashes that contrasted with the corn-gold of her hair.
‘And do you cook? Or just appreciate others’ cooking?’ she asked.
‘I can cook, but I’m not an expert. When I have time I enjoy it. What about you?’
Holly grimaced. ‘I can cook too, but I’m not inspired at all. I am a strict by-the-recipe girl. I wish I enjoyed it more, but I’ve always found it quite stressful.’ Discomfort creased her forehead for a second, as if she regretted the words, and she looked down. ‘Anyway, today I don’t need to cook.’
For a stupid moment he wanted to probe, wanted to question the reason for that sudden flitting of sadness across her face.
Focus on the goal here, Petrelli.
He leant forward. ‘If you accept my offer of a deal you could eat out every day. You need never touch a saucepan again.’
‘Nice try, but no thanks. I’ll soldier on. Truly, Stefan, nothing you offer me can top the idea of presenting Il Boschetto di Sole to my father.’
‘That’s the plan?’
‘Yup.’
‘You’ll sign it over lock, stock and barrel?’
‘Yup.’
‘But that’s nuts. Why hand over control?’ The very idea gave him a sense of queasiness.
‘Because it’s the right thing to do.’
‘If Roberto Bianchi had wanted your father to have the grove he’d have left it to him.’
Something that looked remarkably like guilt crossed her face as she shook her head. ‘My father has given his life to Il Boschetto di Sole—I could never ask him to work for me. I respect him too much. If the Romanos are to own the grove then it will be done properly. Traditionally.’
‘Pah!’ The noise he’d emitted hopefully conveyed his feelings. ‘Tradition? You will hand over control because of tradition?’
‘What is so wrong with that? Just because you have decided to turn your back on tradition it doesn’t mean that’s the right thing to do.’
His turn to hide the physical impact he felt at her words—at the knowledge that Holly, like the rest of Lycander, had judged him and found him wanting.
No doubt she believed the propaganda and lies Alphonse had spread and Stefan hadn’t refuted. Because in truth he’d welcomed it all. To him it had put him in the same camp as his mother, had made the guilt at his failure a little less.
‘So you believe that just because something is traditional it is right?’
‘I didn’t say that. But I believe history and tradition are important.’
‘History is a great thing to learn from, but it doesn’t have to be repeated. It is progress that is important—and if you don’t change you can’t progress. What if the inventor of the wheel had decided not to bother because traditionally people travelled by foot or on horseback? What about appalling traditions like slavery?’
‘So do you believe monarchy is an appalling or outdated tradition? Do you believe Lycander should be a democracy?’
‘I believe that is a debatable point. I do not believe that just because there has been a monarch for centuries there needs to be one for the next century. My point is that if the crown headed my way I would refuse it. Not on democratic principles but for personal reasons. I don’t want to rule and I wouldn’t change my whole life for the sake of tradition. Or duty.’
‘So if Frederick had decided not to take the throne you would have refused it?’
‘Yup.’
Stefan had no doubt of that. In truth he’d been surprised that Frederick had agreed. Their older half-brother Axel, Lycander’s ‘Golden Prince’, had been destined to rule, and from all accounts would have made a great ruler.
As a child Stefan hadn’t known Axel well—he had been at boarding school, a distant figure, though he had always shown Stefan kindness when he’d seen him. Enough so that when Axel had died in a tragic car accident Stefan had felt grief and would have attended the funeral if his father had let him. But Alphonse had refused to allow Stefan to set foot on Lycandrian soil.
Axel’s death had left Frederick next in line and his brother had stepped up. More fool him.
‘My younger brothers would be welcome to it.’
‘You’d have handed over the Lycandrian crown to one of the “Truly Terrible Twins”?’
An image of his half-brothers splashed on the front page of the tabloids crossed his mind. Emerson and Barrett rarely set foot in Lycander, but their exploits sold any number of scurrilous rags.
‘Yes,’ he stated—though even he could hear that his voice lacked total conviction.
Holly surveyed him through narrowed eyes. ‘Forget tradition. What about duty? Wouldn’t you have felt a duty to rule? A duty to your country?’
‘Nope. I think Frederick’s a first-class nutcase to take it on. I have one life, Holly, and I intend to live it for myself.’ Exactly as he so wished his mother had done. ‘I don’t see anything wrong with that as long as I don’t hurt anyone.’
She leaned across the table and her blue eyes sparkled, her face animated by the discourse. ‘You could argue that by not taking the throne Frederick would have been hurting a whole country.’
Stefan surveyed her across the table and she nodded for emphasis, her lips parted in a small ‘hah’ of triumph at the point she’d made, and his gaze snagged on her mouth. Hard to remember the last time a date had sparked this level of discussion, had been happy to flat-out contradict him. Not that Holly was a date...
As the silence stretched a fraction too long her lips tipped in a small smirk. ‘No answer to that?’
‘Actually, I do. I just got distracted.’
For a moment confusion replaced the smirk. ‘By wh—?’ And then she realised, and a small flush climbed her cheekbones.
Now the silence shimmered. Her eyes dropped, skimmed over his chest, and then she rallied.
‘Good excuse, Mr Petrelli, but I’m not buying it. You have no answer.’
For a moment he couldn’t even remember the question. Think. They had been talking about Frederick. What might have happened if he had refused the throne...
‘I have an answer. It could be that Emerson or Barrett would turn into a great ruler. Or Lycander would become a successful democracy.’
‘And you would be fine with that?’
‘Sure. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about Lycander—I’m just not willing to give up my whole life for it, for the sake of tradition or because I “should”. One life. One chance.’
His mother’s life had been so short, so tragic, because of the decisions she’d made—decisions triggered by duty and love.
‘Don’t you agree?’
‘No. Sometimes you have to do what you “should” do because it is the right thing to do. And that is more important than what you want to do.’
Stefan frowned, suspecting that she was speaking in specific terms rather than general. ‘So what are your dreams? Your plans for life. Let’s say you win Il Boschetto di Sole and give it to your father—what then?’
‘Then I will help him—work the land, have kids...’ Her voice was even; the animation had vanished.
‘And if you don’t win?’
‘I will win.’
