WARM WINTER KISSES a feel good Christmas romance novel (2 page)

Chapter 2

Back at home I climbed straight into bed, expecting a fitful night wrestling with the bedcovers, sleep taunting me, as I listened to Martin making his way stealthily through the flat like a cat-burglar. Instead, within minutes I was sparko, the traumas of the evening working as a most effective sedative.

The next morning, I awoke to an unnerving stillness and a headache the size of the national debt. I peered out from the bedroom door knowing, instinctively, that Martin had gone. This had been no spur of the moment decision, but instead a long-thought out, well-planned operation executed with military precision.

I clutched my chest. Was it possible to have a heart attack at twenty-eight? I took a deep breath and, managing to convince myself the pains in my chest were more likely due to a panic attack than anything more serious, I wandered dazed around the flat.

His absent CDs had left a gaping hole in the rack in the living room, the kitchen was drained of colour following the departure of his Le Creuset casserole set and all that remained in the hallway, where his dozen pairs of baseball boots had littered the floor for months, annoying me intensely, was a smattering of mud flecks.

But it was the blank space on the wall above the television where he’d removed the photo that really got to me. Tears leapt to my eyes at the sight of that bald patch of matt vinyl and I began to sob, at first quietly like a heroine from a period drama, and then with more gusto, befitting a more contemporary heroine, a screaming, wailing one from EastEnders. The missing picture was taken five years earlier, shortly after we met, on our first holiday together in the Maldives. Him grinning broadly, standing in the sea, the water lapping his knees, me cupped in his arms looking lovingly up into his eyes.

I sighed for that lost moment. It had been reckless to go off to the other side of the world with someone I barely knew, but it hadn’t felt like that at the time. We’d both been overwhelmed by our feelings
—
well, lust, I guess, and that delicious anticipation of knowing that we were in at the beginning of something big. Not a fling or a passing dalliance, but something life-changing.

‘I love you!’ Martin told me that day, the sweltering heat and exotic sands only adding to the heady romantic atmosphere.

‘I think you’re great too,’ I’d said, not quite making the cut.

But I did grow to like him a lot in my own sweet little way, the only way I knew how.

‘I sometimes think you’re just keeping your options open, waiting in case something better turns up,’ he told me some months later.

Ouch! It wasn’t true; although I knew my inability to match Martin’s depth of emotion was a stumbling block. But not for one moment did I imagine he would up and leave. Not in a million years. The one thing that was a constant in my life, an absolute certainty, was that Martin loved me and would always be there for me.

Only, now he wasn’t. I was a poor, pathetic creature sitting alone on my sofa with Jeremy Kyle twittering away in the background about a sordid love-triangle involving a headmaster, his wife and the chair of the Board of Governors, whose name had once been Arthur, but who was now known as Anita.

Ordinarily, I’d have been enthralled, but I had my own problems to consider now. I had no boyfriend, no job and I’d been abandoned by my parents who, weeks earlier, had told me they were quitting their jobs to take a gap year travelling the world. Where were they when I needed them? Probably on a beach in Thailand somewhere, acting like a couple of lovesick teenagers.

I was sobbing noisily into my tissue when the doorbell rang and I heard Lexi’s cheerful voice calling through the letterbox.

‘It’s only me, sweetie. Come on, let me in.’

Thank goodness for Lexi, I thought, sniffing my way to the door, tissues falling to the floor in my wake.

‘Good grief, look at the state of you,’ she said, throwing her arms around me.

Snatching a glance in the mirror over her shoulder, I could see what she meant. My eyes were red and puffy and last night’s make-up was smeared in an unsightly mess over my cheeks.

‘He’s left me,’ I blurted, the tears falling again.

‘I know,’ she said, as if I’d just told her I’d had cereal for breakfast. ‘He phoned me first thing this morning. Said you’d probably be in need of a friendly ear.’

