Margherita's Notebook (24 page)

Carla looked at him, dumbfounded.

“I find it so gauche,” she remarked, and started sneezing. “I hate these country fairs. I don't understand why you insisted on coming . . .”

“I never asked you to come with me,” Nicola replied brusquely, forcing Carla to backpedal.

“I'm sorry . . . it's just that I'm nervous, there must be something I'm allergic to,” she said by way of an excuse, and sneezed again.

A burst of applause accompanied the end of the dance, with Nicola joining in enthusiastically.

“And now, the moment everyone's been waiting for, an old Latin American hit: the lambada!” shouted Bacci from the stage, inviting everyone to dance in the middle of the piazza.

“I adore this music . . . ,” Carla whispered, half closing her eyes and imagining herself being held tight in Nicola's arms. Nicola, however, wasn't listening to her. Instead, he crossed the piazza, heading straight for Margherita, followed by his assistant's fiery look.

“Acacia or chestnut?” were her words to him as she handed him a slice of bruschetta, trying to hide the emotions that his closeness aroused in her.

A few drops of honey trickled slowly down her fingers and Margherita instinctively licked them clean. Nicola watched her as if he were in a trance. The involuntary sensuality of that gesture left him breathless. He gave her no reply but instead looked deep into her eyes. And he held out his hand.

“I owe you a dance.”

Margherita knew that all it would take for her resolutions to crumble pathetically would be to let him hold her.

“You owe me nothing.”

Nicola took the slice of bruschetta Margherita was holding out to him and set it down on the table, never once taking his eyes off her mouth. He could hardly stop himself from placing his lips on hers. Without giving her a chance to object, he pulled her to him and dragged her to the center of the piazza.

“Thanks to you, last night was a success.”

Margherita stiffened.

A look of amusement was in his eyes.

“Or rather, thanks to your
canard
,” he added, while Margherita cursed herself.

“Some
canards
simply can't resist . . . ,” she let slip in spite of herself, with a twinge of mischief.

Nicola laughed. He laughed heartily.

Why do you have to be so damn sexy?

“Caustic as always. Anyway, thanks,” he went on. “I closed an excellent contract and it's thanks to you. The Chinese appreciate attention to detail, and your dinner was superlative.”

So . . . it was just a business dinner?

Being in his arms made her feel drunk, it made her head spin. But she couldn't—she mustn't!—let herself go again.

“I'm a terrible dancer,” she tried to object, as he enveloped her in an embrace that was perhaps a little too intimate.

“Well, then, let me lead you.”

Her body was close up against his, as if shaped by his, their legs touching with a motion so sensuous she was afraid she wouldn't have been able to stand up without his support.

“Let yourself go to the music, do what the rhythm tells you to do, let yourself flow with it,” he whispered to her. “The lambada is all about transgression . . . instinct . . . passion . . .” His voice was warm and thick, as sensuous as chocolate liqueur with just a hint of coffee.

Margherita abandoned herself to that embrace and let the music lull them, forgetting about all the people around them. Her eyes never left Nicola's, and with a sinuous movement of the hips she teased him, moving in, coming closer, and then pulling away.

Carla watched them, her anger rising. What could Nicola possibly see in that woman? She was so . . . different from him. So naïve. So ordinary. Women like her were nothing more than an appetizer for a man like Nicola Ravelli.

On the other side of the piazza, someone else was asking himself more or less the same questions. Without taking his eyes off the two of them, Matteo noticed the instinctive understanding between them, the sensuous movements, the undeniable empathy.

On the very last notes sung by Bacci, Nicola held her even tighter, as if he never wanted to let her go.

“Anyone who says you don't know how to dance has never held you in his arms,” he whispered as he smelled the scent of her hair, the fragrance of her excitement.

But Margherita couldn't reply. She was confused by his closeness, by his warm breath against her ear that made her shiver.

The music faded away. There was a moment's silence, followed right afterward by the enthusiastic clapping of hands. Only then did Margherita realize that the other dancers had moved to the sides to leave the spotlight to her and Nicola. She blushed, feeling exposed and vulnerable. But at
the same time she wished he would keep holding her close to him and that such a wonderful feeling would never end.

“Margherita, sorry, I need your help,” said Matteo, breaking the spell. Margherita grabbed the chance to distance herself from Nicola, extricating herself from his embrace, although every single inch of her body was imploring her not to.

He lingered for an instant, holding her hand in his, then he let go.

In the following days, Margherita felt as though time had stopped, as if everything around her were holding its breath waiting for something to happen. Apparently, nothing had changed, but deep down there was a strange tense feeling, as if some mysterious type of yeast were at work, fermenting emotions, sensations, desires . . .

