Captivated by Her Italian Boss
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Rosanna Battigelli
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Chapter One
WHEN NEVE SPOTTED the ad in the Vancouver newspaper in the second to last week of June, she felt a shiver of excitement run through her. It was an ad requesting applications from Canadian nannies for a position for the summer. In Italy. And Southern Italy, at that. A place she had visited with her mother when she was eighteen. Her parents had traveled through Calabria and Sicily on their honeymoon, and her mother’s nostalgia had drawn her back for what would have been their nineteenth anniversary.
Neve had loved the leisurely five-week tour through the seaside towns and mountain hamlets, culminating with the last week in Valdoro—Valley of Gold—on the southeast coast of Calabria. It was the town where Neve had been conceived. Neve could still envision the shimmering, color-changing waves of the Ionian Sea. And the dazzling sun that rose at dawn, its face an orange-gold orb that soon took dominion of the cerulean sky. By 8:00 a.m., the temperature would register over thirty degrees Celsius, and Neve couldn’t wait to head to the beach.
Her imagination had gone wild as they explored the ancient places she had read about in the works of British authors who had traveled to the area over a century earlier. Because of Greek colonization a thousand or so years ago, the area had become known as Magna Grecia, or Great Greece. Neve had read the books her parents had discovered about the South, including George Gissing’s By The Ionian Sea and Norman Douglas’s Old Calabria. She had particularly enjoyed Edward Lear’s Voyages in Southern Italy. Lear had traveled to the South with another artist to paint landscapes. As he traveled from hamlet to hamlet, he had written about his experiences in a journal. His accounts of peculiar townsfolk and the places they had stayed had put Neve in stitches, like the story of a pig running out from under a table as they were feasting on a dinner of macaroni. As an adolescent, Neve had dreamed of returning to Italy one day to rediscover the places that had so enchanted her.
Reading the details in the ad, Neve’s jaw dropped. What were the chances of coming across a job opportunity in Valdoro for the summer? And one that she could easily apply for, since her job as a kindergarten teacher meant she had summers free. The ad read:
Canadian Nanny wanted to prepare child for Kindergarten.
Summer Position.
Only highly experienced applicants will be considered.
Skills in Behavioral Management and Modification a must.
Child has experienced trauma and requires a special caregiver.
Three nannies have been recently dismissed; please do not apply if you believe this will be a vacation.
Position is full-time, with one day off per week.
Send a letter including your CV to my assistant, Mrs. Lucia Michele, email address below.
Do not inquire as to the status of your application.
You will be contacted within one week for an interview if I am interested.
Neve read the ad over several times. The prospective employer obviously wanted to make it quite clear to the applicant that this job was not going to be an easy one. She wondered at the trauma of the poor child. A death? Divorce? Abuse? Her stomach twisted. She had a special place in her heart for children; she always had, even as a teenager. She had babysat regularly in her neighborhood, and she had decided early on that teaching would be the career for her. She had been teaching now for three years, and maybe that didn’t make her highly experienced, but she had dealt with a few difficult and sensitive situations, and as a result, had taken specialized courses to help children who had experienced trauma of some kind.
She herself had experienced the loss of her father as a child. He had succumbed to a sudden stroke when she was eight, and it still made her heart twinge when she remembered the day she had come home from school and had found her house filled with relatives and family friends, some gathered around her mother. Bewildered, she had run toward her mother, who had sobbed the news to her before collapsing. Sadly, over the years, her mother had been more preoccupied with her loss and less over Neve’s trauma of losing her father.
Neve’s eyes prickled. She squeezed them shut, then focused on the ad.
Who was the sender? The most logical answer was that it was a parent who couldn’t stay at home and needed someone to help the child deal with the trauma and help prepare him or her for the challenge of another transition: school.
A tall order. Especially since progress so far had been limited. At least that was what she had inferred from the terse statement: three nannies have recently been dismissed. She felt a twinge in her heart at what the child must be going through and the poor, desperate parent. A thousand thoughts swarmed her mind about the sad possibilities, and then one thought pushed the others away: I’m going to apply.
And why not? She had the sensitivity required for such a position, given her own personal history. And she had dealt with behavioral and trauma issues in her three years of teaching, everything from stubbornness and aggression to grief over the loss of a parent or pet.
Yes, she would have loved to return to a vacation in Valdoro, but just being there and knowing she would be helping a child in distress—or attempting to help—was enough to motivate her. She would be content with reacquainting herself with the area on her day off. Of course, that was if she was hired for the position.
