Return of Her Italian Duke

by Rebecca Winters

  The biggest difference lay in the bank of floor-to-ceiling French doors on the left. They ran the length of the long hallway she used to run through on her way to the kitchen. Beyond the mullioned glass squares she could see a gorgeous dining room with huge chandeliers so elegant it robbed her of breath.

  On the far side of the dining room were more French doors that no doubt opened on to a terrace for open-air dining. Gemma knew there was a rose garden on that side of the castello. And though she couldn’t see it from here, there was a magnificent ballroom beyond the dining room to the south.

  She was staggered by the changes, so exquisite in design she could only marvel. Whoever had taken over this place had superb taste in everything. Suddenly she realized it was noon and she swung around to report she was here.

  The enormous former day room had been transformed into the foyer and front desk of the fabulous hotel, with a long counter, several computers and all the accoutrements essential for business. She sat down on one of the eighteenth-century sage-and-gold damask chairs with the Duca di Lombardi’s royal crest and waited to see if someone would come.

  Just as she was ready to call out if anyone was there, she saw movement behind the counter that revealed an attractive brown-haired male, probably six foot two and in his late twenties. Strong and lean, he wore trousers and shirtsleeves pushed up to the elbows. When his cobalt-blue eyes wandered over her, she knew he’d missed nothing.

  “You must be Signora Bonucci.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  GEMMA CORRECTED HIM. “I’m Signorina Bonucci.”

  “Ah. I saw the ring.”

  “It was my grandmother’s.” Gemma’s mother had given it to her on her twenty-first birthday. Her grandmother had also been a great cook, and the hope was that it would bring Gemma luck. Now Gemma wore it on her right hand in remembrance.

  As for the name, Bonucci, that was another story. Once Gemma and her mother had left the castello, Mirella had insisted Gemma use her maiden name. She’d hoped to be able to find work if the duca couldn’t trace them through her married name, Rizzo.

  One corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “Now that we have that straightened out, I’m Signor Donati, the one who’s late for this meeting. Call me Cesare.” With that accent the man was Sicilian down to his toenails. “Thank you for applying with us. Come around the counter and we’ll talk in my office.”

  She got up and followed him down a hallway past several doors to his inner sanctum, modern and in a messy state. Everything about Cesare surprised Gemma, including the informality.

  “Take a seat.”

  Gemma sat down on one of the leather chairs. “I have to admit I was surprised that you would even consider a new graduate.”

  He perched on the corner of his desk. “I always keep an open mind. I had already chosen the finalists and the field was closed, but when your résumé showed up yesterday, it caught my eye.”

  “Might I ask why?”

  “It included something no one else’s did. You said you learned the art of pastry making from your mother. That was a dangerous admission and made me curious to know why you dared.” He was teasing her.

  “It was dangerous, I know.” For more reasons than he was implying, but the duca was dead now. “To leave my mother from my résumé would make me ungrateful.”

  She felt his gaze studying her. “For you to mention her means she wasn’t just an average cook in your eyes.”

  “No. She came from a family of bakers. To me, her pastry will always be the best.” Gemma owed her mother everything after her sacrifices.

  The man cocked his head. “It shows you’re willing to give credit where it’s due. But being the daughter of a cook doesn’t always make the daughter a cook, no matter the genes nor how many classes at school.”

  “No one is more aware of that than I am, but I would be nothing without her. She helped me go to cooking school in Florence.”

  He folded his arms. “The best in Italy, where you received the highest award during your ten year apprenticeship there. It’s a stringent education, but the most prestigious culinary schools require that much training to turn out the best cooks. She guided you well. Bravo.”

  A compliment from a man who knew the culinary business well enough to be in charge of staffing this new hotel came as a complete surprise.

  “If I hadn’t been born her daughter, I would never in this world have decided on a career that keeps you on your feet all day and night, that will never pay enough money and that is unfair to women chefs in general. In truth I’m shocked you allowed me this interview, even if you are exceptionally open-minded.”

  She shouldn’t have said it, but she’d spoken without thinking. Incredibly he burst into laughter.

  “Signorina, you’re like a breath of fresh air and have won yourself one chance to prove if there’s genius in you. Report to me at ten in the morning and I’ll put you to work making what you do best.”

  Gemma stared hard at him. “You’re serious...” Was it really possible?

  His brows lifted. “When it comes to cooking, I’m always serious. You’ll be sharing the kitchen with another applicant who is hoping to become the executive chef. All the ingredients you need will be provided, and you’ll both have your own workspace. When you’re finished, you will leave. Any questions?”

  Yes. She had a big one, but now wasn’t the moment. It had to be another test to see how well two different chefs got along under this kind of pressure. “None, Signor.”

  “Bene. When your pastry has been sampled by the people in charge tomorrow evening, an opinion will be made. The next day you’ll be phoned and informed of their decision. Please see yourself out.”

  Now she was scared. She’d heard back from her mother last night and had been able to tell her about receiving the top marks for her certification. Her mother and aunt had been overjoyed. Gemma had told them she planned to apply at quite a few places for work, but she’d left out the position offered at the castello.

