Delicious and Deadly (2 page)

"No way in hell, Nico. No way."

Nico Ferranti studied the uncompromising jaw of his head chef. In the frenetic universe of world-class haute cuisine, Oscar Zamani was the equivalent of solid gold. At the moment the award-winning chef was on secondment from the Ferranti Spa in Lake Como to bring his unique brand of originality and discipline to the kitchens of the five star Ferranti Hotel & Spa at Ludlow Hall. A sprawling seventeenth century English mansion with over two hundred and eighty rooms.

The girls who manned reception always gave Oscar a wide-eyed second look. Behind his back they called him
The Rock
, due to his massive frame. Nico himself was a big man, but Oscar was built like an armoured vehicle, he could give a line backer for the New Orleans Saints a run for his money.

Oscar's carved features were hawk-like, his dark eyes intense. And according to the love of Nico's life, his wife Bronte, Oscar's face was a
'Fab composition of sharp cheekbones, all plains and angles'.
She adored his,
'Chocolate-brown come-to-bed eyes.'

Feeling itchy for even thinking about Oscar's bedroom eyes, Nico ran his tongue over his top teeth. He was Italian. He didn't analyse a man's attraction the way a woman did, but he had to admit that Oscar was one good-looking son-of-a-bitch.

The tattooed sleeve on the chef's left arm only added to the intimidating, bad boy impression. But as Nico well knew, looks could be deceptive. Oscar had attended one of the best schools in the country, Harrow, and had a clipped accent that spoke of the hunting, shooting and fishing set, the landed-gentry into which he'd been born. And from which he'd walked away. After university, where he'd read economics, the whisper was Oscar had devastated his father by turning his back on the family's international finance house to join the regular army, where he'd been snapped up by the intelligence corp. The catalyst for Oscar's career change had been the terror attack on London on 7/7. In the carnage, he'd lost a childhood friend who had been as close to him as a brother.

Oscar was ex-special forces. A very handy guy to have around in the backstreets of Rome, where muggers and pickpockets ruled dark and dingy streets. Nico couldn't help but fondly remember the good old days when he and Oscar had bumped bloody knuckles after beating the shit out of three knife-wielding bastards. But that was a story for another time.

These days Oscar ran his kitchens for the Ferranti Group with military precision. Every person in his hand-picked team knew their role as they worked together to create some of the best fusion cooking in the world.

Top chefs were notoriously pernickety, some of them temper-tantrum-divas. But Oscar was different, there were no drama-queen moments for him. Actually, Oscar's creativity had its roots in science. He was always experimenting, either in his kitchens or outdoors in the specially built ovens he used for bread. Oscar's kitchens ran like well-oiled machines. In a sea of calm, where every single person knew his or her place. Yep, Oscar was the conductor of his particular orchestra. Every morning the staff met to tweak the system. Everyone from the trainees to the sous chef was encouraged to have an opinion on how to improve a technique.

The only time Oscar became... irritable... was when a customer did not enjoy his food. As far as Oscar was concerned, the customer was king. However, success, as Nico well knew, brought with it its own pitfalls. In Oscar's case, it brought an unwanted celebrity status. And that status was the reason why Oscar was standing in front of Nico with muscled legs spread apart, huge arms folded and a face like, as Nico's good pal Alexander would say, a slapped arse.

"Six episodes, prime time every Sunday night. It is a huge opportunity for you, Oscar. At least think about it."

"Nope."

Nico tried again. "Big money."

"Nope."

Nico shook his head and gave up. Stubborn bastard. He'd never in his life met a man so indifferent to making a buck. As long as Oscar had a roof over his head and was able to create he was content.

Oscar studied the way his boss lifted his hands in a frustrated
whatever
gesture.

In his dark Savile Row suit Nico always looked effortlessly immaculate, not a black hair out of place, like a cover model for GQ.

He'd met Nico Ferranti years ago through one of his best pals since school, Alexander Ludlow. Alexander was Nico's business partner. At the time Oscar had been in the military, a British Green Beret, and had spent his leave hell-raising around Europe with Nico and Alexander. Oscar's mouth kicked at the memory. Happy days.

Oscar respected Nico Ferranti, a lot. He respected the way Nico loved and adored his gorgeous blonde wife, Bronte, and their kids. Nico was first and foremost a family man. Oscar also respected the way that Nico had built, and ran, his professional life, too. Business concerns that encompassed many interests, technology, public-relations, communications, plus the five star Ferranti Hotels and Spas and a new venture, the Ferranti And Conti city Boutique hotels.

Oscar realised Nico had nothing but his best interests at heart, but he'd rather have a root canal without anaesthetic than deal with unwanted press attention. Oscar knew he was lucky because he didn't work only to make money. He didn't need to. From his paternal side, he'd inherited part of the Spencer banking legacy, a fortune that meant Oscar was truly independent. Pity his family couldn't, or wouldn't, take pride in his achievements. According to his father anything less than a merchant banker, or something in the City, simply wasn't acceptable behaviour from his second son. And that included joining the army, or being an award winning chef. Well, that suited Oscar just fine. He'd always been a wild-card. Even as a child he'd stood out. Independent, and no matter how hard they'd tried, a nonconformist.

And unbreakable.

"You are one obstinate bastard," Nico growled.

Oscar couldn't help but grin at the pissed-off tone and how Nico's Italian accent rose to the fore.

"Look, I know it would be good publicity for Ludlow Hall to have the series filmed here, Nico, but I hate a media circus."

"
Si
, it would be good for business," Nico admitted, shrugged. "But I understand your reluctance." Behind a huge oak desk, leaning back in his ergonomic chair, the Italian's dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he studied Oscar. "When was the last time you took a vacation?"

Oscar blinked at the abrupt change of subject.

