Her Holiday Fling: The Rosettis, #1

By Caenys Kerr

Angelique Clemenceau, a French dessert chef, finds herself destitute in Sydney after she's robbed. Finally she finds work in Rosetti's kitchen, falling hard and fast for the head chef. She's here on holiday, then she'll return to France to work toward her life-long goal of earning a Michelin star. Loving Vincent will destroy her dream forever.

 

Vincent Rosetti, the eldest of the Rosetti clan, has made his mark as the engaging celebrity chef teaching people how to make delicious Italian food at home. His personal life, though, he keeps well out of the spotlight. When Angelique is suspected of murder, all that changes. Should he let her go home to chase her star or fight to keep her close as the only woman he will ever love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Aug 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781957228174

Book preview

Her Holiday Fling

CAENYS KERR

CHAMPAGNE BOOK GROUP

Her Holiday Fling

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Published by Champagne Book Group

2373 NE Evergreen Avenue, Albany OR 97321 U.S.A.

~~~

First Edition 2022

eISBN: 978-1-957228-17-4

Copyright © 2022 Caenys Kerr All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Robyn Hart

Champagne Book Group supports copyright which encourages creativity and diverse voices, creates a rich culture, and promotes free speech. Thank you for complying by not scanning, uploading, and distributing this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher. Your purchase of an authorized electronic edition supports the author’s rights and hard work and allows Champagne Book Group to continue to bring readers fiction at its finest.

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Version_1

To my husband, David,

for everything he is in my life.

Chapter One

Angelique Clemenceau strolled into the communal lounge of the Sydney backpacker’s hostel. The odor in the room confronted her every time—moldy, spilled alcohol, other strange smells she couldn’t quite identify—but there were people she could talk to. Her shared two-bed room was suffocatingly tiny.

Hey Angie. Bronwyn saluted her. Come check out this guy. She canted her head toward the mid-sized television screen attached to the sickly-green wall. Yeah, I could get it off with him in no time flat. Don’t you reckon he’s totally swoon-worthy?

You’d sleep with anyone, Bron. Isn’t that why you moved from Wagga Wagga? To make a living out of sex? The voice came from the depths of an armchair at the back of the room.

Pots calling kettles black, Elise. At least I do it for money, fair and square, not for the occasional roof over my head or a packet of smack. For me, it’ll only be for a couple of years till I get some cash behind me. While you… Face it, you’re never gonna change. You’ll always need another fix, and you’d sleep with a dog to get it.

Er, who is he? What is he doing to the tiramisu? Angelique jumped into the conversation to disrupt the growing antipathy more than anything else, but the man was making a mess of one of her favorite desserts.

Vincent Rosetti, Sydney’s best-known celebrity chef.

Wanker, from the armchair.

As a chef, he should know better than to soak the pavesini, Angelique said.

Nah, he’s Italian. He knows what he’s doing. The whole country tunes in every Thursday to watch. Someone would tell him if he wasn’t right.

"The flavor of café will be too strong, awful, bitter," she insisted.

What would you know? armchair girl said, levering herself up to pad across and rest an arm on Angelique’s shoulder, glaring at the TV.

Shrugging off the offending limb, she said, "Me? I am a cordon bleu chef with a specialty in desserts. Your chef is wrong. Non. I would not sleep with him, especially not for money. C’est un idiot."

No point sticking your nose in the air, Angie. I still think he’s a hunk, Bronwyn said. He went for some exorbitant price at the bachelor auction for childhood leukemia last week— a real glitzy affair. A visiting movie star picked him up. Likes of us wouldn’t have a hope of even getting to say hello.

Elise curled her top lip. Double wanker, she said. He’s only in it to have sex with as many women as he can before he turns twenty-five. He says he’ll settle down after that. Yeah, right. Those blokes never change. Maybe he’ll get to you after he’s run through the elites and he’s desperate, Bronny.

Bronwyn slanted a tight-lipped glance toward Elise where she’d wedged her backside on the supports of a straight-backed chair. Frowning at Angelique she said, What are you doing in a dive like this if you’re a high-falutin’ cook yourself?

It doesn’t matter where I sleep for a few hours every night. My goal is to see as much of this country as I can in one year. I wouldn’t manage a fraction of it if I stayed in the establishments my parents preferred. Also, I meet people like you, Bronwyn, and learn about Australian customs. She shrugged.

The other woman grinned. Yeah. That’s worthwhile I’m sure—learning about the life of an Aussie prossie.

