Christmas with the Beast (The Fiore Family 1)

Chapter One

Franco

“Dinner was fabulous, Fabio.” My brother beams with pride. We’re from Rochester, so I’ve never been to this location before. It’s a bloody shame that it’s the first time since my brother opened Fiore’s that I’ve had a moment to drop in, but work has always kept me out of Buffalo which isn’t far from home at all. We’re originally from Italy, but when we were boys, my father moved the family to upstate New York to pursue other opportunities, leaving my uncle to manage the family vineyard.

“Grazie, Franco. It was my chef, Isabelle. She created the dish you had tonight.” I’ve never seen him smile with so much pride before. I wonder if there’s more to the chef than just her mastery in the kitchen. Could he be in love with her?

“Can we meet her?” I’m not usually the type to meet the chef, but this was the best meal I’ve ever had. Seriously, it lives on my tongue. I don’t think I concentrated on a thing Mia said the entire dinner, which isn’t something I’d usually do. Besides, if he does have feelings for her, I’d prefer to judge her character while I have the chance.

Both Mia and Fabio look at me strangely. “Okay. Although I can’t let you steal her from me. Julian is the skilled chef at your disposal.” He’s one of the chefs that works at the Rochester location closer to home, but he’s got nothing on this chef.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I just want to thank the artist,” I explain. It’s strange for me to want to, but I feel a need to meet her and thank her.

“Fine. Let me get Isabelle.” He nods and then walks toward the kitchen to get the amazing chef. A tension I don’t understand fills me up, as if I’m about to attack something. It’s like the feeling I get right before I close on a deal.

Mia opens her tablet and runs through my schedule for the week. I’m a real estate developer, and she’s my extremely talented assistant. “So you have everything ready for your flight tomorrow. I don’t know why you insist on making this trip, but I’m glad I’m not going with you.” She shakes her head at my insistence on flying out. She hates flying and prefers a long drive.

“I get that you hate flying, especially in a helicopter, but I’ve done it a thousand times.” It’s not my favorite mode of travel, but sometimes it’s the best way to get somewhere close, and more so when it pleases the clients.

“Yes, well, Mr. Morimoto will be pleased to take a tour, and maybe you’ll close that deal.” That’s the whole purpose of this flight. He’s eager to sell his company’s properties so that he can retire in peace without his children fighting over their inheritance. Greed is strong, and sloth is doubly intense.

“I should make you come along just to close the deal. You’ve been schmoozing him on the phone for weeks. I think he’s half in love.” Her bright blue eyes shoot wide open in horror at that notion.

“He’s like ninety,” my cousin hisses, pointing her fork at me as a warning.

“He’s only sixty-five,” I correct her, putting my hands up in mock surrender.

“Whatever. I’ll pass.” She laughs and takes a drink of her wine. The kitchen door swings open, and Fabio steps into the room again. He’s so tall that I can’t see the chef behind him.

“Your loss—” The words freeze on my tongue when Fabio steps out of the way.

Impossible.

My heart’s beating so hard that I can hear it in my ears. She’s about five-four, with long blonde hair and pouty lips. There’s something in the way her slender frame draws me in as she walks nervously toward me. How can she be so small and filled with such a gift?

“Franco, this is my head chef, Isabelle Jones.” I don’t acknowledge him because I can’t take my eyes off her light green ones that are wide with surprise. We silently stare, letting the world disappear around us, or at least I do. The steady cadence of my heart beats double-time. Does she feel the insane attraction as well? Can she hear my body buzzing for her?

“Hello, Mr. Fiore.” Her voice is soft, a bit shaky. She’s got to feel this…this magnetic energy. I need her to feel it, welcome it.

“Franco, please,” I insist.

“Franco,” she repeats like a caress.

“Isabelle, the food was fabulous.” It would have tasted better if I ate it off her, licking sauce off the plump breasts that press against her chef jacket. My eyes take in every inch of her.

Her blonde hair is wrapped up in a bun at the top of her head where she has two chopstick-like barrettes running through it. She swipes her tongue over her pale pink lips, wetting them as if she’s prepping them for me.