When Only Cupcakes Will Do (20 page)

‘Don't worry. I can assure you there'll be no smoked chilli sprinkled on the top of my creations today, Signor Cartolli. And before we go any further I want your solemn promise that there will be no sneaking of photographs for uploading to your social media accounts. I don't think I could withstand another starring role on your blog. And if you refuse – I have a spatula in my hand and I'm not afraid to use it!'

‘I promise there will not even be a whisper of a mention unless you sign a release form in triplicate. Now, let's make a start so there's time to tidy up before your sister returns from her trip and has a coronary! You wanted me to show you how to bake an authentic Sicilian dessert and that's what I intend to do. Ready?'

‘Ready!' She placed the spatula to her temple in a mock salute.

‘So, in order for you to become a master
pasticciere
like my grandmother, you first have to learn how to make her signature dessert. I hope that when we are finished you will agree with me that Sicilian desserts are the best in the world. Rosita Cartolli made the most delicious
Torta della Nonna
in the village, just ask Rosa! When we were kids we could demolish a whole pie each. And you should try her
Cannoli Siciliani
! I'll show you her recipe next time. Did you know that
cannoli
were originally prepared at the beginning of spring or for weddings – and that their tubular shape is supposed to represent male fertility? My grandmother used to wind them round a broom handle and fill them with ricotta cheese and chopped pistachios or chocolate chips.
Delizioso!
'

Lucie could see the fervour that being among raw ingredients in a kitchen instilled in Ed. Like every other chef she knew who relished his or her culinary addiction, Ed's eyes sparkled, his lips turned up into a smile and his voice had lifted in tone. She watched carefully as he set about sifting confectioner's sugar into one of Jess's huge earthenware bowls, then added cubes of butter, a dribble of honey and vanilla essence, and a teaspoon of freshly grated lemon zest before passing the bowl to Lucie. His movements were swift and automatic. No perceptible difficulty was caused by his reduced dexterity.

‘Use your fingertips to make breadcrumbs and then you can add the egg yolks and the flour.
Nonna
always added a pinch of salt too.'

Wow, thought Lucie, as she worked the dry ingredients through her fingers. How striking Ed was, dressed in his starched chef's jacket, which he'd unearthed from the boot of his car. Clearly he had hung on to it and all the other utensils of his trade after the accident and his conversion to food journalism. So, while he might not have returned to commercial cooking, he did still, subconsciously at least, harbour the desire to create.

She sneaked a glance from under her eyelashes at his damaged right hand, careful not to let him see her scrutiny. The wound had completely healed and, as she watched him prepare the loose-bottomed flan case, she saw he'd perfected a technique that enabled him to grip the tin with his right hand while buttering it with his left.

‘You know, Sicily's most popular cake is
Cassata Siciliana
– layers of cake soaked in Maraschino liqueur and topped with glacé fruit. Another delicious dessert to add to your list.'

‘Definitely. I want to learn everything I can about Italian desserts, especially regional variations. I'd love to visit Sicily one day.'

She covered the pastry with cling film and popped it into Jess's huge SMEG refrigerator, scattering pastry crumbs over the handle as she slammed it shut. She tossed her curls from her forehead, leaving behind a sprinkling of flour, and rejoined Ed to watch him prepare the filling for the tart. She had to forcibly drag her eyes away from appreciating the curve of his buttocks as he leaned into the bottom shelf of the fridge to grab a carton of milk.

‘Okay, so we start the custard.' Ed placed a large, copper-bottomed pan on the hob and added the milk and caster sugar. ‘We stir until tiny bubbles appear around the edge of the pan and then remove it to cool. Are you listening?'

‘Oh, yes, yes.' But the tang of his aftershave had reached her nostrils as they stood working in tandem at Jess's marble island unit and it had sent her senses into overdrive. She loved the way his ebony curls fell into his eyes as he concentrated on the fiddly job of grating a lemon and her heart galloped over the fields of her daydream, a situation not dissimilar to her favourite romantic TV drama.