In her usual life, Angelique didn’t encounter people in Bronwyn’s line of work so she couldn’t judge whether Bronwyn’s sense of humor and willingness to help a stranger to the country was typical of them. You have been very helpful. You taught me to appreciate a pale ale, and I can order it at the hotel on the corner now. I can ask the barperson for a pony, the size of a wine glass, or a middy which is twice as big. The work you do has nothing to do with it. You are a lovely person.

Bronwyn blushed. Nice of you to say so. Just thinkin’…if you want more money, so you can stay at a posh place every so often, you can always join me on the job. Pays pretty well though you have to deal with some shits at times. That’s life.

Angelique controlled a shudder. She liked the woman as a person. The thought of lying down with a stranger in the most intimate of circumstances without an emotional connection, repelled her. The step she took away from Bronwyn brought her up against Elise.

Bronwyn glanced from Angelique to the woman next to her. Hey, you know what I reckon? You guys could be twins. Same face, same height, same hair—even though Elise thinks she’s cool not passing a brush through hers.

Nah, Frenchie here is too much a goody-two-shoes. All sweet and tidy, Elise said, smirking.

Maybe, Bronwyn conceded, but I reckon if you cleaned yourself up, you’d be the spitting image. Betcha.

Angelique studied the edgy girl with the heavy kohl-rimmed eyes, tatty black jeans, and scruffy work boots. A shudder of ‘there but for the grace of God’ passed through her. She glanced away, back to the screen. The television chef gathered a spoonful of the dessert and brought it to his mouth. For a moment, as the camera zoomed in on his perfect lips, a very different emotion made itself known. Want and need shivered in her lower belly.

Yeah baby. That’s what I’m talking about. I could get me some of that, Bronwyn said, rolling her tongue across her lips as she too scanned the image.

"Pfft. He pretends to like it. Exécrable! I cannot watch," Angelique said, turning away.

Me neither, Elise said. Wanna come to the pub on the corner for a drink?

No thank you. I will go to my room and read.

I’ll come to the pub with ya. I could do with a bit of a social lubrication before I start work, Bronwyn said, disagreements forgotten.

Okay. By the way, Frenchie, Elise said over her shoulder, Mathias thought I was you, so we’re sharing tonight. See you in a few.

Mathias? The man at reception? Did he think they were alike too? Angelique shared with a different woman every night. This one should be no different, except Elise’s restlessness made her nervous. Angelique couldn’t settle to read, instead she spent some time bringing her laundry up to date.

The room had one hanging rail, warped to an extent that if she tried to cast a shirt over it, the rail popped from its fastenings at either end. As an alternative to hanging anything, she’d learned to fold everything as evenly as she could and stow it in her backpack out of the way.

Her freshly ironed clothes lay on the bed when her roommate returned. Elise carried no luggage, just a towel she would have collected from reception on the way through the building and a crossbody handbag slung from her shoulder. She slumped onto the bed.

Nice clothes, Elise said.

"Merci."

Are you really French? I thought it was an act.

"Oui. I am from France," Angelique said, folding the sleeve of a blouse across its back.

Whereabouts?

Mm, you know Paris?

Yeah. Everybody knows Paris. You live in Paris?

"Non. My home is south, but I go there often."

Right, Elise said, picking up Angelique’s hairbrush. Good stiff bristles. Mind if I borrow it for my shower?

Is it usual to borrow your roommate’s personal things in Australia?

We’re twins, remember? Bronny said so.

Er, I don’t…

Come on, fifteen minutes, tops, I’ll have it back to you. Ta, she declared, bounding from the room before Angelique could say no.

Argh. I will have to disinfect it before I use it again. She changed into her nighttime tee and shorts set, wrapped the day’s cargo shorts, polo shirt, knickers and bra around her padded toiletries bag and tucked the parcel under her pillow for height.

Sliding the last of her clothes into her backpack, she jumped when Elise crashed into the room. Told ya I’d be quick. Thanks for the brush. I feel almost human.

The other woman appeared transformed by her shower. The dark makeup was gone and her blonde hair, darkened by moisture, hung straight to the middle of her back. Her clothes were the same except she carried a damp red G-string which she tossed onto the rickety rail.

I’m for bed. Good night. She flung back the covers and lay on her side facing her roommate.

Angelique stowed the brush in a side pocket of her backpack and slipped the bag under her bed. "Bonne nuit," she said, clambered under the sheet and turned her back without once considering this night would be different from any other she’d spent in the hostel.

Chapter Two

The other bed was empty when Angelique awoke. Relieved her tenant had left and she had her privacy, she stretched her arms high up the wall behind her, pivoted and slid her feet to the floor. Using the toes of one foot, she tracked the nearby area under the bed to fish out her backpack. It didn’t work. Easing herself to the edge of the mattress to allow her leg more range for searching, she repeated the process—with the same result.

