Was he testing her to see if she knew what the acronym stood for? Ha. No sweat. ‘Hazard Analysis Critical Control Points,’ she said with a grin.
‘And you’ll pass that one standing on your head because you’re organised, practical and sensible. Piece of cake.’ He laughed. ‘Well, a brownie, maybe—if Sally leaves us any.’
Fran smiled back. Then she noticed that his guitar was out of its case. ‘Sorry, was I disturbing you?’
He followed the direction of her gaze, then shrugged. ‘I sometimes use it when I’m thinking. Let things work in my subconscious.’
‘And you’re thinking about the franchise options?’
He nodded.
‘Would you play something for me?’ she asked on impulse, settling herself on the edge of the desk.
He blinked. ‘I don’t play for an audience any more.’
‘I’m not an audience. I’m your office manager. And I just passed my exam, so I deserve a treat, yes?’
‘That,’ he said, ‘is manipulation worthy of my mother—in fact, it’s worthy of my grandmother.’
Maybe. But she had a feeling that Gio had given up his music as a penance for what he believed he’d done wrong. And maybe playing to someone else would help make him see that he’d more than paid his dues. That he could have his music back.
So she simply sat there. Waiting.
He sighed. ‘I should warn you, I’m out of practice. Not like I used to be.’
‘I’ve never heard you play before, so I don’t have anything to compare it with,’ she pointed out.
‘Even so.’
But he was wavering. She could see it. ‘Just one piece? Something short and simple.’
He was silent for what seemed like a long, long time. To the point where Fran thought maybe she’d pushed him too far.
She was about to slide off the desk, apologise and leave him be, when he picked up the guitar.
The notes rang out, sweet and clear, in the office—a slow, pretty tune that Fran half-recognised. And then he changed it; it was the same tune, but this time it sounded incredibly different, as if it were being played by a Venetian gondolier on a mandolin. Then he switched back to the slow, sweet version.
‘Wow,’ she said, when he’d finished. ‘I’ve heard that before, but I’ve got no idea what it’s called.’
‘“Spanish Ballad”.’
‘Spanish? That middle bit sounded more Italian than Spanish.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s a technique called tremolo—and it’s used in Spanish music as well as Italian. Tarrega’s “Alhambra” is probably the best-known example.’
Not one she knew—at least, not by name. ‘You didn’t sound rusty to me. I liked it.’ She paused. ‘Can I be really greedy? More, please?’
He blew out a breath. ‘As long as you don’t ask me to play “Cavatina”. I loathe that piece of music. My sisters used to warble it around the house just to annoy me.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t mind what you play. Pick something you like.’
He played Bach’s ‘Air on a G String’, and she ended up closing her eyes and letting the music flood through her senses; the sound was so beautiful that it brought her close to tears. She didn’t recognise the next two pieces, though the style reminded her of the Mozart piano pieces Suzy used to practise as a teenager; and then Gio launched into a fast, flamenco-sounding piece. It sounded as if there were two people playing different guitars, though she knew that was a crazy idea. She opened her eyes just to check that someone hadn’t just appeared out of thin air to accompany him—but, no, it was just Gio.
And he looked as if he were enjoying himself, as if the speed and sudden loud flamenco licks were releasing all the tension that had built up inside him.
‘That was incredible,’she said when he’d finished. If this was what he called ‘out of practice’, he must’ve been a truly fantastic musician in his late teens. Gio had a real talent for music, she thought; but he’d sacrificed it for the sake of his family.
‘That was Albéniz’s “Asturias”,’ he said. ‘A bit showy-off.’ He grinned. ‘But since I’m being a show-off…’ He launched into another piece, slightly jazzy.
‘I really like that. What is it?’
‘“Verano Porteño”. It’s by an Argentinean composer, Piazzolla.’
The mischievous twinkle was back in his eye, Fran noticed with pleasure. Music definitely brought out the best in Gio. ‘Should I have heard of him?’
‘Probably not—unless you dance the tango.’
She laughed. ‘Not with my two left feet.’
‘Dancing a tango’s easier than making latte art.’ He gave her a speculative look. ‘Maybe I’ll teach you.’
Being musical and having a good sense of rhythm, Gio would probably be a superb dancer. And the idea of dancing a tango with him—breast to breast and cheek to cheek, their bodies moving as one—sent little ripples of desire down her spine.
‘In Argentina, there’s a saying that everything may change except the tango…but Piazzolla changed it,’ Gio said. ‘He fused the old-fashioned style with jazz, to make something called nuevo tango.’
Given that saying…‘And it went down badly?’she guessed.
‘At the time, yes—though nowadays most people think of him as the Tango King. He ended up living in Italy, where his parents’ family came from, in the late nineteen-seventies. Nonna actually saw him play in Rome, and said he was completely amazing.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I normally only play Piazzolla for Nonna.’
‘Then I consider myself honoured,’ Fran said. ‘What does “Verano Porteño” mean?’
‘Summer—well, it’s meant to be an evocation of summer in Buenos Aires. It’s from his Four Seasons,’ he said, ‘which is sadly not as well known as Vivaldi’s.’ He played a couple of bars she recognised from ‘Spring’, then put his guitar back in the case. ‘Enough for now.’
‘Thank you for playing for me,’ she said.
‘Well, I guess you earned it. Seeing as you passed your exams.’ He smiled. ‘And I’m glad you came to tell me.’
‘Even though, strictly speaking, it could’ve waited until tomorrow,’ she admitted. ‘But you believed in me, Gio. I couldn’t wait tell you.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Actually, what I’d intended to do was drag you off to a bar and buy you a glass of champagne to celebrate.’
‘That’s very sweet of you.’
At his tone, Fran felt her stomach swoop. Oh, no. Now he’d think she was trying to hit on him. And he was going to be kind about it and refuse very politely.
‘But I think champagne is overrated. There’s way too much snobbery about a few bubbles in some wine. I’d rather have a good Margaux any day. Or there’s this amazing Sicilian red wine Netti found that actually tastes of chocolate. It’s fabulous with puddings.’ He switched off the computer. ‘Have you eaten yet?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Do you like dim sum?’
She nodded.
‘Then how