Return Of Her Italian Duke. Rebecca Winters

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 down 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