Her dinners at the villa grew more frequent. Not only dinner; she was also preparing luncheons and brunches now, which apparently had suddenly become indispensable.

Nicola was more and more present, involved and interested in the choice of menu. A sort of collaboration was developing between the two of them based on a language that was gradually becoming theirs alone, a language rich in one-liners and characterized by an intimacy that informed the names of the dishes, the recipes, the small tastes they had of the delicacies Margy came up with, a different one each time. They gave guests food-based nicknames: “How did it go with Panzerotto?”

“It went all right, but I'm beginning to think I shouldn't have invited him to dinner with Ribollita. I think he would have hit it off better with Saltimbocca . . .”

“Was Sorbetto relaxed?”

“To be honest, there was a little tension with Zuppa Inglese, but Mont Blanc managed to hold the peace . . .”

Nicola discovered the pleasure of spending time in her company, the fun of sharing those nicknames just for the sake of having a laugh together, of going along with her so that he could enjoy that special smile she reserved for him alone. And Margherita was truly happy. She would watch him laughing like a child, competing with her to find the most suitable nickname. She discovered a harmony that she had never imagined.

Looks like Mr. Frozen Foods is thawing.

Nicola was surprised to find that he often looked for an excuse to come home early just for the pleasure of watching her cook. He knew he wanted her, and Margherita's gaze, her gestures, her reactions told him that she wanted him too. But so afraid was he that the strange spell that had fallen over them might come to an end, that he made a great effort to control himself and was the first to be surprised that he was able to.

One evening, when the feeling between them was particularly intense, when this game they were playing seemed like it might be turning into something else, a phone call from Enrico brought Nicola abruptly down to earth.

“All right, I'll be there tomorrow,” Margherita heard him say, as she decorated the table. When Nicola came back into the room, she looked up and smiled at him. Nicola thought she was incredibly beautiful and that she had a gift. And he was intrigued by her. But Margherita was all about things being “organic, healthy, no GMOs, ecofriendly, fair trade, sustainable,” and this made him feel a lot like the ogre in a fairy tale. The thought bothered him. He was a firm believer
in market rules, in the law of supply and demand. The huge demand for wine that was coming from Asia had to be satisfied. What did it matter if they altered the alcoholic content or stabilized and “adulterated” the wine with products that were “legal” but that modified its composition and bouquet? He'd never considered it to be a problem, and it was what he'd built his fortune on. So why did he now have a nagging feeling of unease whenever he gazed into those clear blue eyes that looked right back at him and smiled?

“Are you leaving?” she asked.

“Yes, I have to go to the consortium. I'll be gone a few days.”

And Nicola looked away.

She missed him. Margherita had to admit it. She missed his smile, his voice, the food games they played, those moments of intimacy that she'd never imagined would be possible. It was something that went beyond attraction and desire . . . but was just as dangerous. She was absentminded and listless: Armando had to tell her the same things over and over again, Artusi tugged at her insistently during their walks, Giulia watched her with a clinical eye, often looking as though she wanted to say something but ending up keeping her thoughts to herself. As for Matteo, he had to struggle hard to cope with the demons of jealousy that had been unleashed inside him upon seeing Nicola and Margherita wrapped in each other's arms as they danced the lambada. And it wasn't getting any easier now that, without realizing it, she kept mentioning the guy's name in a tone of voice and with a look in her eyes that filled poor Matteo with a rage that he had to struggle to smother.

It was at this point that a phone call arrived from Carla. Strange. Miss Lemon Popsicle actually sounded friendly. Margherita was surprised by this, and surprised that Carla had called her while Nicola was away. But she didn't have time to wonder why, because the next thing Carla said hit her like a ton of bricks.

“Nicola will be back tomorrow. It's his birthday, and he's asked me to call you so that you can prepare a dinner for two. There's no need for me to describe his guest this time”—Carla paused—“because it's me.”

Now it was Margherita's turn to feel like a popsicle.

“Are you still there?”

How could she miss the note of triumph in the other woman's voice?

“Yes, I'm listening. Is there anything special you'd like me to make?” She forced her voice to sound normal. Or at least she hoped it did.

“I trust you. Of course, it has to be the absolute tops. It's a special occasion”—she paused again—“and not just because it's his birthday.”

Don't ask questions. Don't inquire. Don't . . .

“Is that so?”

I couldn't help myself.

“There are some things a woman can feel . . .”

“Fine, I get it. See you tomorrow.” Margherita tried to end the conversation right then and there to avoid having to hear any more details.

But Carla intended to say one last thing.

“Oh, and by the way, Margherita,” she stopped her, “there's obviously no need for you to stay. I'll take care of serving the dinner.”