Under The Tuscan Sun.... Michelle DouglasЧитать онлайн книгу.
a frightened rabbit working for him. Not even outside the kitchen. And the response of the diners? That was a fluke. Somebody apparently believed it was funny to see a world-renowned chef tortured by incompetents.
“I didn’t fire Gino. He quit.”
Emory cast him a condemning look. “You yelled at him.”
Rafe yelled, “I yell at everybody.” Then he calmed himself and shook his head. “I am the chef. I am Mancini’s.”
“And you must be obeyed.”
“Don’t make me sound like a prima donna. I am doing what’s best for the restaurant.”
“Well, Mr. I’m-Doing-What’s-Best-for-the-Restaurant, have you forgotten about our upcoming visit from the Michelin people?”
“A rumor.”
Emory sniffed a laugh. “Since when have we ever ignored a rumor that we were to be visited? Your star rating could be in jeopardy. You’re the one who says chefs who ignore rumors get caught with their pants down. If we want to keep our stars, we have to be ready for this visit.”
Rafe stifled a sigh. Emory was right, of course. His trusted friend only reminded him of what he already knew. Having located his business in the countryside, instead of in town, he’d made it even more exclusive. But that also meant he didn’t get street traffic. He needed word of mouth. He needed every diner to recommend him to their friends. He needed to be in travel brochures. To be a stop for tour buses. To be recommended by travel agents. He couldn’t lose a star.
The lunch crowd left. Day quickly became night. Before Rafe could draw a steady breath the restaurant filled again. Wasn’t that the way of it when everything was falling apart around you? With work to be done, there was no time to think things through. When the last patron finally departed and the staff dispersed after the kitchen cleaning, Rafe walked behind the shiny wood bar, pulled a bottle of whiskey from the shelf, along with a glass, and slid onto a tall, black, wrought iron stool.
Hearing the sound of the door opening, he yelled, “We’re closed.” Then grimaced. Was he trying to get a reputation for being grouchy rather than exacting?
“Good thing I’m not a customer, then.”
He swiveled around at the sound of his friend Nico Amatucci’s voice.
Tall, dark-haired Nico glanced at the whiskey bottle, then sat on a stool beside Rafe. “Is there a reason you’re drinking alone?”
Rafe rose, got another glass and set it on the bar. He poured whiskey into the glass and slid it to Nico. “I’m not drinking alone.”
“But you were going to.”
“I lost my maître d’.”
Nico raised his glass in salute and drank the shot. “You’re surprised?”
“I’m an artist.”
“You’re a pain in the ass.”
“That, too.” He sighed. “But I don’t want to be. I just want things done correctly. I’ll spread the word tomorrow that I’m looking for someone. Not a big deal.” He made the statement casually, but deep down he knew he was wrong. It was a big deal. “Oh, who am I kidding? I don’t have the week or two it’ll take to collect résumés and interview people. I need somebody tomorrow.”
Nico raised his glass to toast. “Then, you, my friend, are in trouble.”
Didn’t Rafe know it.
THE NEXT MORNING, Daniella and Louisa found a tin of tea and some frozen waffles in a freezer. “We’re so lucky no one had the electricity shut off.”
“Not lucky. The place runs off a generator. We turn it on in winter to keep the pipes from freezing.”
Daniella and Louisa gasped and spun around at the male voice behind them.
A handsome dark-haired man stood in the kitchen doorway, frowning at them. Though he appeared to be Italian, he spoke flawless English. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’ll let you finish your breakfast, but this is private property.”
Louisa’s chin lifted. “I know it’s private property. I’m Louisa Harrison. I inherited this villa.”
The man’s dark eyes narrowed. “I don’t suppose you have proof of that?”
“Actually, I do. A letter from my solicitor.” She straightened her shoulders. “I think the better question is, who are you?”
“I’m Nico Amatucci.” He pointed behind him. “I live next door. I’ve been watching over this place.” He smiled thinly. “I’d like to see the letter from your solicitor. Or—” he pulled out his cell phone “—should I call the police?”
Louisa brushed her hands down her blue jeans to remove the dust they’d collected when she and Daniella had searched for tea. “No need.”
Not wanting any part of the discussion, Daniella began preparing the tea.
“And who are you?”
She shrugged. “Just a friend of Louisa’s.”
He sniffed as if he didn’t believe her. Not accustomed to being under such scrutiny, Daniella focused all her attention on getting water into the teapot.
Louisa returned with the letter. When Nico reached for it, she held it back. “Not so fast. I’ll need the key you used to get in.”
He held Louisa’s gaze. Even from across the room, Daniella felt the heat of it.
“Only if your papers check out.” His frosty smile could have frozen water. “Palazzo di Comparino has been empty for years. Yet, suddenly here you are.”
“With a letter,” she said, handing it to Nico.
He didn’t release her gaze as he took the letter from her hands, and then he scanned it and peered at Louisa again. “Welcome to Palazzo di Comparino.”
Daniella let out her pent-up breath.
Louisa held his gaze. “Just like that? How do you know I didn’t fake this letter?”
Giving the paper back to her, he said, “First, I knew the name of the solicitor handling the estate. Second, there are a couple of details in the letter that an outsider wouldn’t know. You’re legit.”
Though Daniella would have loved to have known the details, Louisa didn’t even seem slightly curious. She tucked the sheet of paper into her jeans pocket.
Nico handed his key to Louisa as he glanced around the kitchen. “Being empty so long, the place is in disrepair. So if there’s anything I can do to help—”
Louisa cut him off with a curt “I’m fine.”
Nico’s eyes narrowed. Daniella didn’t know if he was unaccustomed to his offers of assistance being ignored, or if something else was happening here, but the kitchen became awkwardly quiet.
When Daniella’s teapot whistled, her heart jumped. Always polite, she asked, “Can I get anyone tea?”
Watching Louisa warily, Nico said, “I’d love a cup.”
Drat. He was staying. Darn the sense of etiquette her foster mother had drilled into her.
“I’ll make some later,” Louisa said as she turned and walked out of the kitchen, presumably to put the letter and the key away.
As the door swung closed behind her, Nico said, “She’s a friendly one.”
Daniella winced. She’d like to point out to Mr. Nico Amatucci that he’d been a tad rude when he’d demanded to see the letter from the solicitor,