Luscious (14 page)

Alessandro shrugged, glancing over at him. “I can’t keep her out of the kitchen. Can you?”

A sharp thump sounded beneath the car and Sean heard the unmistakable bang of a tire exploding. The car jerked to the right. Alessandro spun the wheel and they skidded to a halt on the side of the road, inches from a ditch.

“I hope you have a spare,” Sean said grimly.

“That was the spare.”

Olivia pulled her velvety smooth pumpkin custards from the oven. She set the water bath on a table and carefully removed each ramekin, wiping them gently before she placed them on a sheet tray to cool. She was glad that the Culinary Arts College had insisted that every good chef needed to perfect crème brûlée just in case the pastry chef ever got sick.

She looked at the clock—an hour to spare. Technically, the crème brûlées should come to room temperature before she chilled them, but she didn’t have
that
much time. She’d have to put them in the walk-in.

Speaking of time, where was Alessandro? He had said he’d be back in time to finish dinner. She didn’t mind covering for him. In fact, she’d enjoyed herself, but shouldn’t someone try to call him? It was almost six o’clock, and Sean wasn’t back yet either. Damn it, she’d wanted to win that bet with her father and prove Sean could take care of himself.

She put the lasagna in the oven and pulled three trays of
antipasto
out of the reach-in. Her julienned carrots added a splash of color to the platters and they tasted even better than they looked tossed with fresh tarragon vinaigrette.

She carried the
antipasto
platters upstairs and poked her head into the dining room to catch Elena’s eye. The server followed her back into the kitchen.

“Ready for these?” Olivia asked.

Elena nodded. “
Grazie
. Where is Alessandro?” Her brown eyes were wide.

Olivia held up her hands. “I have no idea, but don’t tell my mother.”

The girl laughed and picked up the platters. Olivia went back downstairs for the other tray. It would be much easier to serve dinner if the guests were seated in the upper kitchen area at the trestle table. She selfishly hoped they only used the formal dining room on the first night of their stay.

Elena met her on the stairs and traded the last platter for a glass of wine. “
Grazie
,” Olivia said, touched by her thoughtfulness.

Elena smiled and headed back into the dining room. Olivia checked her soup. It smelled good enough to make her stomach rumble. Quickly, she chopped some bright green chard and threw it into the pot. Tomorrow, the greens would darken and she could add tomatoes and beans and serve it as minestrone. Of course, tomorrow, Alessandro might not let her back in his kitchen after the liberties she had taken today.

She heard a car drive around the side of the villa. Two doors slammed.

The chef swept into the kitchen first followed by Sean.

Alessandro made a beeline for the oven and the stove.

“What on earth took you so long?” she asked.

“Flat tire,” Sean said. “We had to wait for the tow truck to bring a new one.”

“You two were together?”

“I ran into him in the Piazza Dante, and begged a ride back to the villa,” Sean explained.

She shook her head. “I’m so sorry my father abandoned you, but I’m glad you made it back in time for dinner.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I bet Papà you would, so now he has to be nice to you for the rest of the week.”

Sean burst out laughing. “Nice work.”

Alessandro looked up from the pot he was stirring. “Thank you for making
il
primo
piatto
. Your soup smells magnificent.”

“The soup is only as good as the stock, and yours was fantastic.”

Color rose in Alessandro’s cheeks.

Sean took Olivia’s hand. The memory of their dinner last night swept through her, raising her awareness of him. She imagined she felt the air press against her as he edged closer. She cleared her throat. “Go change for dinner. We’ve got guests in the house.”

Alessandro adjusted his chef coat. “I’ll get to work.”

“No way. This is my meal now. Too many chefs spoil the broth. You can take a seat in the dining room.”

He frowned. “I don’t eat with your family.”

“You do tonight. We’ve got a double date, remember? The opera? Go make yourself presentable. I hope you brought other clothes to work today.”

He nodded, looking reluctant.

“Ten minutes,” she warned. “Soup’s on.”

***

A half hour later everyone was seated at the dining room table, chatting and getting to know each other. She took a seat beside Sean. “Where’s Papà?” she asked her mother.

