Antonio inclined his head and tried to tamp down on the surge of lust in his blood. ‘You know the waiter well?’
Orla nodded her head, her eyes losing that icy coolness for a second as if she couldn’t help herself. Her voice was husky. ‘Yes, his mother is from where my family are from in the west of Ireland. She’s worked for us for years in the accounts office but she’s been battling cancer for the past few months. Thankfully it would appear as if the treatment is working….’
Antonio thought of something the man had said and asked curiously, ‘Has your family been paying for the treatment?’
Orla immediately flushed and sounded defensive. ‘Most of it has been covered by the NHS…. We’ve just helped out along the way.’
Something tightened inside Antonio at this evidence of caring for their staff. If there was one incident like this, how many more were there? Draining the business of valuable finances?
As if reading his mind, Orla said, ‘This was a special case—they’re personal friends of my father’s.’
Antonio put down his menu and arched a brow. ‘And what about the special case of the eighty-year-old concierge who I noticed has to be shadowed at all times by a younger colleague presumably because he’s about to keel over dead?’
Two spots of colour burned in her cheeks. ‘He’s training them in. He’s been with this hotel from the very start. He’s an institution. Loyal guests come back just to see Lawrence. He retired officially years ago but this is all he knows, so as long as he’s fit to work and wants to, we see no reason to let him go.’
Antonio had to admit that he’d had quite an entertaining conversation with the old man today, finding him to be surprisingly alert and knowledgable. Still … it was hardly best practice hiring old-age pensioners to be at the front of house.
Orla put down her menu, her voice tight and eyes flashing. ‘I’m not going to stay here and listen to you list off—’
Immediately Antonio reacted. He reached across and stopped Orla with a hand on her wrist. Her pulse was throbbing fast against her skin. Cursing himself for losing sight of his game plan so quickly, Antonio said, ‘I’m sorry, OK? Let’s call a truce. No more talk of work, at least during dinner.’
Let’s call a truce.
Orla could feel her pulse beating like a caged bird against Antonio’s hand. Loath to let him see how much he affected her, she pulled free. The thought of a truce was almost as terrifying as the thought of the takeover but she had no choice.
‘Fine.’ And she took the menu up again quickly, seeing nothing of the words. Only feeling her heart thumping and her skin getting hot. He disturbed her so effortlessly and she hated it.
The waiter came back and Orla asked for the special; Antonio asked for the Irish beef steak, a signature dish of the restaurant.
She finally lowered her menu and Antonio looked at her. ‘Wine?’
Acting on a reflex to deny that this was anything remotely like a date, she shook her head quickly and said, ‘Not for me, thanks. I’ll stick to sparkling water.’ Even though right now she felt as if she could do with a mammoth glass of wine.
She looked to the waiter and smiled at him again, glad of the dilution of energy swirling between her and Antonio. When Antonio had given a wine order and she glanced at him, he was almost scowling at her, eyes fixated on her mouth.
And th
en his gaze moved up and his expression transformed into something far more benign, so quickly that she might have imagined that scowl or his eyes on her lips. Damn her pulse. It wouldn’t calm down.
Another waiter returned almost immediately with wine, and water for Orla. She watched as Antonio took his time tasting the wine. There was something so inherently sensual about the way he did it that her limbs turned to liquid and she thought she might just slide under the table altogether.
Grabbing on to the table edge as much to root her in the room as anything else, she watched as Antonio nodded to the sommelier. When the woman had left, he stared at her and arched a brow. He lifted the bottle. ‘Are you sure you won’t have a little? It’s good.’
Orla knew it was good; it was one of the wines she’d chosen for their cellar herself. She was about to open her mouth and say something frigid, again, but suddenly it felt like too much of an effort and a voice inside berated her. Truce. Giving in, she even smiled minutely and held up her glass. ‘OK then, just a small bit.’
Antonio looked as if he was repressing a smile too, and something light cut through the tension. They both took a sip of wine and Antonio said, ‘I know the owner of this vineyard.’
Her eyes widened. ‘The owner of the Piacenza vineyard? I didn’t think anyone knew his identity.’
Antonio inclined his head. ‘He’s allowed his privacy. But they grow some fantastic local varietals. Malvasia, Barbera, along with some merlot and pinot noir.’
‘How do you know so much about wine?’ Orla was intrigued.
‘I did a master of wine course in my early twenties…. I came across the vineyard near Milan at the time.’
Orla’s eyes nearly boggled out of her head. ‘You’re a master of wine?’
Antonio looked mildly sheepish. ‘Yes.’