Page 12

His laugh is genuine, and before I can stop him, he's ordering another dish for us to share. I've spent enough miserable dates pretending a salad was sufficient dinner to appreciate a man who doesn't expect me to survive on lettuce and compliments.

We talk about our families while we eat. I tell him about growing up outside Sacramento and my mother's ongoing campaign to marry me off before my ovaries shrivel up and die.

"Last month she tried setting me up with her dentist."

"What's wrong with dentists?"

"Nothing, except this one's sixty-three and apparently collects Civil War buttons. Mom said he has all his own teeth, which I suppose is a reasonable starting point."

Enzo nearly chokes on his wine.

"I think I'd like your mother."

"Don't encourage her. She'll have us married before dessert."

Something flickers across his face, disappearing so quickly I wonder whether I imagined it. Then he asks about the library, and I tell him about the woman who returned a romance novel because the hero wore his boots to bed.

"Apparently, the murder and kidnapping were perfectly acceptable, but dirty sheets crossed a line."

"She had standards," he says, looking thoroughly entertained.

"Oh, honey, you haven't heard anything yet."

By the time I finish telling him about the patron who believed the government was monitoring his printer cartridges, he's laughing openly. I like that about him. Underneath the expensive suit and intimidating confidence, there's a man who appreciates a dirty joke and doesn't seem remotely embarrassed by my mouth.

He tells me about growing up in a large Italian family, where Sunday dinners lasted all afternoon and refusing his grandmother's cooking was practically grounds for disinheritance. His family manages entertainment properties and investments around Los Angeles, and he oversees several businesses. He doesn't elaborate much, but I'm more interested in hearing about the boy who stole meatballs from his grandmother's kitchen than discussing corporate investments.

We're halfway through dessert when his phone rings. He checks the screen, and the warmth disappears from his expression.

"Excuse me, sweetheart. I need to take this."

I watch him move toward the windows, his shoulders rigid as he listens. He says something sharp into the phone, briefly rubbing his thumb across the gold band on his right hand before ending the call. When he returns, he's smiling again, although his eyes remain serious.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"It's handled."

There's such absolute certainty in his voice that I get the impression somebody somewhere has just learned not to argue with Lorenzo Moretti.

"Your job sounds stressful."

"Sometimes."

"Maybe you should work at the library. Worst thing that happens there is somebody owing fourteen dollars in overdue fines."

"Tempting." He smiles and reaches for my hand. "Come on, sweetheart. There's something I want to show you."

Twenty minutes later, we're standing at a quiet overlook high above Los Angeles. Thousands of lights glitter beneath us, and the evening breeze carries just enough chill that Enzo removes his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. Rocco has parked nearby, discreetly giving us privacy.

"You're going to spoil me rotten," I tell him, slipping my arms into the sleeves.

"That's the plan."

"You really don't do anything halfway, do you?"

"Not when I want something."

"And what exactly do you want?"