‘I can think of worse things,’ he said, frowning at his unguarded words. ‘I meant, I can think of worse things than losing luggage…’
Amy stared at him, trying to pull her gaze away. What was she doing? The last thing she needed was to create a complicated situation between herself and the chef.
Her plate was already overflowing trying to keep Billie on track. It was far more than a job. It was more of a 24/7 task. A lifestyle choice. Constantly moving around was also the reason she’d forsaken any kind of personal relationships since she’d worked for Billie. Or perhaps she had that part backwards.
The trips and the parties and the endless supply of people desperate to be a part of the Billie Forsythe-Rogers circus showed no sign of diminishing. In turn, Billie had always encouraged her to make the most of the constant stream of opportunities – or to be more precise, the men. Billie was always telling her to live a little while she was young, to make the most of her opportunities for hot twenties sex while she still looked trim from every angle. To stop thinking long term and enjoy herself.
And although Amy supposed it was a kind of a compliment, she’d never been any good at hooking up. Didn’t see the sense in it. Which was why whatever undertone she’d decided she might be getting from this conversation with Tad, although it might be pleasurable, was also ultimately pointless.
* * *
Once Amy had gone, Tad took a few deep breaths before he rinsed his and Billie’s dessert bowls and added them to the tray destined for the industrial dishwasher.
Focusing on work went no way towards banishing his train of thought. That dress had done nothing to help calm him either, the way the black silk flowed across her curves, pooling precisely in the right place below the gentle lines of her collarbones – Tad hadn’t felt this distracted in such a long time, struggled to contain thoughts that had strayed into one of the Casa del Cibo guest rooms, where Amy lay beside him, her long blonde hair cascading across the white bed linen.
Setting the dishwasher going, Tad tried to focus. Grabbing the itinerary for the coming week, he decided to perform a full inventory, to ensure he had enough of everything for his planned lessons.
He needed to concentrate on proving himself to Billie Forsythe-Rogers, not lose himself in crazy thoughts about a woman he’d only known a handful of hours.
Shoving a pen behind an ear, Tad pulled boxes from the shelves in the storeroom and began to count.
A while later, and with the majority of the stocktake complete, Tad felt focused again. About to check their dates and reorganise the sacks of arborio rice, his attention was taken by a furious rattling noise. Frowning, he wandered out from the storeroom, hearing the noise again as it reverberated through the reception area of the hotel. Was someone trying to get in? Guests were provided with a key to the main door so they could gain access whenever it suited them, most of them loved the old-world charm of having an actual key, rather than a number for a combination pad or a keycard, and enjoyed the heft of a sizeable key cut for a lock that had been manufactured a century ago.
Flicking on lights in the teaching kitchen as he went, Tad wasn’t unduly worried – didn’t feel the need to arm himself against intruders. Riva might be one of the larger towns surrounding Lake Garda, but it wasn’t exactly a crime hotspot, past a bit of pickpocketing and the occasional Vespa theft. Perhaps it was the elderly Casa del Cibo regular, Hugh Bradbury, who had dined with local friends this evening, returning late and unable to turn his key in the lock.
‘Hello? Anyone there?’ Tad called. The reception area was in shadows, a couple of small wall sconces the only lighting, which was left on all night to give the hotel a veneer of welcome, whatever the time.
‘I can’t bloody well get out.’
Her voice vied for Tad’s attention at the same moment as his first waft of her expensive perfume. Billie Forsythe-Rogers was rattling the door handle, her expression of frustration clear even in the subdued lighting.
‘Can I help?’ he asked, flicking on the ceiling chandeliers to bring more light to the situation.
‘Can you open the door?’ Billie’s frustration gave way to a far more gracious expression, her gaze raking him in as she began to smile. ‘Let me guess. Tad, right?’
He glanced down at himself, still in his evening uniform of black chef jacket and checked trousers, realising he hadn’t even changed out of his kitchen clogs. The pen behind his ear chose that moment to dislodge itself, and he caught it as it headed south. Not the cool, professional introduction he’d wanted for his first meeting with this woman. He attempted to claw his way back. ‘Yes. I’m Tad Campbell. Your chef for your stay at Casa del Cibo. And of course you’re Billie Forsythe-Rogers. We’ve been so looking forward to your visit.’
‘Ha. Everybody says that. Most come to regret it.’ Her gaze swept across him again. ‘What are you going to do to make this one a success?’ Her lips curled into a lazy smile. Lips carefully coated in a bright pink lipstick, matching the rest of her faultless make-up. The colour a great choice against the deep tones of her short, tousled mahogany hair. She looked ready to hit the town, rather than feeling ill, as Amy had claimed.
As though she’d read his mind, Billie’s smile broadened. ‘I’m so sorry I was such a wet blanket earlier. Travel never agrees with me and I was feeling particularly shite when we got here. Do you forgive me? I’m all better, now, I promise. Tell you what, how about you show me to the nearest decent bar, and I’ll stand you a beer, or a whisky, or whatever, to apologise properly. What do you say?’
Tad decided that now was not the moment to mention he didn’t drink, or ideally, he would want to shower and change before he went anywhere. The very last thing he was going to say was that, in fact, what he really wanted to do was to get some sleep. Instead, he smiled with enough velocity to match her grin and said, ‘Let me grab some keys and my phone, then I’m all yours.’
‘That sounds promising,’ she said, her amused expression showing no sign of waning as he turned and fled.
In the safety of the kitchen, Tad ripped at the poppers on his chef’s jacket, hanging it on the back of the door as he swapped clogs for trainers and slipped on a fresh T-shirt. Nothing he could do about the rest of his outfit, but a quick pit-check and a squirt of deodorant ensured at least he smelt decent, even if his trousers screamed ‘off-duty chef’. Perhaps she wouldn’t mind too much, and this could be the perfect opportunity to chat to Billie on an informal level, get to know the person rather than the persona, maybe find a way to make sure this week went well – or even get into her line of sight for future opportunities.
With his wallet and phone deployed to pockets, Tad returned to the front doors and jangled his set of keys as he located the correct one and they headed out into the cool night air.
A five-minute walk brought them down to the water’s edge, where a tiny wine bar remained open, the strings of fairy lights wafting in the onshore breeze, creating irregular shadows as they moved against the trellises of bougainvillea and trailing ivy. The gentle tinkle of laughter mixing with the sounds of lapping water had Tad smiling. This whole place was something special. He glanced at Billie, wondering if she’d noticed it too.
‘This is lovely,’ she said. ‘Bit of a trek from the hotel, but lovely nonetheless.’
‘Do you want to sit inside or out?’
‘Oh, definitely out, don’t you think?’
Tad nodded and headed for a free table as close to the lake as he could get. A waiter appeared soundlessly, and Billie ordered a Garibaldi – Campari and orange juice – grinning as she did so.
