Sorrento Soiree: Italian Interlude Travel Romance Series, #1

By Robert J. Morrow and Toni Carrera

Renowned Michelin-starred chef, London Cartright travels to Italy to help a friend of her boss update a historic hotel/restaurant. Just having completed a whirlwind culinary tour of the Scottish Highlands (Highland Hiatus), The Caribbean (Trinidad Tryst), and her former stomping grounds (Detroit Daliance), she isn't quite ready to fly away again. Her boss and best friend Madeline insists, however, so off she goes.
Upon arrival, London is thankful she came, not just because of the beautiful scenery, not just because of the challenge of updating a well-known historic restaurant... but because of Luciano Romano. Perhaps going home can wait a little longer. Dolce Vita!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sunao International Publishing
• Release date: Mar 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798857634875

Robert J. Morrow

Robert was a member of the of the early four-person marketing team behind the Tim Horton's chain in Canada, and was instrumental in launching the "Roll up the Rim to Win" campaign in the early 1980s. He has also been a Taekwondo and Pilates instructor and has hosted the Canadian National TKD team. He is now a full-time author and his #1 bestselling real estate books have helped thousands of people profit from the largest investment they'll ever make. Robert's true passion is fiction, however, and his debut thriller, "New York Fried", introducing former CIA trainer turned chef, Artichoke Hart, was an instant hit. He created Sunao International Publishing in 2018 in order to assist other authors self-publish and, in that capacity, has collaborated in the creation of two romance series, as well as launching a handful of other independent authors, all of whom have reached #1 or #2 on bestseller lists, due to his unique marketing techniques. Robert currently lives in Southern Ontario where he continues to write fiction, assist other authors, and aid investors to realize their dreams in real estate. To join the mailing list and receive FREE titles, write [e-mail] with "I love FREE books!" as the subject.

Book preview

Chapter One

LONDON

When a chef visits Italy, it’s an experience akin to the haji pilgrimage to Mecca for a devout Muslim: Italy is the hearthstone of earth-to-table cooking; over thirty centuries of perfecting the art of eating, drinking, and making merry.

Of course, the scenery doesn’t hurt either.

I gazed out of the Airbus 300 porthole as it descended slowly below the shadow of Mount Vesuvius into what I had learned was a very congested city of about three million souls. As the wheels touched the pavement at Naples International, I was already anticipating an adventure like none I had experienced thus far. This was Napoli, birthplace of the pizza, inspiration for Dean Martin’s Amore, and the stepping stone to the picturesque Amalfi Coast.

Salvatore Bianchi had swept me off my feet in New York, literally. After returning from my whirlwind soul-searching vacation in Scotland and Trinidad—with an unexpected but delightful side trip to Detroit—I felt I had found myself and was ready to get back into the swing of things running the kitchen at Madison’s in New York City. But my boss, friend, and sometime social event planner, Madison Descartes, had other ideas.

Apparently, Salvatore had talked her into investing in a scheme he had presented whereby he would purchase some established but struggling high-end hotels in Italy and use the restaurants to attract not only vacationers but other investors. He would build great hotels based on the reputation of their in-house restaurants. His plan would unfold at his flagship hotel in Sorrento on the Amalfi Coast, The Cosmopolitan, where he would feature specialized dishes created by... well, yours truly.

Madison encouraged me to go: Just for a month, she said. At her expense. Obviously, Salvatore had used his ample Sicilian charm to entice Madison to siphon some of her discretionary investment funds into the deal and she was convinced it wouldn’t work without my hands-on input. They were both marketing my brand and, at first, the hairs on the back of my neck had bristled at such blatant manipulation. But then Madison had shown me photographs of the Amalfi Coast. Then she told me that the amazing views were from the rooftop restaurant at The Cosmopolitan Hotel.

I had packed my bags that night.

Upon arrival at The Cosmopolitan, I was introduced to the restaurant staff. Chef Massimo Alberici was a delightful Sorrento native who had trained in Milan and joined the Cosmopolitan a decade or so ago.

"I welcome your, how you say, cosmopolitan touch, la mia bella signora!" he said, surrounding me in a bear hug.

The Matre’d hotel was not as cordial, offering little more than a short bow and a wet noodle handshake that would seem weak for a little girl.  "E un onore, perdure. It is an honor," he said in a droll, bored voice.

The rest of the staff were friendly enough, expressions ranging from star-struck wonder to lurid glares, and the latter not just from the male waiters. This was an interesting country indeed.

As the introductions wound down and the staff dispersed, one young man caught my attention as he passed by. I hadn’t been introduced and he grinned as he held up his hands, both full of fresh produce.

’Scus-a-mi Miss Cartwright, as I would love to welcome you with a traditional kiss of my country, as you can see, my hands are full. Perhaps next time.

