The Billionaires' Club: Return of Her Italian Duke (The Billionaire’s Club) / Bound to Her Greek Billionaire (The Billionaire’s Club) / Whisked Away by Her Sicilian Boss (The Billionaire’s Club). Rebecca Winters
were a dozen vans and trucks, plus some elegant cars, clustered in the enclosed area around the door. From the front of the castello the entire place had looked deserted, but that clearly wasn’t the case.
Once she’d gotten out of her car to walk around, a male gardener planting flowers called to her. “The lady is lost, perhaps?” he asked in Italian.
She shook her head. Anything but. “I’m here for a job interview.”
“Ah? Then you must go around to the front. The office is on the right of the entrance hall.”
“Thank you.” It seemed that the day room she remembered must have been converted into an office. She could never have imagined it. “Tell me—do you know why the castello was sold in the first place?”
He hunched his shoulders. “No lo so.”
With her hair swishing against her shoulders, Gemma nodded and walked back to her car, realizing she’d get nothing from him. Her watch said eleven forty-five. She might as well arrive a few minutes early to show she was punctual. She backed her car around, retracing her short trip back to the main parking lot, where she stopped the car and got out.
How many hundreds of times had she and her childhood friend Bianca—who’d had a crush on Dimi—bounded up these steps after getting off the school bus looking for Vincenzo and his cousin?
They would enter the castello through a private doorway west of the main entrance and hurry down the corridor to the kitchen. Once they’d checked in with their mothers, they’d run off to their hiding place in the back courtyard, where hopefully the two Gagliardis would be waiting.
To her surprise the old private entrance no longer existed. The filled-in stone wall looked like it had been there forever. Gemma felt shut out and could well believe she’d dreamed up a past life.
But when she entered through the main doors, she had to admit that whoever had undertaken to turn this into a world-class resort had done a superb job of maintaining its former beauty. Many of the paintings and tapestries she remembered still adorned the vaulted ceilings and walls on the right side of the hallway.
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.”
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.