Suspicion.
A tiny frown marred her brow. Her discomfort was obvious, and the elderly woman sensed something was up. Which it was. But Maggie made a promise, so she needed to fake it.
She placed her fingers over Michael’s lips to shush him. The soft curves made her ache to feel his mouth once more on hers, plunging deep and demanding everything. “No, Michael, your sisters are right.” She tried to look happy. “I would love to spend an afternoon dress shopping. It’ll be fun.”
His mother leaned back, nodded, and crossed her arms in front of her chest in satisfaction. More chatter buzzed in Maggie’s ears. She made a mental calculation of the hours left before she could collapse into slumber. A quiet dinner, an early night pleading exhaustion, and one day would be down. Tomorrow she’d work all day at the shoot, go file their papers at the consulate, and—what did Julietta say?
“Party?” Maggie asked. The word flashed in neon like a warning sign in her brain. Michael also looked surprised.
Mama Conte rose and settled her cane on the rough stones. “Si. The party tonight, Michael. You did not believe I would miss holding a celebration in my son and new wife’s honor? We must get started on dinner.”
“Is Max coming?” Carina asked in a breathless tone.
“Si, of course he is coming. And your cousins.”
Michael winced, then shot her a reassuring nod. Holy crap, she was drowning, and her fake husband threw her a life preserver with a leak in it. Bridesmaid dresses and now a marriage party. “Mama, we are really not up for a party tonight. We had a long flight, and Maggie has to work in the morning.”
She cut off his protests with a wave of her hand. “Nonsense. It is only a few people to extend their congratulations. It is nothing. Why don’t you pull some wine from our cellar and visit the home bakery site? Bring tiramisu and cannolis, black and white. Julietta will go with you for the ride.”
Maggie gulped. “Um, maybe I should—”
Mama Conte wrapped her hand around Maggie’s arm. Her frailty seemed nonexistent. Sheer strength pulsed from those delicate muscles and squeezed like a death trap. “Niente. You stay with me, Margherita, and help me with dinner.”
Michael shook his head. “Mama, Maggie does not cook. In the States, most women work and many do not know how to prepare food.”
That caught Maggie’s attention. Her head whipped around and she glared. “Screw you, Count, I can cook.” She gave a fake simper. “I just pretended not to know how so you’d take me to dinner more often.”
Mama Conte gave a proud cackle and led her inside, leaving an astonished count in their wake.
With every step toward the giant, shiny kitchen, a new bead of sweat appeared. Maggie seethed as one thought danced in her brain.
If she got out of this alive, she’d kill him.
• • •
Maggie wanted to give in to the urge to run from the house screaming. She hated kitchens. When she was younger, most of the cooks would turn mean when she’d enter their sacred space, until just the sight of that shiny equipment wrung a shudder. Still, she kept her head up and her attitude positive. She was a capable woman and could follow a recipe. Maybe dinner would be something easy and she could show Michael her unbelievable culinary talents and finally shut him up.
Michael’s mama already had a variety of bowls and measuring cups stacked on the long, wide counter. Various containers of powdered things were neatly lined up. Definitely not like that crazy show Iron Chef with all the chaos and running around to prepare a meal.
Maggie always believed cooking was done for survival—not pleasure. Since she earned lots of money, she spent most of it on take-out. She frowned and tried to feign enthusiasm for the task ahead. God, she wanted more wine. If she got drunk enough, she’d be more relaxed for the upcoming torture.
“What are we making?” she asked with fake cheer.
“Pasta. We shall eat a quick dinner before the rest of the family arrives, then put out pastries and coffee. You know how to cook pasta, Margherita?”
Relief relaxed her tight muscles. Thank God. Mama Conte picked the one meal she excelled at. She often cooked pasta late at night and knew how to get it to the perfect consistency of al dente. Maggie nodded. “Of course.”
Satisfaction flickered over the older woman’s face. “Good. We need a few batches. I’ve already gotten the ingredients.”
The massive countertop held flour, giant eggs, oil, rolling pins, and a variety of other equipment. She glanced around for the box of ziti and a pot to boil the water in as Mama Conte handed her an apron. Maggie wrinkled her nose at the odd choice of clothing just to stick something in water, but what the hell. When in Italy . . .
“I am sure you cook pasta differently in America, so you may watch me first, then prepare your batch.”
Confusion fogged her brain for a moment, and Maggie refused to give in to panic. Where was the blue box? What was she talking about? In growing horror, she watched as wrinkled hands moved like lightning cracking eggs, straining yolks, and mixing everything in a bowl. The flour was dumped in the middle of a large board, and slowly, Mama Conte poured the wet stuff in the middle and began some kind of ritual that blended it all together. Like magic, dough suddenly appeared, and she kneaded, stretched, and danced over the blob for endless minutes. Completely fascinated by the hypnotic ritual, Maggie couldn’t believe this stuff would end up looking like anything you could actually eat. Never breaking the rhythm, Mama Conte glanced toward her. “You may begin when you are ready.”
Oh. Shit.
Reality hit her as she stared at the mass of stuff piled in front of her. Homemade pasta! She had to make the actual dough? There was no heavenly box to open, or a jar of sauce to heat up. The stakes were much higher than she thought, and Maggie felt the beginnings of an attack nibble on her sanity. She breathed deep. She could do this. No way would she be broken by a lump of dough and an Italian mother just waiting to pounce. She’d show them all.
Maggie pulled the bowl close. The flour part was easy, but the eggs scared the hell out of her. Hm, one good crack in the middle, pull apart the shell, and the inside should slide out easily. With fake confidence, she slammed the egg against the edge of the bowl.
The slimy stuff slipped into her hands and white shell scattered. One quick glance at Mama Conte confirmed she wasn’t looking over, and she trusted Maggie to get her batch done. Humming some Italian song under her breath, she kept kneading.