Page 44

Vacationing in Italy with Alexander Stone?

I hated to admit it, but it sounded appealing.

Don’t even go there—bad idea.

“What is this restaurant?” I asked, choosing not to explore that avenue of conversation. “I didn’t see a name outside.”

“That’s because it doesn’t have one yet. Although, it seems like Matteo might have an idea now,” he said dryly, a frown returning to his face.

“This is Matteo’s restaurant? I thought this might be your place,” I mused.

“Hell, no!” he exclaimed and let out a loud, genuine laugh.

It was a full, throaty sound that was pleasant to my ears. It made him seem more human and not so much like the heavenly Adonis he normally portrayed. His laughter was contagious, and I found myself smiling.

And for the first time since my arrival, I relaxed a bit.

“Why do you say it like that? Why not own a restaurant?”

You seem to have a hand in just about everything else in this city.

“Restaurants aren’t my thing. Way too much stress. Like I said before, real estate is what I do. I just own this building. Matteo is the crazy one. If he wants to tackle the food business, more power to him. He’s been after me to come down to try some of his dishes before the grand opening,” he told me, reaching for a bottle of cabernet sauvignon. “I thought this would be the perfect time to take him up on his offer. Plus, I wanted a bit of privacy tonight so that we could talk freely during our meeting.”

A meeting, huh? Okay. I’ll play along.

I studied him carefully as he poured the deep red into two traditional large bowl wine glasses. I tried to read what he was thinking, but as usual, his expression was guarded, and I got nothing. I accepted the glass he held out for me.

“We couldn’t talk freely in a restaurant full of people?” I asked, taking a slow sip of the wine. I typically preferred white wine, but the red was surprisingly good, and I savored the bite of the bold flavor on my tongue.

“Unfortunately, no—at least not without any interruption. I try to keep a low profile, but restaurants are tough. I have expensive tastes, and influential people tend to frequent the restaurants I like.” He paused and frowned, his brow furrowing in aggravation. “Lately, it’s been a bombardment of parasites from Wall Street trying to convince me to go public. The lack of privacy is rather annoying.”

While his words may have seemed slightly arrogant, his tone was bitter and resentful. I was intrigued and wanted to question him further, but Matteo arrived with our appetizers, interrupting the conversation.

“Ah, here we are!” Matteo said as he placed two plates in the center of the table. “Insalata Caprese and Antipasto Italiano.” Using a serving fork, he began to place portions of the appetizers onto side dishes for both Alexander and me.

“This looks great. Thanks, Matt,” Alexander said, taking a bite of smoked prosciutto. “Mmm. It tastes great, too.”

I went for the Caprese salad first since fresh mozzarella was a weakness of mine. The cheese practically melted in my mouth, and the tomato was bursting with flavor. I nodded in approval.

“Very good!” Matteo exclaimed, obviously pleased his guests of honor were enjoying the first course. “Buon appetite.”

He gave us a slight bow, and left us to enjoy the array of cold cuts and cheeses.

“I don’t know much about the stock market, but wouldn’t you make more money if you went public with your company?” I asked, continuing the conversation where we’d left off as I enjoyed a second bite of the seasoned cheese.

“Money doesn’t matter. I’d rather be my own boss. If I offered stock to the general public, I would have too many people to answer to. And as you pointed out earlier this afternoon, answering to others is not something I would do well. I prefer to be my own boss.”

“It must really suck to be a millionaire,” I commented sarcastically.

“Billionaire, Krystina,” he corrected matter-of-factly. I raised my eyebrows, slightly aghast by his pompous statement.

“If you’re trying to impress me, it’s not working. Millions, billions—it makes no difference to me once you hit six zeros,” I said.

“I’m not trying to impress you with money. I’m just stating a fact,” he said without a hint of conceit. “Those additional zeros, as you put it, make a big difference in the social circles of New York. It means keeping my personal affairs private is a little more difficult, and that’s something I’m not sure you’re ready to handle.”

Maybe I was intimidated over his billions. Or perhaps it was the way he spoke so matter-of-factly. Whatever the reason, I found myself extremely bothered by this conversation all of a sudden, and I pursed my lips in annoyance.

“Why would I need to concern myself with your privacy?”