A Bride for the Italian Boss Page 5

  Leaning against his prep table behind him, holding her gaze, he said, “Yes. I always want the opinions of customers.”

  She drank in a long breath. The soft, seductive tone of his voice, the way he wouldn’t release her gaze, all reminded her of Louisa’s contention that he was attracted to her. The prospect tied her tongue until she reminded herself that they were at work. And he was dedicated to his diners. In this kitchen, that was all that mattered.

  “Okay. Today, I spoke with a couple from the US and a group of tourists, both of whom only wanted soup or salad for lunch.”

  “We serve soup and salad.”

  “As part of a meal.”

  “So they should eat a meal.”

  “That was actually their point. They didn’t want a whole meal. Just soup and salad.”

  Rafe turned to Emory, his hands raised in question as if he didn’t understand what she was saying.

  She tried again. “Look. You want people to come in for both lunch and dinner but you only offer dinners on the menu. Who wants a five-course meal for lunch?”

  The silver shimmer in Rafe’s eyes disappeared and he gaped at her. “Any Italian.”

  “All right.” So much for thinking he was attracted to her. The tone of his voice was now definitely all business and when it came to his business, he was clearly on a different page than she was. But this time she knew she was right. “Maybe Italians do like to eat that way. But half your patrons are tourists. If they want a big meal, they’ll come at dinnertime. If they just want to experience the joy that is Mancini’s, they’ll be here for lunch. And they’ll probably only want a salad. Or maybe a burger.”

  “A burger?” He whispered the word as if it were blasphemy.

  “Sure. If they like it, they’ll be back for dinner.”

  The kitchen suddenly got very quiet. Every chef in the room and both busboys had turned to face her.

  Rafe quietly said, “This is Italy. Tourists want to experience the culture.”

  “Yes. You are correct. They do want to experience the culture. But that’s only part of why tourists are here. Most tourists don’t eat two huge meals a day. It couldn’t hurt to put simple salads on the lunch menu, just in case a tourist or two doesn’t want to eat five courses.”

  His gray eyes flared. When he spoke, it was slowly, deliberately. “Miss Daniella, you are a tourist playing hostess. I am a world-renowned chef.”

  This time the softness of his voice wasn’t seductive. It was insulting and her defenses rose. “I know. But I’m the one in the dining room, talking with your customers—”

  His eyes narrowed with anger and she stepped back, suddenly wondering what the hell she was doing. He was her boss. As he’d said, a world-renowned chef. Yet here she was questioning him. She couldn’t seem to turn off the self-defense mechanisms she’d developed to protect herself in middle school when she was constantly teased about not having a home or questioned because her classmates thought being a foster kid meant she was stupid.

  She sucked in a long, shaky breath. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I pushed.”

  He gave her a nod that more or less dismissed her and she raced out of the kitchen. But two minutes later a customer asked to speak with Rafe. Considering this her opportunity to be respectful to him, so hopefully they could both forget about their soup and salad disagreement, she walked into the kitchen.

  But she didn’t see Rafe.

  She turned to a busboy. “Excuse me. Where’s Chef Rafe?”

  The young kid pointed at a closed door. “In the office with Emory.”

  She smiled. “Thanks.”

  She headed for the door. Just when she would have pushed it open, she heard Emory’s voice.

  “I’m not entirely sure why you argue with her.”

  “I argue with her? I was nothing but nice to that girl and she comes into my kitchen and tells me I don’t know my own business.”

  Dani winced, realizing they were talking about her.

  Emory said, “We need her.”

  And Rafe quickly countered with, “You are wrong. Had Nico not sent her, we would have hired someone else by now. Instead, because Nico told her I was desperate, we’re stuck with a woman who thinks we need her, and thinks that gives her the right to make suggestions. Not only do we not need her, but I do not want her here—”

  The rest of what Rafe said was lost on Dani as she backed away from the door.

