After the incident with the Alfa Romeo the remainder of the journey to San Vivaldo was incident-free. She even had cause to send up a missive of gratitude to her mischievous guardian angel because her switch in transport from four wheels to two meant she was able to navigate the narrow streets and cobbled alleyways with ease and not spend hours searching for an elusive parking space.
The town was exactly as Izzie had imagined it would be, with its slanted terracotta roofs, honeyed façades, and ubiquitous green shutters. Shadowy archways led to sunny courtyards resplendent with hand-painted ceramic pots filled to bursting with scarlet, crimson and pink blooms, and every nook and crevice oozed a fairy-tale aura, promising stories of mediaeval feuds, battling dragons and fallen dynasties.
She made her way towards the central piazza where a myriad of shops, bars and cafés catered to a visitor’s every need, all under the watchful benevolence of the church’s bell tower. Her gaze was drawn immediately to Pasticceria Da Oriana, its window a riot of colourful sugary treats all lined up with military precision. Now that she was here, she wondered whether Oriana would mind bringing forward their appointment to discuss the wedding cake. However, she had only travelled a few yards when her eye caught on a large white van parked at an incongruous angle next to a raised wooden veranda, and when she investigated further, a hand-painted sign confirmed she’d found Antonio’s Trattoria.
She briefly wondered what the delivery driver had been thinking. Okay, stop for a quick coffee, she didn’t begrudge him that, but for three hours?
She parked the Vespa, removed her helmet, and ran her fingers through her hair hoping that she didn’t look like she’d just suffered an electric shock. Moments later, she felt a splat land on her head. She glanced upwards, expecting to see a bank of bruised clouds to add to the catalogue of exasperating incidents that had befallen her so far that day, but only a wisp of cloud floated across the wide expanse of cerulean blue. Then her gaze fell on the self-satisfied pigeon and her stomach lurched when she realised what had happened.
‘Ergh!’ she groaned, searching in her bag for a tissue whilst trying not to retch.
Having done what she could to make herself presentable, she squeezed past the van, rounded the veranda and came face-to-face with the scarlet Alfa Romeo that had run her off the road earlier. She quickened her step, her mood heightened after the pigeon fiasco, intent not only on giving the delivery driver a lecture on the importance of sticking to a schedule, but also the racing driver a piece of her mind on road safety.
She could have been killed! What if that donkey – who in all fairness could have challenged Eeyore for first place on the melancholy monitor – had been an angry stallion who had taken umbrage at the disturbance of his mid-morning snack?
She squared her shoulders, but the surge of righteous indignation seeped from her bones when she saw that the restaurant was completely deserted, not to mention the fact that she didn’t possess the language skills to politely berate the two drivers in Italian. Instead, she plonked herself down in one of the cushioned chairs and decided to order a cappuccino to calm her nerves. What would stressing achieve?
After several minutes of waiting, she realised that no one was anxious to take her order. She pushed herself up from her seat, intending to go off in search of a waiter when she noticed the door that led through to the kitchen was slightly ajar, giving her an uninterrupted view of a tall, dark-haired man, decked out in pristine chef’s whites, busily preparing the ingredients for that day’s menu. She watched him finish chopping a plump, ripe mango before selecting a lemon, raise it to his nose and inhale, his eyes closing slightly as he did so.
A surprise ripple of attraction raced through Izzie’s veins and she dropped slowly back into her chair, mesmerised by the way his large hands caressed the fruit, as if thanking it for its bounty, before placing it on the chopping board and slicing it at speed. She couldn’t drag her eyes away, fascinated at the choreographed performance of food preparation, yet it wasn’t a rehearsed routine, more a freestyle culinary ballet. Izzie could feel her taste buds tingle as he scooped up the lemon slices and set them to one side.
Next, the chef took a large silver bowl, poured in a generous slug of fresh cream and began whisking, his biceps straining against the sleeves of his white jacket as he focused completely on the task in hand. When he paused to dip his finger into the whipped cream, placing its tip in his mouth, then running his tongue along his lower lip to catch any lingering remnants, Izzie gulped as a hot frisson of desire scorched through her body.
What was going on?
She felt like she was the only audience member at a very intimate show, one that had been put on for her sole enjoyment, with Antonio Banderas’s younger brother playing the lead role in her personal culinary performance. She almost drooled when he scraped every last molecule of the cream into a pastry case he’d prepared earlier and sprinkled the top with a handful of flaked almonds.
Wow, desserts weren’t usually her thing, but she could happily dig into a slice of that pie!
From her vantage point, she feasted her eyes on his profile; how his mahogany hair curled over the back of his collar, his strong muscular forearms rippled with dark hairs, the way he dragged his palm across the stubble on his jawline as he contemplated which task deserved his attention next. Suddenly, a crystal-clear image of those same hands running the length of her glistening body, his long fingers slotted through her hair at the back of her neck as he pulled her lips towards his, appeared in her mind and she let out an involuntary gasp.
Had he heard her exclamation, or perhaps he’d sensed her scrutiny?
In any event, he looked up from the ball of pizza dough he had started to knead and met her eyes. Her cheeks flooded with heat when she saw his mouth curl into a knowing smirk. He wiped his hands, those wonderfully expressive hands, on a tea towel, flicked it over his shoulder, and sauntered out to the veranda.
