Best of Bosses 2008: In Bed With Her Italian Boss\Taken by Her Greek Boss\Blind Date With the Boss (11 page)

After a few minutes of throwing themselves into the music, she was relieved to see that his bleak mood lifted slightly and he was starting to smile again. But somehow they'd moved near to the stage, and the singer had caught sight of them.

‘Gio! Come up and play with us, my friend,' he called when the song had finished.

Gio shook his head. ‘No, I'm fine in the audience, thanks.'

‘Come on,' the singer wheedled. ‘You know everyone would love to hear to you play. And sing.'

‘I'm fine right here,' Gio repeated.

The singer refused to let it drop, and Gio's face darkened. Considering the conversation they'd just had, for a moment, Fran thought that he was going to walk out.

And then Nonna placed her hand on his arm. ‘Gio,
piccolino
, do it for me. Or if you won't do it for me, sing for Francesca,' she said softly.

Tension was coming off him in almost visible waves. But then he nodded. ‘All right. I'll do it for Fran.'

He climbed up on the stage, to loud applause and cheers from the audience. ‘OK, so it's August and not October, but there's a certain song I want to sing tonight. For Francesca.' He winked at her, as if telling her that it was going to be OK, he wasn't going to make a scene; then he turned and mouthed something to the pianist, who nodded. And Gio made no protest when the guitarist handed him an electric guitar—just checked the tuning.

And then he counted the band in to a soft, jazzy number Fran recognized: ‘Moondance.'

It was a song she'd always liked. But hearing Gio sing it somehow gave it something extra. He had the most beautiful voice. So beautiful that it hurt; she found herself wishing that Gio was singing this to her for real, that he wanted to dance with her and call her his love and make love with her.

But his eyes were on her as he sang. And just for a moment she could almost believe that he really was singing this for her. Could imagine what it would be like to run into his arms and dance in a frost-covered garden with him on an October night, the moonlight shining through the almost-bare branches of the trees and turning everything magically silver.

The song ended with him pleading for one more dance with his love. Then he smiled. ‘Thank you. That one was for Fran,' he said, and handed the guitar back.

‘Oh, come on, Gio—give us another one!' someone called.

‘It's my birthday party and you want me to work?' he retorted,
laughing. ‘Now there's a first. I thought you lot all wanted me to slow down.'

‘Just one more song,' someone else pleaded.

‘One's enough. Now I'm going to dance with my girl and hand you back to the real singer. Enjoy your evening, everyone.' He stepped down from the stage and joined Fran again.

‘I didn't know you could sing that well,' she said. ‘That was pretty amazing.'

‘Nothing that a thousand pub singers in London don't do every Saturday night,' he said, making a dismissive gesture. ‘It's not a big deal. Dance with me?'

The singer had followed Gio's performance with another Van Morrison song, a slow ballad; Fran stepped forward into Gio's arms and swayed with him to the music. If only she could ease his troubles, the way the singer was telling them the love of his life did. But all she could do right now was hold him.

And even when the next song changed tempo and became upbeat again, Fran and Gio remained dancing close, just holding each other and swaying to the beat. Cheek to cheek. So close they could feel each other's heartbeat.

With shock, she realised that this was what she'd been waiting for. To be in Gio's arms. She couldn't pin down the exact moment, but at some point over the last few weeks she'd fallen for Gio—and the whole Mazetti tribe. Which was stupid, because this wasn't for keeps. Their relationship would end when Nonna went back to Italy.

And the knowledge broke her heart.

 

Gio sensed the sudden tension in Fran, and pulled back slightly so he could see her face. ‘OK?' he mouthed.

She nodded and smiled, but although the light was too low to see properly, he could tell the smile didn't reach her eyes. She was definitely upset about something, but she wasn't telling.

Ah, hell.

He wanted to kiss her better.

No. Actually, he just wanted to kiss her again.

And that would complicate matters beyond belief.

He really ought to let her go right now. Put her in a taxi and pay the driver to wait until she was safely indoors. But he couldn't drag himself away from her. So he just wrapped his arms round her again, held her close. Told her silently with his body that he was there, that whatever was wrong he'd do whatever he could to make it right.

Dancing cheek to cheek with her like this meant that he could smell the sweet floral perfume she'd used. Summer roses. Like the candied petals his mother used on a trifle and that he'd always begged for, as a child. So sweet.

