Reckless Nights in Rome Page 4

  Chapter Four

  "I was mortified."

  Bronte glared at Rosie who cried laughing, wiping her eyes with the back of her fingers.

  "I wish I'd seen it. I can't believe you jumped out a window and left him there." She leaned on the edge of the kitchen table, tore off a piece of kitchen roll and dabbed her cheeks. "Is my mascara running?"

  Bronte gave her best friend a dark look, not in the mood for humour. "No. What possessed you to set me up with that awful man?"

  "Sorry, sorry, I thought he was a nice guy. His sister's lovely. She told me Anthony's had a thing for you for years," Rosie told her.

  "What I don't understand is why he thought I had the hots for him," Bronte responded completely bewildered. It was something that continued to bug her. The man had been totally convinced she'd been prepared to go to bed with him. She simply could not understand it. But then remembering his hair trigger temper, perhaps he was delusional?

  Shaking her head, Bronte checked the temperature on the ovens, and glanced through their schedule for the day.

  Three trainee pastry chefs laughed and joked in the adjacent kitchen. The sound mingled with an iPod rocking Coldplay and the clang of pots and pans.

  "I wouldn't worry about it. Put it down to experience."

  Bronte glanced at Rosie, still dabbing her face and frowned.

  "It's not funny. Nico Ferranti looked at me as if I was a slut."

  Rosie tied a white chef's bandana over her dark curls, topped up their mugs with coffee and sent Bronte a sly look.

  "I bet Alexander found it funny. You didn't tell him I put them in your bag did you?"

  With a little smile, Bronte folded her arms. "He may not be Sherlock Holmes, but he deduced who was responsible by the note sellotaped to the box."

  "Ouch, okay." Rosie pursed her lips and widened her brown eyes. "So how was big brother, still miserable?"

  Bronte winced remembering how tired he appeared.

  "Worse, he had that long suffering kicked dog look."

  "Hmm, it's not often he's vulnerable, make the most of it."

  Sinking into a chair, Bronte pressed fingertips to her temple, puffing out her cheeks.

  Her eyes met Rosie's.

  "I need to do the right thing and I can't leave it any longer. The trouble is I don't know how to approach him. How do I tell a perfect stranger that I'm the daughter he never knew existed?" She closed her eyes. "God, my life is such a mess."

  The ache in her gut, a constant companion these days, burned like acid. No matter how many times she went over and over the reality of her situation she was hurting Alexander. He wanted her to forget about a man who'd had nothing to do with her upbringing and to let the dead lie in peace.

  Rosie gave her a quick hug. "It's your decision. You know I'll back you all the way whatever you decide." She caught her eye and gave her a cheeky smile. "What's Nico Ferranti like?"

  While Bronte considered her response, Rosie checked the cool-room temperature and wheeled out a stainless steel trolley which held four separate tiers of snowy white wedding cakes ready for assembly and finishing touches.

  "He's big."

  How do you describe power and sheer physical presence? Bronte wondered as she stood. How could she describe the hum in her blood when his hands gripped her waist? How could she explain the overwhelming desire to give him a black eye?

  She slid four trays of mini muffins into each oven and set the timer.

  "I need more information." Rosie sent her a quizzical look.

  "He's well over six foot, wide shouldered, long legs. You know, big." Her cheeks grew warm when Rosie folded her arms. "Okay, he smells fabulous. He's got hot Latin looks. And he says Brrrronte in an Italian accent."

  "Wait a minute. I know that face."

  "What face?"

  "That face you're wearing." Rosie smacked her hands on the table and leaned over. Eyes the colour of warm chocolate peered into hers. "Do I detect a spark of life in the empty expanse of your libido?" Her eyes went big with a silent question. Then she turned, sliding a tray of fondant snowdrops and winter roses into a narrow container. "And don't huff and puff like that. This is good news."

  Bronte, not admitting to anything that might incriminate her, checked her watch.

  "I feel a break coming on. We're ahead of schedule." Hot air from the ovens filled her huge kitchen with the sublime scent of warm toffee. "You can test a muffin. They're looking good."

  "How many more to go?" Rosie sniffed.

  "Four batches of four trays."

  "What kind of icing?"

  "White chocolate fudge."

  "You should set up a business."

  "Har har, you're a riot this morning."

  "So spill." Rosie blew on a muffin from the first batch, her eyes sparkling. "He drove you home, then what?"

