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He wasn’t a world-class chef, but he made world-class espresso. Anna pronounced it amazing as they sat drinking it at a small marble-topped table in the garden just off the kitchen.
“Not even my mother makes better coffee,” she told him.
“That,” he said solemnly, “has to be a world-class compliment.”
She grinned. “You’d better believe it.”
The sun was rising, shedding streaks of gold through the garden and the pines that surrounded it.
Anna sighed. “It’s lovely here,” she said softly. “The only thing missing is music.”
“The Pines of Rome,” Draco said.
Anna looked at him over her coffee cup. “Yes, exactly.” She smiled. “And here I thought I was the only person in the world who loved Respighi.”
“Got to admit,” Draco said solemnly, “for me, it’s a toss-up between Respighi and Mick Jagger.”
She laughed. He loved to watch her laugh. There was nothing delicate or false about it, the way there was with so many women.
“Well, heck,” she said, “why not? I mean, they’re both golden oldies.”
Draco grinned. And then, because it seemed the most natural thing in the world, he leaned across the table and kissed her.
“Nice,” he said. He kissed her again. Her lips parted, clung gently to his. “Very nice. The best possible way to get sugar with my espresso.”
Anna’s lips curved against his. “Flattery will get you everywhere. But I guess you know that, huh?”
“Me?” Draco said, with such innocence that she giggled.
He grinned, tugged her from her chair and drew her into his lap. They kissed again. And again. His hand slipped inside her robe. She moaned as he caressed her breast, and then she grabbed his hand and clasped it firmly in both of hers.
“We need food, remember?” she said sternly. “Sustenance, Valenti. You said so yourself.” She got to her feet. He rose, too, collected their cups and followed her into the kitchen, where an enormous pot of sauce simmered on the stove.
It had turned out that he was not only a world-class maker of coffee, he was also a world-class slicer and dicer of onions, garlic, celery, tomatoes—all the stuff they’d pilfered from the fridge and pantry and combined in a pot.
It had been simmering for an hour. Now Draco took a deep, deep breath.
“Wow.”
Anna nodded. “Wow, indeed.”
“It smells wonderful.”
“That’s ’cause I’m the chef,” she said smugly, plucking a big wooden spoon from the top of the stove and stirring the sauce. “Maybe not world class, but my-mother’s-kitchen class, anyway.”
“Hey,” he said, “we’re both Italian. Ragù is in our genes.”
“Ragù, as in the brand of gravy in a jar?”
“Ragù, as in that’s the word for … Gravy? What gravy?”
Anna laughed. “If you grow up in Little Italy, this red stuff is gravy.”
“Ah.” Draco took the spoon and stirred the simmering sauce.
“Ah, what?”
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