Neve had been ready to go to bed when she had picked up the newspaper, but now she was too excited to sleep. She reached for her laptop and typed up a letter. She read it over twice, added a section, read it over again and then attached her most recent CV. Taking a deep breath, she typed in the email address and pressed Send before she could change her mind.
With a shiver of anticipation, Neve ran a bath, her imagination sparked. As she stepped into its bubbly warmth, her floral-scented body wash reminded her of the jasmine and other flowers blooming in the pots on the balconies at Villa Morgana, where she had stayed with her mother in Valdoro. She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, her memories reactivated.
Visions of the villa came rushing back: the spacious, elegant rooms with their sparkling marble floors; the colorful glazed pots on the balcony, bursting with blooms of every color; and the scent of the nearby bakery wafting up to her when she stepped out on her balcony—
Neve’s eyes flew open. She blinked. There was something wrong with this picture. Well, not wrong, exactly. It was just missing one thing. One person. The guy walking down the road. The guy whose intense gaze had seemed to blaze across the street to connect with hers.
She had been drying her hair outside after a cool shower, enjoying the balmy heat of the midday Calabrian sun. Her mother and their friends, the owners of the villa, had been taking their usual siesta after the sumptuous lunch they had all feasted on. The merchants had shut down their businesses for the afternoon, and would reopen in a few hours. Nobody strolled about in the scorching afternoon heat, which is why Neve had been taken aback to see him walking by. His stride seemed to have slowed down when he was directly across the road from her balcony. And although other boys in Valdoro had openly demonstrated curiosity about her with sly nudges and winks when she walked in and out of the ice cream shop or bakery down the street, they hadn’t turned her knees to jelly, like this guy had just done.
He must have been working on a farm. His dark hair had been tousled and sweat-dampened, and his white T-shirt and jeans had been streaked with earth. He had been carrying a large burlap bag on his back, filled with greens and vegetables. But it had been his eyes that had galvanized her. Ebony eyes that had sent a shiver coursing through her veins. Eyes like river stones gleaming in the sun. And even with a coating of dust on his face, Neve had been able to make out his chiseled features, straight nose and sensual curve of his lips.
Suddenly flustered, Neve had shifted her gaze and in mere seconds, had taken in his tanned arms—his biceps bulging from holding the burlap bag—and his well-fitting, straight-leg jeans. He is not a boy, she remembered thinking. She had guessed him to be in his early twenties. And she had been eighteen... For a few moments she had felt a strange weakness overcome her and had wondered if she was about to pass out.
And then he had stopped. She had felt him staring at her and had looked up. Is he going to say something? she had wondered. Their eyes had locked. And then he had given a slight nod and, readjusting his bag, had kept walking. The following day Neve had watched him from behind the wooden shutters, too shy to suddenly appear on the balcony. But when he had slowed down and looked up toward her balcony, her heart had fluttered. He had been hoping to see her.
* * *
Neve realized she was holding her breath and let it out in a rush. And then other memories of that summer eight years ago came tumbling out. The way he had started going by the villa several times a day, not just to and from his farm job, but also later in the evening. He had made evening trips to and from the bakery, the Pasticceria Michelina. Sometimes he had walked; other times he had rumbled by on a motor scooter. Neve had felt herself falling under the spell of the Southern ways, the age-old custom of locking gazes, communicating with eyes only, a slow dance of intuition and anticipation. Her heart had thrummed all evening and night after that first encounter, and over the next few days she had found she could concentrate on little else.
Her mother, Lois, had caught the exchange once. He had been walking by after his work on the farm, and Lois had come into Neve’s room and walked toward the balcony at the same moment that he had paused to look up and smile at Neve, who had taken to sitting out on the balcony with a book every afternoon. Neve had returned the smile, and then had become aware of her mother’s presence.
“What are you doing?” her mother had asked. “You don’t pay attention to farmhands, Neve. That could get you into real trouble.”
Neve had flushed, embarrassed to have been discovered flirting and even more embarrassed to think that he had heard or understood. But when she had looked back toward him, he had walked on and was almost out of sight. She had glanced at her mother, whose frown had deepened.
“I’ve read stories about how some men in the South used to kidnap young ladies, take them up to a mountain cave and compromise their honor so their family would have no choice but to let them get married.”
“Mom! Really? Are we talking about the same century?” Neve couldn’t believe what she had just heard. “I wasn’t doing anything other than smiling back. And I didn’t get the feeling he wanted to marry me,” she had added flippantly. “I don’t think you have to worry about him carrying me off.”
