“You smell like marjoram.” I let my own nose rest in the dent of his collarbone. “And mint.” I remembered that very clearly, from the time we’d spent on his lumpy apprentice’s pallet.

“Nutmeg,” he continued, inhaling his way down the side of my throat. One hand stroked the length of my back, and the roughness of his jaw brushed my skin. “And pepper. Plenty of pepper—so that’s where you get the temper . . .”

“Wild thyme,” I said, putting my nose against the center of his wide chest this time. “No wonder you’re so insolent.”

He set his lips in the base of my throat, tasting me. “Salt.”

“Salt,” I agreed, tasting the outer edge of his ear. Even his earlobes were freckled. “All cooks taste like salt.”

He laced a hand through my hair and bent his mouth to mine. The first time he’d kissed me had been all eager boyish hunger, but some woman must have taught him patience as well as passion. Perhaps it had been me, whacking him on the shoulder and telling him to wait, that zuppa wasn’t ready yet, don’t be so impatient, Bartolomeo! He kissed now without haste, not impatient at all, taking the time to taste me. “Honey,” he said, murmuring against my lips. “Salty without, sweet within.”

“Flatterer,” I told him, and dragged his head back down. But he stopped suddenly, looking at me with a scowl.

“This is all wrong,” he said.

“Why?” I pulled away, hand flying to my head. “You do hate the hair, don’t you?”

“I was supposed to cook for you,” he complained. “I had it all planned! I’d find you in the kitchens somehow—I wasn’t sure how I’d manage that part, but I thought it could be done. And then I’d finally get to cook for you. I even knew what I was going to cook: tortellini with a basil and parsley filling, and a sauce of French wine and cream—”

“You’re not supposed to serve tortellini in a sauce,” I started to say.

“I know, and that was the point. You’d eat my recipe, mine, and you’d tell me it was good, and maybe we’d finally get over this whole apprentice business.” He glowered, but with a hint of a smile. “And now I’m here, and I did find you, so that part went according to plan, but this pathetic excuse for a kitchen doesn’t have any of the ingredients I was counting on. Not one! I brought my own olive oil—” Helpfully he produced a little vial. “Because a good cook always supplies his own good-quality oil, you taught me that. Actually, I brought a hamper—”

I burst out laughing.