Seduced by the Screenwriter

Chapter 12, That's Amore, Part 12

Chapter 12

That's Amore

Catrina's doorbell rang at six that evening. On her small porch, Chett stamped fresh snow off his western leather boots. He balanced a pizza box on one palm and gripped a paper liquor store bag with the other hand. A plastic grocery bag dangled from a forearm. Behind him, town streetlights pricked the black night like a string of holiday lights.

She squinted. A thick black line curved above his upper lip. "What on earth is that on your face? Black felt marker?"

His grin straightened the fake mustache. "Are you going to invite me in? This pizza is flash-freezing as we speak."

She hesitated. The days apart had given her plenty of time to think. To miss him. To get over him. To crush the desire to be intimate with him again. That desire stimulated emotions. It poked a sharp stick in her hibernating memory, waking it to wreck havoc in her carefully controlled life.

However...

She was starving. In all the drama that afternoon at the carnival and its aftermath, she'd forgotten to buy groceries. The pizza smelled delicious. So did the scent of musky aftershave wafting on the arctic draft. Determination to avoid him melted like a snowball in a frying pan.

Rescuing the child that afternoon had boosted her confidence. She'd handled a crazed mother determined to run headlong onto dangerously thin ice. Surely I can handle a Hollywood writer. I'll send him home after dinner.

Scratch that.

I'll send him home after dinner and a quickie.

She capitulated to temptation and stepped back. "I am hungry," she admitted.

He grinned and waggled his brows. He knew she knew that she wasn't talking about food.

In her foyer, Chett toed off his boots and tossed his parka over the back of a white wicker chair. Mustached, gelled blond hair, wearing a black long-sleeved shirt and thin white tie, he looked hot as all hell.

She swallowed. A primal hunger surged in her nether region. Of their own volition her gaze dropped to the crotch bulge in his tight black jeans. "Who are you supposed to be?"

"Vito Corleone, at your service." He bowed.

The name rang a distant bell. "A mob boss?" she hazarded.

He smirked. "The Godfather is one of my all time favorite films-a classic." He pointed at the plastic grocery bag hanging from her fingers. "I brought a reward for Titan."

At the mention of his name, the German shepherd's black ears angled to attention. He lifted his long black nose from his paws for an interested sniff. Catrina thumbed open the bag to peer inside. "Another cooked steak?"

He shrugged. "The bribe worked last time."

"It's a smart way to make friends. Next you'll be patting him," she teased.

He paled under his California tan. "Maybe another time," he croaked. He pulled a bottle of red wine from the paper bag. "I have something for you, too. Italian."

Catrina smiled. "Of course. What else would Vito drink?" She placed the pizza box on the old leather-strapped steamer trunk that served as a coffee table and headed for the compact kitchen.

"Titan has already eaten his dinner. I'll save the steak until tomorrow. Have a seat," she invited over her shoulder while wrapping the steak to store in the fridge.