Her mother’s cheeks had reddened. “Neve, you are not to give him or anyone like him any attention. You’re in Italy, remember. Men are more...passionate here. You came here a virgin. I don’t want you to fall for the first Romeo that pays attention to you and let him—”
“Mom! Oh, my God!” Neve had jumped up, her face flaming. “Just stop! Give me some credit, would you?”
She had barricaded herself in her private bathroom, ignoring her mother’s calls and halfhearted attempts to apologize. She had come out after her mother had gone, and wiping her tear-streaked eyes, she had walked to the balcony...
* * *
For the next few days Neve had been too busy with her school obligations to think much about the ad. When an email from a Mrs. Lucia Michele arrived, informing her that she was one of the applicants who could proceed to be interviewed, Neve’s heart had done a leap. She had thought it was a long shot, as there must have been hundreds of applicants, if not more, and her pulse had quickened at the thought that she might actually stand a chance of being hired.
Mrs. Michele’s email had informed Neve of the interview details. It would be conducted by her. The employer would be watching the interview privately. Due to the sensitive nature regarding the child, she had been instructed to keep the employer’s identity confidential until the chosen applicant actually arrived in person in Southern Italy.
And now here Neve was, communicating with Signora Lucia Michele, who was asking her in halting English about her philosophy of discipline. Neve felt a little self-conscious doing a Skype interview while her prospective employer watched from his computer.
Neve paused for a moment, wondering what stance “the boss” expected her to take. She looked beyond the woman, almost expecting that he—why she thought it would be a he, she didn’t know—would appear, and took a deep breath. She could only answer truthfully.
“I believe that consistency is essential in discipline,” she replied, her voice steady. “The child must know what you expect, and as a kindergarten teacher, I tell my children right at the beginning that I expect to be treated kindly, with respect, and that I will be treating them in the same manner. I make sure they know right away that A, their parents have trusted them to my care because I will keep them safe and take good care of them, and B, they will learn and have fun with me.”
She couldn’t help smiling, thinking of her school kids as they looked at her with wide eyes on the first day of school. “Those are the two main things they need to know. And then, day by day, they will learn how to interact, how to solve problems, how to be a good leader.” She looked straight at the camera. “And they will learn about consequences when they do something inappropriate. I believe in positive discipline and fairness, and flexibility when it is required...without laying a hand on the child.”
Signora Michele gave a curt nod. “And I see you have...ah...some esperienza with children who have suffered—how do you say?—oh, yes—loss?”
Neve tried to control her eyes from misting. Yes, she had experience, she replied, and bit her lip. She told the signora about the courses she had taken to help understand what children who had lost a parent through death or separation or divorce were going through. “You can’t assume that every child who enters your classroom has had a happy, cheerful childhood,” she said wistfully. “If only...” She blinked and thought of a frail-looking girl called Tessa, who had lost her mother to cancer a month before starting kindergarten.
Don’t cry, she told herself. Hold it together.
And then Signora Michele turned slightly and touched her ear. Neve spotted the hearing device that was obviously the means of communication between her and the employer.
She nodded and turned back to Neve, her face expressionless. “Thank you for your time, Signorina Wilder. You will be contacted with an answer within a day or two. There are still a few other applicants to consider... Grazie.”
Neve nodded and gave her a small smile before the woman left. She looked again right into the camera at the top of her screen, knowing the employer would be watching until the last moment. Neve stared briefly, then nodded, her eyes never faltering.
“Grazie,” she addressed the unseen employer before shutting down her laptop.
* * *
Davide Cortese’s pulse leaped. If he had entertained the smallest doubt when she had first appeared on his laptop screen in his study, after mere seconds he could no longer deny it. The interview had lasted twenty minutes or so between his assistant and the applicant, but it had taken him only a few stunned moments to realize the latter’s identity.
Neve Wilder. He hadn’t seen her name and the others in the file Lucia had prepared; he had wanted to see all the Skype interviews first. Neve was the thirteenth applicant to be interviewed by Lucia, and Davide had almost lost hope that a suitable nanny could be found for his five-year-old niece, Bianca.
His expression softened at the thought of his niece. She looked like the mirror image of her mother, his sister, Violetta. Her face still had the cherubic roundness of babyhood, but she had grown taller, even since the accident. The accident. Just those two words caused his body to freeze, just like the first time he was told by Violetta’s friend Alba that Violetta and her husband, Tristan, had skidded on an icy mountain road after their skiing weekend in Banff and had died instantly when their vehicle hit a tree.