“Checking the vines,” her mother said, smiling at Alessandro. She was clearly delighted to have him at the table and Olivia could understand why as the newly arrived guests clamored for his attention.

“This is fantastic.” The woman on her other side exclaimed.

“Thank you.” Olivia returned her grin, glad she had taken the time to introduce herself to the guests while Sean and Alessandro were changing. Mrs. Schmidt and her husband were from Germany. They had spent the summer studying wine-making in the Valpolicella region, and Villa Farfalla was the last stop on their tour. Olivia spooned up a bite of the rich broth. It was rather fantastic.

The clink of spoons replaced the chatter as the other guests dipped into their soup. One couple had come all the way from Australia on their honeymoon, and Olivia could sympathize with their jet-lagged stasis. The husband’s eyes were glazed as his hand mechanically moved his spoon from bowl to mouth. His wife sagged slightly in her chair. The four middle-aged American couples sitting at the far end of the table were traveling together and ate in comfortable silence.

Olivia concentrated on finishing her soup so she could serve the main course. Every so often, Sean would brush against her and she would have to remind herself to keep eating. Her physical awareness of him was reaching ridiculous levels. Her skin felt tingly. She was conscious of every breath she took, and she could actually feel each hard beat of her heart.

Across the table, Alessandro charmed the guests like he had been doing it every night. Even the exhausted wife perked up a bit when he told her about the classes planned for tomorrow. He urged them to get plenty of rest, absolving them of any responsibility for social interaction that evening. The Germans fired questions at him, picking his brain about the grape varietals used to make the villa’s Amarone and Valpolicella and whether he thought they had a chance of reproducing the villa’s famous La Farfalla. Just as Olivia was about to rescue him by suggesting they wait for her father to arrive, Alessandro began answering their questions. Her mother didn’t interrupt, so she assumed he must be correct.

She left the table to return to the kitchen, glad she had pulled the lasagna out of the oven before serving the soup. It was now at the perfect temperature. She carried it up to the trestle table where Rosa and Elena were waiting to carry plates out to the dining room. As she portioned fat slices of lasagna, the smell of basil, garlic, eggplant, and rich cheese made her mouth water. The servers loaded their trays and headed for the dining room.

A sound in the lower kitchen caught her attention. Her father entered from the patio and joined her at the table, looking pleased.

“Happy grapes out there?” Olivia asked.

“Extremely. Sorry I’m late. I’ll wash up and meet you at the table. Make me a plate?”

“Of course.”

Her father headed for the hand sink and Olivia carried the last three plates out herself. Alessandro was still holding court, regaling the table with stories from his misspent youth. Olivia wondered why her parents didn’t insist he dine with the guests every night. His easy charm encapsulated exactly what her mother was trying to achieve at Villa Farfalla.

The guests continued to talk and eat as she made her excuses and returned to the kitchen to torch the crème brûlées.

The deep orange custard looked gorgeous covered with amber sugar. She placed each ramekin on a plate with two
amaretti
cookies, wondering if she needed another garnish. Berries? Almonds? No, the perfect sheen of caramel was divine, no need to detract from the complexity of her flavors.

Sean came down the stairs just as she finished the last plate. “Can I help?”

“Nope, all done. The servers will get them. I was just headed back upstairs.”

He walked around the table to stand behind her. His hands touched her hips and she felt him lower his face into the curve of her neck. He breathed deeply, making her shiver. “You smell delicious. Like citrus and spice.”

Her knees gave out and she sagged against him. He cradled her against his chest. “Tired?”

“Not at all. I don’t know why, but working in the kitchen today felt amazing. I felt…liberated. Not as hopeless as I’ve been feeling in Norton.” Her sudden burst of inspiration could have something to do with the beauty of Villa Farfalla, but she had a feeling it had more to do with the man standing behind her.

She turned to face him. “Are you ready for
Romeo
and
Juliet
tonight?” She asked and then made a gagging noise.

He cocked his head to the side. “Don’t you like the play?”

“I hate it,” she said cheerfully.

“Then why are we going?” He looked confused.

“Duh—because it’s in the Arena.”