His mouth was so close to her ear; he couldn't resist pressing the tiniest kiss to her earlobe. The next thing he knew, his mouth was brushing a trail of kisses along her cheek. Her face turned slightly to meet his. And at last his mouth found hers. A tiny, gentle, questioning touch.

A second's pause.

And then she tilted her head slightly, kissed him back. An equally tiny kiss. The barest touch of her lips against his.

His mouth was tingling. And despite the fact they were in a noisy, crowded hall with people dancing round them, everything seemed to melt away. There was just the two of them. And an overwhelming need to kiss her properly, feel her mouth open beneath his.

He caught her lower lip between his. So soft, so sweet.

His head was telling him that this was a seriously bad idea, but his body wasn't listening. Because this felt as if tiny stars had started to illuminate the black hole in the middle of his heart. The tiniest flickers of light, of hope.

And when her mouth opened beneath his and the tip of her tongue touched his, the lights became brighter. She was warm and soft and her body fitted against his perfectly.

Right here, right now, this was where he belonged. With Fran. No pretence, no act. And the way she was kissing him back made him feel as if he could conquer the world. Walk on air.

‘Put the girl down, Gio. There are children present,' Ric teased, slapping him on the back.

Oh, lord. However long had they been kissing? Fran's mouth was slightly red and swollen, her pupils were enormous, and he could feel that her breasts had grown slightly fuller and heavier against him.

He was turned on just as much. And he couldn't get the words of that song out of his head. How much he wanted to make love to her. In a frosted garden. On a swing.

Uh. He couldn't remember the last time he'd fantasised about someone. His life had been too full with work. But Fran…Fran was different.

‘Your timing's impeccable,
cugino mio
. Not,' he said ruefully.

And Fran's cheeks were crimson. He kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Sorry, honey. I got carried away. Give me a second to calm down.' He bent his head slightly and whispered in her ear, ‘But please don't move until then, because if you do I think we'll both be extremely embarrassed.'

‘I was going to ask you if you were enjoying the party,' Ric said with a smile, ‘but I don't think I need to.'

‘Tact,' Gio said to Fran with a sigh, ‘is not a Mazetti strong point.' He coughed. ‘Would you mind not embarrassing my girlfriend?'

‘I apologise, Fran.' Ric patted her shoulder. ‘For embarrassing you. Though not for embarrassing the birthday boy.
Buon compleanno
, Gio.'

‘Thanks, Ric. I think.'

When Gio's cousin left them alone again, Gio stroked Fran's cheek. ‘Um. That wasn't supposed to…' He swallowed hard. ‘I can't even blame it on too much champagne.' It was just Fran. Her nearness. And how he wanted her.

‘Me, too.'

Had he spoken that last bit aloud? Was she saying that she felt the same way?

But right now he didn't trust his judgement.

Right now, he just wanted to get out of here. But the party was a quarter his—he knew he was expected to stay right to the end.

Somehow, they made it through the rest of the evening. If
anyone else had noticed them kissing—well, how could they possibly have missed it?—at least they had more tact than Ric and didn't mention it.

 

They were the last ones in the hall except Nonna, his parents, his sisters and their partners. Just short of a dozen of them: enough to make clearing up easy work.

‘Thank you,' Jude said, hugging Fran.

‘We know you helped Gio choose our presents. And they're perfect,' Bella said.

Marcie added, ‘But most of all, thank you for making our brother human again. I haven't seen him look this happy in years.'

‘No pressure, then,' Fran quipped, but inside her heart was heavy. This whole deception had started to avoid Nonna's illusions being shattered. But the way things were going, when she and Gio staged their break-up, an awful lot more people were going to get hurt. His grandmother, his parents and sisters…

And herself.

‘Come on, honey. Time to go home,' Gio said, taking her hand.

Once they'd made their goodbyes and climbed into the taxi, Gio let her hand go again.

Well, what had she expected? That kiss earlier—it hadn't been faked, but it hadn't exactly been for real either. A dream that had caught them both up for a while, but now they were back in reality.

They were silent as the taxi took them back to Fran's house, but she was shocked when Gio actually dismissed the taxi. Was he expecting her to invite him in?

