put her wine glass down. “You mean Cesare’s.”
“In time they’ll become yours, too.”
Takis had a charm almost as lethal as Cesare’s. “One dessert does not make a chef, but I’m going to do my very best not to let you down. This evening Cesare will be assigning me a new recipe to cook.”
“That’s right.” Cesare smiled at her. “Cassateddi.”
She took a deep breath. “Those half-moon-shaped pastries were a favorite of mine growing up, but I never dreamed I’d learn how to make them.”
“I loved them, too. So will Takis and Vincenzo. But they’re only the beginning. Tomorrow you’ll be making testa di turco, followed by sfingi di San Giuseppe, casstelle di Sant’Agata and Sicilian chocolate torte.”
Cesare had just done an excellent job of frightening her to death.
“I think you’re overwhelming her, amico.”
She leaned toward Takis. “His mother told me he drove her crazy growing up. No matter what she cooked, she’d find some of it missing the second she turned around,” Tuccia confided.
Immediately Takis burst into rich male laughter. But Cesare didn’t join in.
Too soon their visitor announced that he had to leave and said good-night. She was sorry to see him go because she’d gotten a little carried away with her out-of-school tale where Cesare was concerned. She’d been having too good a time and feared she’d crossed an unmarked boundary in their relationship.
While Cesare walked him out to his car, she hurriedly cleaned up the kitchen. When he came inside, she was already seated at the table with her bible, ready to write down the recipe for what she hoped would turn out to be a worthy chef d’oeuvre.
He washed and dried his hands, then he sat down, eyeing her with an intensity that made her squirm. “Tuccia,” he began, “I—”
“I know what you’re going to say,” she broke in on him. “I apologize for saying something so personal in front of your friend. It was wrong of me to overstep like that. I promise it won’t happen again.”
His brows met in a frown. “I wasn’t going to say anything of the sort. Before Takis drove off, he told me you were as sensational as your nun buns and we should keep you at all costs. Takis would never say anything like that unless he meant it.”
She looked down because emotion had caused her eyes to smart.
“Before you interrupted me, I was going to tell you the disguise is perfect. I have no doubt you’ll be a new trendsetter for the kitchen assistants. They’ll take one look at you and want to be just like you, but they’ll fail because there’s only one Princess Tuccianna.”
Tuccia was afraid her cheeks were on fire. She wanted him to forget she was a princess. She wanted him to see her as a woman he could love heart and soul. Looking up she said, “That’s absurd, but thank you. Don’t you think we should get started on the cassateddi? I’ll need half the night to make it several times.”
Those blue eyes narrowed on her features. “I thought I was the slave driver around here.”
“Would you rather leave and come back tomorrow morning? I’d understand if you have another engagement.”
“I have no plans to meet another woman.”
Maybe not tonight. But it didn’t mean there wasn’t someone who loved him and was waiting anxiously to be with him. She couldn’t bear the thought and was ridiculously jealous of any woman he’d been with.
“You’re wrong, you know, Tuccia.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can read your mind. There’s no room in my life for any woman until the castello’s new pastry chef can create masterpieces without my help.”
Just like that he’d drawn a sharp line in the sand. Meaning she shouldn’t get any ideas about him for herself?
She sucked in her breath. “Since I’d hate to see you deprived of that kind of pleasure too long because of me, I’ll work day and night to achieve that goal.” She tapped the notebook with her pen. “I’m ready when you are.”
TWO HOURS LATER Tuccia was in tears. She’d turned out two batches of half-moon shells filled with cream, but they’d been failures. Cesare had tried to eat one and it had fallen apart because she hadn’t shaped it right. He had to eat it in pieces. She had to smother a moan watching him.
“The taste of this is superb.”
“That doesn’t count when its misshape falls apart before reaching your mouth. I tried to execute your directions to the letter, but I couldn’t seem to get it right.” She dried her eyes with a towel, but they kept falling. “This will never do. I’m going to make the recipe again.”
He reached for the towel and wiped her cheeks. “We don’t want your tears falling into your next attempt.” His comment made her laugh and he kissed both her cheeks before she got started again on a third batch.
His pride in her work ethic kept growing while she took pains to crimp the edges just right. Another hour passed before he tested a sample of her latest work. “I find no fault in this presentation or the taste.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, but he could tell she still wasn’t happy.
Cesare had no doubt that when he left the apartment, she’d make up another batch. Her fighting spirit was a trait he admired more than she would ever know. He stood against the doorjamb and watched while she put the third tray of shells inside the fridge.
“Did Gemma tell you about Maurice Troudeau, our executive chef?”
A corner of her delectable mouth lifted. “She said the key with him was to praise his work often and ask for help once in a while, even if you don’t need it. I used that technique on Auguste Senlis, the most difficult history professor at the Sorbonne, and it worked.”
Of course it did, but he wasn’t smitten because of her smarts. No man anywhere who came into her sphere could remain unaffected. Takis and Vincenzo were a case in point.
“If I have a concern, it’s because your French is too perfect. You’re a princess on the run who speaks it fluently. Unfortunately you can’t afford to speak it with him at all. When I introduce you, you’ll be known as Nedda Bottaro from Sicily who speaks Sicilian with a Palermo dialect. Your knowledge of English is too minimal to count on. That’s it.”
“I understand.”
He was sure she did. “Have you thought of a backstory? The staff will ask and you’ll have to be ready.”
“Yes. I was born in the back room of a bordello in Trapani and never knew my father. My mother didn’t, either.”
Cesare was having trouble holding back his laughter.
“When