  Rafe saying that she wasn’t wanted rolled through her, bringing up more of those memories from middle school before she’d found a permanent foster home with Rosa. The feeling of not being wanted, not having a home, rose in her as if she were still that teenage girl who’d been rejected so many times that her scars burrowed the whole way to her soul.

  Tears welled in her eyes. But she fought them, telling herself he was right. She shouldn’t argue with him. But seriously, this time she’d thought she was giving a valuable suggestion. And she’d stopped when she realized she’d pushed too far.

  She just couldn’t seem to get her bearings with this guy. And maybe it was time to realize this really wasn’t the job for her and leave.

  She pivoted away from the door, raced out of the kitchen and over to Gio. “Um, the guy on table three would like to talk with Rafe. Would you mind getting him?”

  Gio studied her face, undoubtedly saw the tears shimmering on her eyelids and smiled kindly. “Sure.”

  Dani walked to the podium, intending to get her purse and her coat to leave, but a customer walked in.

  * * *

  Rafe shook his head as Emory left the office with a laugh. He’d needed to vent and Emory had listened for a few minutes, then he’d shut Rafe down. And that was good. He’d been annoyed that Dani challenged him in front of his staff. But venting to Emory was infinitely better than firing her. Especially since they did need her. He hadn’t even started interviewing for her replacement yet.

  He walked into the kitchen at the same time that Gio did. “Chef Rafe, there’s a customer who would like to speak with you.”

  He turned to the sink, rinsed his hands and grabbed his towel, before he motioned for Gio to lead him to the customer.

  Stepping into the dining room, he didn’t see Dani anywhere, but before he could take that thought any further, he was beside a happy customer who wanted to compliment him on his food.

  He listened to the man, scanning the dining room for his hostess. When she finally walked into the dining room from the long hall that led to the restrooms, he sighed with relief. He accepted the praise of his customer, smiled and returned to his work.

  An hour later, Dani came into the kitchen. “Chef Mancini, there’s a customer who would like to speak with you.”

  Her voice was soft, meek. She’d also called him Chef Mancini, not Chef Rafe, but he didn’t question it. A more businesslike demeanor between them was not a bad thing. Particularly considering that he’d actually wanted to have an affair with her and had been thinking about that all damned day—until they’d gotten into that argument about soup and salad.

  Which was why the smile he gave her was nothing but professional. “It would be my pleasure.”

  He expected her to say, “Thank you.” Instead, she nodded, turned and left the kitchen without him.

  He rinsed his hands, dried them and headed out to the dining room. She waited by a table in the back. When she saw him she motioned for him to come to the table.

  As he walked up, she smiled at the customers. She said, “This is Chef Mancini.” Then she strode away.

  He happily chatted with the customer for ten minutes, but his gaze continually found Daniella. She hadn’t waited for him in the kitchen, hadn’t looked at him when he came to the table—had only introduced him and left. Her usually sunny smile had been replaced by a stiff lift of her lips. Her bright blue eyes weren’t filled with joy. They were dull. Lifeless.

  A professional manner was one thing. But she seemed to be...hurt.

  He analyzed their soup-and-
salad conversation and couldn’t find anything different about that little spat than any of their disagreements—except that he’d been smiling at her when she walked in, thinking about kissing her. Then they’d argued and he’d realized what a terrible idea kissing her was, and that had shoved even the thought of an affair out of his head.

  But that was good. He should not want to get involved with an employee. No matter how pretty.

  When the restaurant cleared at closing time, he left, too. He drove to his condo, showered and put on jeans and a cable-knit sweater. He hadn’t been anywhere but Mancini’s in weeks. Not since Christmas. And maybe that was why he was having these odd thoughts about his hostess? Maybe it was time to get out with people again? Maybe find a woman?

  He shrugged into his black wool coat, took his private elevator to the building lobby and stepped outside.

