He turned and walked back on the cobbles, his shoes echoing through the peaceful afternoon. She watched him go, let out a breath that she hoped would calm the beating of her heart. What had he meant just now, that he was glad to hear it?
Why would he be happy there’d never been any chemistry between her and his brother?
CHAPTER FOUR
BY WEDNESDAY, GABI was going crazy. She’d read three books, watched two movies, wandered the gardens, slept, ate delicious food and drank excellent wine. For the first day, it was lovely—as William had said, it was a vacation of sorts. And who didn’t want that? But on Tuesday she’d found herself restless. And by Wednesday afternoon, she was ready for a change of scenery. Not that the château staff wasn’t lovely; they were. But she’d hardly seen William, either. Once a day they had a meal together, but he spent a lot of time in a downstairs office, working remotely.
While she had no purpose at all beyond staying out of sight. And presumably out of mind, too.
This morning she’d popped down to the kitchens to ask a favor, since she wasn’t allowed to go into the nearby town. She’d given a simple shopping list to the cook and now she was heading downstairs to whip up her own dinner. She needed to do something with her hands and to keep her mind occupied, and cooking was just the thing. She needed a taste of...home.
She was homesick. She missed her apartment in Perugia, family meals at the villa, even the Baresi offices where she did most of her work. But most of all she missed Mama and Papa, and their ready smiles and hugs. Right now her papa was preparing for surgery followed by chemotherapy. And she was stuck here, unable to go to him or even tell him what was happening. She was lying. And if anything happened to him and the lie stood between them...
The kitchen was quiet when she entered, and she found the ingredients she’d asked for in the massive refrigerator. Before she began, she opened the bottle of wine that she’d placed in the fridge earlier. Since William had said she could have full run of the château, she’d made a trip to the wine cellar and had been delighted to find an Orvieto that looked to do the trick. A little taste of home.
The first thing she did was put an apron on over her jeans and top. Even though she’d dressed casually, her first job had the potential to be a messy one. She rinsed the cherries and put them in a bowl, and then went to work pitting and slicing them in half. Juice stained her fingers and now and then one of the cherries would squirt as she removed the pit. She popped one in her mouth at the end, then put red wine, sugar and orange zest in a pan to heat. Poached cherries was one of her favorite desserts growing up, and so very simple to make.
Once that was on the go and set aside, she turned to her vegetables.
Vignole was something she remembered from childhood, particularly when spring came and everything was fresh and new. The tension started to unwind in Gabi’s body as she prepared the artichokes, leeks, peas and fava beans. Garlic and onion went into the pot, and broth, and then the artichokes.
There would be far more than she would be able to eat, but she didn’t care. This felt right. And it felt, in some small way, like something she could control when everything else was out of control. She raised her glass in a toast to herself and took a long, revivifying drink.
As everything bubbled and aromas rose in the air around her, she drizzled honey into a bowl of mascarpone, to go on top of the cherries. Her mouth watered just thinking about it.
“Hullo! Madame Gosselin...” Gabi turned as William entered the kitchen, releasing a torrent of French that she didn’t understand.
“Oh,” he said, breaking off midsentence and staring. “I didn’t know you were in here. I was looking for Madame Gosselin.”
“She gave me use of her kitchen,” Gabi said softly.
“I see that. You cook.”
“Of course. If I didn’t cook, I’d starve.” She laughed a little. “I needed something to do, and I was missing home and my mama’s cooking. So here I am.”
He relaxed and came farther into the kitchen. “What are you making? It smells amazing.”
“Vignole—it’s a vegetable stew. Nothing heavy. Lots of vegetables and broth and a little pancetta. There’s fresh bread from this morning.”
He leaned over the pot and inhaled the steam. “Mmm. And what’s in here?”
She reached for the copper pot and took it off the burner. “Poached cherries to serve with a bowl of mascarpone cream for dessert.”
“A feast,” he said, and smiled at her.
Oh, no. Not the smile again. This was why it was good he’d hidden away in the office for the past few days. Every time he smiled at her she forgot who she was for a brief second, and who he was, and why this was so very inadvisable. If a runaway bride was a mess, this situation would be catastrophic.
So it made absolutely no sense that she smiled in return and said, “There’s plenty for both of us, if you’d like dinner.”
“I’d like that. Don’t tell Madame Gosselin, but my tastes are a little more simple than what she puts together.”
“Surely you had your share of French food growing up.” She waved a hand, gesturing to nothing in particular in the kitchen. “Between here and Paris.”
“Yes, but I also lived in England a good part of the year. And the family has properties all over.”
She stirred the stew and he came up behind her and looked over her shoulder into the pot. She was startled at having him so near; she could smell his cologne and the lighter fragrance in his hair from his shampoo. Unsettled, she moved away so she could slice the bread.
“So what’s your favorite meal in the world?” he asked. “If you could have absolutely anything?”