Page 6 of Meet Me at Sunset

Lucas Fontaine was in the kitchen of Il Paradiso, prepping food for that evening’s service.

His fingers were flying, the sharp blade so fast it was almost a blur as he made light work of a whole bag of fat, juicy tomatoes which he would use for his famous gazpacho.

Of course, he had a sous-chef for work like this, but today Lucas wanted to get an early start.

The restaurant was fully booked, and one of the diners would be his mother, along with her VIP guests.

Besides, he liked doing the work himself; its repetitive nature lulled him into an almost trance-like state as he sliced and diced, and the end result was immensely satisfying.

Il Paradiso was Lucas’s baby. It had been established almost two years ago, and his ambitions for its future were sky-high.

Lucas wanted a Michelin star, no less. The food was elevated Catalan, with specialities including duck breast braised with pear, meatballs with cuttlefish, and his renowned lobster with chocolate sauce.

Lucas liked the fact that he’d discovered his talent, and no one could take his achievements away from him.

Finding success in a field completely unrelated to his parents meant that no one could accuse him of nepotism – he’d been successful through his skills alone.

It was true that his mother, Camille, had invested in his business, allowing him to buy the restaurant, but she was a silent partner.

Everything that he’d accomplished since then had been down to him.

Lucas dipped a teaspoon in the sofregit he was making, the traditional sauce made from tomatoes and onions, and tasted it thoughtfully.

Almost there. It just needed a little more time to caramelize and then it would be perfect.

‘Hey man, you’re here early!’

Lucas looked up to see his best friend and business partner, Paulo Torres, stroll into the restaurant.

Paulo was mid-height and stocky, with dark hair and a deep tan that spoke of a life spent on the island.

He wore cargo shorts and a short-sleeved shirt that was open low enough to show a considerable amount of chest hair.

The two had known each other since they were children, when Lucas used to stay with his grandparents in their villa.

Paulo had grown up on a farm down the road, and was always delighted when the holidays rolled around and Lucas came to visit.

The two boys were only a year apart, with Paulo being the elder, and they’d get up to all kinds of mischief whilst roaming the island on those long, hot summer days.

They’d disappear from dawn until dusk, cycling deserted trails, and taking rowing boats out to sea, where they’d cast lines for fish and discover hidden coves.

As they grew older, their interests shifted, and they spent their days hanging around the sandy beaches where they practised their rudimentary flirting skills on the local girls.

Their friendship had spanned almost two decades, and Paulo had been there for Lucas when his father had died, supporting him through that nightmarish time when Lucas had almost lost his life as well.

Prior to the accident, Lucas had led a spoiled, playboy lifestyle, rolling from continent to continent, party to party, woman to woman.

A more sombre, sober Lucas emerged from the aftermath, one who was ready to put down roots and work for a living, instead of having his every whim indulged by his parents.

And whilst Paulo’s parents were no longer farmers – with the increase in tourism to the island, they now ran a successful boat hire company – their son was always eager to make his fortune.

It was a natural fit that the two men would go into business together, and so Lucas ran the kitchen whilst Paulo – a born hustler – handled everything else.

‘So are you,’ Lucas shot back with a grin, high-fiving Paulo as he entered the kitchen, before opening the fridge and helping himself to a botifarra sausage. ‘Hey, they’re for later,’ Lucas protested.

‘I’m doing quality checks,’ Paulo countered, demolishing it in two bites. ‘And they’ve passed with flying colours.’

‘Naturally,’ Lucas laughed. ‘So why are you here?’

‘Same as you. It’s a big night tonight, right?

I wanted to check that everything was flawless, and that front of house looks spectacular …

’ Paulo turned around, his practised gaze sweeping over everything.

The space was open plan, with the kitchen visible from the main restaurant so that the diners could watch the chefs at work and inhale the delicious smells as the food was cooked.

The restaurant itself was smart and modern, airy and light, with clean lines and cream walls accentuated by touches of red and yellow to evoke the Catalan flag.

It was decorated in a simple, homely style.

Lucas wanted his dishes to be the focus, not the décor, and for diners to feel comfortable, not intimidated.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Paulo continued. ‘Of the best way we can leverage tonight. I’ve got a photographer friend, Carlos Garcia – you know him, right?