Puzzled, she dropped to her knees to draw the bag out by hand. There was nothing there but the dust bunnies the cleaners left alone. She searched again in case the backpack was hidden somewhere in the shadows near the wall. Her stomach dropped.

Surely, Elise hadn’t taken it? Would she? There was no one else with the opportunity. Without the backpack, Angelique had nothing. Tamping down her panic, she cast her gaze around the room. The woman’s exit couldn’t have been totally silent, though even in her sleep Angelique would have discounted random noises of people coming and going. How long ago did she leave? The other girl might not have gone far yet.

Heedless of her nightwear, she dashed along the corridor into the communal lounge. A sleepy-eyed Bronwyn sat alone cradling an empty coffee mug. Hey, Angie. Didn’t I see you a while ago?

"Non. Did you see Elise? With my bag?"

Bronwyn screwed up her eyes. Her hair was brushed, and she sure looked like you in Elise’s jeans and Doc Martens—you know, the boots she wears.

She’s stolen my stuff. When was she here? Where did she go?

I’d just got home from work. Bronwyn consulted her watch. Sheesh, over an hour ago. She gave me a wave and walked through the doors. I have no idea which direction she took.

An hour? She’d be long gone. Nevertheless, Angelique darted through the doors to search up and down the street. A wolf-whistle from a passing car reminded her how she was dressed, and she scurried back to the lounge.

There’s no sign of her. How will I get my stuff back? Who do I report it to? The police? She thrust a hand through her sleep-styled hair.

Geez, what a bitch, eh? Tell Mathias. He sees her fairly often, especially when she’s broke and needs a bed.

She has my money so she’s not broke now.

I’m sorry, Angie, I don’t know what to tell you. You can’t do much till the office opens and you change your clothes. Mathias will reckon you’re coming on to him if you front up with your midriff on display and wearing short shorts like that. She waved her mug to follow the direction of her gaze assessing Angelique’s clothing.

Anxiety and despair rampaged in her gut. She grasped her bare stomach with both hands to control the fear. Her voice squeaked past the panicked tightness in her throat. Everything is in my backpack. I have nothing to change into.

Crikey. I can’t help you there, sweetheart. You’re at least two sizes smaller than I am and ten centimeters taller. What will you do?

I must think. If I can’t retrieve my things, I’ll need money fast. I should find work. Slamming a hand to her forehead, she clenched her eyes closed a moment and spun in a circle.

The quickest option is to come with me, Bronwyn shrugged with a calm that had well and truly deserted Angelique. The guys would go apeshit over you—tall, slim, and a perky rack?

Pardon?

Boobs, honey, Bronwyn said, dropping her mug on the table and hefting her own breasts to demonstrate her meaning.

Oh. Um. Thank you. I’ll think about it. Angelique swallowed as a new wave of panic hit. It sent her scurrying from the lounge to her room.

In their last telephone conversation before she left France to embark on her adventure Down Under, her mother warned her to always keep her passport and some money strapped to her body in a travel pack. She’d said she would. The heat of an Australian summer, though, made the body pack too uncomfortable for sleeping, so Angelique kept it in her backpack under her bed overnight. It would be safe there. Erreur! Her flawed belief others would be as honest as she was meant she now had no money, no identification, no bankcards.

She plonked her backside on the side of the bed, willing herself first to breathe then to think. With deliberate effort, she closed her eyes to bring her breathing under control. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Inhale. Hold…

Bon! Next on the agenda were the silver linings. Papa would say every problem offered at least one solution. Without conscious thought, she tidied her bed. Her brain finally started to function. She discovered her sandals where she left them, tucked beside the bedside table.

Tugging at the pallet-hard pillow allocated to her when she checked into this basic accommodation, she found the roll of yesterday’s clothes. Silver linings galore! She sniffed the polo shirt, checking for unpleasant body odor. It could last the day. She’d wash what she could tonight and hope it would dry by morning.

Gathering the clothes, her toiletries bag, and the hostel towel, she made her way to the communal bathroom. The shower was strong and hot. Angelique let it flow over her, washing away the remnants of her distress. Lathering her hair with her favorite verbena shampoo, she massaged her head briskly, encouraging her brain to come alive with ideas to solve her dilemma. She located the small comb she kept for dispersing conditioner through her hair allowing the rhythmic task to free her mind.

A job would be top of her list to achieve—preferably in her field as a chef. Would they work differently in Australian restaurants? Her whole being rejected the prospect offered by Bronwyn, but the pragmatic part of Angelique’s brain stored the information as a last resort.

