Whisked Away by the Italian Tycoon

It was a fair point. Instinct and convenience were all very well, but... ‘You’re right. So let’s meet tomorrow. Bring your portfolio and we can discuss it. No strings, no commitment. If I decide you aren’t suitable for the job or if you decide it’s not for you, then we can both walk away. No hard feelings.’

Her fingers drummed on the table and he could see the trouble in her eyes, then she scanned the room and turned to him. ‘OK. When and where?’

‘Brunch meeting? At Zelda’s? It’s a bit off the beaten track. I’ll ask for a private table.’

‘I’ll be there.’

* * *

The following day Emily approached the agreed upon venue; anticipation vied with anxiety and she glanced down with trepidation at the portfolio she carried. This whole idea was surreal in the extreme; in fact, the more she thought about it, the more her instincts told her this was a bad, bad idea. Too far out of her comfort zone. She wanted a job that she would find easy, preferably working with people she was familiar with.

But what choice did she have? Her networking last night had been an unmitigated disaster.

Phrases filtered back to her. From the indirect ‘So sorry, daahling, but I’ve just put a new team together.’ To the more direct, ‘Sorry, Em, but if you will take eighteen months off to play wifey then you can’t expect to waltz back in.’

Incipient panic threatened yet again and before it could take hold she pushed the door of the restaurant open and entered, scanned the occupants and spotted Luca at a large corner table. Holy Moly. Against all odds the man was even hotter in smart casual than he was in a tux. Shower-damp jet-black hair showed a hint of unruly curl, his shirt sleeves rolled up to show tanned muscular forearms that she had a sudden urge to photograph for posterity. Forced herself not to do just that.

He looked up and smiled and she blinked, wishing he didn’t have this unsettling effect on her. She didn’t like it, didn’t want it; it made her feel uncomfortable that she could be so aware of a man. The very idea had seemed impossible a few months ago and somehow it still felt wrong. A near betrayal that she could feel something as primal as desire when for so long all she had felt was the raw ache of grief for her baby, the dull layer of misery blanketing her from all other emotion.

Not now. All too often the slightest thing could trigger a wave of misery, a surge of panic. But somehow she had to suppress it. Forcing a smile to her face, she walked towards Luca as he rose to greet her, saw those silver-grey eyes scan her face. ‘Hey.’

‘Hey.’

As she sat he pushed the menu towards her, and she looked down, glad of something to do, to distract from the wave of sadness that was about to wash over her. A part of her wanted to succumb, to allow herself to drown in it, to float in the waves and think of all she had lost, all that her baby would never have.

‘Are you OK, Emily?’ The concern in his deep Italian-tinged voice was palpable and jolted her to the present.

‘I’m fine.’

‘If this place is not to your liking, we can go somewhere else.’

‘No. It’s not that.’ The restaurant was lovely, vibrant and busy with the hum of people having a weekend brunch. Friends catching up. Families out on a Sunday.

The kind of place she’d always loved but now somehow seemed wrong, seemed designed to show her what she couldn’t have. The sight of every baby, every happy family an emphasis of what she’d lost before she even had it. Did a career even matter compared to the precious life she’d lost? Because deep down she knew it was her own fault. She should have taken more care, not been so blithely confident. She shouldn’t have let Howard bully her into hiding her pregnancy, shouldn’t have been so intent on trying to make him happy, shouldn’t have attended parties, dressed to the nines, in high heels to try and disguise her pregnancy. The sense that she’d somehow jinxed her pregnancy was irrational but unshakeable.

‘Emily?’ Luca’s voice recalled her to the present, reminded her to get a grip. Her career might no longer feel relevant but she needed a job. And she would not let her own personal situation impact on her professionalism any more. If she did this job she would give it her best, however tarnished that might be. ‘This is perfect. Truly. I’ll have the pancakes. With bacon and maple syrup.’

‘Good choice.’

A waitress came and took their order and soon reappeared with their drinks.

Emily sipped the foam of her cappuccino and said, ‘So...how would you like to do this?’

‘Would you like to show me your portfolio first?’

‘Sure.’ The idea of displaying her work filled her with a sudden sharp surge of dread, and frustration filled her. What was wrong with her? Two years ago she’d been an up-and-coming fashion photographer. The stuff in her portfolio was excellent and she knew it. Or at least she had known it once, before Howard’s ongoing critiques had dulled the gloss of her pictures, distorted the way she saw her work. Picking up the slim folder, she handed it across the table, tried not to let her gaze linger on the strong shape of his hand, the deft, competent grip of his fingers. Photographer’s eye, she told herself. Or an overreaction due to nerves. ‘I’ve brought a small printed portfolio and I’ll show you a digital gallery as well.’

As he opened the leather-bound binder, she couldn’t watch, almost didn’t want to see his reaction, busied herself with booting up her netbook.

Finally she knew she couldn’t stare at the screen any more so she looked up and across at him. Saw the binder still open, though his gaze was now on her.

‘Obviously, as I said, I am a fashion photographer, so my portfolio mostly consists of examples of fashion photography. I did include a couple of still-life pictures I did for a National Trust campaign. But I do think you should consider taking on someone with more experience of commercial photography.’

What? What are you doing, Emily? Talking yourself out of the job? Pressing her lips together, she focused on not talking. At all.

‘I appreciate your honesty and I get it’s a risk but it’s one I’m willing to take.’ And again Emily wondered what was going on, why he was so set on employing her without even considering anyone else. She was sure it wasn’t anything to do with the latent smoulder of attraction that had sparked the previous night; she’d believed his assertion that he would never mix business and pleasure. Yet instinct, finely honed instinct, s

till warned her there was something else. Some reason he wanted to move so fast.