Chapter 4

Luca had hoped the walk from his cottage, in a private part of the hotel grounds, would clear his head of the previous night’s encounter. It’d been a vain hope. The encounter had left him angry and humiliated, but he’d also been reluctantly fascinated by the bad tempered, rude, arrogant — and insanely attractive man.

When he’d got back to the pub, soaking wet and flustered, he’d given an edited version of the events. Ryan had hustled him upstairs, explaining that parking for pie night had become a nightmare as he’d foisted a towel and a too big sweatshirt and a pair of jogging pants on him. Jonathan had made a fuss, wanting to confront the man. Luca had told him the guy was long gone, as he’d finished his meal quickly before making his excuses and leaving, dashing off before Jonathan could insist on walking him to the car.

The New House Spa Hotel reared up at him as he emerged from the pathway and onto the gravel drive, blotting out for a moment all thoughts of the man who’d invaded his dreams.

Under the soft early morning sun, the Georgian former mansion house was stunning in its classical simplicity. It was so different to when he’d first seen it, bounded by scaffolding as it transformed from an unloved and rejected inheritance into the understated thing of beauty it now was.

He’d worked all over the world, and in many truly breathtaking locations, but there was something about The New House that had called to him from the first moment he’d laid eyes on it. Alex Love, the owner and Luca’s oldest and most trusted friend, had pulled out every stop, used every enticement, to lure him from London to the depths of the Devonshire countryside to mastermind The New House’s launch.

Not, of course, that he’d needed much to make him turn his back on his life in the city.

At the short flight of steps leading up to the entrance, Luca paused for a moment and pulled on his cuffs, snowy white and peeking out from beneath the sleeves of his dark grey suit, before he swept away a non-existent fleck from the lapel of his jacket. Taking a breath, he made his way inside, for the start of another long working day.

* * *

Luca rubbed his eyes. It wasn’t even 9.00am, but he’d already put in a couple of hours’ work, which had included his regular morning tour of the hotel to check all was as it should be. A quick, sharp knock on his door, it was flung open before he could call to come in. A harried looking woman, the hotel’s executive chef, stomped in, and flung herself into the seat in front of his desk, her chef’s whites smeared and splattered.

“Good morning, Rhonda.”

“Not so sure what’s good about it.” Rhonda crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “Those bloody sous chefs are a nightmare.” Her glare deepened before it ironed out and she huffed. “They’re not so bad, I suppose. A few rough edges, that’s all,” she muttered.

“I’m sure you have everything in hand. And they’re privileged to work under your direction.”

Rhonda huffed, and Luca suppressed a smile. It was part of their ritual and had been for as long as he’d known her. She enjoyed bitching about her staff, but woe betide anybody else who criticised them.

“What can I do for you?”

Rhonda leant forward. “Herbs.”

“Herbs?”

They’d had a long meeting just a couple of days before to refine the hotel’s upcoming autumn menu, but herbs had definitely not been an item for discussion.

Rhonda nodded, her expression serious. “Herbs are proving to be a particular problem.”

“They are?”

“Yes. We need to open up our supplier base to ensure steady and reliable deliveries year round. Especially for the softer leaf varieties. They’re always abundant in the spring and summer, but from now onwards, it’s a different matter. I also want to secure and strengthen our salad leaves supplies. We’ve got good arrangements in place with the co-operative and local farmers, but even the smallest disruption in supply is a huge headache. We can’t afford another basil incident.”

Ahh…HashtagBasilGate, as he’s privately named it, when a local supplier cocked up and hadn’t been able to fulfil his contractual obligations. Freshly made, organic pesto had been in very short supply in the hotel’s restaurant for a few days. The stress levels in the kitchen had gone sky high.

“If you’re experiencing supply issues, Rhonda, I want to know before they become problems.”

“It’s not a problem, or at least not yet. Problems are what I’m trying to avoid,” she grumbled.

“Good, because we don’t want another hash—I mean issue, like we had with the basil. Perhaps we should be speaking to some of the larger farms.” Even as he said it, Luca knew it wasn’t an option.

