“Owww!” He thrust her away and jumped on one leg.
She looked down in horror to see Dante’s teeth stuck in Michael’s pants. The tiny puncture holes through the thin fabric caused her to freeze, afraid she was his next meal. The cat’s face turned upward in a sneer and he disengaged from Michael. He hissed low, then stalked toward her with intention.
“Dante!” Michael let out a rush of Italian and waved him away with a threatening gesture. The cat ignored him and reached her. She closed her eyes, unable to move and—
Dante rubbed his body against her calf. The low hum of a motor reached her ears. She opened her eyes and realized that noise was purring. He pushed his face hard into her leg, his long whiskers twitching with pleasure as he circled once, twice, then settled beside her.
Michael just stared at the cat, then back at her. “I don’t believe this. He’s never done that before,” he murmured. “And he’s never bitten.”
“What? It’s not my fault—I told you I don’t like cats. I didn’t tell him to bite you!”
“No. It’s deeper than that. Perhaps he sees something we’ve all been missing.”
Maggie watched with widened eyes. “And you feed this thing so he comes back?” she asked in amazement. “What is wrong with you? He came at you like he smelled a tuna dinner.”
The electricity between them jumped and burned like a live fuse gone wild. Her pulse rocketed. His eyes darkened with purpose, and he reached for her.
“Margherita? Michael?”
They both jumped back. His mother stood framed in the doorway, an apron covering her dress, her hair twisted neatly into a chignon. The aristocratic lines of her face shimmered with a classical power that had launched a successful business and raised four children. “What is happening out here?”
“I was just introducing Maggie to Dante.”
Mama Conte gasped. “Why is Dante near Margherita?”
“Yes, that seems to be the question of the day.” Maggie shifted uneasily and took a step back from the man-eating cat. Dante only stared with disgust at her cowardly retreat. “Mama, we’ll be going to the office with Julietta in a bit. Do you need anything?”
“I will give you a list of ingredients I’m running low on. Margherita, I need help in the kitchen. Will you join me?”
She hesitated. As much as she liked Michael’s mother, a deep-seated fear lodged in her gut. The woman was too sharp and asked too many questions. What if she slipped up and blew the whole cover story? Michael motioned for her to go, but she shook her head. “Um, I really don’t like cooking. Maybe Michael can help you.”
His mother crooked a finger. “Michael already knows how to cook—you do not. Come with me.” She disappeared back into the house.
Maggie cursed under her breath, indignant at Michael’s shaking shoulders as he smothered his laughter. “I hate cooking,” she hissed. “Your mother scares me. What if she suspects?”
“She won’t. Just be nice, cara. And don’t blow up the kitchen.”
She scooped up her camera, shot him a dirty look, and stomped off. A low meow sounded behind her but she refused to acknowledge the sound. The irony of her current situation blew her mind. She seemed to be confronted at every turn with all the items she refused to deal with back home. Already, she felt responsible for Carina and her current activities, she had to make sure she didn’t kill four small children, she had to deal with psychotic cats, and now she needed to please his mother by not poisoning the food. Muttering under her breath, she put her camera down on the table.
Michael’s mama already had a variety of bowls and measuring cups stacked on the long, wide counter. Shiny red apples that would do Snow White’s evil queen proud gleamed in a row. An expensive blender thing with wheels took up the center. Various containers of powder—which she guessed as sugar, flour, and baking soda—were neatly lined up.
Maggie tried to feign enthusiasm for the task ahead. God, she wanted some wine. But it was only 9:00 a.m. Maybe she’d spike her coffee—Italians liked their liquor.
She smiled with false cheer. “So what are we making today?”
Mama Conte slid a well-worn piece of paper over to her and pointed. “That is our recipe.”
“Oh, I figured you knew enough not to need a recipe.”
His mama snorted. “I do, Margherita. But you need to learn how to follow instructions. This is one of our signature desserts at our bakery. We shall start simple. It’s called torta di mele, an apple breakfast cake. It will go nicely with our coffee this afternoon.”
Maggie scanned the long list and got lost on step three. She’d made chocolate cake from a mix once because she wanted to try it. It sucked because she hadn’t realized you had to mix the batter for so long, so clumps of dry powder got stuck in the middle. Her then-boyfriend had laughed his ass off and she’d broken up with him that night.
“I will supervise. Here are your measuring cups. Begin.”
When was the last time an older woman ordered her about? Never. Unless she counted Alexa’s mother, and that was only because she’d spent time at her house when she was young. Slowly, she measured each dry ingredient and poured it into the huge bowl. Ah, well, if she was going to be tortured, she might as well be nosy. “So Michael says you taught him to cook at an early age. Did he always want to run La Dolce Famiglia?”
“Michael wanted nothing to do with the business for a very long time,” the older woman answered. “He had his heart set on being a race-car driver.”
Maggie’s mouth fell open. “What?”
“Si. He was very good, though my heart stopped every time he went out on the track. No matter how many times his papa and I tried to discourage him, he found a way back on the track. By then, the bakery was taking off, and we had opened up another one in Milan. His papa got into many riffs with him about his responsibility to the family and the business.”
“He never told me he raced cars,” Maggie murmured. The words escaped before she caught them. Holy crap. Why wouldn’t she know her husband’s past? “Um, I mean, he doesn’t say much about his previous racing.”
“I am not surprised. He rarely talks about that part of his life anymore. No, Margherita, you crack an egg like this.” A clean break sliced the egg open and, one-handed, she expertly dropped it in the bowl.
Maggie tried to copy her and the shell exploded. She winced, but Michael’s mother took a bunch of eggs and directed her to start cracking. Maggie tried to concentrate on the eggs, but an image of a young Michael Conte defying his parents and racing cars stuck in her head.
“What happened?”
His mother sighed. “Things were difficult. A friend of his was injured, which made us even more upset. At this point, we knew Venezia wanted nothing to do with the bakery, and our dream of a family business began to die. Of course, we had other choices we could make. My husband wanted to expand; I liked cooking and wanted to remain with the two bakeries. Who knows what we would have done? God stepped in and Michael made his choice.”
Maggie hit the side of the bowl with an egg. The egg slid neatly inside with no shell, and an odd satisfaction ran through her. Seven must be her lucky number. “Michael decided to quit racing?”
Mama Conte shook her head, an expression of regret flickering across her face. “No. Michael walked out and decided to race cars for a living.”
Maggie sucked in her breath. “I don’t understand.”
“He left and did the circuit for a year. He was young but talented, and his dream was to race in the Grand Prix. Then my husband had a heart attack.”
The image hit her full force. She stared at his mother, as if on the verge of a terrible truth. Every muscle tensed with the urge to run and cover her ears. Her voice broke on the two words that broke from her lips. “Tell me.”