Good grief, Lucie, pull yourself together!
she giggled to herself as consecutive ripples of warmth flooded her body and headed south. The chemistry between them was sizzling and she was powerless to ignore it.

‘Next we add four egg yolks to the remaining sugar and flour and whisk. Okay, your turn to get involved.'

Ed passed the glass bowl over to her and as he did so their fingers brushed. The connection sent a shockwave of desire through Lucie. She was unable to disguise her attraction quickly enough and Ed's lips curled into a mischievous grin.

‘Here.'

He handed her the whisk, still holding her eyes, and she could feel the heat rush up from her chest to her cheeks. She took the whisk and bashed the living daylights out of the mixture in the hope it would calm her raging hormones. Who knew that baking with someone you were attracted to could be so sensuous! She had been in many kitchens over the last three years, at home and in Europe, but had never before found herself responding to a fellow chef in such a way. Thank God! But then, they weren't all Edmundo Cartolli.

‘Okay, you keep whisking and I'll pour in the milk.'

Ed moved to her side and bent his head so that his lips were within an inch of hers as he gently poured the sweetened milk into the bowl and she continued to whisk. She was grateful to have something to do with her hands as delicious waves of heat pulsated through her body. She reluctantly moved from Ed's side to replace the pan on the burner and continued to stir until the mixture coated the back of her spoon. She could make custard with her eyes closed but that wasn't the point of today.

She strained the liquid through a wire mesh, then added the vanilla and lemon zest before giving it a final stir. She stretched a slice of cling film over the surface to prevent a skin from forming and placed it to one side to cool.

‘You zone out when you bake, don't you?' Ed asked, leaning against the counter and folding his arms across his chest.

‘I love everything about food. I relish every single step of each recipe. If a cake or a
biscotti
or a flan is worth making, it's worth making with love and attention to detail. I've felt the same since I was a small child. My mother's passion for baking was infectious and that's why Jess and I have found happiness and fulfilment in the culinary arena too.'

‘That's exactly the reason I decided to make gastronomy my career. It was inevitable I would follow in the family tradition… well, until…' He glanced down at the stubs where his fingers had once been.

‘Why did you stop cooking, though? You seem to manage to do everything just fine? And what about skydiving and all the other extreme sports you and your friends used to indulge in? Do you still slope off for a nifty afternoon of gorge scrambling or hang-gliding whenever you get the chance?' Lucie knew it was a difficult question to ask of Ed so she busied herself with making a cafetière of coffee.

‘I admit that I went through a patch of thinking I should try a different hobby after the crash. Gorgio recovered quickly; the only thing he has to show for his dalliance with death is a two-inch scar on his elbow – a badge of honour he's happy to show off to anyone who asks and many who don't. He went back to work four months later. Me? I sport a permanently visible reminder of my injuries.

‘At home in Palermo I had to cope with swiftly averted eyes, stares of curiosity and raw pity, as well as gently probing questions about what happened every time I went out. I know people were being kind, concerned for my welfare and my speedy recovery, but it grew more irritating the longer it went on. So I decided to really make an effort to achieve my dream of becoming a cookery commentator, an academic really. My ultimate aim is to publish my Sicilian foraging cookery book. We Italians love to go out into the countryside and collect wild foods before heading back to the kitchen to turn them into something delicious.'

A thought popped into her head. Maybe she could mention his proposed off-the-beaten-track cookery manual to her mother. She was always talking about her agent looking out for the next big thing in the culinary literature market. However, on current evidence, food preparation was still as huge a part of the tapestry of Ed's life as it was hers.

Ed's soft mahogany eyes met hers and she knew immediately that Edmundo Cartolli's name would be printed proudly on the cover of a glossy gastronomic tome in the near future regardless of whether she involved Margot Bradshaw or her talented agent. She knew he could do anything he put his mind to. Hadn't she experienced that drive in the kitchens of Le Cordon Bleu? It was difficult to explain to anyone who didn't cook professionally that part of being a chef was having the confidence to experiment, to gather whatever ingredients were freshest that day and turn them into something magnificent using every skill at your disposal, and Ed oozed confidence in his chosen field.