Huh, how dare he be so considerate at a moment like this? He was meant to act like a cruel, heartless bastard. Sadly though, that had never been his style.

‘I can’t believe it,’ I said, collapsing back onto the sofa in a heap, after the exertion of opening the door. ‘I thought he loved me.’

‘He did. I think he probably still does. But you have to admit it wasn’t the great love affair of the century. You were just treading water. I think you have to admire him really for what he’s done. Making the decision. Somebody had to do it and it wasn’t going to be you.’ She helped herself to a chocolate from an opened box on my coffee table.

How could she eat at a time like this? She has a heartless streak, my sister.

‘But it could have gone somewhere one day,’ I said, wondering if I’d blown away any chance of a future featuring a husband and family.

‘Get real, Beth. You had five years together and not once did I hear you say how much you loved him. I’m not being unkind, but I sometimes think you were with him just because he made life so easy for you. Loved you, looked out for you, put the bins out for you. To be honest, I think Martin’s done you and him a massive favour.’

So much for sisterly support.

‘But no one will ever love me like he did!’ My shoulders shook as the tears ran down my cheeks.

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ said Lexi, throwing me a fresh pack of tissues from her handbag. ‘I’ll make us both a cup of coffee and then I really must go. I’ve told work I needed an emergency dental appointment so I can’t be that long.’

As Lexi busied herself in the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards noisily, rattling mugs and spoons, I looked across at the telly, where poor Anita was sobbing her heart out. She was having a tough time of it too, poor love, being made to choose between the headmaster and his wife and it was obviously not an easy decision to make. Maybe things could have been worse for me after all, I told myself.

The phone rang just as Lexi came back into the room with the mugs.

‘It might be Martin,’ I said, jumping up to reach it.

‘You’re in no fit state to talk to anyone,’ she said, handing me the mugs and grabbing the receiver in return. ‘Let me speak to whoever it is.’

I quickly made out from Lexi’s best telephone voice that it wasn’t Martin, and I zoned out. My attention drifted back to the television and the hapless trio. I was vaguely aware of Lexi’s conversation in the background.

‘Sarah? Oh hello. Yes, of course.’

I did wonder who might be calling my flat to speak to my sister at nine thirty on a Thursday morning, but then I wasn’t really up to any mental gymnastics.

‘Uh-huh. Yes, that’s right. Today? Of course. Three o’clock, then? Don’t worry, I’ll be there. Many thanks.’

‘Who was that?’ I mumbled when she hung up, my gaze still fixed on the television screen.

At least she had the decency to look a little sheepish.

‘The agency. About that job with Rocco di Castri.’

Oh God, I’d forgotten all about them.

‘Well, they just assumed they were talking to you.’ She smiled sweetly, shrugging her shoulders. ‘You need to be at his restaurant, Rocco’s, for three this afternoon. Sharp. Whatever you do, don’t be late. Apparently he can’t abide that in his staff.’

‘What?’ I said, pulling my dressing gown tight around me and folding my arms crossly. ‘Please don’t tell me you’ve said I’ll take the job?’

She nodded, sipping at her coffee.

‘Well, it’s not as if you’ve got anything better to do. Besides, you’ll be paying the rent on this place on your own now, so you’ll need the dosh.’

I sobbed at her heartlessness.

‘It’ll be an adventure,’ she said, showing no hint of sympathy whatsoever.

An adventure? What was she going on about? She looked me up and down, taking in the grubby towelling bath robe and my blotchy face and unwashed hair which was currently sticking out at all angles.

‘You’ve got plenty of time between now and then to do something with yourself.’ She waved her hands in a disparaging manner. ‘Speak to you later, darling. You can tell me all about it,’ she called, as she let herself out of the flat.

‘Fat chance,’ I muttered beneath my breath.

