The Cinderella Valentine
رواية انجليزية من
روايات هارلوكين الشهيره التابعه لها روايات
احلام ارجو ان تنال اعجابكم
الملخص:
Polly Bright has just landed a much-needed job as a waitress at the Chelsea Bella Lucia. But on her way to report for duty, a series of mishaps leave her unfit to be seen by the guests of the posh eatery! Will the surly, but sexy, manager, Luc Bellasario, send her packing—or has
this Cinderella met her very own Prince Charming
الرواية:
chapter 1
Polly had allowed herself plenty of time. She was leaving nothing to chance. She'd even used two alarm clocks, set at five-minute intervals, both of which had performed on cue. Emma Valentine had come through for her with a life and a sanity-saving job at Bella Lucia, her famous family's chic, elegant, A-list group of restaurants. Hard work, but big tips. This was not the day to turn over and go back sleep.
The bus—incredibly—arrived on time and dropped her off at a spot a mere two-minutes walk away from the classic, ornate Georgian building in the heart of Chelsea, where the first of the fabulous Bella Lucia restaurants had opened fifty years earlier.
For once in her life, Polly hadn't messed up.
Even the sun was shining.
"Excuse me?" Polly turned to see a harassed mother encumbered by a three-year-old, a baby and a buggy struggling to get off the bus. "Would you mind…?"
In an all's-right-with-my-world glow, Polly took the buggy and did what she'd done a hundred times when babysitting her nieces and nephews—flicked it open.
The buggy didn't open. It sprang wide like a hungry tiger, taking a chunk out of her tights. As she bent to check the damage, the three-year-old generously thrust the rusk he'd been chewing into her. A thick beige smear appeared on the front of her waistcoat. She was already off balance when a speeding motorbike, skimming the curb to dodge the traffic, finished the job and dumped her in the road.
It could have been worse.
She could have fallen under a bus.
All was not lost, Polly thought, as she picked herself up. She was early. With luck she'd be able to slip into the staff washroom, clean up and change into the spare pair of tights that she'd fortuitously slipped into her bag before Mr. Valentine saw her. She scooped up a strand of hair that had sprung loose, tucked it behind her ear, rang the bell on the wrought-iron gate that guarded the rear entrance and was buzzed through.
It was only then that she discovered what she should have known the minute the buggy attacked her: she had carelessly left her luck, like a forgotten umbrella, on the bus. Not missed until the heavens opened up and she actually needed it.
Right now the sun was shining, but, as the man blocking her dash to the staff washroom slowly turned, she could have sworn she heard a clap of thunder.
Maybe that was because he bore more than a passing resemblance to the devil himself.
His hair, a pelt of thick, crisp curls, was a glossy black. His nose proclaimed that his ancestors had once ruled the known world. His brows were bold, straight, dark and not even the sensual curve of his lower lip could override the impression that he was more used to giving than taking orders.
All he lacked was a pair of little horns, although curls that thick could hide a lot.
His eyes, the colour of warm treacle, might have softened the image, but they were regarding her with a long, critical look that took in her hair—she could feel her own curls springing free of pins loosened by her fall—the sticky smear of rusk decorating her left breast, her torn tights.
"Polly Bright," she said quickly, getting that in before he could voice what he was so plainly thinking. She met his eyes head on, and offered her hand in the manner of a woman whom, despite appearances to the contrary, knew what she was doing.
He did not take it.
Wise move, she decided, realizing too late that, in her attempt to save herself, she'd placed her hand in a patch of oil.
"It's my first day," she added, but with rather less conviction.
"No, Miss Bright," he replied as, with the slightest movement of one hand, he addressed her appearance, "it is not."
Polly, entranced by the soft, seductive, fall-into-bed accent that matched the Roman nose and Mediterranean colouring, was, for a moment, oblivious.
Then what he'd actually said sank in.
Not?
Not! Oh, no, she wasn't going to take that, allow this long-legged demon to dismiss her without even giving her a chance to explain. This job was too important. It was an opportunity to get back on her feet, to prove to her family that she wasn't a complete screw-up. It was a chance to start again…
The familiar sounds of a kitchen gearing up to serve a hundred plus diners reached her and, name-dropping like mad, she said, "Emma Valentine will vouch for me."
Polly had met Emma Valentine, the Chelsea BL's chef, when she'd been booked to give a cookery master-class at Polly's catering college. Not that Polly was taking part; her exclusion was punishment for a piece of nonsense involving an ice sculpture. Polly had found Emma in the student washroom, throwing up from nerves; she'd fetched her some ginger ale, distracted her with the woeful tale of "Little Willy," made Emma laugh so much that she'd taken Polly into the class as her assistant leaving the principal with no option but to accept this fait accompli.
"Or Mr. Robert Valentine," Polly continued. Emma would be up to her eyes at this time of day. "He interviewed me."
"Mr. Valentine is at the Mayfair office this morning and his daughter is in Meridia organizing the coronation banquet."
