Page 49 of His to Keep
The adjoining bathroom mirrored the size of the airy bedroom, with a kidney shaped bath positioned aside dual aspect windows with stunning coastline views when submerged in a bubbly cocoon.
It didn’t take her long to drift off to sleep. Steamy dreams of Marcus soon faded, inviting the haunting face of Carl to relentlessly attack again. She awoke on top of damp sheets with her pulse thumping in her throat. The villa was shrouded in a peaceful silence.
Carl’s in prison.
She’s safe.
* * *
“Wakey, wakey sleepy head,”cooed Freddy as he sprawled across her bed on his stomach and rested his jaw on the heel of his palm. “Busy day today, honey. Some big wigs are coming over for lunch. We have to get cracking with prep.”
Lana hummed into the pillow. “Just five more minutes,” she pleaded.
He jumped off the bed and grappled with the sheet wrapped around her waist like a bungee cord. “No rest for the wicked.” He paused. “I’ll get the shower running for you.”
She groaned and tugged a feathery pillow into her chest. “Okay, Freddy,” she muttered. “I’m getting up now.” Her eyes closed again.
Freddy sprung forward and pinged the elastic on her shorts. “Oh no you don’t, missy. You need to get up, get dressed, and prepare yourself for the mega rich and sexy as hell men that will be here soon!”
Her eyes peeled open. “Sexy. Rich. Men?” Her voice cracked. “Why didn’t you just say that?” She rolled to the edge of the mattress, letting her feet drop to the floor. “Let’s get to business, chef.”
After a quick shower, a dusting of bronzer and a coat of mascara, Lana pulled on a loose spaghetti strap maxi dress that Freddy choose from her limited outfits.
They spent the morning prepping delicacies in the large vaulted kitchen, fitted with high tech modern appliances, stainless steel counters and multiple encased ovens. Lana was in awe of the impressive room, right down to the elaborate grey and white palazzo floor tiles.
Meanwhile, Alberto, the house keeper, arranged the seating arrangements and replenished the bar, which already housed enough alcohol to sink a small yacht. The kitchen was a hustle of activity, Lana and Freddy worked alongside one another in perfect harmony.
He took the lead, having all the experience and know how, whereas, Lana was happy to follow his orders and learn from the best.
He was a skilled experimental chef. Having spent a few years at culinary school, he then travelled the globe to learn about cultural cuisine. His long-term goal was to develop his own menus and style of restaurant, not caring for Michelin stars. He told Lana he wanted to make food his way and watch the customers marvel at his taste sensations.
Alberto marched into the kitchen, tapping a black strapped watch on his golden wrist. “The guests are here. The servers will be ready to collect starters in five minutes, chef.” His Italian lilt was thick and his face stern.
Alberto was the epitome of professionalism. He took his job very seriously, which is why he had been on Jamie’s payroll for many years.
“We’re good to go, Alberto.” Freddy beamed with pride.
Lana crossed her legs at the ankles. “I’ll be back in a sec. I just need to pee.”
She darted out of the kitchen, bounding down the corridor like a happy puppy. The door slammed shut behind her with a bang. Any minute now the servers would expect plated mains of lobster ravioli drizzled with citrus butter and a side of wilted spinach sprinkled with parmesan shavings, to present to the hungry guests.
Catching a glimpse of her flushed cheeks and high-top knot hair do, she actually grinned. She looked happy. A revelation to crack open her gloom. The dark clouds floating above her head were starting to break, and rays of sunlight were flooding her with a fresh start.
Even though she looked dishevelled, she felt like there was a reason to get out of bed. There was a new and improved life waiting to be snatched up with both hands.
Freddy was right, Italy was the perfect remedy for her damaged soul.
Racing back to the kitchen, she rounded the corner and crashed face first into a hard chest. Her palms stretched across the smooth fabric that hid taught pectorals.
Firm hands clamped her waist. The fresh citrus scent was an interesting choice, mingled with a hint of spearmint. Her eyes flicked up and she tilted her head to meet the stranger’s striking face.
“Are you okay, bella signora?” The deep dulcet tones of his Italian accent scattered tingles from her scalp to her spine.
His mysterious granite eyes darkened to black, set amidst high chiselled cheekbones that lead to full wet lips. A furrowed brow waited for her to answer.
The words wedged in her throat. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I’m needed urgently in the kitchen.” She slid her palms down his cornflower blue shirt feeling each curve on the way down.
A pink flush of realisation spread over her cheeks and her hands dropped away from his warmth.
