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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"Amore...e hora di cenare! Time for dinner!"
I stood on the balcony of the log cabin in the mountains of western North Carolina and called out to Skylar. It was the first real long vacation we'd taken in our three years together, and we wanted to get away from the beach and palm trees and immerse ourselves in cold weather and mountains for New Year's Eve.
Skylar waved at me as she ran toward the cabin, followed by Pucci, our shaggy rescue mutt. I laughed when Pucci jumped like a rabbit through the ankle-deep snow. The dog adored Skylar.
I loved watching the two of them play while the snow fell in big, fat flakes.
I poured two glasses of champagne as Skylar and Pucci bounded inside and up the cabin stairs, then flipped the knob on the stove to the off position and covered the simmering tomato sauce.
"Baby, it feels so amazing here. The air is crisp, not swampy and humid like in Florida."
Skylar's pink cheeks practically matched the hue of the fuzzy earmuffs she pulled off her head. Standing near the top of the stairs, she unzipped her fleece jacket. My eyes went to her breasts, which looked full and sexy in her tight, white sweater, and she turned and bent over to undo the laces on her boots, giving me a full view of her delicious ass in tight jeans, reminding me that even after three years of living together, I still got a charge every time I thought about running my hands over her curvy body.
For months, she'd been self-conscious of her shoulder, largely because of the scar near her collarbone. But we'd found a good plastic surgeon and now it was barely visible.
The dog shook the snow off his tawny fur and settled with a sigh near the crackling flames in the hearth.
"Sky, come over by the fireplace," I called. "Vieni qui." I tried to speak in Italian more because she was trying to learn my language. Sitting on the carpet near the dog, I grinned as Skylar joined me, kneeling down while finger-brushing her long, snow-dampened hair.
"Brrr. I'm not used to cold weather anymore. Every part of me is cold. But I love it. I just need you to warm me up."
Handing her a glass of champagne, I kissed her, then rubbed my nose against hers. "Warming you up is my job."
She giggled and kissed me again. "Cento anni." The way she spoke Italian was adorable. We clinked glasses and sipped.
"Maybe we should think about buying something here. The book is doing so well, we could take the money from that..." I suggested.
She grinned and raised her glass. "To the New York Times bestseller list."
"To beautiful reporters with great ideas."
I'd followed Skylar's suggestion to go public with my story. Instead of the book about the second Mafia boss, I'd written an autobiography about my parents' deaths and the years afterward. Just like she'd predicted, Americans loved a good secret. My story had not only garnered support from press freedom organizations around the world, but had sold like crazy. I touched my glass lightly to hers again and leaned in for another kiss.