He laughed and bent his head to kiss her. She sank into him, reaching up to caress his broad shoulders. She dared to slip one hand beneath the collar of his shirt. His warm skin sparked a craving to feel more, to be closer. She opened her mouth. His tongue flirted with hers, teasing her. Did he want more too? Oh God, she hoped he did.

She raised herself on tiptoe to fit herself more perfectly into his tall frame, and he groaned, twisting to lean against the edge of the table, taking her body with him, pulling her forward, thrilling her with his strength. Heat flared inside her as he lifted one of her thighs to his waist. She pressed eagerly against him, wrapping her arms around his neck and brushing her hips against him in a tentative caress, captivated by the blooming pleasure that had taken over her body. The tip of one shoe connected her to the earth. The rest of her felt sky bound.

The sound of a throat clearing brought her crashing back down to the ground. She looked over Sean’s shoulder to see her cousin smirking at them from the door, with Rosa and Elena standing behind her.

Gia raised one eyebrow. “I thought you two might need a hand,” she said. “But I think maybe you need a room instead.”

Her cousin gestured to the servers and they hurried forward with their trays. Gia picked up the two dessert plates that didn’t fit on their large trays. She balanced the plates in one hand, the other she put on her hip. “Hurry up you two—it’s almost eight and we need to get to the Arena.”

“Let’s skip it,” Sean whispered, eyes gleaming. “You don’t like the play anyway.”

“I heard that. Don’t even think about it,” Gia warned from the stairs. “I’m not going without you, and your mother just told the Germans we would take them with us. You two are going to have to control yourselves for another couple hours.” She headed back to the dining room.

Olivia hid her face in his chest and giggled. “Well, that was awkward.”

She felt Sean’s shrug. “Better Gia than your father. He offered to pay for my trip back to the States this morning.”

“He did not!”

Sean laughed. “Daddy’s little girl, huh?”

She sighed. “I’m sorry. Good thing I won that bet.”

“No kidding. Otherwise he might try to run me off with a shotgun.”

“A tractor is more his style these days. You’re lucky his is broken.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the stairs. “C’mon, dessert awaits.”

***

Sean picked up his spoon and cracked the sugar shell on top of his dessert. Mmm, pumpkin, as spicy and comforting as Thanksgiving memories. He sighed as other flavors teased his palate. Almond? Yes, and something more elusive and unexpected, like the lavender last night. He looked up to see Olivia watching him.

“Luscious,” he said, taking another bite. She smiled around her spoon and he couldn’t take his eyes off her mouth. He had completely lost interest in the opera tonight. Their kiss in the kitchen had made him want to toss her over his shoulder and carry her upstairs for a private performance instead.

“There’s a flavor I don’t recognize,” Alessandro said from across the table.

“Star anise,” Olivia supplied.

“A masterful touch.” Alessandro’s smile was a little too close to flirting for Sean’s liking, and he gave the chef a long look. Alessandro shrugged and popped a cookie in his mouth.

Gia glanced at her cell phone. “Eat up, folks,” she said. “I don’t want to miss a single note.”

Seeing her cell reminded Sean that he hadn’t gotten in touch with Mr. Russo yet. He polished off his custard in a few bites and pushed away from the table. “I know we’re in a hurry, but can I run upstairs for a minute? I need to get in touch with a client.”

Olivia stood too. “I’m going to change my clothes. Meet you all out front?”

“Ten minutes,” Gia warned.

Olivia paused at the head of the table to kiss her father’s cheek. “Remember your promise,” she whispered, loud enough for Sean to hear.

Mr. Marconi raised one dark eyebrow. He pinned Sean with a direct gaze, so much like the expression on his daughter’s face that Sean looked back and forth between them with amusement.

Mr. Marconi nodded sharply. “Come to the winery tomorrow for the tour.”

Olivia winked at him. Her grin was smug.

“Thank you, sir. I would love that.” His chest tightened. When had this man’s approval begun to mean something to him? Olivia grabbed his hand and tugged him out of the room.