As if he could read her mind, he said, ‘I just want to see you safely into your flat. And then I'm walking home.'

‘But you live ages away.'

He shrugged. ‘It's not raining and the fresh air will do me good.'

He followed her into the lobby and she opened her front door. Her tongue felt as if it had stuck to the roof of his mouth, but she managed to get the words out. Even managed to get them to sound light and breezy, as if nothing had happened. ‘Would you like to come in for coffee?'

In response, he moved closer and brushed his mouth against hers. ‘If I do, we'll both regret it in the morning. Because right now what I want to do is take that beautiful dress off you and carry you to your bed.'

That sexy, husky note in his voice was her undoing. He'd just voiced exactly what she wanted him to do, too.

‘Gio.' She reached up to pull his head down to hers. Pressed her body against his, so close that she could actually feel his heartbeat. Hard and fast, like her own.

And he was kissing her back, gently moving her so her back was against the front door. He nudged his thigh between hers, sliding one hand to cup her bottom and bring her even closer to him; she could feel his erection pressing against her, hot and hard.

Fran had never wanted anyone so much in her entire life.

And then he shuddered. Broke the kiss. Disentangled her hands from his hair. Took a step backwards. ‘We can't do this. In the morning, I'll feel guilty about taking advantage of you.'

He wouldn't be taking advantage of her. She'd be with him all the way.

‘So I'm going to leave now. While I still can.' He closed his eyes. Embarrassment, or because if he looked at her, saw the sheer desire in her expression, his control would splinter?

‘I'll see you Monday.' He opened his eyes again, but didn't look at her. ‘And thanks for coming to the party with me tonight.' He raised a hand in the tiniest wave goodbye, and left.

He'd done the right thing. The sensible part of her knew that. It would be way too complicated between them at work afterwards if they spent the night making love. Leaving now was the right thing to do—not to mention the complication of this whole fake-girlfriend thing.

So why did it hurt so damned much? she thought as she locked the door behind her. Why did she want to curl up in a ball and cry her eyes out?

G
IO
didn't actually see Fran on Monday, because he was visiting a franchise organisation. She was a bit hurt he hadn't asked her to go along with him; but then again, it was probably better if they were apart for a bit. Sensible. It would give them both a chance to cool down and wipe out any lingering awkwardness from Saturday night.

On Tuesday, Gio didn't even call in to the office to see if everything was OK. Which was good, she told herself, because clearly he trusted her to keep everything in the cafés ticking over without supervision. And that stupid longing to hear his voice was just that. Stupid. Teenagery.

Which was even
more
stupid, considering that she was twenty-six and sensible, not fifteen and full of hormones.

All the same, she made serious inroads into the box of chocolates Gio had bought her for winning the bet about making latte art. She needed the sugar rush.

But after work on Tuesday night, things took a dip for the worse. Fran had called in at the supermarket on the way home. But as soon as she pushed her front door open, she could see that she had a problem.

A huge problem.

There was a hole in her ceiling, and bits of artex were scattered everywhere. And from the way her sofa-bed was completely soaked, it looked as if water had come through the ceiling,
collected in the gap between the plasterboard and the artex and stretched it out until it burst—sending water cascading straight down. Her carpets were squelchy underfoot, there were stains on the walls from where water had seeped through the gap between the ceiling and the wall, and already she could smell something unpleasant: wet wool, she guessed. Probably the carpet.

For a moment, she just stood staring at the mess, too shocked to move.

And then common sense kicked in. She needed to make a few calls. Starting with the letting agency, to tell them what had happened so they could book someone to come round and start repairing the damage. The insurance company for the damage to her belongings. And work, to say that she'd be in late tomorrow as she had a ton of things to sort out.

Which meant she was going to have to talk to Gio.

Well, this was business and they were both adults. So there was no point in putting it off, was there? She rang his mobile; he sounded slightly absent when he answered, as if she'd interrupted him in the middle of something and he was only paying half attention to the call.

‘It's Fran. I'm afraid I won't be in tomorrow—at least, not until late—because I need to sort out a problem.'

 

Her voice sounded tight and slightly anxious, not her usual cheerful self. Gio, who hadn't really been listening, suddenly snapped to attention. ‘What sort of problem?'