  Bronte sipped her coffee and inhaled the scent, listening to another pop tune. Adele rocked the adjacent kitchen.

  She stared through wide French doors into her garden, grass silver with frost. Ice glistened on a bird bath. The mortgage she'd taken out for the re-modelling of the kitchen and new equipment, along with expenses and salaries didn't leave much left over, but financially they were doing well. More than just money was invested into the business. She'd invested her heart, her soul.

  No matter how hard things got, she could never, ever give this up.

  "He wants to buy my home and the land."

  The previous night's conversation returned to her. The Dower House was not for sale at any price, end of debate. So why did she feel a curl of anxiety in her stomach? It was how his jaw clenched, she realised, and how those heavily lashed eyes had narrowed as his fingers tapped the steering wheel. Yes she mused; Mr Ferranti was not accustomed to the word no. The memory of his touch made her mouth dry.

  And she decided not to worry Rosie with his threat to tear up their contract. If he did that, he would alienate Alexander. She'd realised last night that the friendship between the men was a deep one. Nico Ferranti was full of hot air. They didn't need Ludlow Hall for business; they'd been a huge success before it opened. Since money was the language Nico understood, she would show the arrogant baboon just how valuable her company was to his bottom line.

  "What did you tell him?" Rosie wanted to know.

  "To bugger off."

  Rosie squeezed her fingers. "I know there have been times since ... when you've wondered if it's all been worth it."

  "I've never regretted starting this business. It's kept me sane, and hey for the last six months we've been in the black."

  "It was Oliver and Lucy's wedding that did it. The glossy magazine spread of the super model and her super husband as they cut the cake." With a satisfied smile, Rosie popped the rest of her muffin into her mouth.

  "We did it, cheers," Bronte told her as they clinked coffee mugs.

  The sound of the front door bell made them jump.

  Rosie checked the time. "I'll get it. I'm expecting a delivery."

  Nico pushed his hands further into the fleece-lined pockets of his battered shearling jacket and admired his surroundings.

  A miniature version of Ludlow Hall, with its sweeping driveway and ocean of manicured lawns, The Dower House could have been plucked out of a fairy story. His mind raced with thoughts and plans for the future. The house was the perfect base.

  Even though Bronte had been the last thing on his mind as he tumbled into sleep and the first thing on his mind when he awoke, the conversation with her the previous evening and a good night's sleep had energised him this morning.

  Nico shook his head, frankly amazed at himself that she had such an effect on him.

  He liked women. He particularly liked them tall, dark and stacked. He liked experienced professional types who knew the score and were too busy for a long-term commitment.

  This thing he had for his best friend's sister might not be a good idea. He chewed on his bottom lip; Alexander's reaction to her dating was over the top. But he would
do nothing to jeopardise their friendship and business relationship.

  As for Bronte herself, she had a refinement that sang to him. Her vulnerability also appeared to bring out the protector in him. Who'd have thought it? Anthony, he thought with a grim smile, would think twice about hurting another woman.

  Nico couldn't forget the feel of Bronte, the tingle of awareness that still warmed his system and how small her waist had been between his hands. He smiled remembering her embarrassment at being caught in the act. Naughty too, with those big eyes full of pretend innocence.

  The light floral scent of Bronte still lingered in his car; it was warm, sweet and feminine. How could he have missed her on his previous visits?

  The thought brought his mind back to the task in hand - The Dower House.

  The plans he had for the place warmed his heart as he tugged the brass bell pull.

  He'd been clumsy threatening her like that. What had he been thinking? Again, he shook his head and told himself to focus on the task at hand and not on the woman.

  The door opened.

  A curvy, dark-haired, dark-eyed female poked her head out and looked him up and down with bright-eyed interest. By her clothes Nico surmised she was a cook.

  He smiled and opened his mouth.

  "Deliveries are received at the back. Follow the road all the way round," she told him and closed the door in his face.

  Bemused, he looked down at his ancient boots and jeans. Okay, it was an easy mistake to make. Nico wound a black cashmere scarf around his neck, strolled to the car and followed instructions.

  The road led to a courtyard and a large coach house converted into four garages.

  A snazzy mini cooper convertible in shiny black was parked next to the frosty lawn. Two gleaming black vans with 'Sweet Sensation' painted in gold on their sides, stood with their rear doors open.

  A couple of young girls, dressed in chef whites, were busy loading shelves, wheeling trolleys carrying white cardboard boxes.