“Wow.” Olivia stopped, stunned by the majesty of the huge structure. The Arena walls curved across the darkening sky and hundreds of archways watched over the surrounding piazza like ancient, vigilant eyes. Most of the arched doorways were shut by simple wrought-iron grates but a few were open so that theatergoers could stream through the entrances. The last remnant of the original outer wall jutted proudly toward the sky as if declaring itself the victor.

The gate attendant took their tickets and handed each person a
libretto
and a small candle.

“Come on!” Gia urged, catching Olivia’s hands and pulling her forward. “I know where we’re going.”

Olivia followed her into a stone corridor with crumbling walls and a high ceiling. It was dark and cool in the hallway. Sean took her hand as she began to climb the stone steps, and she was glad she had something to hold on to as they crested the staircase. Her head spun. “Whoa.” A dizzying sea of people stretched left, right, and center, surrounding an elaborate stage.

Gia led them to the left and up another stone stairway. Sound rose around them as they climbed. Olivia noticed that many people were perched on the simple stone steps, miles away from the enormous stage. “How will we be able to hear anything?”

“The acoustics are perfect. We’ll hear every note,” Gia promised.

Her cousin stopped and gestured for them to take their seats. The Germans slid in first, then Sean, Olivia, and Gia. Alessandro took the last seat in their row.

Olivia sat down, glad that her seat was padded. Two hours sitting on a rock would kill her back. “What is this for?” She waved her candle.

Her cousin’s excited smile made her look like a teenager. She held out a lighter and touched it to the wick of Olivia’s candle first, then her own. “Look around us.”

Olivia raised her head and saw that other people were lighting their candles too. As night fell around them, the Arena began to glow with thousands of small candles. The tiny lights made her feel reverent. She swallowed a lump in her throat. “Do they do this at every performance?”

Gia nodded. “It’s tradition. Just think, if you’d come next week, you would have missed it. The opera season ends soon, and this is the last performance of
Romeo
and
Juliet
. I bet people have come from all over the world to see the show tonight.”

The candles burned quickly, which was good because when the orchestra filed into their seats and the conductor took his place, applause swelled around them and Olivia wanted to clap too.

The conductor raised his hands.

The noise stopped instantly and the silence was as stunning as the sound.

Olivia held her breath. One note, a violin, pierced the air, and a throng of performers poured onto the stage, singing. The words were sung in Italian, but she knew the story. Even if she hadn’t, Juliet’s voice was so full of passion, so pure and clear, it would have been obvious she was singing of love. She glanced over at Gia who was gazing at the stage with moony-eyed rapture. It figured. Her cousin was hopelessly, helplessly romantic.

Despite herself, she was drawn into the performance right up until the moment Romeo killed Tybalt. She tried to hide her disdain but near the end of the play, Sean tugged his fingers out of her tight grip and leaned to whisper, “I’d give a million bucks to know what you are thinking about.”

She spoke through gritted teeth. “How can anyone think this play is romantic? Do you think they sell
I
hate
Romeo
T-shirts outside? I want one.”

She heard him chuckle. “He’s young. Passionate. Impetuous.”

“He’s a complete idiot and he betrays her. Romeo and Juliet are better off without each other.”

Sean put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “The costumes are fantastic, the dancers are beautiful, and the orchestra is phenomenal. You are sitting in the largest open-air opera house in the world. Take it for what it’s worth, Olivia. Life is good.”

She shot him a sideways frown beneath a lowered brow. “Not for Juliet.”

“Then be glad you aren’t her.”

“I can do that.” Olivia looked up at him. “You aren’t going to run a sword through someone and get yourself banished, are you?”

“Nope.”

Over his shoulder, the moon rose above the Arena wall. The air grew heavy between them. She reached up to kiss him. His lips were sweet, the moment sweeter. As they kissed, she heard the lovers onstage die, asking God for forgiveness. The music swelled. Her heart beat faster. She wanted to kiss Sean all night. The current of desire that had been running through her since this morning crackled to life. In her imagination, he’d been making love to her all day.

She was ready now. Ready to take her night.

Something sharp jabbed her side and Olivia broke away from Sean, rubbing her ribs where her cousin’s elbow had found its target.