  His family lived in Florence, but he loved little Monte Calanetti. Rich with character and charm, the stone-and-stucco buildings on the main street housed shops run by open, friendly people. That was part of why he’d located Mancini’s just outside of town. Tourists loved Monte Calanetti for its connections to the past, especially the vineyard of Palazzo di Comparino, which unfortunately had closed. But tourists still came, waiting for the day the vineyard would reopen.

  Rafe’s boots clicked on the cobblestone. The chill of the February night seeped into his bones. He put up the collar of his coat, trying to ward off the cold. It didn’t help. When he reached Pia’s Tavern, he stopped.

  Inside it would be warm from a fire in the stone fireplace in the back. He could almost taste the beer from the tap. He turned and pushed open the door.

  Because it was a weekday, the place was nearly empty. The television above the shelves of whiskey, gin and rum entertained the two locals sitting at the short shiny wood bar. The old squat bartender leaned against a cooler beside the four beer taps. Flames danced in the stone fireplace and warmed the small, hometown bar. As his eyes adjusted to the low lights, Rafe saw a pretty blonde girl sitting alone at a table in the back.

  Dani.

  He didn’t know whether to shake his head or turn around and walk out. Still, when her blue eyes met his, he saw sadness that sent the heat of guilt lancing though him.

  Before he could really think it through, he walked over to her table and sat across from her.

  “Great. Just what every girl wants. To sit and have a drink with the boss who yells at her all day.”

  He frowned. “Is that why you grew so quiet today? Because I yelled at you? I didn’t yell. I just didn’t take your suggestion. And that is my right. I am your boss.”

  She sucked in a breath and reached for her beer. “Yes, I know.”

  “You’ve always known that. You ignore it, but you’ve always known. So this time, why are you so upset?”

  She didn’t reply. Instead, she reached for her coat and purse as if she intended to go. He caught her arm and stopped her.

  Her gaze dropped to his hand, then met his.

  Confused, he held her blue, blue eyes, as his fingers slid against her soft pink skin. The idea of having an affair with her popped into his head again. They were both incredibly passionate people and they’d probably set his bedroom on fire, if they could stop arguing long enough to kiss.

  “Please. If I did something wrong, tell me—”

  An unexpected memory shot through him. He hadn’t cared what a woman thought since Kamila. The reminder of how he’d nearly given up his dream for her froze the rest of what he wanted to say on his tongue and forced him back to business mode.

  “If you are gruff with customers I need to know why.”

  “I’m not gruff with customers.” Her voice came out wispy and smoky.

  “So it’s just me, then?”

  “Every time I try to be nice to you, you argue with me.”

  He laughed. “When did you try to be nice to me?”

  “That suggestion about lunch wasn’t a bad one. And I came to you politely—”

  “And I listened until you wouldn’t quit arguing. Then I had to stop you.”

  “Yes. But after that you told Emory I wasn’t needed.” She sniffed a laugh. “I heard you telling him you didn’t even want me around.”

  His eyes narrowed on her face. “I tell Emory things like that all the time. I vent. It’s how I get rid of stress.”

  “Maybe you should stop that.”

  He laughed, glad his feisty Dani was returning. “And maybe you should stop listening at the door?”

  She shook her head and shrugged out of his hold. “I wasn’t listening. You were talking loud enough that I could easily hear you through the door.”

  She rose to leave again. This time he had no intention of stopping her, but a wave of guilt sluiced through him. Her face was still sad. Her blue eyes dull. All because of his attempt to blow off steam.

  She only got three steps before he said, “Wait! You are right. I shouldn’t have said you weren’t wanted. I rant to Emory all the time. But usually no one hears me. So it doesn’t matter.”

  She stopped but didn’t return to her seat. Standing in the glow of the fireplace, she said, “If that’s an apology, it’s not a very good one.”

  No. He supposed it wasn’t. But nobody ever took his rants so seriously. “Why did it upset you so much to hear you weren’t wanted?”

  She said nothing.

  He rose and walked over to her. When she wouldn’t look at him, he lifted her chin until her gaze met his. “There is a story there.”