  There was no need for her mother to know about it since Gemma had no real hope of getting it. Instead she’d asked them about their trip and they’d talked for a long time. Her mother had sounded so happy, Gemma hadn’t wanted to say anything to take away from her enjoying the only trip she’d had in years.

  * * *

  Deep in painful thoughts, Vincenzo strode down the portrait-lined castello hallway toward his deceased grandfather’s private dining room. Even after being back in Italy for a half year, it was still hard to believe this had once been his home.

  All Vincenzo could think about was Gemma. Over the last ten years, he’d paid an Italian private investigator to look for her to no avail. For the six months he’d been in Lombardi, he’d doubled the search. Vincenzo’s guilt over how his unexplained disappearance must have hurt Gemma beyond description had tortured him from the beginning. It matched his fear that he would never catch up to her again.

  Though Dimi had promised to keep an eye on Gemma for him, fate had stepped in to change Dimi’s life, too. The day that Vincenzo’s father had gone on a rampage over his disappearance and had searched the countryside for him with the help of Dimi’s father and the police, Dimi had realized the danger in staying at the castello. That very morning he’d left with his mother and taken her to her family’s property in Milan, where they’d be safe and out of the way.

  On his own, Dimi had searched for Gemma, but that path had led nowhere, either.

  The thought filled Vincenzo with such profound sadness, gripping him to the point he couldn’t throw it off. Echoes and whispers from a time when he’d known real happiness with Gemma haunted him and made his disconnect with the past even more heart wrenching.

  His friends looked up when he entered. They must have heard his footsteps on the intricate pattern of inlaid wood flooring. Before he sat dow
n at the oval table, Vincenzo’s silvery-gray eyes—a trait of the Gagliardi men—glanced at the wood nymphs painted on the ornate ceiling.

  Twenty-eight-year-old Vincenzo found them as fascinating now as he’d done as a little boy. One of them had always been of particular interest, because Gemma could have been the subject the artist had painted.

  “Mi dispiace essere in ritardo. I was on the phone with Annette.”

  The savvy real estate woman he’d been involved with before leaving New York had wanted to plan her vacation to be with him for the opening. Deep down he knew she was hoping for a permanent arrangement. But since Vincenzo had stepped on Italian soil, memories of Gemma had had a stranglehold on him. He knew he wasn’t ready to live with anyone, let alone get married.

  Maybe after the opening he’d be able to relax and give it more thought. He enjoyed Annette more than any woman in a long time. But he had work to do and had told her he would call her back when he had more time to talk. The disappointment in her voice when he said he had to hang up because he was late for a business dinner spoke volumes. It was the truth.

  Cesare smiled at him. “Non c’e problema.”

  Greek-born Takis grunted. “Maybe not for you, Cesare, but I didn’t eat lunch on purpose, and now I’m famished.”

  Vincenzo nodded. “I held back, too. Tonight is the night we make decisions that will spell the success or failure of our business venture. Let’s get started.”

  “Just so you know, a fourth pastry chef applicant has created a sampling of desserts for us this evening.”

  “A fourth?” Vincenzo frowned. “I thought we were through with the vetting process.”

  “I thought so, too, but this one came in at the last minute yesterday with amazing credentials, and I decided to take a chance.”

  Takis groaned. “So we have to eat two sets of desserts?”

  “That’s right, so don’t eat too much of any one thing,” Cesare cautioned them.

  On that note Vincenzo used his cell phone to ring for dinner. Tonight was the final night in their search to find the perfect executive chef and executive pastry chef for their adventure. The right choices would put them on the map as one of the most sought-after resorts in the world.

  They’d narrowed the collection of applicants down to three in one category and now four in the other, but they were cutting it close. In one month they would be opening the doors and everything would have to be ready.

  Their recently hired maître d’, Cosimo, came up on the newly installed elevator and wheeled in a cart from the kitchen with their dinner. If tonight’s food was anything like the other two nights, they were in for a very difficult time choosing the best of the best. The battle between the finalists was fierce.

  For the next half hour they sampled and discussed the main course and made the decision that the French applicant would become their executive chef.

  With that accomplished, Vincenzo rang for the desserts. Cosimo brought in the tray of delicious offerings from the third pastry chef.

  “Remember,” Cesare reminded them, “we have one more round of desserts from the fourth pastry chef to sample.” He passed them a dish of water crackers. “Eat a few of these now so you’ll be able to appreciate what’s coming.” They drank tea with the crackers to help cleanse their palates.

  Cosimo wheeled in the last offerings of the night. As he placed the tray on the table, Vincenzo took one look at the desserts and thought he must be dreaming. All of them were Italian, and there were so many of them! They made up the parts of his childhood. He couldn’t decide what to try first.

  Unaware of his friends at this point, he started on sfogliatelli, his favorite dessert in the world, layered like sea shells with cream and cinnamon. When he’d eaten the whole thing he reached for the puffed dome of sweet panettone, the bread his family had eaten on holidays. When he couldn’t swallow another bite, he lifted his head. His friends were staring at him like he’d lost his mind.