In other words, what kind of nerve did she have thinking either of them would have spare time to pull her irons out of the fire?
"Max Valentine is in the office," he offered, with a touch of amusement. "Maybe you'd prefer to have this conversation with him?"
"No!" She'd met Max when she'd come for her interview. He was scary, unlike his father who was a sucker for a smile. "No," she repeated, "I'm sure he's busy."
"Then I'm sorry, Miss Bright, but all you have is me."
***
chapter 2
Well, if life gave you lemons, you made lemonade. She tried the "sucker" smile. "And you are?"
"Luc Bellisario. I may not be a Valentine, but Bella Lucia was my great-aunt, if that makes me an acceptable alternative?"
Seductive sarcasm, she noted, but then he was not just some uppity Italian waiter with a power complex. Not even an Italian restaurant manager with a power complex. He was family…
"This lunchtime I am acting manager of this restaurant," he continued, without waiting for her to confirm that he was. "And you, Miss Bright, are not in any state to polish its floor, let alone serve food to the people who dine here."
"Mr. Bellisario…" She pulled out all the stops, reprising the smile that had worked so well on Robert Valentine. "Luc." Then, with a sweeping gesture that took in her bedraggled appearance, she appealed to his sense of fair play. "You don't imagine that I set out from home looking like this, do you?"
"That," he replied, unmoved, "is beside the point."
"No!" Then, because actually he was right, "Well, yes, obviously it is, but I had an accident."
As he frowned, his brows drew down at the centre, emphasizing the devilish look, drawing attention to his eyes. They were, she realized, threaded with streaks of gold lightning.
"What kind of accident? Are you hurt?"
"Hurt? Oh, er, no." Surprised into a genuine smile by this evidence that he was, after all, human, she said, "I had an argument with a buggy." She raised her leg, apparently to display the damage, but well aware that they were one of her better features. The buggy, she realised belatedly, had taken more than nylon.
"You are bleeding." His expression softened a little and the devil took on a different role. Pure temptation.
"Oh, no," she said, not entirely in response to this statement. Men, even sexy Italians, had been banished from her life. Then, using his concern to her advantage, she said, "Well, not much." She rubbed at her elbow. "A bit of a bump when I fell off the pavement, that's all. The motorcycle barely touched me…" She ground to a halt as she realized she was coating her shirtsleeve with oil.
About to assure him that all she needed to do was clean up and she'd be ready to go, she decided to save her breath. Luc Bellisario, rot-his-socks, was right. Who, in his right mind, would let a disaster like her practice the dangerous art of silver service in a restaurant full of the rich and famous?
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?" he repeated, totally Italian. Totally gorgeous.
"I give up. There's always an opening at Burgers-R-Us."
Luc watched the woman rescue a pale blonde corkscrew curl that had escaped its pin, smearing more oil on her cheek as she tucked it behind her ear. She was a disaster, no question, and after learning that Robert Valentine had employed her, his first response had been nothing short of astonishment.
His second had been to send her home. Losing a day's pay—more importantly, a day's tips—would give her time to dwell on the standards required from staff working in a restaurant like Bella Lucia.
His third… His third had been purely physical as she'd smiled—the real smile, not the one calculated to turn him into her slave—eclipsing the late September sun, heating him down to the bone. It was a raw, totally male reaction that went a long way to explaining why Robert Valentine—Luc's cousin had made meeting beautiful women his life's work—had employed her.
"Wait," he said.
She stopped, looked back over her shoulder, blew another escaping curl from her face. Had she any idea how sexy that was?
Well, obviously. Like her first smile, it was a move calculated to snag his attention, keep him hooked. It was working.
"What?" she demanded. Then, when he didn't answer, "Don't tell me, you want me to leave the uniform?"
He swallowed, fighting the image of her peeling it off, piece by piece and dropping it at his feet.
"Would there be any point?" he asked, striving manfully for cutting sarcasm. "It's only fit for the dustbin."
She was trouble.
He should do everyone a favour and let her go, but in a month he'd be back in Italy, stepping into his father's shoes. Assuming the role to which he'd been born. Trapped…
The word dropped into his mind like a stone weight.
He blocked it out. Concentrated on the problem facing him.
Miss Polly Bright.
Luc saw, behind her sparky, couldn't-care-less in-your-face attitude, a loss of hope that tugged at something deep inside him. Something that he couldn't bring himself to crush.
"Come," he said, turning abruptly, and walking towards the housekeeper's room, resisted the urge to look back, check that she had obeyed him.
She'd followed.
"Housekeeping will find a dressing for your leg and a clean uniform. When you're fit to be seen, come to the restaurant and report to Michael, the head waiter." He came close to smiling. "I warn you, he won't be impressed by a smile and unlike me, he won't give you a second chance."
"You won't regret it, Luc," she said, earnestly. Then, "Mr. Bellisario."
"Be sure," he warned her. "You"ll be sorry if I do."
* * *
07-09-06, 02:10 PM
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