Return Of Her Italian Duke

“Sorry to bother you. What was it about Signorina Bonucci’s résumé that decided you on allowing her to compete? I’m curious.”

“You know me. My mamma’s cooking is the best in the world, and I never make a secret about it. When I read about her wanting to honor her mamma’s cooking, I decided it was worth giving her a chance. On a whim I told her to report to the castello. I did the right thing in your opinion, non e vero?”

He closed his eyes tightly. “You already know the answer to that question. If you’d ignored her application, I doubt I would ever have found her.” His throat closed up with emotion. “Grazie, amico.”

“I’m beginning to think it was meant to be. Before I hang up, there’s one thing you should know, Vincenzo.”

“What’s that?”

“I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t want you or Takis to think I was biased in picking her for personal reasons.”

His pulse sped up. “Go on.”

“The signorina is beautiful. Like the forest nymph on the dining room ceiling you were staring at tonight. You know, the one leaning against the tree?”

Yes. Vincenzo knew the one and felt his face go hot. One night when he’d been kissing Gemma, he’d told her she reminded him of that exact nymph painted in the room where Vincenzo had spent many happy times talking to his grandfather. Cesare had noticed the resemblance, too.

“A domani, Cesare.”

“Dormi bene.”

Vincenzo turned off the lights and headed for his old bedroom in the tower. No renovations had been made here. Guests would never be allowed in this part of the castello. It was too full of dark memories to open to the public.

He removed his clothes and threw on a robe before walking out on the balcony overlooking Sopri at the foot of the hillside where he’d run away. Where was she sleeping tonight? Down below, near to where she’d once attended school? Or in Milan?

Vincenzo knew her deceased father’s last name had been Rizzo. Everyone called her mother Mirella. He’d heard the story that her husband, who worked in the estate stables, had died of an infection in his leg. After that, Mirella moved up from the village where they’d lived before his death and was allowed rooms in the rear of the castello with her little girl, Gemma.

One of the cooks who’d lived there, too, had had a child of the same age, named Bianca. Vincenzo couldn’t remember when he and his cousin Dimi had started playing with them on the grounds of the estate. They were probably four and five years old.

Strict lines between social classes were drawn to prevent them from being together, but like all children, they found a way. He remembered his eighth birthday, when Gemma entered the courtyard where he and Dimi had been practicing archery with his new bow. She gave him a little lemon ricotta cheesecake her mother had baked just for him. He’d never tasted anything so good in his life.

From that day on, Gemma found ways to slip sweets to him from the kitchen. They’d go to their hiding place at the top of the tower and sit outside, straddling the crenellated wall while they ate his favorite sfogliatelli. When he looked down from that same wall now, he realized they could have fallen to their deaths at any time.

An hour later he went to bed, but he couldn’t turn off his thoughts. When he’d had to leave Europe in the dead of night, he hadn’t been able to tell Gemma why and hadn’t dared make contact with her. Days, weeks, months and finally years went by, but she’d always lingered in his memory.

To think that while he’d been in New York buying and selling businesses and building new companies over the last decade, she’d been in Florence working heaven knew how many hours, day in and day out, before ending up back at the castello as executive pastry chef. Incredibile!

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_5d9fdc70-2938-5233-81ee-527b429bb728)

GEMMA HAD BEEN in a state of disbelief since last night. A Signor Manolis, the business manager, had called to tell her she’d been hired to be the executive pastry chef at the Castello Supremo Hotel and Ristorante di Lombardi! She was to report to him at noon today.

Things like this just didn’t happen, not to a new culinary graduate. But it was, and it meant she didn’t have to leave Italy. By some miracle she was going back to where she’d known years of happiness...being friends and falling in love with Vincenzo before that dreadful moment when she’d learned of his disappearance.

Don’t think about that terrible morning when the duca destroyed your life and your mother’s. That part of your life was over a long time ago. Let the memories go...you’re the new pastry chef. And now it’s possible you can find out what happened to Vincenzo. One of her new bosses had to have information.

But a huge new problem beset her.

How was she going to tell her mother about this? Her dear mother, who was in England and knew nothing yet.

Gemma flew around the room in a panic. How would her mamma react to this after all the many sacrifices she’d made for her daughter over the years? Would it be like pouring acid on a wound? Or could Gemma make her see that this might just be the way to turn the ugliness around?

And what greater triumph than for Mirella’s daughter to arrive at the castello as executive pastry chef? Gemma’s mother had been hired by the old, beloved duca, Vincenzo’s grandfather. Now Mirella’s daughter would be following in her footsteps. Best of all, her mother wouldn’t have to leave Italy and could stay in Florence if she wanted to. These thoughts and more filled her mind while she tried to convince herself this could work.

After showering, she decided to wear her other suit, consisting of a navy skirt and a short-sleeved white jacket with navy piping and buttons. Though she swept her wavy hair back with a clip when she cooked, today she left it to hang down to her shoulders from the side part.

Being five foot seven, she mostly wore comfortable flats for cooking. But on this special occasion she wanted to look her best and slipped on strappy navy heels. Tiny pearl studs were the only jewelry she wore besides her watch and her grandmother’s ring she would always wear in remembrance of her.

Gemma didn’t need blusher. Excitement had filled her cheeks with color. With a coating of frost-pink lipstick and some lemon-scented lotion, she was ready and walked out to her car without her feet touching the ground.

After stopping at the same trattoria for breakfast, she headed for the castello. Four days ago she’d been upset that she couldn’t apply for a position in France. But she hadn’t known what was awaiting her at the former ducal residence in Milan.

Yesterday she’d worked alongside another applicant who was hoping to be chosen executive head chef. The five-star hotel he’d come from in Paris was renowned throughout Europe. To be stolen to work here meant he was the best of the best.

Gemma had taken French and English all the years she’d ever gone to school. Her mother had insisted on it, which had turned out to be advantageous for her. Some of her classes at the culinary school had been taught by various French experts, and she’d been thankful she didn’t have to struggle with the language.

After they’d been introduced, she wouldn’t say Monsieur Troudeau was rude. If anything he treated her as if she were invisible. No chitchat. Naturally he was shocked that such a young woman was vying for the pastry chef position. She’d ignored him and had concentrated on the pastries she’d planned to make.

The newly renovated kitchen with state-of-the-art equipment had been a dream. If only her mother could have worked under such unparalleled conditions...but that was in the past. Perhaps her mother could come to the castello and see the way it had been renovated. And instead of the ducal staff and family, Gemma would now be making pastry for the jet set, royals, celebrities and dignitaries of the world. She still couldn’t believe it.

This time when she drove up to the front of the castello, she saw a black Maserati parked there. Maybe it belonged to the business owner with the strong accent who’d phoned her. Gemma got out of her car and hurried up the steps. When she entered the lobby of the hotel, she saw a fit, dark blond man, maybe six foot one and thirtyish, waiting for her behind the counter. His hazel eyes swept over her.

“You must be Signorina Bonucci. I’m Takis Manolis.”

“How do you do?” She shook his hand. The signor was another good-looking man, dressed more formally in a suit and tie. This one had rugged features and probably needed to shave often. He spoke passable Italian and reminded her of some of the guys she’d met at school, possibly Turkish or Greek.