Chapter 1

The first time I saw the girl was when I arrived at the Vincetti mansion for the first time. Dazed and blinking, I'd barely parked my Fiat (badly) into the staff car parking space and unloaded my trunk before I turned a corner and ran slap-bang into her.

Luggage flew everywhere; I almost fell over and stumbled backwards a few steps instead. What the heck was that?

Then I saw her lying on the floor, surrounded by bits of what had been, I think, cake. Her cake, then. Oh no, what had I done now?

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry-"

"What" she spat the words out individually, "the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I'm- I was-"

"Save it!"

She held up an imperious hand, and panic turned to anger, which boiled inside me. Who did she think she was? Perhaps the clothing should have given it away- jodhpurs and a tweed jacket, the exercise outfit of the rich- but my boiling blood couldn't think past her arrogant-in-the-extreme behaviour.

"Firstly, you parked in my space. And secondly, you just assaulted," she informed me loftily- cake smeared across her cheek and jacket- "the daughter of Vincetti himself."

I almost laughed. "I'm sorry?" Her, Rosa Vincetti? The famously beautiful woman, the famously pampered millionaire's daughter? My boss's only family? Little more than a spoiled brat? I glared at her, regretting that I'd ever tried to help.

"You should be."

I steeled myself. "Well, I'm not." How was that for originality?

"Who are you?" She was on her feet now. I noticed- dimly- that she only came up to my chin, but the extra metre of attitude sort of made up for it. She had a posture which was better than the Queen's, for heaven's sake.

"Thomas Cooper." And why, why didn't I make up a name? Because, with her glaring at me like that, I couldn't think straight. Her hazel eyes pierced almost through my skin; I glared stonily back.

You can see that, from the off, this was a match made in paradise, if not heaven.

"Thomas Cooper." She said almost thoughtfully- and with all the confidence of the supremely rich. "I've never met a more arrogant arse. I don't know what you think you're doing, but you'd better hope I never see you again. For both our sakes. Or I'll have you sacked."

Sacked?! Woah! I narrowed both eyes. I don't normally get angry very easily, but this girl was pushing all of my buttons with a vengeance, and my blood was just about reaching boiling point. The Cooper flaw- an explosive temper – was clouding everything in a dull, hazy red. Try as I might, I was going to lose it. Big time. And in front of my employer's daughter.

"And you, whatever your name is, are an opinionated, selfish, arrogant little rich girl. You won't see me again. Well done."

Her eyes widened with something- shock, horror, anger?-but I was done. I reached over, yanked my suitcase upright, and dragged it towards the back entrance.

The last thing I saw of her was a pair of piercing eyes drilling into my back.

As you can see, our first meeting went extremely well.

I should have known then that she'd be trouble.

"Name?"

"Thomas Cooper."

The clerk ran a finger down a long list on his clipboard and narrowed his eyes, before slowly ticking my name on the page. I took a couple of deep breaths- after my little spat, my cheeks were still a flaming red. I probably looked a little deranged- it was no wonder he was suspicious.

Perhaps I should explain. I was on leave from my current restaurant, and had been roped in by my employer to cook for the multitude of guests who had been invited to his daughter's twenty first at their country mansion. If you thought you knew rich, think again. This guy was so loaded that he could have showered in champagne every day and not seen even a dent in his finances.

"Chef for the gala?"

"Yes, that's right."

He cocked an eyebrow at my frayed jeans and stripy top, as though he very much doubted it. "Your room is second on the right down that corridor there. You're sharing with a Mark Johnson. He'll show you the kitchen and where to get your whites from."

"Thanks."

"Don't...mention it."

Under his disapproving gaze- more dried up than two-month-old meat- I lugged my suitcase down a narrow corridor that looked as though it hadn't been refurbished since the nineteen sixties, and knocked on the door that was second from the right.

It opened immediately to reveal a guy who was about two inches shorter than me, but wearing the widest, most mega-watted smile that I'd ever seen. I almost took a step back aware from its glare.

"Hey! At last! Thomas Cooper! God, I was starting to think I was the only one here!"

My luggage was dragged into the room; I saw no choice but to follow since all of my clothes were being held hostage by this beaming dwarf. It was kinda scary how much he had to say- and how quickly he dove into motormouth mode.

"This place is gorgeous- don't get me wrong- but it's so empty at the moment. None of the staff have arrived yet- well, mostly, 'cos the deadline's tomorrow. But Rosa Vincetti's gang of snobs are patrolling the grounds in search of fun times and I've been forced to duck into cooooooountless hedges to get away. They're so loud, you can hear them a mile away-"

"Rosa Vincetti?" I thought of the furious girl I'd met a couple of minutes beforehand. There hadn't been any accompanying friends...what had she been doing?

"Don't tell me you don't know why we're here! Her par-tay? Yes? Biggest festival since the Royal Wedding, blah blah blah?" Mark blew out his breath exasperatedly. "Yeah, beautiful but ice-cold. The original ice princess. Her buddies are worse, though. Real high-class, haw-haw-haw kind of people, you know? I bet they still go on fox hunts. I can't say I've been proven wrong so far, either. So- where you from? Fellow chef I presume?"

"Yeah. I'm from down South- from Wellington."

"They flew me over from Oz." He grinned. "Do I sense a potential rival, eh?"

