‘Grilled scamorza,’ she said. ‘Panna cotta. And dough balls with garlic butter.’
Oh, yes. A woman on his wavelength. One who actually enjoyed food instead of nibbling at a celery leaf and claiming she was too full to manage anything more—one who saw the pleasure in sharing a meal instead of the misery of counting calories. One who might just understand what he wanted to do. ‘That,’ he said, ‘sounds pretty much perfect. So we have a deal? I’ll feed you and you’ll listen to what I have to say?’
She shook her head. ‘I might not have a job right now, but I can still pay my way. We’ll split the bill.’
Not a yes woman, either; he warmed to her even more. Fran was exactly what he was looking for. ‘Deal,’ he said. He still had a pile of paperwork to do, but he’d done the banking an hour before and the float would be fine in the safe. ‘Let me lock up, and we’ll go.’
TWENTY minutes later, Fran and Gio were sitting in a tiny Italian restaurant in Fitzrovia, halfway between Euston Road and Gower Street. The décor was classic: a black-and-white chequered floor, walls colour-washed in amber, marble-topped bistro tables, wrought-iron chairs with thick burgundy-coloured pads on the seats, a chalk board with the day’s specials written in European-looking handwriting, and candles set in raffia-covered chianti bottles.
Gio was clearly known here, because the waiter bantered with him before showing them to what looked like the best table in the house.
‘So, are you a regular here?’ she asked.
‘This place does the best food in London. It’s where my family comes for birthdays, red-letter days and every other excuse we can think of.’
The waiter materialised beside them and handed them a menu. ‘Except you’re always late for dinner, Gio, because you’re busy working and you have no idea of time. Nonna would tell me to box your ears.’
Gio laughed. ‘Ah, now, Marco, she would also tell you that the customer is always right.’
‘You don’t count as a customer,’ Marco said, laughing back. ‘But you, signorina, do.’He set a plate of tiny canapés in between them. ‘Don’t let him talk you into giving him your share.’
‘As if I would—oh…’ Gio’s eyes widened ‘…don’t eat those cheese discs, Fran. They’re inedible. Better let me handle them.’
Marco pretended to cuff him. ‘I’ll be back in a minute for your order. And behave yourself, or I’ll tell Mama what you just said about her cooking.’ He winked, and left them with the menus.
‘Are the cheese discs really…?’ Fran asked, eyeing the plate of gorgeous-looking canapés.
‘No, they’re fabulous. They’re my favourite and I was teasing you. Actually, I was trying to be greedy,’ Gio admitted with a smile. ‘I’m sorry. I should have said—Marco’s my cousin.’
She glanced at the waiter, who was serving another table; now Gio had mentioned it, she could see the family resemblance. But although Marco was good looking and charming, there was something else about Gio. Something that all the other women in the room had clearly noticed, too, because Fran could see just how many heads he’d turned.
‘Marco’s mother—my Aunt Annetta—is the chef.’ Gio’s smile turned slightly wry. ‘I’m afraid my family’s terribly stereotyped.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘My grandparents moved to London from Milan in the 1950s, and they opened a trattoria,’ he explained. ‘Their children all went into catering, too—Dad opened a coffee shop, Netti started the pizzeria, and my Uncle Nando is the family ice-cream specialist. He makes the best gelati in London.’
‘And you’re all still close?’
‘As I said, we’re stereotyped. Typical Italian family.’ He spread his hands. ‘Big and noisy and knowing way too much of each other’s business. Dad, Netti and Nando all live in the same street—the same place I grew up with my sisters and my cousins. Though none of us lives at home now; my generation’s spread a bit.’ He shrugged. ‘Sometimes it feels a bit crowded, and it drives me crazy when they try to organise my social life and find me the perfect girlfriend. But if things get rough it’s good to know there’s a bunch of people looking out for you, people you can rely on.’
Fran suppressed the feeling of wistfulness before it had a chance to take hold, and tried one of the tiny discs. ‘Oh, wow.’
Gio smiled. ‘Told you they were good.’
‘Do you recommend anything in particular?’ she asked, scanning the menu.
‘Netti’s a genius in the kitchen. You could pick anything and it’d taste superb. But you mentioned grilled scamorza, panna cotta and dough balls.’
‘They’re not on the menu,’ Fran pointed out.
‘For us, they will be.’He said it without a trace of arrogance; it sounded more like he knew he was getting special treatment, and appreciated it. ‘Would you prefer red or white wine?’
‘White, please.’
‘Pinot grigio all right?’
‘Lovely, thanks.’
When Marco returned to take their order, Gio leaned back against his chair and gave him a wicked smile. ‘Ah, cugino mio. In fact, oh, best cousin in the world—best cousin in the universe…’
Marco groaned. ‘You’re going to ask for a Giovanni special, aren’t you?’
‘Yup.’ Gio spoke in rapid Italian. Fran couldn’t follow the conversation at all, but Gio’s accent was incredibly sexy. And he had the most gorgeous mouth. Even when he wasn’t talking, there was a permanent tilt to the corner of his lips, as if he were smiling. A real knee-buckler of a smile, too. Yet, at the same time, there was a sense of suppressed energy and restlessness about him. Gio Mazetti was a puzzle. And she found herself wanting to know more about him.
‘Basta—enough. I’ll ask. But as you’re her favourite nephew…’ Marco rolled his eyes.
‘I’m Netti’s only nephew,’ Gio corrected with a grin.
‘As I said. Her favourite. So there’s a pretty good chance she’ll say yes.’ Marco smiled. ‘One bottle of pinot grigio and a jug of iced water coming up.’
‘What’s a Giovanni special?’ Fran asked.
‘Ah.’ Gio coughed. ‘It’s just the topping I like on my pizza. I went through an—um—let’s say experimental phase in my teens. This one stuck.’
‘Experimental?’
‘Blue cheese—preferably dolcelatte—and mushrooms.’ She frowned. ‘That doesn’t sound particularly experimental.’
‘No. That would be the other ingredient,’ he said drily. She was intrigued now. ‘Which is?’
‘Avocado.’
She blinked. ‘Avocado on pizza? Cooked avocado?’
‘Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,’ he advised.
He was full of energy, full of ideas, a little offbeat—and the more time Fran spent with Gio, the more she liked him. His good humour was infectious.
What she couldn’t work out was why he’d asked her to dinner. What his proposition was going to be.
When the wine arrived, he didn’t bother tasting it; simply thanked Marco, poured out two glasses, and raised his own in a toast to Fran. ‘To us—and the beginning