Alba, who had been babysitting Bianca, had delivered the news tearfully by phone, and all at once Davide had felt numb, devastated, angry, sad and desperate. His only sibling, gone. She was six years his senior, and he had always looked to her for guidance growing up, especially after both their parents had died. Their father had passed first when Davide was ten, and their mother, heartbroken, had succumbed to cancer a year later.
Life had been hard enough without his gentle father around, but losing his mother so soon after was a blow that had siphoned what remained of Davide’s childhood spirit. Davide had lost his joy, his appetite, his interest in school. He had become frail, withdrawn and had often missed school.
He and Violetta had been looked after by their uncle, Zio Francesco, a priest in their town of Valdoro. Zio Francesco had told Davide when he was older about how he had begun to despair of reviving Davide’s spirit and physical health. He had wondered if bringing him out to the farm and letting Davide occupy himself with planting jobs and the tending of the animals might restore him in some way.
His uncle had wept while reciting his rosary after noticing how several days on the land had brought a change in Davide’s behavior and outlook. After a few weeks Davide had willingly returned to school, but had continued to work on the farm after school and on weekends, as well as throughout high school and in the summer when back from university.
Davide’s heart tightened. He would never forget what Zio Francesco had done for him.
Davide’s sister, Violetta, had been shaken but more stoic than he was after the deaths of their parents. She had overseen the household responsibilities that their mother had managed while still at school, but when Violetta was eighteen, she fell in love with a tourist from Canada and she married him at twenty and moved to his home in Steveston, about a half an hour from Vancouver. Tristan had worked as a tour guide at a whale-watching company, while Violetta had worked to develop a small home business with her sewing talents. She had been so happy that she could work from home once they had had their baby, which was five years ago. She had studied English and learned it quickly, and when Bianca was born, she had made sure to speak to her in both languages.
Davide’s English was also fairly good. Violetta had encouraged him to study it with the possibility of moving to Vancouver one day, and he had, but destiny had had other plans for him and he had remained in Valdoro.
Valdoro was where he had first spotted Neve. Neve, pronounced Neh-veh, meaning snow in Italian. She had been standing on one of the balconies of Villa Morgana, owned by one of the wealthiest families in town, a family that derived their wealth from the bounty of the bergamot groves on their outlying properties. Their coral-colored villa was on the main street heading into Valdoro, with ornate wrought iron balconies and ceramic planters bursting with flowers. The entire roof of the villa was a terrace with bougainvillea spilling over the railing. Chairs with bright yellow and blue upholstery were scattered around a table protected by an ombrellone, a huge umbrella tilted to one side.
Davide had been returning from his uncle’s small farm, which he tended to from before sunrise till late morning, as the scorching sun was too prohibitive past noon. He had been later than usual that day, having had to chase after a goat that had found an opening in the enclosure and had wandered off. Afterward, Davide had gathered some of the garden vegetables in a huge burlap bag, and as he had passed the Villa Morgana, he had spotted a girl on the balcony. He hadn’t seen her in Valdoro before. Her hair was wet and she was air-drying it.
Davide’s T-shirt had been sweat-soaked, his jeans earth-stained, and he could feel his face prickling with perspiration. As he had passed in front of the villa from the opposite side of the road, the girl had tossed her hair back and caught sight of him. She had cocked her head and Davide could feel his steps slowing. He had wanted to stop completely and just feast on the vision before him.
He had been mesmerized by her light skin, her strawberry-blond hair catching the rays of the sun and shimmering like spun gold, the white halter dress with big red polka dots, her lean legs. His heart had thumped erratically at her gaze, which couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds before she had started to blink, and he had noticed her eyes traveling past his eyes and down his body.
Davide remembered the embarrassment he had felt at his dusty and sweaty appearance, although she hadn’t give him any sign of arrogance, and he had nodded slightly in the respectful way he had been taught when encountering girls or women, and had forced his cement-like shoes to keep walking.
Showering at the house he had shared with his zio, Francesco, his insides had quivered at the thought of the girl. She had looked to be around seventeen or eighteen. He had been twenty-two, home for the summer from university, and although some of the mothers in Valdoro had discreetly made it known that he was welcome to court their daughters, he had been more intent on his studies. He hadn’t said so much to his uncle, but he was hoping to join his sister in Vancouver after university. His parents had left him and his sister with very little; what money they had was tied up in their small farm property, so his uncle had encouraged him to keep working the land, and he would support him with a modest salary.
