gripped her hand tightly. “I can’t thank you enough—”
“Don’t, Tony. I didn’t do anything, and I should be thanking you. I could never have jumped into the business at this level without you and your connections.”
“The only reason Joe offered to let me into the project was because he knew I’d turn to you for help.”
She shook her head, and tendrils of long, dark hair brushed her cheeks. “That’s not true.”
He thought it was, but he wasn’t particularly interested in examining Joe’s motives at the moment. He’d rather look into Francesca’s eyes. He’d rather stroke his thumb across her palm, feel the warmth of her skin, feel her pulse race in time with his. He’d rather brush her hair away from her cheek.
As if in a dream he did all these things, when he should have kept his hands to himself and his thoughts under control.
As his hand cupped her face, her breath came in short gasps. Her spicy, fruity scent enveloped him. He licked his lips, imaging the taste of her—wine and butter and something that would be hers and hers alone.
He glided his other hand to her waist. He leaned forward.
“What the hell are you doing?”
2
STUNNED, Francesca stared at Tony, at the glazed, desire-filled look in his eyes. She felt as if the world had suddenly starting spinning in a different direction.
He jerked his head and his hands back. “I—I’ve got to run.” He drained his wineglass, then stepped away from the counter.
She acutely felt the loss of his warmth, but since she’d so rudely drawn attention to his touch in the first place, she didn’t see how she could ask him to come back. “Run?”
“Out.” He grabbed her plate and his, then rinsed them both in the sink before putting them in the dishwasher. “To uh—I’m going up to…to the chateau.”
“Fontaine?” she asked, still confused about his odd behavior.
“Yeah. Meeting some friends.” He smiled, holding out his hands. “You know me, unending social life.”
Yeah, she did, and she was getting damn sick of it. She slogged away late into the night, while he took off for fun at least five nights a week. “We have work to do.”
“It’ll keep till morning.”
“What about the invoices?”
“Almost done. I’ll catch up tomorrow.”
“No, Tony—”
“I’ll see you in the morning. Coffee in the lobby?”
Since they’d been doing that for weeks, she nodded.
He leaned forward as if he was going to brush her cheek with his lips as usual, but she felt only a puff of breath against her skin. Giving her an odd look, he jumped back.
And, before she could even fully register the fact that he was leaving, he’d scooted across the room.
She watched him—specifically his great butt—as he disappeared around the corner.
Prince Galini has left the building.
She sighed. How could she be annoyed with him and still desire him? The transition to working every day had been hard for him, she knew, but his lack of commitment was getting old.
What did you expect, girl? That twenty-eight years of hedonism and indulgence were going to disappear overnight?
It was probably better he was gone. With him also went his disturbing effect on her.
She knew one thing for sure—The One had better hurry his late ass into her life soon, or she was going to burn up from the inside out.
With effort, she focused her brain on a safer topic. Pierre von Shalburg would do nicely. As much as Tony complained—a trait inherited from his spoiled parents, which Tony had, she was thankful, only a touch of—she was ready to jump up and down with the coup of having the influential critic attend their opening weekend. She wasn’t worried about his eccentricities or demands. Par for the course in the hotel business. The challenge of impressing the critic and getting Bella Luna on his Top Picks far outweighed the fear of a possible poor review.
Spurred into action by the opportunity, she cast a quick good-night over her shoulder to Kerry and headed upstairs to her office. She went online and searched for articles and reviews written by von Shalburg, cross-referencing them for commonly mentioned ingredients, favored presentation of dishes and service comments. She learned he liked all kinds of seafood—convenient, since Francesca had found a fabulous fish supplier. Shalburg was also a respected sommelier and could spot a weak wine with one sniff. He favored delicate and savory as opposed to overly spicy food, and he liked his service unobtrusive and as silent as possible—no surprise, given Tony’s “pompous jerk” assessment.
She rubbed her hands together. Now, what recipe could she come up with to wow him?
The phone rang before she’d managed to consider even one entrée.
When she answered, a familiar voice asked, “How’s my angel?”
“Hi, Dad,” Francesca returned, smiling as she leaned back in her chair. “How’s Palm Springs?”
Her father had owned a bakery while she was growing up, but he’d sold the business a few years ago, and he and her mother had spent much of that time traveling. Francesca was glad to see them relax and enjoy retirement. While they’d never lacked for anything during her childhood, they’d never had anything close to the financial freedom of Tony’s family or many of the other families whose children had attended her school. They’d put every spare penny into buying a house in a mostly posh area so she could get a great education, and the longer she spent in the “real world,” the more she appreciated their sacrifice.
“Great. Weather’s primo. I beat your mother today at golf.”
“She let you, you know.”
He sighed. “I know, but she loves me enough to let me win occasionally.”
“Just remember, Dad, she can’t even make a decent PB and J.”
“Why would anybody put jelly on first and try to spread peanut butter on top of that?”
Francesca laughed at the memory. “Got me.”
She caught her father up on the busy week and assured him she couldn’t wait for their visit on the second weekend after the resort opened. With the critic’s visit imminent, Francesca was glad she hadn’t insisted on having her parents for the grand opening and had instead taken her dad’s advice that she didn’t need the added pressure of family underfoot.
“Dad, thanks for giving me a great business sense,” she said after the update.
“And how is Tony?”
“I wasn’t comparing myself to Tony.”
“Oh, yes, you were.”
“No, I—”
“Tony has his own strengths, angel. He has a great sense of what people need.”
What they need? Oh, God, if he sensed what she really needed from him—to satisfy a gnawing itch of desire that had taken up residence in her body and refused to leave—she’d die of embarrassment.
“…that charm of his is legendary,” her father continued. “He could charm your mother into letting him win every golf match.”
It didn’t help her case against Tony that her father had always favored him. He’d always hoped she’d turn her interest to Tony and “bring him around.” Like a wary stallion, she assumed.
“I’m