‘Mr Lucarelli, I really can’t—’
‘Liv, I’m buying you a bowl of spaghetti, that’s all.’ He’d never before had to persuade a woman to have dinner with him and she was obviously well aware of that fact because she shot him an agonised look.
‘There must be someone else you can take!’ Her tone bordered on the desperate and he gave a faint smile.
‘You’re not doing much for my ego. Is the thought of facing me across a bowl of spaghetti really that terrifying?’
‘No! It isn’t you, it’s me. I’m just not—’ She broke off, clearly finding the situation painfully awkward. ‘I’m not very exciting company, that’s all.’
Accustomed to being with women who were confident both socially and sexually, it took him a moment to adjust to the contrast.
He studied her face in silence, taking in the self-doubt in her eyes and the touch of colour in her cheeks. ‘Liv, what is the matter with you? Do you really expect me to believe that you can handle the most demanding medical emergency with total confidence but can’t wind spaghetti onto a fork and talk at the same time?’
She gave a reluctant laugh. ‘I suppose it’s all about practice. I’m more confident at Resus-speak than dinner-table-speak.’
‘Fine, then we’ll talk about pelvic fractures. Or we won’t talk at all. I really don’t care, just as long as I eat something in the next five minutes.’ He extracted her from the car and propelled her, still protesting, through the door of the restaurant.
They were instantly enveloped by warmth and delicious smells and Liv hesitated on the threshold, scanning the room like a gazelle sensing danger.
All evidence of the cool professional had left her and she looked so painfully unsure of herself that for a moment Stefano thought she might actually turn and run. He planted himself behind her, watching as she took in the cheerful red tablecloths, the enormous Christmas tree and the cosy, informality of the place.
Then she turned her head and gave him a hesitant smile. ‘It’s nice.’
‘Sì, I know. Just wait until you taste the pasta. It’s incredible.’ Stefano tried to peel the coat from her shoulders, but she clutched at it self consciously.
‘I’ll keep it on. I’m not dressed to go out to dinner,’ she muttered and he gently but firmly uncurled her fingers.
‘You can’t eat dinner in your coat. This is a very informal place.’ He prised the coat from her grip and handed it to the waiter. ‘No one dresses up to come here and anyway, you look fine.’
She looked a lot better than fine. Without the protection of the coat he could see that her legs went on for ever and the way that her skinny rib jumper clung to her gorgeous curves drew the attention of several men in the room, but he decided that to comment on her appearance would just make her even more uncomfortable.
She obviously had no idea how attractive she was.
Which made a refreshing change from the women he usually mixed with, he thought wryly, recalling Francine’s endless preoccupation with her own reflection.
Not wanting to risk increasing Liv’s anxiety levels by offering her a menu, he turned to the owner and spoke in rapid Italian, telling him where they wanted to sit and what they wanted to eat.
The owner led them to a quiet table by the window and Liv gave a soft gasp of delight.
‘We’re right next to the river here—I didn’t realise. It’s so pretty, especially in the dark when it’s all lit up and you can’t see the dirt.’
‘This restaurant is a hidden gem. I discovered it on a trip to London a few years ago. Because you approach it via all the back streets, you don’t realise that it’s by the Thames. What can I get you to drink? Champagne?’
‘Champagne?’ Startled, she dragged her eyes away from the view and looked at him. ‘No thanks, water will be fine.’
‘Water?’
‘I did warn you that I’m incredibly boring.’ Reaching for her napkin, she spread it on her lap. ‘Champagne is for women who don’t have to get up at five in the morning.’
‘You get up at five?’
‘If I don’t start then, I can’t get everything done.’
A waiter placed two heaped bowls of spaghetti bolognese in front of them and Liv glanced at him in surprise. ‘I didn’t know you’d ordered.’
‘This is the best thing on the menu and it’s just what you need after a day on your feet. Eat.’ He picked up his fork and then suddenly wondered if he’d ordered the wrong thing for her. ‘Just leave the pasta and eat the sauce, if you prefer.’
This time she laughed, her green eyes sparkling in the candlelight. ‘I think you’re definitely confused about who you’re having dinner with.’ She spiralled pasta onto her fork like a professional. ‘I’m a working mother, Stefano. If I don’t eat carbohydrates, I collapse. Anyway, I’m starving and this smells delicious. I couldn’t leave any of it if you paid me.’
Stefano watched her eat the first mouthful and felt an explosion of heat through his loins. ‘You must have Italian genes.’
‘No, I have a son who loves spaghetti. It’s Max’s second favourite gourmet treat.’
‘His first being?’
‘Pizza. He’d eat it every night if I let him. We make it together, from scratch. There’s nothing quite like kneading dough to let off steam after a hard day.’ Gradually she relaxed with him and he kept the conversation flowing, deriving immense satisfaction from the fact that she seemed to have lost her earlier awkwardness.
Soon she was telling him all the details of her life. They talked about work, about living in London and she mentioned Max a lot, recounting several anecdotes that made him laugh.
‘It must be pretty tiring, working a full day and then going home and being a mum.’ The amount she did in a day stunned him. ‘I don’t suppose you have much time to yourself.’
‘I don’t really want that,’ she said simply. ‘I love being with him. He’s fun. We have a nice time together. And once he’s asleep I have time to myself.’
And then she read books on coaching football.
‘So you basically work all day and spend time with your seven-year-old.’ Was that why Anna had been offering to buy her hot sex for Christmas? Stefano reached for some more bread. ‘Do you ever go out?’
‘Oh yes, we often go to one of the museums at the weekend and sometimes we’ll go to the cinema for a treat. He loves it and so do I.’
That wasn’t what he’d meant, but he didn’t push her.
Clearly her life was her work and her child and Stefano finished his spaghetti and lounged in his chair, listening as she talked about her hectic life and her hopes for Max. He was intrigued by how happy she seemed. ‘So is Max looking forward to Christmas?’
‘Yes. Not that we do much. Turkey, presents, trip to the park…’ She shrugged and added, ‘Last year we went on a trip to the seaside and played on the beach. Freezing but fun. I try and do a special trip, to make up for the fact it’s just the two of us.’
‘You don’t have family?’
‘No.’ She concentrated on her plate. ‘I only have one aunt and she lives in Scotland so I never get to see her. What about you? Will you be spending Christmas with your family?’
‘Yes. I have an interfering younger sister, an even more interfering father and at least eight first cousins.’
‘Lucky you.’ Her tone was wistful. ‘I imagine there’s nothing better