The problem was, would he be able to bring his father his heart’s desire before it was too late? His last stroke had been mild, but the doctors had warned that he could suffer a debilitating or fatal stroke at any time.
Draco would just have to make certain he wasn’t too late. Sandrellis had dominated the countryside around the palazzo for centuries. And even though the mantle of succession had fallen by default onto his shoulders with the death of his brother ten years ago, he would not be the one who saw to their end. His union with Blair Carson would provide the grandchildren demanded by his parents—and if their incendiary attraction was anything to go by, it would be no hardship to do so.
Neither Brent nor Adam spoke as he came to a halt beside his motorbike, but the curiosity on their faces spoke volumes.
“Don’t even ask,” he warned as he reached for his glossy black helmet and jammed it onto his head, flipping the dark visor down over his face.
He’d tell them about Blair eventually. When he had her firmly where he wanted her.
Two
“He’s here again. That makes it seven nights in a row, sweetie.” Gustav, Blair’s blatantly gay headwaiter smiled and raised one brow as he brought the new order to the kitchen.
Blair’s knife slipped and clattered on the chopping board, narrowly missing her fingertip. She drew in a leveling breath. Draco had turned up to take a single table each night since the memorial service. He was later than usual tonight, and the anticipation of waiting and wondering whether he’d arrive, or whether he’d returned to Tuscany, had tied her stomach in knots. Her scattered attention, combined with one of her kitchen hands being off sick, had put them uncharacteristically behind schedule.
Certainly not the behavior of an award-winning chef in an award-winning restaurant. Blair dragged her recalcitrant thoughts together. There was only one objective that could take priority in her mind, and Draco Sandrelli was not that objective.
“What did he order?”
She mentally crossed her fingers and hoped it was something she could get out quickly. Anything that would see him leave again. Soon.
“The Scaloppine alla Boscaiola, with sautéed mixed vegetables. For a big guy he sure eats light, maybe he saves his appetite for other things,” Gustav responded with a slightly salacious wink before collecting an order from under the heat lamps and swinging back through the doors to the restaurant.
Blair allowed herself a brief sigh of relief. The mushroom with pork escalopes dish was simple and easy to prepare, the sautéed vegetables equally so. They were among the many dishes she’d learned to prepare during her culinary tour of Tuscany, the tour that had taken an unexpected detour from the markets and kitchens and into Draco’s bed.
As Blair warmed the olive oil in a heavy pan on the stove top she tried not to think about that detour. About the overwhelming pull of attraction she’d felt the instant her eyes had met his across the courtyard, as she’d stepped off the tour bus at Palazzo Sandrelli. Nor did she want to remember the near painful urge to belong in a place like the palazzo, with its generation-worn steps leading to the front entrance and its permanence and longevity.
She and her father had lived a nomadic lifestyle after her mother had left them. Traveling from one city to another, usually following the tourist beat of traffic in holiday seasons, to find work. Carson’s had been the only thing in her life that had been a constant. It was her home, her base. And if she was to ensure its continued popularity she needed to pull her head out of the clouds and get to work, she reminded herself dourly as she added the pork slices to the pan and turned to attend to the sautéed vegetables.
It was only as she plated up the scaloppine that Blair allowed her thoughts to drift back to Draco. Each night he’d sent back compliments to the kitchen. Normally, she would have gone out into the restaurant to speak personally with her diners, but she was afraid to face him again. Afraid of her own feelings.
What if he persisted, as he’d begun to at the memorial service? What if he wanted more? Just knowing he was here under the same roof had her nerve endings singing, her skin feeling too tight for her body. Every sense within her was attuned to him, to the knowledge that, just through the swinging doors, he dined alone. And she knew he was just biding his time. Men like Draco liked to win. She’d had firsthand experience of that.
Yet still, for some strange reason she remained on tenterhooks for Draco’s opinion of his meal. Like it even mattered, she scorned herself, as she carried on through the motions of completing the finishing touches on the desserts heading out to the late table of six that had just arrived.