That had been the plan.
Until Neve Wilder’s arrival in Valdoro.
* * *
Now, looking at her face on the screen, and knowing she couldn’t see him or ever imagine his identity, Davide felt his gut tighten. He wasn’t a love-struck young man anymore, and how and why fate had thrown Neve Wilder back into his life after eight years was a bizarre mystery to him. When he had tried to meet her back then, her message to him had been very clear. She had wanted nothing to do with him. He was below her and should remember his place.
She had crushed him then and Davide had spent the next few years trying to forget her and vowing to never be below anyone again. He would finish his university education and make something of himself. He didn’t need her or anyone like her.
He had discovered that her family was visiting from Vancouver, where he had planned to go after his graduate studies. Overcome with bitterness, he had changed his mind immediately. He wouldn’t move anywhere where there was even the remotest chance of bumping into her. No, he never wanted to see her face again.
This was a cruel twist of fate, watching an interview with the same girl who, eight years later, was applying for a job as a nanny for his niece. Only she wasn’t a girl anymore. Her pretty looks as a teenager had blossomed into what he had to admit could only be called stunning.
Her fair skin was luminescent, with a faint smattering of freckles over her nose and peach-tinted cheeks, and that mane of hair, although restrained in a loose chignon, seemed even more burnished. Her eyes, never close enough for him to determine their exact color, were a dark bluish-green that reminded him of the sea in winter. And that mouth. Her lipstick was a luscious magenta pink, the same color as the delicious inner fruit of the cactus pear.
She could be a sea witch, he thought, a modern Scylla, the whirlpool in the waters off the coast that was personified in Greek mythology as a female monster impeding the way of the hero Odysseus...
Davide watched as Neve’s eyes shifted to the camera. She leaned forward and her face filled the screen. He swallowed, his pulse drumming wildly as a corner of her mouth lifted and she nodded. And then said “Grazie,” her witch eyes never blinking once.
Twelve interviews, and none of the applicants had impressed him. Until the thirteenth. Thirteen was a lucky number for Italians. But the last thing he felt now was lucky. If it had been anybody but Neve, he’d have hired her on the spot. Her qualifications were spot-on; her answers had been genuine. She had seemed so humble, so caring and devoted. How could this be the same Neve who had arrogantly put him down and rejected him?
Bianca needed a competent nanny. She would be starting school in a couple of months, and the trauma of losing her parents had shattered her world. None of her previous nannies had worked out. The first hadn’t been sensitive enough, the second had been caught snooping through his desk papers and the third had shown more interest in wanting to help him through his grief, using her physical allure...
Bianca’s occasional tantrums and crying outbursts had increased. Davide’s gut was telling him to offer Neve the job.
His bruised heart was pounding, No!
Davide watched as Neve shut down her laptop. He stared blindly at the screen and let the voices in his head battle it out. The memories of Neve in Valdoro eight years ago clashed with his fresh memories of the interview. Wearily, he finally stood up from his desk and drummed his fingers along the edge before buzzing for Lucia in the smaller office next to him.
“What did you think of the last applicant?” he said curtly in Italian.
“She was the best, Signor Cortese.”
Davide trusted Lucia’s opinion; she was his valued research assistant and friend, and genuinely cared for Bianca. When she addressed him in such a formal manner, he knew she was very serious.
“Yes...she was,” he murmured, his fingers beginning to tap again.
He cleared his throat. This wasn’t about him, he tried to convince himself. He had to do this for Bianca. What were the chances of finding someone as perfect as Neve Wilder for the position of nanny?
“Send her an email offering her the position. Sign it with your name, not mine. And tell her her flight and all travel costs will be covered. Rail, hotel, food, everything. I understand she’s finished with her school year toward the end of June. I want her here for the first or second of July. Please and thank you.”
“Prego, Davide. Let’s hope for the best.” She gave his hand a reassuring pat and left the room.
Davide sat back down at his massive sixteenth-century carved walnut desk. He opened a drawer, and then reached farther into a hidden back drawer and retrieved a folded note. His heart thudding, he gently opened it and read the message inside:
I will not meet you.
Your bold request is inappropriate and offensive. You would do well to remember your place.
Neve
Davide felt the heat rise from his chest to his neck and face. The silly note still got to him. His jaw clenched. Eight summers ago, Neve Wilder had succeeded in humiliating him and putting him in his place with her arrogant reply.
And now she’d be working for him. How could he not help feeling even the tiniest temptation to put her in her place?