He usually does the clubs in Palma. I’ll ask him to swing by.

We’ll get a great shot of Catherine and Michael, along with you, the chef extraordinaire – and me, of course. ’

Lucas pulled a face. ‘Carlos? I’m not so sure …

’ Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas were to be guests of his mother, and she wanted the occasion to be extra special.

Lucas was thrilled with their patronage, and he didn’t want to take advantage of what should have been a private occasion by selling photos to the world’s press.

‘That’s why you deal with the food, and I deal with the PR,’ Paulo quipped. ‘You’ve got to capitalize on every opportunity. Do you want that Michelin star or not?’

‘Is that even a question?’ Lucas laughed. Paulo knew his weak spot.

‘Michael’s a pro, he gets how it works. Of course we’re going to want a photograph of him and his beautiful wife. We’ll throw in a good bottle of champagne, and in return we get the kind of publicity that most restaurants could only dream of. It’s win-win for everyone.’

‘I guess,’ Lucas said uncertainly, as he began grinding almonds for the picada . He suspected that his friend was right. After all, Paulo was better at that side of the business. That had always been the deal – whilst Lucas would concentrate on the food, Paulo would take care of the rest.

Despite their friendship, the two men were very different.

Lucas was uncomfortably aware that he’d been something of a brat in his youth; with wealthy, high-flying parents, he’d never had to worry about money.

He’d had a bohemian kind of upbringing, travelling the world with his parents, but everything had changed in his late teens when his mother had designed a bag that was crowned that season’s ‘It’ bag.

Suddenly the Fontaines were playing in a different league – one that involved private jets and chartered yachts and VIP access to whatever their hearts desired.

The influx of money meant that Lucas could live the life of a louche playboy; by his own admission, he’d been an arrogant bastard.

Paulo had been his friend since they were kids – and he had stuck by him, despite all this.

Then everything changed, once again, with Andre’s death.

Lucas’s carefree existence was shattered, but his father’s death gave him a reality check and a renewed sense of purpose, a desire to achieve something for himself.

He’d almost lost his life too, but he’d been given a second chance and was determined not to waste it.

The scar across his cheek was a permanent reminder of everything Lucas had been through – he couldn’t escape it, forced to confront his past every time he looked in the mirror.

It had altered his pretty-boy looks, too.

Lucas was self-conscious about the change in his appearance, but Paulo kept telling him women found it sexy as it gave him an edge of danger.

But Lucas’s outlook had changed anyway; no longer interested in one-night stands and playboy antics, he was determined to work hard in his career.

Any serious relationship would have to be with the right woman, one who understood that the restaurant meant everything to him.

Paulo hadn’t come from money, so always had his eye on a deal or a get-rich-quick scheme, and he was an instinctive hustler when it came to both women and business.

That was how it worked with the restaurant – Paulo’s extrovert, cheeky side was perfect for the front of house and working the PR channels, charming the critics and reviewers.

He had a little black book stuffed full of contacts, but he was less concerned about always taking the legitimate route.

If a plan required a backhander, or was of dubious legality, Paulo had no scruples in pressing ahead regardless and kept the details sketchy for Lucas, who would undoubtedly disapprove.

‘Just leave it all to me,’ Paulo insisted. ‘All you need to do is smile and look pretty in the photo. Speaking of which,’ he added, under his breath.

‘There you are!’

A familiar voice, speaking in French, made Lucas turn sharply.

The woman striding across his restaurant was a vision – long, slim legs in tiny denim shorts; a cropped white T-shirt that showed off acres of toned, tanned stomach; long, blonde hair that fell almost to her waist – and an angry expression on her beautiful face. It was his girlfriend, Elle Mettier.

‘Why aren’t you answering your phone?’ she demanded, planting her hands on her hips, her gold bracelets jangling.

Lucas slapped the pocket of his chef’s whites, a guilty expression on his face. ‘I must have left it in my bag.’

‘I’ve been trying to call you all day. I guessed you’d be here,’ Elle said with a sniff, as she glanced disdainfully around the kitchen.