she began.
“Yes?”
“When I was at your mother’s last night, I was frightened out of my wits at what I’d done to escape my prison. Terrified would be a better word. That is until this morning, when you snatched me away from the jaws of death at great risk. I know that sounds dramatic, but that’s how it felt to me and still does.”
“I have no doubt of it.”
She struggled to say the rest. “You’ve saved my life. If you’re really willing to teach me how to make pastry, and you think I can learn, I’d like to try. I want to help you honor your commitment to your partners who are depending on you. I haven’t changed my mind about any of it. But if the police don’t find me first, I can only pray your friends won’t discover I’m a fraud who has made a mess of everything for you.”
The blue of his eyes darkened as they stared at her out of dark-fringed lashes. The male beauty of the man caused her to feel desire for him even to the palms of her hands.
“I believe you. No matter how you see yourself, Tuccia, in my opinion you’re the bravest woman I ever met and I believe you can take the challenge head-on,” he said in a husky tone. “What brought you to this decision?”
After the unexpected compliment, Tuccia had difficulty swallowing. “I couldn’t let you get away with thinking I’m not worth my salt.”
There was a gleam in his eyes. “I’m impressed by your willingness to put yourself in the hands of a stranger.”
“That part is easy, Cesare. Because I’ve been friends with your mother, you haven’t been a stranger to me, even if we didn’t meet until last night.” She was embarrassed because she could hear the throb in her voice. All it had taken was meeting him to be crazy about him.
He got to his feet and started clearing the table. “She likes you enough to have begged me to help you escape. That shows the strength of your friendship. It’s good enough for me.”
“I’m just sorry I’m the clay you have to work with to try and make a pastry cook out of me. But I swear I’ll work my hardest for you.”
“You’ve convinced me. Shall we get busy?”
“Yes. What will we make first?”
“The most clamored-for dessert in Sicily. I’m sure you’ve eaten virgin breasts before.”
Tuccia should have been ready for that one, but it was so unexpected heat scorched her cheeks. She went over to the sink to wash her hands. “You can’t be a Sicilian without having eaten those cakes. But when I was little, the cook at the palazzo was offended by their name so she called them nun buns.”
A chuckle escaped his lips. “They have several names. Mamma grew up in an orphanage run by the nuns,” he continued. “They were known for being great cooks and made those special delicacies for which they’re famous. She taught me everything she learned from them. Tonight we’ll get started on the first of three different kinds.”
“I didn’t know there was more than one.”
“You’d be surprised at the varieties.”
She knew he was talking about the cakes, but her blush deepened anyway.
“Some of the ingredients have to be refrigerated before completing them, but we’ll finish everything before you have to go bed. In a few days’ time we’ll present them to my partners as your specialty when I introduce you. A bite into them and they’ll believe they’d been transported to heaven.”
Laughter peeled out of her. “I hope you’re right!”
His laughter filled the kitchen. “Why don’t you sit down and we’ll go over the recipe. It’s known only to my mother and me.” He walked over to one of the sacks and pulled out a notebook and pen. She shouldn’t have been surprised all that knowledge was etched in his brain.
“Shall I write it down while you dictate?” she asked as he handed her the items.
“I think that would be best for you. To read your own writing rather than try to figure out mine will save you time in the long run. That notebook is going to be your bible. Don’t ever lose it. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” she said in a tentative voice.
* * *
Last night Tuccia had appeared to Cesare like a fantastic female apparition that had made him think maybe he was hallucinating. This evening she wasn’t just a heavenly face and body. In the last eighteen hours she’d taken on substance and exhibited a keen intellect that had been growing on him by the minute.
In her desperation to remain hidden from the world for a while, she’d begged him to teach her. He knew she was frightened. This woman, who’d been raised to be a princess, was running on faith.
Right now she reminded him of a young child, submissive and obedient to her parent. Cesare was humbled by her determination to grab the lifeline he’d thrown her. He’d brought the newspaper with him to help remind her that anything—even learning how to cook pastry—was better than being forced to go back to her old life.
“The first item you’ll be making is called pasta frolla for the shells. These are the ingredients: four cups of flour, one cup of granulated sugar, two sticks of sweet butter, one tablespoon of honey, five medium egg yolks, lightly beaten, and lemon zest. After you’ve kneaded it and put it in the fridge for an hour, you’ll make the ricotta cream filling. That requires one cup of sugar, two pounds of ricotta, orange zest, cinnamon powder, one drop of vanilla, a quarter pound of candied citron and chocolate shavings to taste. Lemon glacé will be the final step that includes one and a half cups of granulated sugar, a quarter cup of lemon juice, and a sprinkle of raspberries. I realize this sounds like a lot, but it’s straightforward. You’ll like forming the shells. Are you with me so far?”
She looked up with a faint smile. “Yes. I can’t wait to find out if I share your optimism.”
Her response was encouraging. “Come on. We’ll get started on the dough. While you find us a bowl in the cupboard, I’ll put the first set of ingredients on the table.”
He oversaw everything, but made her do all the work. She added the ingredients, making little mistakes, but soon she’d formed it into a ball.
“Okay. Now knead it.”
“I know how to do that from watching the cook.” But once she got started, the dough kept sticking to her fingers. “This is impossible!” she cried in frustration.
Cesare burst into laughter. “Wash your hands, and then dust them with flour before trying it again.”
“But that will wash half the dough away.”
“No problem.”
“That’s what you say,” she mumbled, but did his bidding and started over with the kneading. “This is much better.” She finally lifted her head and smiled. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now pat it into a disk and wrap it in wax paper. An hour in the fridge and it will be ready to shape into tart shells. While the dough is getting cold, you’ll start making the filling.”
Three hours and three tries later she’d produced a pan of tarts she was willing to let him taste. After she’d decorated them with the lemon glacé, she designed the tops in an artful way with raspberries and chocolate shavings.
With a hand he could tell was trembling, she put one on a dish and handed it to him. “Will you be the first to sample my pièce de resistance?”
Cesare knew what this moment meant to her and he bit into it. She’d followed the recipe to the letter. He found no fault with the taste or texture and was so proud of her effort after three tries that he wanted to sweep her in his arms. Instead he kissed her hot cheek.
“Congratulations, Tuccia. My partners will tell you these