Oh God, she groaned inwardly, why did she have to look like she’d been dragged behind one of those tractors she’d seen ploughing the fields? Why couldn’t she be relaxing at the café’s table looking effortlessly glamorous – admittedly something she had always struggled with due to her wayward profusion of copper curls. A nip of astonishment snapped at her chest – it had been a long while since she’d worried about her appearance when approached by a man. However, before she could analyse that revelation further she met a pair of the softest brown eyes she had come across.
‘Cosa le posso portare?’
‘Oh, I’m… yes, please, I’d like… could I have a coffee?’
Her words came out like a garbled mess and her cheeks coloured again. Thankfully, the chef thought it was because she didn’t speak Italian and switched to fluent English.
‘Sorry, have you been waiting long? I didn’t see you arrive. What can I get you?’
The cadence of his voice, the sexily accented English, the way he held her eyes as he smiled, the scent of his citrusy cologne, his unsettling proximity, all melded together to send spasms of heat from her chest southwards like red hot pokers. Oh, for God’s sake, get a grip, Isabella! She was reacting like a love-struck schoolgirl – but then she had never been faced with such masculine magnificence.
‘Can I get you some breakfast?’
‘Oh, no thanks. I don’t usually eat breakfast. Actually, I’m just here to…’
‘You don’t eat breakfast?’
To her surprise, the chef pulled up a chair and sat down next to her, shaking his head, tutting at her answer as though she was the craziest person he’d ever met.
‘You do know that breakfast is the best meal of the day, don’t you? Well, after lunch, and dinner, of course. Oh, and maybe the midnight snack… and let’s not forget brunch!’ He laughed, the cute dimples appearing at the corners of his lips doing nothing to dampen Izzie’s interest. ‘In fact, in my humble opinion, every meal is important and should be treated with the respect it deserves.’
‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you? As a chef, I mean!’
Izzie smiled, suddenly feeling completely at ease in this man’s company, as though she’d just met up with an old friend for a chat about the meaning of life – except for the inconvenient fact that her heart was galloping way ahead of her brain, riding on a wave of romance and hot, steamy passionate embraces.
‘Of course! But I adore food! It’s so much more than a means of keeping body and soul together. It’s art, it’s science, it’s passion! What is your favourite dish?’
‘Oh…’ Taken by surprise, she was unable to invent something quickly enough, so she decided to go with honesty. ‘Actually, I’m not really interested in food. Give me a plate of buttered toast and a cup of coffee and I’m happy. I never seem to have the time, or the inclination, to labour over a mountain of ingredients. I live by myself, so what’s the point?’
Oh God! Had she just managed to drop into the conversation the fact she was single!
‘You don’t enjoy cooking? Everyone loves cooking! For an Italian – life revolves around the pursuit of culinary excellence; from sourcing the raw ingredients, to their preparation and devouring with gusto and the right wine. Food is part of the fabric of life – without it the journey would be dull, don’t you think? If you spent even a little time in my kitchen you would change your mind like that!’ He clicked his fingers to demonstrate his point. ‘In fact, you must taste my tiramisu. I will bring a slice with your coffee. I’m Luca Castelotti, by the way. I am the owner of this little slice of Tuscan paradise.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Luca. I’m Isabella.’
She held out her hand, but he leaned forwards and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. The air between them crackled with attraction and she even found herself lowering her eyelids in preparation for that particular dose of ecstasy, but sadly she was mistaken because instead of placing his lips on hers, he reached up to remove a stray leaf from her hair. The intimacy of his gesture sent her emotions into a maelstrom of confusion, so she croaked out the reason she was sitting on his veranda in the first place.
‘Erm, before you go, do you happen to know where the driver of that van is? He’s supposed to be delivering the contents to us this morning and he’s already three hours late!’
‘Alberto?’ Luca rolled his eyes in exasperation. ‘Yes, he’s here – almost drank the place dry celebrating his birthday last night. He’s upstairs sleeping off his hangover. I had to tell him that he wasn’t fit to get behind the wheel and I promised to deliver his cargo myself. Sorry for the delay, as you can see, I have the lunchtime preparations. Does that mean you are staying at the Villa dei Limoni?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Are you involved in the wedding?’
‘Yes, well, actually, it seems I’m responsible for organising the whole thing.’
‘What happened to Lucy Harwood?’
‘Oh, you know her? Well, unfortunately she’s suffering from a bout of food poisoning and, crazily, I agreed to step into her shoes and help out at the last minute. I don’t want to let anyone down, but there’s so much to do if everything’s going to be ready on time, so…’
‘Okay, give me a couple of minutes while I fetch the keys.’
Izzie watched Luca stride back into the restaurant, lean over the bar – gifting her with a fabulous view of his taut, muscular buttocks – and hook his finger through a bunch of keys. He returned to the veranda, smiling as though he’d just stepped from a toothpaste ad. In fact, thought Izzie as he removed his chef’s jacket to reveal a black T-shirt that hugged his torso like a second skin, Luca could give a professional model a run for their money.
She leaped from her seat and followed Luca back down the steps of the veranda. However, to her surprise, instead of turning left towards where the van was parked, he turned right and leaned through the open window of the Spider to remove the keys from the ignition.
‘Oh my God! Is that your car?’
‘Yes,’ beamed Luca misinterpreting her expression for that of awe. ‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’
‘The car is, the driver is a lunatic who shouldn’t be allowed on the roads,’ she blurted before swivelling on her heels and striding towards where she’d left the Vespa, leaving Luca gaping in her wake, his forehead creased, clearly regretting his encounter with the crazy Englishwoman with hair like a rust-coloured bird’s nest and a sharp line in driving etiquette.