  “Of course there’s a story there.”

  He waited for her to explain, but she said nothing. The vision of her walking sadly around the restaurant filled his brain. He’d insulted hundreds of employees before, trying to get them to work harder, smarter, but from the look in her eyes he could see this was personal.

  “Can you tell me?”

  She shrugged away again. “So you can laugh at me?”

  “I will not laugh!” He sighed, softened his voice. “Actually, I’m hoping that if you tell me it will keep me from hitting that nerve again.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m not an idiot. I don’t insult people to be cruel. When I vent to Emory it means nothing. When I yell at my employees I’m trying to get the best out of them. With you, everything’s a bit different.” He tossed his hands. He wouldn’t tell her that part of the problem was his attraction. Especially since he went back and forth about pursuing it. Maybe if he’d just decide to take romance off the table, become her friend, things between them would get better? “It might be because you’re American not European. Whatever the case, I’d like to at least know that I won’t insult you again.”

  The bartender walked over. He gruffly threw a beer coaster on the table, even though Dani and Rafe stood by the fireplace. “What’ll it be?”

  Rafe tugged Dani’s hand. “Come. We’ll get a nice Merlot. And talk.”

  She slid her hand out of his, but she did return to her seat. He named the wine he wanted from the bartender, and with a raise of his bushy brows, the bartender scrambled off to get it. When he returned with the bottle and two glasses, Rafe shooed him away, saying he’d pour.

  Dani frowned. “No time for breathing?”

  He chuckled. “Ah. So she thinks she knows wine?”

  Her head lowered. “I don’t.”

  His eyes narrowed as he studied her. The sad demeanor was back. The broken woman. “And all this rolls together with why I insulted you when I said you weren’t wanted?”

  She sighed. “Sort of. I don’t know how to explain this so you’ll understand, but the people I’m looking for aren’t my relatives.”

  He smiled. “They’re people who owe you money?”

  She laughed. The first genuine laugh in hours and the tight ball of tension in Rafe’s gut unwound.

  “They are the family of the woman who was my foster mother.”

  “Foster mother?”

  “I was taken from my mother when I was
three. I don’t remember her. In America, when a child has no home, he or she is placed with a family who has agreed to raise her.” She sucked in a breath and took the wineglass he offered her. “Foster parents aren’t required to keep you forever. So if something happens, they can give you back.”

  She tried to calmly give the explanation but the slight wobble of her voice when she said “give you back” caused the knot of tension to reform in Rafe’s stomach. He imagined a little blue-eyed, blonde girl bouncing from home to home, hugging a scraggly brown teddy bear, and his throwaway comment about her not being wanted made his heart hurt.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She sipped her wine. “And right about now, I’m feeling pretty stupid. You’re a grouch. A perfectionist who yells at everyone. I should have realized you were venting.” She met his gaze. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

  “You do realize you just called me a grouch.”

  She took another sip of her wine. “And a perfectionist.” She caught his gaze again. “See? You don’t get offended.”

  He laughed.

  She smiled.

  Longing filled Rafe. For years he’d satisfied himself with one-night stands, but she made him yearn for the connection he’d had only once before. With her he wasn’t Chef Rafe. She didn’t treat him like a boss. She didn’t talk to him like a boss...

  Maybe because she had these feelings, too?

  He sucked in a breath, met her gaze. “Tell me more.”

  “About my life?”

  “About anything.”

  * * *

  She set down her wineglass as little pinpricks of awareness sprung up on her arms.

  She hadn’t realized how much she’d longed for his apology until he’d made it. But now that he was asking to hear about her life, everything inside her stilled. How much to tell? How much to hold back? Why did he want to know? And why did she ache to tell him?

  He offered his hand again and she glanced into his face. The lines and planes of his chin and cheeks made him classically handsome. His sexy unbound hair brought out urges in her she hadn’t ever felt. She’d love to run her fingers through it while kissing him. Love to know what it would feel like to have his hair tumble to his face while they made love.