‘My flat's been flooded. It's a bit of a mess. I just need to sort a few things out.'

She was clearly aiming to sound practical, but the tiny wobble in her voice told him how upset she really was. Knowing Fran, ‘a bit of a mess' was an understatement. And even though he knew it was sensible to keep his distance for a little bit longer and she was perfectly capable of dealing with the problem by herself, he couldn't just stand by and leave her to it. ‘I'm coming over.'

‘Gio, you really d—'

‘I'm on my way
now
,' he cut in. He ended the call, closed the
file he was working on, locked the door behind him, collected his car and drove straight to her flat.

Her face was tight with tension when she opened the door to him. Because she didn't want to face him, or…?

Then he glanced over her shoulder and saw the mess.

‘
Porca miseria
, Fran! How did this happen? A burst pipe?'

She shook her head. ‘The guy above me left the bath running. He was on the phone to someone, had a bit of a fight with them and stomped out. He forgot he'd left the bath running until he came back, three hours later.'

‘And by then it had overflowed and soaked through your ceiling.' Gio shook his head in disgust. ‘What an
idiot.
'

‘I'm afraid I said something far worse than that when he came down to apologise, a few minutes ago,' she admitted. ‘I would offer you a coffee, but—'

‘No. It'd be dangerous to use your kettle right now,' Gio said. ‘The place needs drying out, the electrics all need checking properly to make sure they're safe before you use them again, and then there's the repair to the ceiling. The carpet's probably not going to recover, so you'll need someone in to measure the room and then fit a replacement. And I'm not sure your sofa-bed is ever going to be the same again.' He surveyed the damage. ‘It's going to take quite a while to sort this out. And there's no way you can stay here while your flat's in this kind of condition. Where were you planning to sleep tonight?'

She shrugged. ‘I'll find a hotel or something.'

‘My family would skin me for letting you do that, when I have a spare room. Problem solved—you're staying with me.' It was a rash move, he knew; after Saturday night, having Fran that close would be a major strain on his self-control. But how could he stand by and let her struggle, when such a simple solution was right at his fingertips? ‘Just pack what you need for a few days. Clothes and what have you, paperwork and anything that might not cope with a high moisture content in the air.'

‘Clothes?' She coughed and gestured to the rail next to the wall. The sodden canvas cover was sagging over the hangers
beneath; it was a fair bet that right now the only dry clothes she owned were those she was wearing.

‘OK. Have you got some large plastic bags?'

‘I've got some dustbin bags.'

‘They'll do. Put your clothes in those. I have a washer dryer, so we can deal with the laundry when we get back to my place.'

‘We're going to carry bags of wet clothes on the Tube?'

He smiled. ‘You know you say my car corners like a tank? Well, it carries like one, too. And it's parked outside. Without a permit.'

Her eyes widened. ‘Gio, you'll get a fine!'

‘At this time of the evening? I doubt it. And no traffic warden would be hard-hearted enough to give me a ticket when your place is flooded and your visitor permits are probably so much papier mâché.'

She clearly didn't share his certainty, but it was a risk he was prepared to take.

‘Just pack your stuff and I'll carry it out for you and load it up,' he said quietly. ‘Oh, and when you talk to your letting agency again, you might want to give them my home number. Just in case they need to get hold of you while you're staying with me and for some reason they can't reach you at work or on your mobile phone; the answering machine can take a message if we're not there.'

Her eyes were suspiciously glittery; she looked very close to tears. How could he stay brisk and businesslike when she so clearly needed a hug? So he wrapped his arms round her, resting his cheek against her hair for a moment. ‘It's going to be all right,
piccolina
. Really.' And then he let her go before he did something really stupid, like picking her up and carrying her out to his car.

He helped her pack the rest of her clothes into dustbin liners.

‘There's no point in packing these. They're dry-clean only. Ruined,' she said and made a separate pile of clothes.

Including the dress she'd worn on Saturday night, he noted. ‘My mum's bound to know someone who can salvage them,' he said, picked up the pile and stowed them in a bag. ‘I take it you haven't eaten yet?'

‘No. I'd just done a bit of shopping on the way home.' She
surveyed the squelchy mess around them. ‘I don't think I'm hungry any more.'

