Angelo could feel irritation starting to get the better of him. He swallowed it down and began looking through her collection of music, extracting random CDs, which he stockpiled on the kitchen table in a spreading, untidy heap.
Out of the corner of her eye, Francesca witnessed the encroachment of mess over the previously pristine surface and was not at all nonplussed. She had discovered early on in their relationship that, although Angelo was highly organized in his work life, in fact the most organised man she had ever come across, he was spectacularly untidy in his private life. Clothes were dropped and stepped over, ties were hung in gathering piles over any convenient surface, jackets were draped over backs of chairs with absolutely no thought to preserving their longevity. She had found it exasperating and curiously endearing at the same time.
‘I hope you intend to put back all those CDs you’ve dumped on my kitchen table,’ she said, covering the pan that held the chicken and taking time out to sit down with her glass of wine.
‘Of course.’ He paused in his frowning inspection of cases to shoot her a surprised look.
‘Because your ability to be messy is legendary and I have no intention of clearing up behind you.’
Angelo frowned.
‘And there’s no need to look annoyed. I don’t have to tiptoe around you.’
‘When did you ever do that?’ he demanded. ‘I don’t recall you ever doing that!’
‘Oh. I forgot.’ She drained her glass and stood up to fetch some plates from the cupboard. ‘That was one of my faults. Lack of appropriate respect for the great Angelo Falcone!’ Somewhere in her head she thought, Oh, dear, shouldn’t have said that, but then why should she be on her agonisingly best behaviour? He was in her house, and not by her invitation. She would tell him that, should he want to pursue the conversation!
He didn’t.
‘Let us not argue,’ he said mildly. He refilled her glass. ‘Although, getting back to your accusation that I am a messy person, I challenge you to come to my apartment and test it for cleanliness.’
‘Your housekeeper. Just like the one you employed in Venice. There’s no point in arguing with evidence, Angelo.’ She indicated the CDs on the table with a nod of her head and began laying the table, containing a sigh when he gathered up the cases and stacked them unevenly at the bottom of the table, meaning that he would sit far too close to her for her liking.
He shrugged and slipped on one of her classical CDs, beautiful, soothing music that rippled through the small kitchen like water trickling gently over stones. Soft, romantic music. Music to dance to in a flowing dress, in the arms of a lover. All wrong, she thought, for this particular situation. She had to keep reminding herself that the man was engaged, that he had treated her pretty badly, never mind his super-polite behaviour now.
She served the prawns while the chicken was still simmering and reddened with pleasure at the appreciative noises he made. When he poured her another glass of wine, she accepted.
‘I hope you don’t think that I drink this much when I’m preparing food for clients,’ she said during a comfortable pause as she cleared away the prawns and began doing last-minute things to the main course. ‘Because I don’t.’
‘Some of the finest meals are cooked while under the influence of good wine,’ Angelo commented. ‘That starter ranks up there.’
‘You don’t mean that.’ With her back to him, she could feel her face glowing with pleasure. ‘Do you?’
‘Does it matter to you what I say?’
‘Yes. You’re a prospective client of mine. Of course it does!’ Francesca could feel her voice rising, unnaturally bright. A bit like the colour spreading across her cheekbones. ‘I’m always pleased when our food is complimented.’
Another brick wall. Three steps forward and two steps back, and every step back made the urgency inside him stronger. He didn’t know what was driving him on to want this woman. He just knew that he did and if his reasons weren’t exactly noble, then his awesome powers of reason were insufficient to steer him off course.