  Takis nudged Cesare. “I believe we’ve found our executive pastry chef.”

  “But first we must get Vincenzo to a hospital. He’s going to be sick.”

  Their smiles widened into grins, but he couldn’t laugh. All these desserts were too good to be true and tasted like the ones prepared by Gemma’s mother years ago. But that was impossible!

  He eyed Cesare. “Who made these?”

  “A graduate from the Florentine Epicurean culinary school.”

  Vincent shook his head. “I need to know more.” At this juncture his heart was thumping with emotion.

  Their smiles receded. Cesare looked worried. “What’s wrong?”

  “Tell me this person’s name.”

  “Signorina Bonucci. I don’t remember her first name. It’s on her résumé in my office.”

  The name meant nothing to Vincenzo. “How old is she? Early sixties?” Had Mirella, Gemma’s mother, seen the advertisement and applied for the position?

  “No. She’s young. In her midtwenties.”

  How could anyone reproduce desserts identical to Mirella’s unless she knew her or had worked with her? If that were true, then perhaps she could tell him Gemma’s whereabouts!

  “What’s going on, Vincenzo?”

  For the next few minutes he told them about one of the cooks at the castello years ago. “Her pastry was out of this world. She had a daughter who was a year younger than me. We grew up together on her mother’s sweets. She was my first love.”

  “Ah,” they said in a collective voice, clearly surprised at another one of his admissions.

  “I have no idea what happened to either of them. In fact, over the years I’ve spent a large sum of money trying to find them, with no success. I want to meet this applicant and find out how she happens to have produced the same desserts.”

  He jumped up from the chair and hurried out of the room to the elevator at the end of the hall. Once on the main floor, they walked through the lobby and congregated in Cesare’s private office. His friend pulled up the résumé on his computer for Vincenzo, who stood next to him to read it.

  Seeing her first name nearly gave him a heart attack.

  Gemma Bonucci

  Age: 27

  Address: Bonucci Bakery, Florence Top student in the year’s graduating class of pastry chefs.

  He was incredulous. His search had come to an end. He’d found her!

  Vincenzo had known her as Gemma Rizzo. So why Bonucci? So many questions were bombarding him, he felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

  “This must be Mirella’s daughter, but there’s no picture of her.”

  “It wasn’t attached to her application,” Cesare explained, “but her cooking is absolutely superb.”

  “So was her mother’s. I can’t comprehend that she was in the kitchen earlier cooking our dessert.”

  “You look a little pale. Are you all right?”

  Vincenzo eyed Cesare. “I will be as soon as I get over the shock. You don’t know what these last ten years have been like, trying to find her and always coming to a dead end...”

  “Do we agree she’s our new executive pastry chef?” Takis asked.

  Vincenzo looked at both men. “Don’t let my overeating influence you in any way. I have a terrible Italian sweet tooth, but we need to consider the various preferences of all patrons who will come through our doors. I’m sorry that you haven’t been able to vote your conscience because of my behavior.”

  “It wasn’t your behavior that decided me,” Cesare insisted. “That was the best tiramisu I’ve ever eaten.”

  “Don’t forget the baba and the baby cannoli,” Takis chimed in. “Every dessert was exquisite and presented like a painting. When the guests leave, they’ll spread the word that the most divine Italian desserts were made right here.”

  “Amen
.” This from Cesare. “But Vincenzo, did you have to eat all the sfogliatelli before we could sample it? Cosimo had to bring us more. It was food for the gods.”

  It was. And the lips of the loving seventeen-year-old girl Vincenzo had once held in his arms and kissed had been as sweet and succulent as the cinnamon-sprinkled cream in the pastry she’d prepared for this evening.

  “Takis will make the phone calls now and tell our two new chefs to come to the office at noon for an orientation meeting.” Cesare’s announcement jerked Vincenzo out of his hidden thoughts.

  “I’m glad the decisions have been made. As long as I’m in your office, I’d like to see the résumés of the other pastry finalists.” It was an excuse to take another look at Gemma’s.

  “Be my guest,” Cesare murmured. “Those desserts finished me off. I may never eat again.”

  “You’re not the only one. I’m going to my office to make the phone calls.”

  But for the stunning realization that tomorrow he would see Gemma—the chef who’d turned them all into gluttons—Vincenzo would have laughed.

  He walked around the desk and sat down in front of the computer screen to look at it. Her training had been matchless. She held certificates in the culinary arts, baking and pastry, hospitality management, wine studies, enology, and molecular gastronomy. She’d won awards for jams, preserves, chocolate ice cream. Mirella’s chocolate ice cream had been divine.

  The statement she’d made to explain her desire to be an executive pastry chef stood out as if it had been illuminated. I learned the art of pastry making from my mother and would like to honor her life’s work with my own.

  His eyes smarted as he rang Cesare.

  “Ehi, come va, Vincenzo?”

  “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?”