‘Fran, you need to eat properly. I know this is a horrible situation, but skipping meals will only make you feel worse.' He punched a couple of buttons on his mobile phone. ‘Mum? It's Gio. I'm at Fran's—there's been a flood.'

Predictably, his mother wanted to know if he was helping Fran clear up and if she was going to stay at his flat. ‘Of
course
. Look, some of her clothes are dry-clean only, and they're soaked.'

‘And you need help to salvage them. Do you want me to come over to yours?'

He smiled. ‘You're an angel. Yes, please. You've got my spare key.'

‘I'm on my way now. Tell Fran not to worry.'

‘I will.'

‘Love you, Gio.'

‘Love you too, Mum.' He snapped the phone closed and turned to Fran. ‘Sorted. Have you called your parents yet?'

She shook her head. ‘No point. They're too far away to help.'

‘Don't you think they need to know where you are, in case they try to call you here and can't get through? They might be worried.'

She gave him a look as if to say, why on earth would they be worried? But she shrugged. ‘I'll text them later.'

His first instinct in a crisis was to call his family. And yet Fran kept her distance from hers, sorting the problem out on her own. Was it the adoption thing that had made her so self-reliant? Or was it that she was scared to let herself be part of them, in case she was rejected again?

He remembered the way she'd suddenly tensed on Saturday night, but wouldn't tell him what was wrong. Had that been it, the idea of being part of a family and fearing rejection?

But his family had liked her immediately. They wouldn't reject her.

Neither would he
.

If he could only trust himself not to let her down.

 

Angela and Isabella were already at Gio's flat by the time they arrived. And something smelled fantastic.

‘I assume neither of you two have had the time to eat yet,' Angela said. ‘So you can just sit down right now and eat.'

Fran felt the tears welling up and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She was
not
going to be wet about this.

Angela gave her a hug. ‘Hey, it's horrible when you get flooded out. Especially when you couldn't have done anything to prevent it. Sit down and eat. You'll feel a lot better when you've eaten something.'

Fran didn't quite believe her, but the gnocchi and sauce were gorgeous.

And Angela was right: it was exactly what she needed.

Fifteen minutes later the washing machine was on, Angela had made a pile of clothes she intended to take to a friend who specialised in restoring textiles, and Nonna was brewing coffee to go with the box of Amaretti biscuits she'd brought over.

‘Thank you for coming to my rescue,' Fran said. ‘I really appreciate it.'

‘Prego,'
Angela said with a smile. ‘Of course we would. You're one of us.'

Oh, lord. She really
was
going to cry in a minute. Something inside her felt as if it had just cracked.

Gio ruffled her hair. ‘Come on,
tesoro
. Let's put your things in my spare room.'

‘Room' was probably a bit of an ambitious description, Fran thought; the space was more like a large broom cupboard. And it was already crammed with a computer, paperwork and three guitars. Even if he moved them all elsewhere, there wouldn't be room for anyone to sleep there.

Gio might have a spare room, but he didn't have a spare bed. She felt her cheeks scorch with heat. Was he expecting her to share his bed? And as for the message
that
would give his family…

As if he guessed what she was thinking, he said, ‘I'll change the sheets for you, Fran. You'll be having my room while you stay here—and my sofa turns into a guest bed, so, before you start
worrying, let me reassure you that you're not putting me out. Now, I'll show you how the shower works—there's plenty of hot water, so just help yourself whenever you want a bath or what have you. I won't be expecting you to go in to work at the same time in the morning as I do—and you don't need to come in at all tomorrow.' He took a bunch of keys from a drawer and detached one. ‘Spare door key. So you don't have to wait around for me.'

She swallowed hard. ‘I really appreciate this, you know.'

‘Prego.'
He smiled back at her.

By the time Gio had changed the bed and she'd sorted out her things in his bathroom—and it felt strangely domesticated to have her face cream sitting next to his razor on the bathroom shelf and her toothbrush next to his—Angela had finished sorting through the dry-cleaning pile. ‘I'll take these to my friend tomorrow morning,' she said.

‘Thank you.' Fran hugged her. ‘Thank you so much. I thought they were beyond saving.'

‘My pleasure, sweetheart.' Her voice softened. ‘And you've already done a lot for me. If anything, I'm in your debt: Gio's not such a complete workaholic as he used to be, and he smiles a hell of a lot more.'