“You two almost made it,” Giovanna observed. “But can you please wait until you get back to the villa to play Romeo and Juliet? Otherwise, I’ll get jealous.”

“Oh, shut up. You’ve had at least two dozen Romeos, cuz.”

“And I see the next one.” Gia’s eyes lit up. “Vincenzo!” she called.

A man standing about ten rows below them turned his head. Gia stood and edged past Alessandro. When she reached the aisle, she caught Olivia’s eye and waved. “Don’t wait up.”

***

Sean watched Gia dance down the stone stairs, surprised to see that Gia’s new Romeo was the man who had been arguing with Alessandro in the market today. Was it his imagination or had the man just shot Alessandro a smug look as he wrapped an arm around Gia?

“Shall we go?” The Germans urged him toward the aisle. Alessandro headed down the stairs. He and Olivia followed, with the Germans in tow, and Sean wondered if Alessandro would stop and talk to the man. He hoped not. He didn’t want anything to delay them. He was looking forward to going back to the villa and disappearing with Olivia until tomorrow morning. He shifted to ease the fit of his pants, then realized the problem wasn’t arousal. He had set his new cell phone on vibrate and it was ringing in his pocket.

It was Russo. Damn it.

“Hello?” The crowd had carried them into the Piazza delle Erbe, and Sean stepped to the side to talk.

“I just got your text. What do you mean
think
about
coming
to
Italy
?”

“Your wife has said she won’t contest the divorce if you agree to a two-week vacation in Italy. It’s worth consideration.”

“Did you give her the papers?”

“Yes.” Sean pictured Mrs. Russo’s devastated expression as she realized her husband had sent him. “But serving the papers is just the first step. She’ll retain an attorney who will file answering papers and then we’ll have to exchange financial information, go through discovery, and take depositions. We’ll have to reach agreements on support, custody, and property, just to name a few. That will take a hell of a lot longer than two weeks. It will also cost more. At least this way, you get a vacation out of it.” Oddly, Sean didn’t feel a bit guilty as he waded into murky ethical territory.

He could almost hear Russo grinding his teeth. “How long will it take if she doesn’t contest?” he asked.

“Best case scenario—two months.” With Mrs. Russo’s agreement, they could claim the marriage was irretrievably damaged and speed through the process.

“I’ll let you know when to expect me.” Russo ended the call.

Sean rejoined the group. “Sorry about that. Duty calls.” He checked the time. It was late, but he suspected Mrs. Russo would want to know her husband was coming to Verona no matter what the hour. “I just need to make one more quick phone call before we go.” It would only get later and he didn’t want to be thinking about work when he got back to the villa.

Alessandro slung an arm around Olivia’s shoulders and steered her toward a busy café. “No problem. We’ll have a drink while we wait.” Sean glared at his back as the Germans hurried to keep up with them.

Sean dug the Hotel Loggia Antica card out of his pocket, wishing just this once he could shrug off responsibility. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to Mrs. Russo, but the Villa Farfalla gang was already seated and ordering. The damage was done. He might as well finish the job.

***

Olivia looked away from Sean, pacing back and forth in front of a statue as he talked on his new cell phone, and eyed the shot of limoncello Alessandro placed in front of her. “Is it supposed to be bright yellow?” she asked. “It looks atomic.”

“Take a sip,” he urged.

She picked up the glass and sniffed. Next to lavender, lemon zest was her favorite scent and the Limoncello smelled like lemon zest in liquid form. She took an eager sip.

Lemon fire hit her nose, then her throat. “Oh my God,” she croaked. “That’s fabulous.”

“And potent,” Alessandro warned, downing his shot in a gulp.

Her second sip went down smoothly—probably because her throat muscles were paralyzed. The alcohol hit her immediately, making her feel giddy. She would limit herself to one drink and hope the heat in Sean’s kiss had meant what she thought it did. Oh God, what if it didn’t? What if attending to business was his way of letting her down gracefully? Maybe she had imagined the regret in his eyes as he walked away. Maybe it had been relief instead.