‘Count me in for a signed copy, please! I bet it'll be a bestseller.'

Ed laughed, a mischievous glint appearing in his eye. ‘Well, the pool of industry readers has contracted a little since I set up my
Anon. Appetit
blog, don't you think?'

She giggled. ‘Yes, I should warn you not to go anywhere near Francesca's Trattoria if you intend to interview any fellow Italian chefs. Gino has sworn revenge on you for upsetting his protégé, not to mention Antonio who actually offered to send round one of his relatives to have a “quiet word” with you! I'm not exactly sure what that would have entailed, but best to avoid the possibility, I think.'

‘Okay. Let's get the pastry rolled.'

Ed removed the pastry from the fridge and lined the flan case before returning it to chill for a second time. He checked the custard, pronounced himself satisfied and glanced around the marble-topped workstation.

‘Is it always like this when you've finished baking?'

Lucie surveyed the kitchen through objective eyes and had to agree with him. Bowls and pans tumbled in the sink, splodges of butter dotted the fridge door, snail trails of flour and sugar snaked along the worktops and one of the zestless lemons had rolled onto the floor.

‘Actually, would you believe that until recently I was a neat freak in the kitchen? I don't know what's come over me.'

‘Come on. You blitz the worktops, I'll put the finishing touches to the tart, and then I'll take you for a drink at the pub while it cools.'

They worked in companionable silence until everything was washed, dried and returned to its allocated place. Every item had a home – it was one of her sister's favourite battle cries whenever Lucie took on the task of drying the dishes after dinner. But with two professional cooks in the kitchen it didn't take long.

‘We pour the custard into the pastry-lined pan, sprinkle with pine nuts and bake for thirty minutes. Just enough time for you to wash that streak of icing sugar from your hair and perhaps change your sweater – unless you
want
to display the list of ingredients that went into our
Torta della Nonna
to the clientele of the Fox and Hounds?'

Lucie glanced down at her top to see a liberal coating of flour and a splash of runny honey sliding down the front. With her fingertip, she scooped up the honey and wrapped her tongue around it, before dashing up the stairs to get changed.

It had been one of the best afternoons she'd spent in her mother's kitchen since running away to her sister's. But more than that, she had gained more of an insight into Ed's personality, which had strengthened their connection. His proximity had caused her to have an unexpected reaction; an affinity with someone who shared her culinary passion, yes, that was to be expected, but it was another kind of passion she had felt stir deep in her veins that worried her. Physical attraction she could understand. Ed Cartolli was hot! But they seemed to have a deeper emotional connection too.

As she stripped off her sweater she acknowledged that what she felt for Ed was something different, sharper, more urgent than the feelings she'd had for Alex. Was it because Ed had opened up about his accident and they'd been able to connect through that? It had been difficult for her to share her own recent trauma because the reasons were rolled up with Ed's review of Francesca's and her shameful public outburst. But if she really thought about it logically, everything had stemmed from Alex turning down her proposal. Even if she hadn't tried to poison Ed that night, and even if he hadn't mentioned her error on his blog, she would still have been caught up in a vortex of anguish.

Her banishment to her childhood home had not been instigated by Ed; that had its roots in the way Alex had treated her, not only by rejecting her but by refusing to explain the reasons behind his actions so that she could understand them and work her way through her misery to the other side. Was she still getting over Alex? If that were true, how could she be experiencing such sparkling sexual desire for someone else?

As she looked at herself in the bedroom mirror, all she wanted to do was call down the stairs to ask Ed to join her, to rip his cashmere sweater from his body and lure him into the shower where they could take their time soaping each other's bodies before falling onto her bed and making mad passionate love to the accompaniment of whispered Italian words of desire. There was no doubt about it – her body was screaming its attraction to Ed Cartolli, and who was she to deny its more animal instincts? Maybe this could be the start of something very special. She hoped so.