An Italian on the run from the Mafia. A reporter seeking the truth. Will they reveal their feelings before danger strikes?
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Reclusive writer Luca Ross...
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"Mia cara, siediti sulla sdraio per favore. In Italian, that means, 'my dear, please sit on the chaise.'"
I was a little tipsy from the prosecco and the bottle of white wine we'd shared over dinner. The pasta, little tube shapes bathed in simple red tomato sauce, had been out-of-this-world tasty. And the flow of Luca's Italian made me full—with lust. He had peppered our dinner conversation with words and phrases, and it was making me squirmy. In a good way.
As we talked, my words tumbled out of my mouth and my voice notched up a half-octave. I laughed a lot, and everything I said seemed fascinating. When he launched into a long explanation of how he made the pasta sauce, I nodded, rapt, then realized I'd never before been so interested in the topic of tomatoes.
"Are you speaking Italian just to sound sexy and exotic?" I teased him at one point, giggling.
"Am I that obvious?" He grinned.
"Yeah. You are. I think you're trying to seduce me with food and your language."
That made him laugh harder.
He didn't, however, seem eager to talk about his family or his work. I did find out some details about him, things that were interesting and curious and so very sexy: He loved old Superman comic books, he disliked peanut butter, he'd run the Boston Marathon when he was in boarding school.
I quickly texted Emily, telling her everything was going well, then moved over to the wide chaise lounge as Luca picked up our plates to bring them inside. I kicked off my wedge sandals.
Luca paused at the foot of the chaise as I wriggled around, trying to get comfortable. "I saw you post a lot on Twitter, and not just about news stories."
"Stalking me on social media again?" I fluttered my eyelashes dramatically.
"Maybe."
"The paper wants me to tweet stories and news tidbits. We're told to 'build our brand' as journalists."
He nodded. "Right. Your brand. Um, I don't do social media at all, and I'd like to ask you not to post anything about me. Okay?"
As he walked inside, I considered his words. What was that supposed to mean?
I finished my wine, enjoying the buzz while mulling many questions. Luca was so private, but he seemed interested in my life, which was a welcome change from James. Never had a guy been so curious about me. I wondered about Luca's motives, but that thought instantly made me sad. Maybe this was how relationships were supposed to be. With James, he was always the star, sucking up all the attention, never caring about the details of my life.
Luca returned with a bowl of strawberries in his hand and sat next to me on the chaise. It was dark now, and he'd lit several candles in different hurricane lamps around the deck. I studied his face, captivated. His dark brows, his strong nose, the distinct angle of his jaw under his ear—everything about Luca was so masculine.
