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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"Miss. Miss. The bathroom's down the hall. This is the kitchen."
I peeked between the crack of the double swinging doors and ignored the stupid cook.
I'd followed Skylar to Bacchus, where the American met her gaggle of poorly-dressed American girlfriends.
What I hadn't anticipated was Luca walking in looking like a Roman warrior, primal and commanding.
I'd barely escaped being seen by him. Thankfully, the place was crowded, and I'd taken a seat near the kitchen so I could scramble in when he walked toward the bar.
Then again, he would have never noticed me, because he hadn't taken his eyes off that awful woman.
"I'm sorry, you can't be in here."
The cook touched my arm, and I shrugged it off with an impatient grunt.
"Is there a door to the parking lot from the kitchen?" I didn't look at the cook as I spoke.
"Yes, it's right this way."
I couldn't tear my eyes away from Luca's gorgeous face. With rising anger, I saw his gaze follow Skylar walking past, and then watched him leave his seat at the bar. My blood rushed through my veins so fast, I could hear it in my ears.
Never had he looked at me the way he stared at Skylar. His eyes were wide and hungry, filled with desire—and something so very obvious, hot tears pricked my eyes. He looked at Skylar with pure adoration.
Luca looked like a desperate man, drunk with love. If I were watching them in a movie, I would have sighed and swooned.
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