Stepping from the shower onto the hard rubber mat, she stroked water from her hair to prevent tangles the tiny comb wouldn’t be able to handle and toweled herself dry. While she cringed at wearing yesterday’s underwear, she had no choice.

Dressed, she retreated to her room. Dumping her gear on her bed, she searched through her pockets and found her emergency fifty-dollar note in the buttoned side pocket on the leg of her shorts and a few odd notes and coins in another. Altogether, she now held the princely sum of ninety-two dollars and thirty-five cents.

With a more positive outlook, she tidied her space and glanced at the other bed. Elise Bouchard had a French name, though her accent was wholly Australian. She’d left in a hurry. Her red G-string remained on the rail, and her bed was untidy—anathema to Angelique. She flicked the covers to leave the bed neat, pulled off the pillow and shook it out. As she returned it to the bed, a twenty-dollar note fluttered to the floor. Caught unawares, she stared at it as distaste roiled in her stomach. Technically, the money was the property of the other girl. Retrieving it, Angelique stashed it in the drawer of the bedside table. If she was desperate she’d use it; otherwise it would be a bonus for the next tenant of the room.

Slamming the drawer shut, she glared at it, unseeing. Tension bubbled from the depths of her chest. How dare the other woman steal her stuff? It wasn’t fair, and she wouldn’t let it slide. She struck her hands down by her sides and gritted her teeth.

Storming to the hostel’s reception desk, she agitated the bell resting there. The man who’d checked her in ambled from the back office, wiping the back of his hand across a greasy mouth. Yeah, lovey? Whatcha want?

I have been robbed. The girl in my room, Elise, took my things, including my passport and my phone. How do I report it to the police?

Elise, is it? And your name?

I am Angelique, of course.

Well, there’s no need to get uptight. These things happen in a place like this, he sniggered. You know goin’ straight to the cops isn’t the way it works, lovey. They’ll think you’re a looney tune. You tell me what’s wrong; I tell the cops what they need to know. No one goes cop-shoppin’ without my say-so. He narrowed his gaze on her.

She took a half-step back. You will report it? They must be told so she doesn’t use my passport.

Sure, sure. After breakfast. You go on and do whatever you’re doin’ ’n’ I’ll deal with it. All right?

He didn’t strike her as someone who was reliable, but if it was the way things worked in this country, who was she to ask questions? Please let me know the number when you make the report. I’ll need it when I go to the consulate for a new passport.

Sure, sure, he said, holding up one hand before shuffling back the way he’d come. Nice accent by the way. He guffawed and disappeared.

What a strange thing to say. There was no time to dwell on it. She had to trust he would do as he said while she got on looking for work.

For days, Angelique did the rounds of restaurants within walking distance. She couldn’t blame the people she spoke to for not wanting to hire her. A potential employee showing up in rubber sandals and shorts didn’t exactly inspire confidence. If only they would take the time to listen…

With not much hope, she moved on to the next restaurant along the quay leading to Sydney’s Opera House. This one was Italian. Rosetti’s. The name tickled her memory though she couldn’t place it. Ah well. Here goes.

A portly man bustled to greet her as she walked through the doors. His smile faded as he took in her clothes while she delivered her introductory patter. She hoped he didn’t see the desperation in her eyes and he would listen to what she was saying about her cooking experience.

He shook his head. From a table to the side came the voice of an older woman. If you’re not going to give her a job, at least give her a meal, Giorgio.

The man turned. Mamma, the lunch crowd will be arriving soon. What would they think?

Ay ya! She’ll be gone by then. Come sit here with me, little one.

Angelique hesitated, glancing sideways at the man.

Go, he said. Sit, or she’ll never let it be! He hustled in the direction of the kitchens.

She inhaled the fragrance of delicious food being prepared. Her stomach growled in anticipation as she took a seat opposite the woman.

I am Maria. Giorgio, the woman waved her hand in the direction the man had taken, is my son-in-law. He and my daughter own this restaurant. Now tell me about you and why you would come asking for a job dressed like that.

Angelique hesitantly began her story. Focusing her gaze on the empty coffee cup in front of Maria, she bit her lip to stop the tears from falling. She was not normally this emotional but the past few days had taken their toll on her stores of positive energy.

Taking a deep breath, she straightened her back and shoulders, and focused her attention on her companion. The kitchen doors flew open to her right and a whirlwind carrying a tray in one hand approached their table.

Mamma? The whirlwind removed from the tray a large bowl of steaming spaghetti along with three cups of fragrant black coffee, then sat down.

This is my daughter, Rosa. Maria introduced the middle-aged woman.

I am Angelique Clemenceau, she said, offering a tentative smile to the women facing her.