Alessandro signaled for another round, and she noticed Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt were keeping up with him. “Just water for me,” she said, resisting the urge to drown her doubts in citrus vodka.

When the next round arrived, Alessandro tossed it back and ordered a third.

“Rough day, Chef?” she asked.

He shrugged. “No rougher than the rest of them.”

Olivia nodded. She knew that feeling well. The happy bustle of the café made her feel isolated, especially when the Germans excused themselves and joined a spirited discussion of
terroir
at the next table, leaving her alone with Alessandro.

“I’m not really a chef, you know.” Alessandro’s low whisper carried across the table.

Had the Limoncello pickled her brain cells already? “Pardon me?”

His grin was full of mischief. “I’m a waiter. I thought I should tell you the truth before the cooking class tomorrow. We don’t want a catastrophe,” he said cheerfully and snagged his new drink right out of the server’s hand. “
Salute!
” He tipped the glass.

“But what about all that glorious food? The osso buco? The ice cream? That perfect white beef stock?”

“Marco does most of the cooking with ideas I find on the Internet.”

“No way!” Internet recipes were notoriously unreliable, and no one could make food that good with luck. “But you’ve been at Villa Farfalla for almost a year, right? How on earth did you fool my mother for that long?”

“She is so busy, she doesn’t notice who is cooking as long as dinner is ready on time.”

“You’re kidding me.”

He shook his head. “Why would I lie?”

Now that she thought about it, it made sense. She’d never actually seen Alessandro cook anything and Marco had been a huge help to her today. “Why does he help you? Why doesn’t he demand to be the chef?”

Alessandro raised his hand, trying to catch the eye of their server again. “We have an understanding.”

Olivia assumed that meant he was paying him. A zillion questions hit her at once so she started firing them at him. “Who made the lasagna?”

“Me. All fifty pounds of it.”

She chuckled. “Lasagna is like that. It never looks like enough and then the noodles multiply. What about the gnocchi?”

His eyes darkened. “My grandmother’s recipe.”

She sat up straight in her chair and put her hands on her hips, remembering her indignation. “You put me to work chopping herbs that first day!”

He held up his hands. “I didn’t know what else to tell you to do.”

She slumped as she realized she’d had so little faith in herself that she had allowed him to intimidate her. “What about that list you made for Marco? You didn’t have any trouble telling him what to do.”

Alessandro looked sheepish. “That’s easy. He made the list himself. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

That struck a chord. Having run her own kitchen for two years, she knew exactly how hard it was to keep other people busy. The boss had to organize, inspire, and keep everyone moving. That’s probably why she’d been so happy in the kitchen today—she had only been in charge of herself. The cooking class tomorrow would be another matter entirely. A kitchen full of amateurs attempting to cook an untried menu was a recipe for disaster. She winced as she realized those recipes had probably been cribbed off the Internet too. Maybe she should have another drink.

She tilted her head to the side. “Why are you telling me now? Why not keep your secret?”

Alessandro grimaced. “It wouldn’t be a secret for very much longer. You’ve barely left the kitchen since you got here.”

Ironic, since she had come to Verona to escape a kitchen.

He continued, “Plus, I’ve never made
bollito
misto
in my life. Or
la
peara
. Or a cake.”

She groaned and buried her head in her hands. “Tell me Marco has.”

“I hope so. The menu was his idea,” he said.

That was something, at least. She took a deep breath and lifted her head. It was easier than she had expected to make the shift from being the person following directions to being the person giving them. The class was truly her responsibility now. Hers and Marco’s.

Alessandro finally caught the attention of the waitress, but when she arrived with his shot, Olivia said, “He’d like a glass of water, please.” She pointed at the complimentary snack mix on the table. “And eat up, Chef Alessandro. I expect you to be useful tomorrow.”

His glazed eyes met hers. “Are you going to tell your parents?”

She shook her head. “Then I’d never get out of the kitchen.”

“But isn’t that what you want? To cook at Villa Farfalla?” His voice held an accusation and his dark eyes flashed with challenge. “Your mother has talked of nothing else for months.
My
daughter
can
cook
anything. She wouldn’t burn the sauce. I wish Olivia were here.
”