The larger farms, and therefore biggest suppliers of fresh produce, were either contracted to the national supermarkets or they used intensive farming methods and chemical fertilisers. The New House Spa Hotel prided itself on using, as far as it could, locally grown, reared, and fully traceable organic produce.

Rhonda vehemently shook her head. “There are a few smaller producers we can approach, but there’s one in particular we should bring onboard. The guy’s got a small farm up towards the high ground. Top quality produce. I know that because I did a taste test. He also has a regular stall at the farmers’ market in the village. His stuff sells fast. An hour after the start of the market, it’s all gone. He’d be perfect for The New House. Or at least his produce would be.”

“Do I sense an issue?”

Rhonda harrumphed and rolled her eyes at the same time. It was an impressive combination. “You do, and it’s with him. He’s a right grumpy so and so. And so rude. I spoke to him in the farmers’ market last week. I told him to put some samples together and to bring them up to the kitchen, and then we’d discuss a contract for him to become a preferred supplier. Our terms are excellent, and I told him he’d be a fool to turn away from doing business with us.” Rhonda glared at Luca.

Bloody hell… Rhonda may have won god alone knew how many awards for the quality of her kitchen, and could have taken her expertise and experience anywhere in the world, but she’d only ever taken the booby prize when it came to tact.

“And let me guess. He wasn’t too keen on entering into an arrangement with us?”

“No! I couldn’t believe it.” Rhonda threw her hands up in the air.

Luca bit down on his irritation as he tilted his head to the side. Picking up the slim silver pen that sat on his desk, he turned it between his fingers as he waited before speaking.

“You run the kitchen, Rhonda, but you need to speak to me first if you want to contract with any new suppliers. I might appreciate your straightforward approach, but then we’ve known each other for years.” You’re a bloody bull in a china shop, woman… It was the unspoken subtext they both understood.

“Okay, okay.” Her glare turned into something that might have been a rueful smile. “I wouldn’t let anybody else say that to me, but as it’s you…”

“Like you say, as it’s me.” Luca’s irritation waned. “Perhaps you should let me have the details of your grumpy farmer and I’ll approach him.” And try and undo the damage.

“I’ll text you. I’d best get back to the kitchen. Breakfast service is all but over, but we need to get on with lunch prep,” she said as she stood. “Only hope I find the place in one piece.”

Luca puffed out a long breath as Rhonda closed the door. A blunt and blundering executive chef, and a grumpy farmer who needed his feathers smoothed.

Great. Just great.

The text came in minutes later.

“May as well get on with it.” He sighed, not relishing the prospect of all those ruffled feathers.

An answerphone clicked in. The recorded message was short, the well modulated voice with barely a trace of the local accent asking him to leave his name, number, and the reason for calling. Luca left an equally short message in response. Cutting the call, the rest of the day shouted for his attention. For now, all he could do was wait for Rhonda’s grumpy farmer to call him back.

The day wore on. Meetings and phone calls, forensically going through spreadsheets, walking the hotel, again, checking all was well with the kitchen, with housekeeping, with the spa, and the grounds.

Making his way back to his office, to squeeze more hours into the day, the deep voice of a man drifted through the closed door, followed by a click. Too late to catch the call, Luca pressed the flashing button on the answer machine.

“This is a message for Luca Graham. You wanted to discuss Ladywell Farm potentially supplying your hotel. I’m open to having an initial meeting. No doubt you’ll want to see the farm, so I can spare you an hour this afternoon. I’ll expect you at four o’clock. Don’t be late.”

“What the hell?” Luca stared at the now silent answerphone. How in god’s name did this man ever get any business? Not direct, just rude. And arrogant.

Luca picked up the phone, ready to call back and tell the farmer thanks but no thanks, with a graphic suggestion of exactly where he could stuff every one of his soft and fragrant herbs. But what he wanted to do, and what he would, were two different things. Luca pulled in a long breath and closed his eyes. He’d dealt with all sorts of difficult suppliers, trades people, guests and staff over the years; a local farmer was small fry in comparison. What mattered was the hotel securing what it needed, so he’d obey the summons for four o’clock even if it did make him want to grind his teeth until they were little more than stumps. Opening up his computer, he jabbed hard at the keys.

Rhonda’s damn grumpy farmer had better be worth it.