He seriously couldn't remember.

Three years ago he'd left the military to follow his dream. If there was one lesson war had taught him, life was too short. A man's life could be snuffed out in an instant with none of his potential or his dreams fulfilled.

Oscar's dream had begun from the age of ten. His mother had actively encouraged his avid interest the dynamics of creating fresh bread and taught him everything she knew. Cooking was something he'd used to de-stress during the hard times, when he'd been at University and in the military. A little hobby, his father called it. But to Oscar the science of food, the combination of tastes, the use of fire and ice, simply fascinated him.

However, he'd also learned the hard way that not all dreams were meant to be.

Towards the end of his time in the military, he'd met a woman. A woman he'd been crazy about. But the relationship had burned too hot, too fast, and ended in disaster. Emma hadn't waited for him. After his final tour of duty, a twelve-month deployment where all comms had been blocked as he and his team engaged in what the spooks called, Unconventional Warfare, he'd returned to New York to find her on her honeymoon.

Stunned, at the time he simply couldn't get his head around the fact Emma Ludlow had married someone else. Hell, he still couldn't get his head around it. But what had blindsided him even more was that the warrior who had been Oscar Zamani had fallen apart. The medics said it could have been the result of PTSD and shock. But Oscar didn't believe it. He knew his shattered heart was the problem.

Nico and Alexander had rescued him from the bottom of the whisky bottle, offering him the chance to do something positive with his life by running the fusion kitchen of the Ferranti Hotel and Spa in Lake Como, and Oscar had grabbed the opportunity for a fresh start with both hands. Loyalty was important in the military. It meant the difference between life and death. And Oscar learned the lesson that the loyalty of good friends meant the same thing in civilian life, too.

He owed Alexander Ludlow and Nico Ferranti a huge debt.

The Italian's heart was set on Oscar doing a TV cookery series based at Ludlow Hall. Oscar knew it. He also knew that Nico, when he wanted something badly enough, never gave up. So the appearance of Nico giving-in so easily made Oscar... wary.

Nico picked up a crisp, expensive looking envelope and pushed it across the desk towards him.

Oscar’s brows met.

He studied the envelope as if it was improvised explosive device.

Suspicion tickled his gut.

This was Nico he was dealing with and Oscar always trusted his gut.

"What's that?"

Nico sent him a lazy smile.

"The perfect opportunity to chill out. Call it a busman's holiday."

Silence.

Nico muttered a curse in Italian, slapped his hands on the desk as he stood and gave Oscar a long, hard look.

"Every night I go to sleep I keep seeing Bronte's car in my head. Shattered glass, twisted metal, blood, fire. I keep seeing it. Keep thinking of her trapped, in pain, waiting to die. And it fucking terrifies me. You saved her, our
bambino
. And by saving her you saved me,
mia famiglia
. You act as if it what you did that day was nothing. And you never talk about it."

Oscar's face flushed. In his opinion there wasn't a man alive who wouldn't have done the exact same thing he'd done that day six months ago. However, he also didn't want to tell his friend that the psychological fall-out of Bronte's accident meant the nightmares had returned, with a vengeance. And that's why he was keeping his mouth shut.

"I didn't want to talk about it..." The image - Bronte's Range Rover kissing a tree, the hiss of the engine, the sweet scent of blood and diesel, him running with her in his arms and then the explosion - flashed into Oscar's mind. "Still don't. It wasn't a big deal."

Oscar winced as Nico roared, "
Bastardo testardo
. What you did was a goddamned big deal to me. I need to tell you that. Not once did you leave my side in the hospital when I thought I had lost her, lost our baby. My whole world had simply fallen away. There was nothing but a terrible, tearing grief. You held me together. And I need you to accept that and my undying gratitude. So take a fucking vacation."

Jesus
.

Terrified that Nico might burst into Latin tears at any moment, maybe even kiss him on the mouth, Oscar snatched up the envelope and tore it open. Expensive parchment was his first thought as he read the invitation, the opportunity, to spend a month on an island a couple of hours off the coast of Florida. The island of Eden. He'd heard whispers that a billionaire, with more money than sense, had spent a fortune rebuilding a castle on the island. Access to Eden was by plane and invitation only for a few carefully selected guests. Seafood was in plentiful supply - no surprises there - with other fresh ingredients flown in as required. Oscar would be expected to use his legendary skills to train a small but enthusiastic staff to cater to the guests, to design an exclusive menu heavy on the use of local ingredients.

Sounded simple.

Sounded fun.

So what was the catch?

Oscar flicked Nico a leery look.

A Nico who's black brows shot into his hairline. "Well, what do you think?"

"I'm thinking it looks interesting. I'm thinking that I'm willing to compromise if you are. No TV series. But I can use the down time I'll have on Eden to put the finishing touches to the Ludlow Hall cookbook."

Nico's winning smile split his face as he rubbed his hands together with glee.

He moved around the desk.

"
Eccellente!
"

Oscar sent him a hard look, pointed.

"Hug me and I'll have to hurt you."

Nico tipped back his head and roared with laughter.

"Ah,
il mio buon amico,
I have heard there is magic in the air in Eden. Let us shake on our agreement." Oscar took his hand, sealed the deal. But Nico wasn't quite finished. "You never know, you might find
amore
on an island with sugar white sand, an ocean so blue it hurts the eyes." Nico wiggled his dark brows. "And do not forget night skies, dark as velvet, stars sparkling like diamonds."

Disgusted, Oscar looked to heaven for patience.

"You are my good friend, too, Nico. But for God's sake quit with the hearts and flowers. Save it for Bronte."

Oscar had a bad moment when Nico moved into him. But his good friend heeded the hug warning. Instead Nico smacked him on the back, hard enough to topple a rhino.