"Only in the rugby...and in who made the Pavlova first."

"You're on! Though it was us, of course."

"No chance." I smiled. I liked this guy...which was good since I'd be spending a week in the same room as him. In a small room, in fact: it was about three metres by five- the size of my broom cupboard in our old restaurant. Even though we'd only been renting that place, it had been roomier than this. Two beds were wedged at opposite ends of the room, with a battered wardrobe stuffed between them. A rather faded watercolour print of dogs playing poker sat on the wall above Mark's bed. And that was it. I had a feeling that a multi-millionaire should have been able to provide better for his staff...a fully stocked mini bar would have done the trick.

"Y'alright, mate?" I looked around to see Mark looking worried. "I'm not talking too much, am I? Sally always says that-"

"No, m'fine." A human's automated response in times of extreme preoccupation. "Just a bit...overwhelmed." Imogen- my last girlfriend- would have laughed her head off to see me in a mansion like this. "You don't fit." She'd have said...and she was right, even when made up in my head.

"Oh, well, we'll see how it goes then." Mark flumped down onto his bed with a sigh. It creaked alarmingly. I sat down rather gingerly on mine. "Overwhelmed is the word, mate. You should see the menu he's got sorted for this week! It's crazy, man. Some of the stuff...well, I'm just glad we've got a recipe book, that's all I'm saying."

"Mmm."

"And I'll tell you something else that's cool." Oh, good. "There have been rumours...of magic. Here. In the mansion!"

And now I was paying attention. "What?"

Mark looked pleased that I was paying attention. "Yeah, I know, right? People say that Vincetti's wife- well, she's dead now- was a witch! I swear, when I asked about her several of the staff actually went pale! And they say...they say that her daughter inherited the same genes. And at night...things move. Furniture. Keys. Lights go on and off. Spooky, huh! We're in a genuine haunted house!"

"Really." A witch? Unlikely. A haunted house? Even more so...

"Yeah. Hey, man, don't look at me like that! It's not me who says so! Anyway, there's more. Apparently, the dad's invited some rather...dodgy blokes around for his daughter's birthday. Not dodgy that way! As in, weird. Threatening, almost. Cool, huh?"

"Yeah. As long as you don't run into them. You seem to know a lot, anyway."

"Hey!" Mark threw up both hands. "What can I say? I'm a gossip!"

"You're like an old woman!"

"Maybe I am...at heart. An old lady...that'd explain my knitting fetish."

I laughed. Mark's chatter was fast washing away the remainders of my argument with the rich, spoiled Rosa Vincetti. I had an interesting (if chatterbox-prone) roommate, a genuine haunted house to live in and a whole week to cook the most elaborate dishes I could.

What could possibly go wrong?

Rather a lot, it turned out. Mark showed me the store cupboard, where I got my own chef's whites (embroidered with the Vincetti motif, no less), the toilets, the mess room, and, finally: the kitchen.

Although our employer was obviously a skinflint when it came to room decorations, he'd spared no expense in the recently-done chrome masterpiece. Every surface gleamed- I could practically see the bacteria shrivelling away at the sight of it- every possible device crammed the shelves, which were stacked to the brims with spices, herbs, seasoning...it made my fingers itch to go and start sifting through them. A large set of photocopied sheets was tacked to the wall- these must be the different recipes. A quick glance revealed them as fiendishly complicated and almost impossible to pull off with so little training.

It was a good job he'd only picked the best, then. I was flattered.

"Good, isn't it?" Mark was practically clapping with glee. "There's nobody here yet, 'cos everyone's arriving tomorrow, but it makes sense to get a feel of the place, eh?"
"Yes." I said slowly. "Who's our head chef?"

"The guy who manages the cooking here normally. He's a real dragon; I think he's called Roberto. He'll probably want a pep talk before we start, anyway." Mark sighed happily, fingers lovingly caressing an automatic whisk. "Isn't it great? I think I've just died and gone to heaven. Food heaven. They even have a vacuum packer- can you believe it?!"

I laughed. "Yeah...it's awesome."

"Nice one. C'mon, I'll give you a tour!"

After Mark's extremely enthusiastic whip-round guided tour of the staff quarters (huge- just how many people did Vincetti employ?), the gardens (which felt bigger than Yellowstone National), and the outside view of the family's mansion, I was more than ready for some manly Alone Time. With that in mind, I took a turn down the edge of the evening sun-lit main lawn, past where the huge marquee was being set up, and revelled in the peacefulness of it all.

It wasn't that my roommate was annoying- although I'd been stunned by how much that guy could talk- but I was keen to find out more about the annoyingly elusive Vincetti. In particular, Rosa. Though God help me if I admitted that last bit to myself, much less to the various toffs and staff who would probably either laugh at me or rearrange my facial features into a montage worthy of Picasso. What had happened to that girl to make her into such a class bitch? And more interestingly, what had happened to Mrs Vincetti? Nobody seemed prepared to talk about her- by nobody, I meant the house staff, who had clammed up like- well, clams- on broaching the subject.

Scowling at the grass, I constructed two hunches. Firstly, that it had something to do with Rosa's behaviour, and secondly, that Vincetti's influence was far more pervasive than I'd first realised. Why the obsessive loyalty? Either he was an exceptional employer, or fear had tightened their lips...

Maybe it was the Savant Net training, but something just didn't add up.