She was far too focused on asking nicely and tiptoeing around people to avoid upsetting someone.
And she realised that she was drawn to Luca not only because he was attractive, or even because he was skilled at what he did, but because he cared deeply.
He would never be satisfied with mediocre either.
“Is that why you picked this particular restaurant? To check your food is the best in the area?”
“No. I picked this restaurant because I knew that if I booked a table somewhere locally you wouldn’t come.” His gaze was dark and disturbingly intense. “Would you?”
“Probably not.”
He smiled. “Exactly. And now I understand why. But let me make something clear—wherever this goes, or doesn’t go, the reaction of people around us will have no impact at all.” He stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork and held it out to her. “Now stop worrying about everyone else and try this. It’s good and I’d hate you to miss out.”
She leaned forward and ate the food from his fork.
He was right. The chicken was delicious. But so was being with him.
Their conversation felt like foreplay, and she knew that this evening wasn’t going to be a one-off. He would want to see her again, and she wanted that, too.
And he was right that other people’s opinions shouldn’t matter at all.
Martin had made her feel awful about the way their relationship had played out, as if the curiosity of everyone around them was somehow her fault. And because he’d blamed her, she’d blamed herself. And she’d blamed the close-knit community she lived in.
But she could see now that they hadn’t been responsible for the end of her relationship any more than she had.
Her relationship hadn’t ended because everyone in the local community had meddled and interfered. It had ended because Martin had wanted it to end. And he’d moved away because he’d felt guilty about hurting her.
Why hadn’t she seen that before?
The door to the restaurant opened again but this time she didn’t even glance across to see if it was anyone she knew.
Instead she leaned forward.
“Tell me about your grandmother. And then tell me, in detail, exactly what I have to do to persuade you to hand over that chicken recipe.”
11
Alexandra
Abby had missed their meeting.
Alexandra tapped her fingers on her desk and checked the time again.
It was five minutes after the time they’d arranged, which in itself was enough to annoy her because she valued punctuality, but given all the other things that had happened over the past few weeks, annoyance was warring with concern.
Three weeks had passed since Abby had arrived in Cornwall and during the first few days everything had appeared normal. She’d sent daily reports, each one detailing the current situation in the hotel in a factual, logical manner.
Alexandra had filed each one carefully.
It was during the second week that things had started to change. Abby had been increasingly slow to answer emails, and she’d rearranged their regular meeting twice.
Her reports were less frequent and the last one she’d sent, afew days before, had been glowing and effusive, so much so that Alexandra had wondered whether her daughter’s email might have been hacked. It didn’t read like anything her daughter would have produced.
Abby was analytical. She focused on facts. Her first couple of reports had done exactly that and Alexandra had found them interesting and useful reading. But something had changed, not least her daughter’s devotion to punctuality.
She was about to give up when her phone rang.
It was Abby.