Sighing heavily, I cursed Lexi for dropping me in it so thoroughly. What had she been thinking? I had every mind to pick up the phone there and then and tell the agency there’d been a mistake. But then again, as Lexi had said, I didn’t have anything better to do, other than mope around the flat feeling sorry for myself, and surely working for Rocco di Castri couldn’t make me feel any worse than I already did, could it?

Chapter 3

Some hours later, sitting in the plush foyer of one of London’s most exclusive restaurants, I had to admit to feeling marginally better. I mean it was hardly the place to sit and blubber, even if that was exactly what I felt like doing. It would have been distasteful and lowered the tone.

Had it been left to me though, I’d still have been buried under a duvet, nursing my wounded pride, but I hadn’t counted on Lexi’s dogged persistence in getting me up and out of the front door.

At half-hourly intervals she rang. ‘Have you got in that shower yet?’

Then, ‘You do know where you’re going, don’t you?’

Followed by, ‘Wear your pinstripe skirt suit with your heels, you look good in that.’

And finally, ‘And for goodness sake, don’t be late.’

With Lexi on my case I didn’t stand a chance. But she needn’t have worried on the punctuality front. Lateness is one of my pet hates too, so at least Rocco and I would have something in common.

I arrived five minutes early and was shown to a huge, squashy brown leather sofa that looked incredibly comfortable, but in reality was so close to the floor, it was impossible to sit upright. I slid down the soft hide, pinning my arms back into the yielding cushions, in an attempt to stop me from landing in an ungainly heap. The understated, elegant look was proving elusive.

The same couldn’t be said for the busy lunchtime eatery, which didn’t have to try so hard. It reeked of class and sophistication. From the outside it was unremarkable, a brick-clad building with a double-fronted bronzed window, tucked away down a cobbled mews street in the heart of Chelsea, the only clue to its identity the gold lettering of the chef’s name etched into the doors. Inside, it was effortlessly stylish; an eclectic mix of oak and leather with a blend of antique and contemporary furniture, bright canvas prints decorating the wall and single orchids lending a dash of colour to the linen tablecloths.

From my vantage point at the front of the restaurant I could easily survey the clientele. I spotted Mark Burton, the morning TV presenter, deep in conversation with a lady companion, and Rafe Jennings, the showbiz editor on one of the tabloids, enjoying a joke, but mainly it was city types in designer suits, media darlings and expensively clad ladies who were lunching.

Oh, how the other half lived! One day, I told myself . . .

The smells emanating from the kitchen and the chink of cutlery of the diners enjoying their haute cuisine reminded me I was starving. Breakfast hadn’t had a look in due to my broken heart and now my stomach was gurgling in protest. I had a feeling I might be one of those people who turned to comfort food in times of crisis. Wondering if they could rustle me up a bowl of cornflakes, I glanced at my watch. Hmmm, thirty-five minutes and waiting. So much for Mr Di Castri being a stickler for punctuality. It obviously didn’t extend to keeping other people waiting. But then again, from what I’d heard, Rocco was a law unto himself.

Did I really need to work for a volatile control freak in my vulnerable condition? I’d heard he expected nothing less than perfection from his team of chefs and it wasn’t unknown for him to reduce his staff to tears, ordering them off the premises if he felt they hadn’t worked to his impossibly high standards.

And it wasn’t only the kitchen staff who felt the wrath of his tongue; the restaurant got through waitresses by the coach load. Although, if you believed what you read in the newspapers, that may have had something to do with Rocco’s habit of wooing the poor girls into bed before he carelessly disposed of them.

Customers, too, were asked to leave without a morsel passing their lips if the great man, for whatever reason, took exception to them.

I knew all this and yet I didn’t feel intimidated about meeting him. He may have ruled his own little centre of the universe with his over-inflated sense of ego, but I wasn’t about to let some jumped up chef bully me. It wasn’t as if I desperately needed this job, I told myself. If the worst came to the worst, I could always hop on a plane and join my parents on their foreign adventures. That would please them.