I felt he might have been mocking me with his obviously put-on accent, but his eyes sparkled, and his thick, dark hair, spurs of which were hanging over his one eye, bounced as he spoke. He appeared to be my age and he obviously had something to do with the kitchen, but he hadn’t been in the introductory line up. I idly wondered what he considered to be the traditional kiss of my country.

I’m sorry, we haven’t met. I was just meeting the staff. Where do you fit in here? I asked.

He laughed. It was a full gesture and his teeth shone as his mouth opened wide.

Oh I don’t work here, Miss Cartwright, he said. I just drop off fresh figs from the market for my friend Massimo. He has been too busy lately to bring them himself, so I save him the trouble whenever Padro gets a new crate, usually every Tuesday morning, he said.

Please, call me London, I said, intrigued. And you are?

Pardon-ami, ah...London, he said, reverting to his comical and stereotypical accent again, his pronunciation of her name sounding like 'Loondun'. He looked for a place to put the vegetables. I reached out a hand and he gave me a melon and a tomato, freeing up one of his hands. He then reached out to shake my hand, but the produce was now in my right hand, and he laughed at his mistake. I am Luciano. My friends call me Lucy. And you are London. It is a pleasure. He bowed and dropped a large lemon on the floor. "Ahh, he exclaimed and bent to retrieve it. I bent to help, more as an instinct than anything else and we bonked heads.

Accidenti. ‘scusi! he exclaimed and used his free hand to touch the side of my head where we had made contact. He held his hand against the side of my face momentarily and our eyes locked, the gaze deep and engaging. Just as suddenly, he dropped his hand, bent once more to pick up the lemon, and gave a slight bow.

It was a pleasure meeting you Miss London, he said. Perhaps I will see you in the market one of these mornings. This time the accent was gone and his gaze so intense, I forgot to answer.

I nodded and watched as he walked out of the front doors, laden with produce, whisps of hair bouncing as he jostled through the Cosmopolitan’s revolving doors. 

What did he want?

I turned to see Salvatore Bianchi approach, his brow furrowed.

Oh, apparently that was Lucy, a friend of our Chef Massimo, I said.

Lucy! Salvatore exclaimed. That young man is exasperating. I don’t encourage Massimo to befriend him but alas, there is nothing I can do.

You don’t like him?

Oh, in another world and at another time, perhaps I would enjoy the young man’s acquaintance, Salvatore said, grasping my hand and leading me toward the kitchen. I have known him since he was a little boy. He is very clever, even the taking of a woman's nickname is meant to disarm.  Unfortunately, he is not on our side and I cannot allow myself the indulgence at this point.

I turned my head to see if Lucy was still in view and was about to ask what Salvatore meant by not on our side but he pulled me with him down the corridor to the kitchen.

You won’t be needing that my dear, he said. We have a basketful in the pantry.

Not sure what he meant, I suddenly looked down at my other hand where a very large lemon was still in my grip. I grinned. Well, now I would have to go to the market, if for no other reason than to find Lucy and return his missing lemon.

Chapter Two 

LUCY

I skipped down the Regent Hotel steps and stopped short at the bottom, feeling a grin form on my face.

What the hell am I doing skipping? I never skip. Thankfully, it was early morning and not many were out and about.

My grin turned into a smile as I recalled that curl of that wonderful woman's full lips.

I had known the great American chef was coming; Salvatore had bragged about it before he'd left, despite all of us knowing he hadn't even spoken to her yet. The confidence of the man was astounding. But it was nothing compared to the presence of London Cartwright. She was beautiful, yes, but she was also... sparkling. Yes, that was the word: sparkling. Though I had only briefly spoken to her yesterday, I could tell her vibrant nature, her love of life, her zest for food, indeed, her sparkle, was world shattering.

My world.

I laughed at what my good friend Chef Massimo must be going through at this very moment. To have such a beautiful presence in his kitchen, giving him orders of all things! The poor man would be a wreck by the end of the week.

I would have to see her again, of course. She was too vibrant, too beautiful not to spend more time with. Perhaps she would be working when I brought my good friend Chef Massimo more produce from the market today. He will wonder why I am being so attentive this week but... No, actually he won't. He'll know it is the great Chef, London Cartwright, I have come to see.

I was about to skip again but caught myself before anyone would notice. Quickly looking one way and the other to be sure no one had seen my mild bout of lunacy, I launched into my usual swagger and headed to the market.

I heard her voice before I saw her. A laughing lilt, in chorus with someone else's. How does one learn the sound of someone's voice so well in just one meeting?

I turned from the tomato stall to see London walking, basket in one arm, arm in arm with one of the waitresses from The Cosmopolitan.

Good morning, Miss Cartright, I said, blocking their path. The waitress disengaged her arm and her