“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.”

Mama Conte nodded, then wiped her hands on her apron. “Si, you should know. When Michael’s papa had the heart attack, Michael came right home. Stayed at the hospital day and night and refused to leave his side. I think we all believed he would be all right, but the second one struck hard and we lost him. When Michael came out of the room, he informed me he had quit racing and was taking over the business.”

Maggie remained silent as the older woman pondered the event with the flicker of demons in her eyes.

“I lost something in my son that day, the same day I lost my husband. A piece of wildness, of freedom from restrictions that always burned bright. He became the perfect son, the perfect brother, the perfect businessman. Everything we needed from him. But he left something of himself behind.”

Her throat clogged with emotion. Maggie gripped the spoon so tightly she was amazed it didn’t shatter. No wonder he seemed so faultless. He gave up his own dreams and became everything his family needed. With no thought of himself and no whining. Not once had he even hinted this was not where he wanted to be.

His mother shook her head and refocused. “So that is the story. You may do with it what you wish, but as his wife, I wanted you to know.”

Maggie tried to speak but only managed a nod. As they peeled apples the image of the man she imagined she knew exploded into tiny pieces. His easy, carefree existence hid a man strong enough to make decisions for others. For the people he loved.

“Tell me about your parents, Margherita.” The sudden command cut through her aha moment. “Why did your mother not teach you to cook?”

She concentrated on skinning. “My mother is not the domestic sort. She worked in movies and believed her children would be better raised by nannies and cooks. That being said, I never wanted for anything, and enjoyed a wide variety of foods at meals.”

Pleased with her cool, calm reaction, Michael’s mother glanced up.

She carefully lay down the apple and squinted as if to study every hidden nuance of her expression. “Are you close with your parents now?”

Maggie tilted her chin up and let her stare. “No. My father is remarried and my mother prefers we do lunch only occasionally.”

“Grandparents? Aunts or uncles? Cousins?”

“No one. Just me and my brother. It really wasn’t a big deal; we had all our needs taken care of, and life was quite easy for us.”

“Bullshit.”

Maggie’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“You heard me, Margherita. You did not have it easy. You had no one to guide you, teach you, care for you. A home is not only about things or needs being met. But this is not your fault. They are fools, your parents, for missing out on such a beautiful, special woman.” She scoffed in disgust. “No matter. You learned strength and stand on your own two feet. This is why you are good for my son.”

Maggie laughed. “Hardly. We’re completely different.” She choked at the blunt admission. Damn, she’d screwed up again. “Um, I mean, well, we thought it wouldn’t work but then we fell in love.”

“Hm, I see.” Maggie fumbled and the batter flew up toward the ceiling. “When did you get married, Margherita?”

She dug deep and remembered all the times she needed to lie and be good at it. Please, Devil, don’t fail me now. “Two weeks ago.”

“The date?”

She stumbled but forged on. “Um, Tuesday. May twentieth.”

The older woman remained silent and still. “A good day for a wedding, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love my son?”

She dropped the spoon and stared. “What?”

“Do you love my son?”

“Well, of course, of course, I love him. I wouldn’t marry anyone I didn’t love.” She forced a laugh and prayed it didn’t sound fake. Damn Michael Conte. Damn him, damn him, damn him. . . .

Suddenly, strong hands enclosed hers and squeezed. Maggie winced as his mother’s gaze shredded past the surface and sought the truth. She held her breath. She so did not want to blow up their ruse when they only had a few more days left. A dozen responses flitted past her mind to try to convince his mother they were truly married, but as if a sudden thunderstorm had passed, his mother’s face cleared and softened with a knowledge Maggie didn’t understand.