Tore stiffened. ‘Maybe another day.’
‘I thought so,’ Violet sighed. ‘Don’t be offended but you should be giving your relatives more than your company over dinner.’
His ebony brows, such a stark contrast to his light hair, pleated. ‘If they’ve got you, it lets me off the hook.’
Violet hadn’t been prepared for him to be that frank. ‘Yes, but they’re family, Tore. Family won’t always be there, so you should appreciate them while they are.’
Tore went rigid. ‘I couldn’t care less.’
‘You will when your grandparents arrive because I gather theydo. It’s one month in the year,’ she reasoned. ‘Surely, you don’t have to work this hard every day of the week?’
If she’d been his real wife, he assumed he would feel differently. He knew he was neglecting her and their guests. But he reminded himself that Violet and Belle would be gone in three years. That reality cost him the oddest sharp pang. Certainly, life was less boringly predictable with them around. They lightened the atmosphere, smoothed some of his rough edges into something more socially acceptable than his usual hermit habits and touched his conscience.
‘I’ll begin taking more time off,’ he told her, exhaling in a rush. ‘I promise.’
Satisfied, Violet departed but Belle wailed. Tore groaned, running long brown fingers through his pale, already tousled hair. And later, he watched his unwanted wife walk out onto the beach, Stella in tow with the baby and someone else dragging a load of bags of essentials. He watched a tall man in bathing trunks leap up to stride forward and greet her and he frowned. Sandro, his cousin Sandro Rossi, newly popular television star and famed pastry chef. He had an ego that could probably be seen from the moon.
Of course he and Violet would have stuff in common, not least the fact that Violet was baking the household’s bread and Sofia had been furious when Sandro tried to take over the job, pointing out to Tore that Violet was a much better baker. The intense loyalty the staff had already developed towards his unexpected bride had made Tore smile in appreciation. He watched Violet throw back her head and laugh and it annoyed him.
‘His favourite is red velvet,’ Violet informed Sandro, who irritated the hell out of her with his superiority. It was Tore’s birthday in two days and she was baking his preferred cake. According to Sofia, he wouldn’t want purple grape or orange or almond ricotta cake. He would want the favourite he had enjoyed since he was a little boy.
‘But that’s not Italian and it’s not very sophisticated,’ Sandro pointed out while his adoring mother backed him up in that conviction.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Violet said mildly. ‘He’s getting what he likes. If you want, you can decorate it.’
Sandro threw his handsome dark head back in dismay. ‘My assistants do the finishing stuff like that. I don’t.’
‘I’m quite happy to do the whole thing,’ she replied in a tone of finality. ‘But thank you for offering your expertise and advice.’
Sandro sighed and returned to flirting with her. Eventually, irritated by his persistence, Violet got up and walked down to the shore to enable Belle to dip her bare toes in the rushing surf. Her chortles of glee released Violet’s tension and she smiled. She fooled around with her daughter for twenty minutes, enjoying her baby innocence, thinking with pained regret of how much Isabel and Stefan would have enjoyed such an outing with their child. She was blessed, though, to have the time to play with Belle, she reflected, appreciating that her enforced break in Italy had provided unexpected benefits.
A swanky baker from Italy was currently providing the bakery’s sale produce while Tabitha took care of the business side and the staff. Her twin was a hard worker and that awareness was allowing Violet to relax. Her mother had begun her treatment at the cancer centre in Massachusetts and it was too early for any prognosis as yet, but at least a start had been made. Certainly, Lucia’s spirits had lifted, Violet had deduced from their various phone chats. This time, her mother was daring to hope.
Violet decided to bake Tore’s cake before dinner. It would have to be a large cake because they had a castle full of guests. For forty-eight hours, there had been a constant procession of arrivals and Belle was no longer alone in her nursery. The aunts and the uncles, the adult cousins and partners and their children had contrived to fill every spare room in the castle.
‘We’ve never had so many guests,’ the housekeeper had proclaimed with pride and satisfaction at the large turnout. ‘It’s becauseSignorTore has married you. Everyone is curious.’
For curious, read downright nosy, Violet thought for she had had to fend off far too many intrusive questions. How many weeks/months had it taken for Tore and her to realise their futures were aligned? Did she want children? How was Tore adapting to being a stepfather? Considering that she had only met Tore on their wedding day, it was challenging to handle the assumption that she knew everything there was to know about her husband. Everyone believed they had been together for months yet had married in indecent haste. Cue many curious glances in the direction of her not quite flat stomach.
After the beach, Belle went down for a nap and Violet hit the kitchen to begin baking. Unfortunately, Sandro soon found his way there, too, and joined her, sitting at the table with his coffee to watch her work while sharing both criticisms of her method and what he viewed as motivational tips. Violet gritted her teeth and just got on with her task, ignoring him to the best of her ability while tossing him the occasional polite smile.
Tore paused in the doorway when she was laughing at some story Sandro was recounting, a dusting of flour on the tip of her nose. Sandro, in the meantime, was busy admiring Violet’s bare shapely legs and curvy bottom as she ambled between sink and table. Something about that scene infuriated Tore and filled him with distaste.
‘May I have a word with you, Violet?’ he asked.
Her smooth brow furrowed as she looked up from her labour and focused on him. So tall, and dark and effortlessly suave. ‘Er…okay.’
‘In private,’ he specified, urging her a few feet down the corridor.
‘I’m kind of busy,’ she admitted, wiping her hands uneasily down the sides of her shorts, wondering what was amiss.
Tore wasted no time in telling her. ‘It is not appropriate for you to be working in the kitchen. We have a full staff here,’ he reminded her, gazing down at her with fierce green eyes, his exasperation unhidden.
‘I like to bake. I’m afraid you’re stuck living with that,’ Violet replied curtly.
‘I’m hoping you’ll be reasonable about this,’ Tore informed her.
Faint pink entered her cheeks. ‘Not feeling reasonable. When are you reasonable? When you’re working eighteen-hour days even though we have a houseful of guests? Is that your version of reasonable? People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.’
