stirred, her eyelids fluttering open. For a moment, she was completely disoriented. The ceiling was high and wh

r her. Her hand. It was professionally bandaged, clean

ragmented memories of the night, the

a mask of pinched disapproval. Tw

gh," the butler announced, his voice dripping with conde

of the bed, her body weak and shaky. The maids watched her every move, th

the plush runner. As she reached the grand foyer, a sharp, cramping pain s

following the scent of coffee and baking bread. S

trating the creation of an elaborate French lunch. He glanced at h

ments were slow, hampered by her bandaged hand, but efficient. She found a box o

acticed. She crushed the garlic, tore the basil, and simmered the tomatoes into a simple

o pasta sat on the counter. It wasn't fancy, but i

heard it-the low, powerful rumble of a car engin

him at all costs seized her.

slipped out the kitchen's service door, and hurried acro

is jacket and handing it to a waiting maid. He was head

amiliar. Basil and tomato. A scent from hi

e plate of pasta sitting on the island. Without

s bright, fresh, with just the right balance of acidity

ng in the large space. The chef hurrie

gesturing to the plate with his f

mered, "My apologies, Mr. Sinclair. Tha

hed. He frowned. "Then

mfortable. "It was... Mrs. Sinclair, si

red at the plate, at the fork still in his hand

r

tempt to appeal to him, to manipulate him by imitating a ghost? The thought was repulsi

ollable rage boi

the marble floor and exploded, sending shards of ceramic and splatters o

e shaking with fury. "She thinks she can repla

s kitchen. Every ingredient she might have touched. And have the e

en and barked at Mark, who

s not to set foot inside this building again for any re

s impassive. "

ce door, on his way to deliver the cold,