Page 11 of Ice To Meet You

Leaving the photographs behind, I turned back to my bowl—and my hosts. Laying my napkin on my lap, I picked up my fork. Maria watched closely as I twirled it through the mountain of fettuccine, the rich aroma setting my senses alight.

I lifted a perfect bundle to my mouth, careful not to drip sauce on my new sweater. The moment it touched my tongue, the flavour burst across my palate—a velvety, indulgent mix that was, without a doubt, the best pasta I’d ever tasted.

“This is delicious, Maria. Do you have a cook?”

One dark eyebrow rose. “Most people assume I have help, but I like to cook myself, particularly up here in the mountains. The kitchen is the heart of an Italian home.”

I considered my little apartment high above my Paris gallery and smiled. My kitchen was cramped and dated, filled with endless cupboards, quirky eaves and angles. I had nowhere to keep staff, unless the chefs folded themselves into flat packs between meals.

“Well, I can wholeheartedly say this is the best thing I’ve eaten in a while.” I gathered another fork full.

“I’m glad,” she said. “As a business owner, you need to look after yourself. Eat well.” Maria paused, taking a sip of wine. “As far as I can gather, you’re running your Paris gallery alone now. Do you miss your partner?”

I lowered my fork into the bowl, my gut twisting. Everyone knew Didier Durand and I had parted ways. He’d been my business partner and, at one time, the love of my life—or so I thought.

We built the gallery together. He ran the business, and I focused on buying artworks and building relationships. But when our passion faded, so did his interest.

I still loved him, though only as a friend. When he wanted to sell me his share of the business, my first reaction wasn’theartbreak—it was how I’d lose the shield he provided against Parisian art-world gossip. We only talked rarely, now.

“I manage,” I replied, hoping my smile was convincing.

She let out a low, “Hmm.”

“Still,” Maria continued. “It must be a loss not to have a man helping you. Hanging all those paintings and moving boxes must play havoc with your nails.”

I chose my words carefully. “It’s true, the art world is traditionally male dominated. But I feel, as a woman, I offer a different perspective. It’s taken me a while to build respect and standing in the community, but I believe, even with chipped nails, women are more than capable of standing on their own two feet.”

My inner feminist gave me a high-five.

Maria blinked three times, her mouth forming a thin line. Were my words a little pointed? A little too harsh? Maybe. I didn’t doubt she meant well, but I had every intention of one day breaking through the glass ceiling in my field.

“But, if you can recommend a good nail salon in Turin, I may organise a manicure on my way back to Paris,” I said gently.

She returned my grin. My shoulders dropped. I truly liked Maria. I hoped to get to know her better once I opened in Rome.

Gio topped up our wine glasses with a smile of his own. “I hoped our grandson would join us this evening, but he’s not arrived.”

I glanced at the picture of the gap-toothed boy on the dresser.

“I’m not surprised,” Maria muttered, taking a large sip of her wine. “He’s probably too busy playing with his friends or throwing himself off a mountain somewhere.”

Gio raised a palm in his wife’s direction. “Maria, we don’t want to frighten Esmé.”

I snapped my gaze to meet my would-be investor. “Why would I be frightened?” Was their grandson an international terrorist or a serial killer? If that were the case, I was glad he hadn’t shown up.

Gio eyed me steadily, fingering his tie. “Esmé, you should know I admire ambition. I wish more young people would demonstrate it. But there’s something I’d like to ask you.”

Butterflies danced in my belly. Was he going to pull the pin? Let me down gently? Based on my afternoon, I wouldn’t blame him. If I couldn’t even keep my skis together in one place, why would he trust me with his money?

“I have a counter proposition for you,” he said. “I’ll invest in your new gallery—shout you from the rooftops—but as part of the deal, I need a little something in return.”

I swallowed. “Like?”

“It’s about Matteo.”

I stared at Gio. “Is he a new artist you want me to promote?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “Matteo is our grandson. I’d like you to take him on at your Paris gallery”

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