Whisked Away by the Italian Tycoon

‘Why? Why would you take that risk?’

‘Your photos show vibrancy and flair and originality. I love how you use shape and colour and background effect. Plus the two different pictures of Ava showcase how you can use the same model to portray completely different things.’

The sincerity in his voice was evident and relief swathed her; the job wasn’t a sinecure. He’d studied the pictures and grasped what she’d tried to do and he liked it. The knowledge sparked a small, unfamiliar surge of confidence. ‘Ava was a great model to work with.’

‘Yes. But the idea, the lighting, the captured image is down to you. In the perfume ad you have conveyed the essence of flowers and lightness in a way that’s difficult to explain—but it works.’

Emily frowned; she had been particularly proud of that photograph, yet it was one that Howard had targeted as frivolous and dismissed as cutesy. And she’d accepted that criticism as just, but now, as she looked at it again, her frown deepened.

‘I would like to know how you did it.’

‘The original plan was to have Ava sitting in a meadow of flowers with the sun shining down on her, but that seemed a little too clichéd. So I persuaded the director to give my idea a go. To be subtler.’ She’d kept it simple, Ava bathed in the light of a setting sun, wearing a floaty summery dress, a circlet of flowers in her hair and a daisy chain around her wrist. Looking almost ethereal.

As she spoke she remembered the person she had been then: a woman confident in herself and her ideas, happy to offer her thoughts and opinions. A woman who’d believed in herself. Where had that Emily gone? Right now she truly didn’t know. Somewhere along the way her faith in herself had seeped away—but as she studied the photo, listened to Luca’s words, she could feel a small trickle of pride.

He nodded. ‘It worked. Perfectly. And it encapsulates what I want for my campaign. Something that captures the essence of my chocolate and where it comes from. You somehow made the viewer want to smell like the perfume. I need you to make the viewer want to taste my chocolate. Can you do it?’

The questions preceded the arrival of their food and as the waiter busied himself with serving their pancakes and refilling the coffees it gave her time to think. As she did so her mind began to play with ideas, a familiar spark that she hadn’t felt for a long time. Brought on by having her work valued. By someone uninfluenced by Howard or by past association of any sort.

And so, once the waiter had left, she leant forward and said, ‘I don’t know if I can do it and that’s the truth. But I’d like to try.’ She picked up her knife and fork. ‘Let me see if I can come up with an idea.’

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

Emily took a mouthful of pancake as she considered. ‘I need more information.’ She glanced at him. ‘I know this may sound nuts but I need to know about Palazzo di Cioccolato, about your company ethos, about all your chocolate and, of course, as much as possible about this particular chocolate. When I did this ad I spoke to the perfumier who created it. I knew absolutely everything there was to know about that perfume. The circlet of flowers in Ava’s hair was made up of the flowers in the scent itself. But I also wore the perfume myself, spoke to people who wore it. Got my friends to wear it...’

There was a silence and she wondered if she’d blown it. ‘Sorry. There was no need for you to know any of that. Give me a few days and I’ll get back to you with an idea.’

‘No need to apologise. I like your enthusiasm.’ His voice was deep and there was something in his silver-grey eyes, a warmth that heated up her insides, a balm to her soul lacerated by Howard’s put-downs. ‘And it obviously gets results. So I am happy to provide you with as much company information as you need. How about I start with an overview? In terms of ethos I always try to use the best ingredients possible—no hidden rubbish. I want my product to be affordable, but I won’t compete with supersize mass-produced products. I know it is possible to buy a huge bar of chocolate for a low cost. I’d prefer people to choose to spend the same amount for a smaller bar because it’s worth it. I see chocolate as something to be savoured, a luxury, a treat that is worth looking forward to, spending time on.’

His words held a depth and a tone that seemed to epitomise the chocolate itself, and Emily was sucked in by the words, and his sheer charisma, the delicious sexiness of a man speaking of chocolate with such appreciation. She cleared her throat. ‘Sounds good. What about the new range?’

‘I want this to be a little different, an experiment with fruit and spices. I want it to feel decadent and new. I’ve spent the past year tasting, mixing, thinking, tasting again, sourcing... I am hoping this will be a major player in the premium chocolate market.’

Decadent and new...the deep rumble of those words sent a sudden rush over her skin, the animation in his voice, the fact that he got so involved. Her gaze lingered on his hands as she pictured him intent over the recipe, stirring, tasting, and now her eyes moved to his lips and she pictured him tasting the chocolate. Jeez. Get a grip. Think.

‘That’s all great,’ she managed. ‘That gives me a real feel for what you represent.’

‘Good. So what do you think about the project? Are you interested?’

The questions seemed to take on too much meaning.

Her gaze kept returning to the lithe muscle of his forearm, the way his shirt glided over the breadth of his chest, the allure of his eyes, the jut of a nose that proclaimed both confidence and arrogance. But it was also his aura—there was something powerful and scary about his air of contained energy, the feeling that he was a man on a mission, a man who would carry out his agenda whatever that might be. A man who most likely didn’t suffer fools gladly, and a momentary doubt struck her. She questioned whether she had the strength to take that on, risk being assessed and found wanting. Again.

Throughout her marriage with Howard she had tried so hard to win his praise for her work, had wanted so much to prove she had the talent to move into a different sphere of photography. To no avail—in the end she’d had to accept she simply wasn’t good enough, and somehow that had transcended so her belief in herself had been diminished. And now the pressure to succeed, to fulfil Luca’s unexpected belief in her, felt almost too much. Almost.

Because she would not give in, would not return to the despair of the past months, despite the temptation, the enticement of cocooning herself from the world because it made her feel closer to her baby.

Not happening, because the world had intruded in its reality, the ping of unpaid bills arriving in her inbox. She needed a job—the alternative would be to turn to her parents for help. The idea was unacceptable.

Perhaps they would help, but they hadn’t thought to offer. Had given her practically no emotional support throughout the past months. For her mother infidelity and divorce, smashed dreams and the failure of love were the norm. As for the miscarriage, for Marigold, a woman who had never wanted a family, she simply didn’t get it. She had tried—descended on the flat with expensive gifts, wine, chocolate and flowers—and in truth Emily had appreciated the gesture, accepted it was the best her mother could do. Her father had called her a couple of times, expressed his sympathy, the conversation full of encouragement about how he knew Emily would move on. ‘Other fish in the sea.’ ‘So many women have a miscarriage and go on to have many children.’ And Emily had concurred—knew that her father too was doing his best. But then, duty done, her parents had both gone back to their normal lives.

And that was the point: she was peripheral to their lives, and as such her independence was a matter of pride to her. She would never ask for anything, just accept what they could give.

So now, she met Luca’s gaze and nodded. ‘Yes. I’m interested.’

‘Excellent.’ He sipped his coffee, drummed his fingers on the table top. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

Emily glanced at him, wondered if she could deal with any more of Luca’s ideas, sensed that this one would be another humdinger. ‘What’s that?’ she asked as trepidation prickled her spine.