  The girl who had opened the front door widened her eyes when she saw his car.

  She was trying, Nico realised as he got out, not to laugh.

  "I'm so sorry. I thought you were a delivery. Can I help you?" Her eyes sparkled into his.

  "I am Nico Ferranti for Bronte Ludlow." He frowned as her eyes cooled and the smile slipped.

  "Of course you are."

  "Please, call me Nico, and you are?" He held out his hand wondering what in the world he had done to offend her.

  "Rosie Gordon. Bronte's partner." She took his hand with a distinct lack of enthusiasm that tickled his sense of humour. "How do you do?"

  Curious and surprised at the set-up, he looked around.

  "Is Bronte available?"

  "Sure, follow me." She led him through a narrow hallway, a busy compact kitchen and into a larger space with a high vaulted ceiling.

  Nico didn't have a particularly sweet tooth, but the scent of fresh baking, toffee and chocolate made his mouth water. Fifty per cent of the room, he realised studying the space, was a recent addition and constructed of heavy oak beams and glass.

  Acres of stainless steel food preparation areas, fridges, cold stores and ovens gleamed in the fragile winter sun.

  Wearing chef whites, Bronte stood at a central island decorating the bottom tier of one of the most spectacular wedding cakes he'd ever seen. Not that he took much notice of such things, but the cake was incredible. In cream and pale pink, it towered above her. Constructed of six octagonal pieces he assumed would be dismantled and re-assembled in-situ. The designer glasses she wore he found terribly erotic for some reason, and immediately wondered what the hell was wrong with him.

  Rosie pulled him to the side, out of Bronte's line of vision.

  Bronte worked with a single-minded focus and determination that totally threw him. An iPod plugged into her ears, she spun the cake wheel with one hand and piped icing in a steady rhythm with the other. A foot encased in a white rubber clog tapped to the tune in her ears. The pink tip of her tongue rubbed her top lip. And Nico had the sensation of blood rushing to pool low in his belly. She was stunning.

  His expert eye estimated her height at five foot seven inches tall, one hundred and twenty pounds, maybe less with a lean figure that was almost boyish. The face was beautiful in the clear light of day with creamy, flawless skin and high cheekbones. Her hair ran down her back in a slippery tail and she had a chef's cap pulled low on her forehead.

  The urge to pull her into his arms and taste that soft, seductive mouth shocked him. He'd attempted to justify his reaction to her last night as the effect of jetlag. Obviously, he was deluding himself.

  "She's nearly finished," Rosie whispered. "If you interrupt her she'll hand you your head in your hands." Surprised, Nico looked at her and realised she was absolutely serious.

  Bronte finished with an expert flourish that made him smile. Then boogied her hips in a way that electrified his groin and Nico ordered himself to get a grip.

  She turned and saw him.

  He almost missed the flash of awareness in her eyes before they cooled to chips of emerald ice, and he managed not to wince. He couldn't deny the pang of disappointment in his chest.

  And couldn't deny that she looked gorgeous.

  Bronte unplugged her ears and tucked her glasses into the top pocket of her jacket. Pulling off latex gloves she gave him what he thought of as her polite customer smile. The look in her eye told him she wasn't in the mood for a discussion, her dislike of him clear by the stiff body language. Between last night and this morning, Ms Ludlow had erected implacable defences.

  The air crackled with the toxic mix of arousal and heightened awareness from him and a deep loathing from her.

  With a jolt, he realised Bronte Ludlow wished him straight to hell.

  Nico imagined most men would back off and get the message. Unfortunately for her, he was not most men.

  "What can I do for you, Mr Ferranti? Are you in the market for a wedding cake?" Her voice was firm, polite and precise.

  But the hint of nerves intrigued him. "It is fantastic, Bronte."

  He meant every word, and her eyes widened at the compliment. Nico took her hand, and testing, rubbed his thumb along her knuckles. The move brought a surprised flush to her cheeks and he pressed home his advantage. "You are very talented. I had no idea."

  And the little leap in her pulse under his fingertips made his day.

  She cleared her throat. "As you can see we're very busy this morning. Saturday tends to be hectic." She gave a tug of her hand.

  He held it a second longer than was strictly necessary and read the beginning of wariness in her eyes. She smelt of sugar, sweet vanilla and neroli. It was an alluring, sensuous mix which spun around his heightened senses.

  He had a feeling she would taste even better.

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