Marriage Made In Monte Calanetti. SUSAN MEIER
the name tag into Rafe’s hand. Before Rafe could comment or argue, the man was out the door.
Someone began to clap. Then another person. And another. Within seconds the sophisticated Tuscany restaurant dining room filled with the sounds of applause and laughter.
Laughter!
They were enjoying his misery!
He looked at the line of customers forming beside the podium just inside the door, then the chattering diners laughing about his temper and his inability to keep good help. He tossed his hands in the air before he marched back to the big ultramodern stainless-steel restaurant kitchen.
“You!”
He pointed at the thin boy who’d begun apprenticing at Mancini’s the week before. “Take off your smock and get to the maître d’ stand. You are seating people.”
The boy’s brown eyes grew round with fear. “I...I...”
Rafe raised a brow. “You can’t take names and seat customers?”
“I can...”
“But you don’t want to.” Rafe didn’t have to say anything beyond that. He didn’t need to say, “If you can’t obey orders, you’re fired.” He didn’t need to remind anyone in his kitchen that he was boss or that anyone working in the restaurant needed to be able to do anything that needed to be done to assure the absolute best dining experience for the customers. Everyone knew he was not a chef to be trifled with.
Except right now, in the dining room, they were laughing at him.
The boy whipped off his smock, threw it to a laundry bin and headed out to the dining room.
Seeing the white-smocked staff gaping at him, Rafe shook his head. “Get to work!”
Knives instantly rose. The clatter of chopping and the sizzle of sautéing filled the kitchen.
He sucked in a breath. Not only was his restaurant plagued by troubles, but now it seemed the diners had no sympathy.
“You shouldn’t have fired Gino.” Emory Danoto, Rafe’s sous-chef, spoke as he worked. Short and bald with a happy face and nearly as much talent as Rafe in the kitchen, Emory was also Rafe’s mentor.
Rafe glanced around, inspecting the food prep, pretending he was fine. Damn it. He was fine. He did not want 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