‘I’ll forward you the guest list. I think you’ll know quite a few names on it, old friends and the like; it’s a small world. I’m sure you’ll enjoy catching up.’
But you’re secretly hoping I won’t, she thought, keeping her face blank. ‘I won’t be catching up with anyone; I’ll be working.’
‘Actually, the staff here will be supplemented by some outside caterers. Obviously, our kitchen—well, your kitchen,’ he corrected with a slight smile, ‘will be overseeing the menu. I would imagine it’s not too late to make adjustments to your predecessor’s arrangements if you want to put your own stamp on it, but your role will strictly be as executive chef, and as such you’ll be expected to appear front of house.’
So that had been his plan all along: throw her in with a lot of people from her old life and introduce her as the hired help. ‘How very not daunting at all,’ she said drily.
His short, hard laugh echoed off the rafters. ‘I think it would take a lot to daunt you.’
‘Is that a compliment?’
Not an intentional one. On one level he knew that if he were objective he’d have been impressed by her resilience and her determination.
He wasn’t objective.
‘An observation,’ he returned smoothly.
‘Well, I won’t be there. As I said, I’m very hands-on. I like to be in the kitchen at all times.’
‘Hands-on…that’s good to know,’ he drawled smoothly and watched her blush like a virgin, which he knew she wasn’t. He felt a stab of self-contempt. He had drawn the line in the sand, professional one side and personal the other, secure in the knowledge that all it took to blur that line was the scuff of a shoe.
‘Besides, I don’t have a thing to wear to that kind of occasion,’ she rebutted, aware that her pounding head was not up to a full-scale battle on the subject—not now, anyway.
‘I think we can fix that. I’ve always liked you in red.’
Amy clenched her teeth and resisted the temptation to rise to the bait. ‘I don’t want to be fixed or dressed.’
What about undressed?The thought formed in her head before she could stop it. In desperation, she changed the subject. ‘Where does that hallway go?’
‘There is access to the ramparts further along.’ He gestured ahead. ‘The view from the walk along them is worth seeing. But—’ he glanced down at the sports watch on his wrist ‘—we’ll need to cut the tour short as my grandfather is a creature of habit and routine, and since the pneumonia he usually rests before lunch.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know he’d been ill.’
‘He is not frail, but it takes a little longer to recover at his age.’
‘I understand.’
‘This way.’
She walked down the steps, wistfully imagining all the women in delicate heels and ballgowns who had gone before her. She frowned at herself and felt a surge of annoyance. She refused to feel envious of those Romano women, picked no doubt for their breeding and fortunes.
Once she had been a pale version of one of those women, expected to make a suitable alliance.
She felt sorry for them now.
She wasn’t Leo’s besotted lover.
She wasn’t her parents’ disappointment of a daughter.
She wasn’t the rich girl who had been bought a restaurant.
She was just Amy, taking it one day at a time, and despite the worry over bills, the terror that her father would land himself back in prison, and the daily torment of being exposed to a man who made her remember she was actually a woman, she was happy to take responsibility for her own life.
Her hand slid down the smooth bannister. She had not belonged in the society that her parents had wanted her to inhabit, and this world that Leo navigated was so beyond that in every sense of the word. At least she had never been forced to be confronted by that reality at a time in her life when she would have struggled to cope.
If they had still been together when Leo had learnt of his Romano inheritance, an unlikely situation, given the limited shelf life of youthful passion, all it would have done was hasten the inevitable end.
Wealth changed people, and Leo would have left her behind.