Through the cluster of tables, I could see into the busy kitchen at the back. There was no mistaking Rocco, a powerhouse of a man, prowling his way back and forth like a lion surveying his jungle, throwing orders around in the air and roaring instructions.

‘Yes, chef!’ sang his harassed team, running around frantically at his every instruction.

Well, it might have been, ‘
Yes, chef. No, chef. Three bags full, chef
,’ as far as they were concerned, but it wasn’t going to be that way with me. Forty-five minutes was long enough to wait for anyone. If I wanted to feel neglected and humiliated, I could quite happily do that in the privacy of my home.

I was just reaching for my handbag and attempting to prise myself out of the sofa when I became aware of the dark shadow that fell across me. I looked up to see a pair of the most intense bedtime eyes boring into me.

‘Going somewhere?’ asked the man himself, expressionless.

‘Oh, hello,’ I said, gulping, trying and failing to get up. Spread-eagled on the cushions, I wondered if Rocco had chosen the sofa specially. I tugged at my pencil skirt, pulling it down my stockinged thighs before managing to say, ‘I was just checking I had the right time.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘You may want to come over to the table,’ he said, turning his back to me. ‘You’ll find it more comfortable.’

Moments later, after readjusting my clothing and my breathing, I joined him as he sat drumming his fingers impatiently on a pile of folders.

‘So,’ he said, unearthing a scrap of paper. ‘Beth Brown.’ His eyes appraised me. ‘The agency tells me you’re the best PA on their books.’ He paused, giving me the benefit of that stare again and, I must admit, it sent a little shiver through my body. The sort of shiver I hadn’t felt in a long time. ‘I bloody well hope so,’ he continued. ‘I need someone who’s going to sort out all this crap.’ He lifted up the pile of papers and let them fall in a heap. ‘Did they brief you on what you’ll be doing for the next three months?’

‘Er, no,’ I said, realising I didn’t have the faintest clue what I was doing here. I leaned forward attempting to at least appear interested in his wretched job.

‘Right.’ The look was scathing and the tone brusque. Clearly unamused, he continued, ‘I’m starting work on a new TV series next week which hopefully will go out next spring. We’re putting together a book to go with it. Obviously a lot of the planning and background work has been done already, so it’s just a case of completing the filming and photography for the book. All the details are here. Production schedules. Contact details. Locations.’ He pushed the papers over to my side of the table. ‘Trouble is, I’ve got quite a lot on up here too, so I’ll be travelling back and forth pretty regularly. I need you to keep track of what I should be doing and when. Making certain that what needs to happen is happening.’ He paused. I quickly realised that he was a master of the long, lingering look. His eyes stayed fixed rigidly upon my face. It was most unnerving.

‘That’s about it really. Anything you need to know just ask.’

‘A TV series?’

‘Yep,’ he said, casting a disapproving glance into the kitchen as a clash of crockery resounded through the room. ‘It’s something I’ve wanted to do for some time now, to take a step back from all of this.’ He lifted his arms, gesturing around him. ‘To rediscover what it was that led me here in the first place. I’ve always had a passion for the country. For good home cooking with the best natural ingredients.’

Looking at him now, leaning across the table, his hands cupping his face, his passion was palpable. At close quarters I was able to reassess my first impression of him. The resemblance to a wild animal was still there, but the hungry look in his eyes, the colour of liquid chocolate, reminded me more of a wolf than a lion. His hair, a mop of unruly mocha curls with an occasional flash of steel, was contained within a white bandana, and the brilliant white of his chef’s top accentuated his bronzed arms. I’d heard about his compelling magnetism and had dismissed it without a thought, but up close and personal, I had to admit there might be something in it after all.

‘I want to show people that good food isn’t all about Michelin star restaurants, it’s about knocking up decent, good quality meals in your own kitchen. Do you know how to make the perfect omelette, Beth? Or where to pick wild mushrooms to serve on toast?’

