The Legend of de Marco by Abby Green

credited her. For the first time all eveningthe blonde shot her a narrow-eyed and very assessing glance.
    ‘Oh … how quaint.’
    The words dripped with condescension.
    That glance had obviously taken in a multitude of facts, because she looked back to Rocco and said, very deliberately, ‘I wasn’t going to say anything, but I thought perhaps Louis was on an off-night or had sent one of his sous-chefs. The guinea fowl
did
taste slightly odd. I do hope she knew what she was doing, I have an important family function tomorrow. I can’t afford to be ill.’
    Gracie was rooted to the spot for a long moment. She couldn’t believe that this woman was picking apart her efforts as if she wasn’t even there. She registered a quick glance from Rocco, but was too stunned to look at him. She whirled around and escaped back to the kitchen, hearing his low tones as she went, but unable to make out the words.
    Gracie was shaking—first of all with shock that Rocco had spoken up for her. She’d fully expected him to humiliate her by denying her contribution, but he’d sounded almost
proud.
And then shock morphed to anger at that woman’s downright rudeness.
    She heard a laugh coming from the drawing room—
her
irritating laugh. To Gracie’s abject horror emotion surged, making hot tears prick at the back of her eyes as she looked at the chaos spread around the kitchen, the fruits of her hard labours.
    She wasn’t sure what had happened, but at some point she’d started cooking for
Rocco.
George had told her where he was from in Italy, and that had informed her choices. Even whilst hating herself for her weakness, she’d wanted to impress him. Perhaps she’d hoped he would see that shewasn’t just some nobody who had nothing to offer except for a tenuous link to her brother?
    She heard a door slam and flinched. No doubt that was Rocco and his date leaving for an exclusive club in town. Gracie wiped at her cheeks and set about cleaning up through a blur of tears.
    She didn’t hear the door open, so when she heard a soft, ‘Gracie,’ from behind her she dropped a pan on the marble floor.
    Gracie whirled around, too startled to remember how she must look. Her eyes cleared but her cheeks still stung. Rocco was standing there, his jacket removed and his tie undone and loose as if he’d yanked at it impatiently. The top button of his shirt was open and his hair was dishevelled.
    Gracie took all this in in a split second. ‘I heard the front door,’ she said dumbly, wondering if he was some kind of mirage. ‘I thought you’d left.’
    Rocco shook his head. His hands were deep in his pockets and even now Gracie had to fight the impulse to let her gaze drop.
    His voice was tight. ‘Miss Winthrop has gone home, and she won’t be back. I must apologise for her rudeness. She refused to come in here and do it herself.’
    Gracie’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. ‘You asked her to come in here? And apologise?’
    Rocco nodded curtly. ‘I shouldn’t have even had to ask. She had no right to talk to you like that. And she was wrong. You served up an amazing meal.’ He shook his head slightly. ‘I had no idea you could cook like that.’
    Half dazed, Gracie said, ‘One of my foster parents trained in Paris as a chef in the sixties. She ended up working as a cook in a school kitchen when she came back to England because no one would hire a female chef.’ Gracieshrugged. ‘I’m not that proficient, really … I picked up some basics and I like cooking.’
    Rocco stepped further into the kitchen and Gracie gulped. He looked so
intent.
She moved back a step and her foot knocked the pan on the floor. She looked down to see that some sauce had leaked out and automatically bent down to get it. Suddenly Rocco was there, taking her arm and helping her up, taking the pan out of her hand.
    He led her away from the spill. ‘No,’ he said, his accent thick. ‘Someone else will clean it up.’
    Gracie just looked up at him. He