She wasn’t at all sure that was why he had asked that question. He always saw too much, and she had an idea he had gone that one step ahead again. But she wasn’t going to challenge him—there was no real reason why she shouldn’t have breakfast with him and listen to what he had to say. They needed to be on the same page, and it was better that last night’s foolishness fade away. She shook her head. “I asked her if she wanted to have breakfast with me, but she turned me down.” She started across the foyer toward the hall leading to the kitchen. “I want an omelet and some of the strawberries I saw in the refrigerator yesterday. Does Rennell grow them?”

He nodded as he followed her. “He has gardens galore at the back of the property. Sandrino told me that working in the earth relaxes him. When he’s not target shooting or painting in his studio.”

“Painting?” Her eyes widened. “I wouldn’t think…it’s a surprise. Is he good?”

“I have no idea. He’s very private where his paintings are concerned. He’s never let me see one. I don’t believe even Sandrino was permitted into his studio.” They were in the kitchen now, and he was at the refrigerator taking out eggs. “I know Sandrino would never have asked if Rennell didn’t offer. He respected his independence just as he did mine.” He nodded at the peacock-blue granite kitchen bar. “Sit down while I whip up that omelet. Or you can put on the coffee if you like.”

She headed for the coffeemaker on the cabinet. “I’ll do my part. Since you said that even omelets were difficult for you.”

“Not difficult. Just boring. I learned to cook in a dozen restaurants in Hell’s Kitchen when I was growing up. That was enough for me. As soon as I could afford it, I started hiring other, more talented cooks to do it.” He was beating the eggs. “Except here. Sandrino liked my cooking, even the fast food. So I’d spend a couple of evenings a week doing my duty.” He shrugged. “I owed him, and it was kind of fun. Rennell put in his kitchen duty, too, but he was much more high cuisine.” He put some butter in a frying pan. “But I like butter, and you won’t find anything high cuisine about what I put before you.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Not like those Swedish meals you had to prepare when you were doing the Trial with that family in Paris.”

“Those weren’t high cuisine, either. I told you, Nilssen wanted comfort food that reminded him of home. Once I learned how to do that, they were happy.”

“And you were happy, too?”

“Until the end.”