I’d been asked all sorts of questions at interviews before, but I had to admit he had me stumped with that one.

‘Exactly!’ he said, thrusting a finger my way. ‘That’s what this series will be about.’

He paused, and his eyes didn’t leave my face for a moment. I wondered what he was thinking. Was he weighing up my evident lack of culinary skills or perhaps deciding I wasn’t up to the job of being his PA? I had no qualms on that front. I’d worked for some tricky customers in my time and was certain I could handle the likes of Rocco.

‘Good,’ he said, suddenly. ‘We’ll get down there for Monday morning then and plan to start filming on Tuesday.’

‘Right, and where’s all this happening?’ I asked, imagining we would be based at a TV studio in town somewhere.

‘Mettlesham,’ he said.

That was his country estate. I’d seen photos of it in that article I’d read.

‘I’ve a small cottage there. We’ll be doing some of the filming there, but most of it will be done aboard the boat.’

His gaze left my face for a moment and drifted around the restaurant. I watched it go.

‘Boat?’ I blurted, surprised by my own reaction. I could feel the beat of my heart increasing and the blood rushing to my cheeks. ‘Nobody said anything about a boat. I’m very sorry Mr Di—’

‘Rocco,’ he interrupted, his eyes fixed hard upon me again.

‘Rocco . . .’ I steadied my quavering voice. ‘But had I known a boat was involved I wouldn’t have agreed to the job in the first place. I’m afraid I’m a terrible sailor. I once had an awful crossing over the Irish Sea to the Isle of Man and it put me off boats for life.’

His eyes flared dangerously and then something magical happened. A hint of a smile flickered at the corners of his mouth, softening his whole face. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair. Throwing back his head, he howled with laughter, causing the entire clientele of the restaurant to look around as one.

‘We’re talking about a narrow boat on the Grand Union Canal here. It’s not exactly the High Seas but, tell you what, if it gets too choppy, you can always get off and walk along the towpath. How does that sound?’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said, feeling desperately foolish, the hint of colour in my cheeks now a full-blown mask of embarrassment. ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, trying to regain a modicum of dignity. ‘That sounds absolutely fine.’

He shook his head, smiling, and I wished he hadn’t because as he did, it had the most devastating effect, sending a ripple of anticipation through my entire body.

‘You can do it in about an hour and a half from town if you get a good run, but there’ll be lots of early starts and late finishes, so it might make more sense for you to stay up there, if that’s okay with you? There’s plenty of space at the cottage and I won’t be around for most of the time. You’ll have the place to yourself.’

After the events of the last twenty-four hours, maybe being stranded in the depths of the Buckinghamshire countryside wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

‘Of course, you’ll be paid hourly though the agency, so you won’t be out of pocket in any way. I’m assuming you haven’t got any kids that you’ll need to rush home to?’

‘No,’ I confirmed. Rocco clearly wasn’t up to speed on the vagaries of political correctness.

‘No elderly infirm parents who need your attention?’

I shook my head.

He paused, his eyes glinting dangerously.

‘And no possessive boyfriends wanting to kick my lights in?’

I sighed inwardly, wondering how it might feel to have a boyfriend who would be driven to such lengths.

‘No,’ I said, shaking my head with a wry smile. Embarrassingly, I’d just confirmed to a very eligible man that I had no social life whatsoever.

‘Good,’ he said, the merest hint of triumph in his eyes. ‘In that case, I’ll see you at the cottage on Monday.’

‘Yes, well, thank you, Rocco.’

‘Is there anything you need to ask before you go?’

‘Er, no, thank you, Rocco.’

He pushed back his chair and stood up, shaking my hand firmly before stalking off in the direction of his kitchen. Dreamily I watched him go. “
Oh, and Miss Brown
,” I could imagine him saying. “
Would you like me to take you in my arms and shower you with tiny kisses
?”

‘Oh, three bags full, Rocco!’