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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Endpages
Copyright
Chapter One
“He’s dead.”
Her stomach in knots, Gia Sorabella stared in disbelief at the stoney-faced paramedic. “You’re sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
Considering the siren-blaring, light-flashing truck he’d arrived in, plus the crew and equipment he’d brought in, she was fully aware her question was stupid.
But she fed people for a living. Deceased diners weren’t her forte.
“How?” she asked.
The paramedic shrugged. “Can’t say.”
“A heart attack.”
“Could be. I called it in.”
“Called it in to who?”
“The NYPD.”
Gia’s pulse spiked. “For a heart attack?”
The paramedic shrugged again as he turned away.
Pressing her fingertips to her pounding temples, Gia’s thoughts raced over what to do next. Her 8th Avenue restaurant was full of customers who’d been first startled by the choking gasps from a fellow diner, then understandably alarmed by the medics’ abrupt entrance. Adding the cops wasn’t going to boost her weekend reservations.
At least her staff had handled the whole thing with their usual professionalism. They’d calmly assured the customers that the guy had had a bad reaction to a pine nut, even as her bus boys moved an accordion-style panel to block the corner booth where the diner had keeled over into his pesto capellini.
All this for a man who is—or was—a complete ass.
Not that she’d wanted Elliot Craig, influential restaurant critic and legend-in-his-own-mind, dead. His reviews of Sorabella’s were okay, if not exactly glowing. She supposed she should feel fortunate, since the man ravaged almost everybody.
As a man had just died in her restaurant, however, it wasn’t her blessings on her mind.
“Don’t let anybody leave,” the medic ordered over his shoulder.
Franco, her maître d’ and assistant manager, squeezed her hand as he said, “Free wine?”
Not trusting her voice to be steady, she nodded.
“Surely it’s a heart attack,” Franco whispered before he headed toward the cellar door.
Surely. Elliot hadn’t exactly been the picture of health. He was short, wide and aggressive, and Gia doubted he spent his days at the Manhattan Fitness Club, even though his nights were filled with indulgences in rich food.
“Gia? Is everything all right?”
Glancing in the direction of the calm, strong and familiar voice, Gia had the crazy urge to throw herself into Nathan Pearce’s capable embrace. “Yes, thank you.” She worked up a smile for her good friend and one of her best customers. “Finish your dinner. Franco’s bringing around some wine.”
Behind his glasses, Nathan’s dove-gray eyes turned skeptical. “The man in the booth across from me collapsed.”
Damn his attention to detail. She supposed, being an architect, precision was a necessary trait for his job. Just now, though, with a restaurant full of customers, that quality was going to be a problem. “He’s being taken care of.”
“Good to know.” Nathan slid his arm around her. “I don’t need wine. But you look like you could use a drink.”
Before she could gather her wits to protest, he’d led her to his booth. He smelled great, a warm, woody-leather scent reminiscent of her grandfather, yet with a spice that was sensually enticing. Her head buzzing, she acknowledged the familiar sensation of heat that washed over her whenever they touched. Which was exactly why she avoided further intimacy with her friend. She’d never get to the top of the restaurant scene with him distracting her.
“Sit,” he said gently but firmly. “I’ll be right back.”
Gia did as he directed, figuring she had to be in shock to take his demand without question. She was supposed to be the one in charge.
Gathering her wits, she absorbed her surroundings, so familiar, so treasured. As typical in Manhattan, space was at a premium. Beyond the front door and hostess stand were a few booths. The bar was in the back, where the restaurant hooked to the left, leading to a dining room of twelve tables. The modern decor contrasted with her traditional Italian menu. While the walls were dark, mirrors reflected ceiling and floor lights. The tables were antique mahogany, and the candles resting in the center were surrounded by amber glass, casting a soft, golden glow on the diners.
Named for her family, opened on a loan from her grandfather and featuring her Tuscan grandmother’s recipes, Sorabella’s was her baby—her life, really. She had an obligation to be a success, to carry on the dreams of her immigrant heritage.
The image of Elliot’s florid face, his limp body splayed on the table, flashed before her. She closed her eyes, only to have the vision intensify. Fresh pesto sauce splattered across the white tablecloth. An overturned wineglass, deep red liquid dribbling across his fleshy hand.
The next thing she knew, Nathan was sliding into the booth next to her and pressing a heavy crystal glass into her hand. “Drink it.”
In a daze, she did. After a sip, she coughed. “What the hell?” she asked, her throat burning.
“Whiskey. Feel better?”
She whipped her head toward him. “No, I—” Her gaze collided with those lovely gray eyes of his, turning her instantly into a marshmallow. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
Over the past few months they’d shifted from restauranteur and customer to good friends, confidantes in the hectic world of dating in the city. With his golden blond hair, tailored suits and impeccable manners, he was attractive and nice, but not her usual type. Not that her tendency to try to rehabilitate bad boys was working out, either.
At first, she’d tried to treat Nathan with strict professionalism, even though he’d eaten in her restaurant at least three times a week since he’d moved to the city four months ago. But eventually she’d found herself in deep conversations with him late at night, after restaurant traffic dwindled. He was smart and insightful, caring and generous. Far from the boyfriend mistakes of her past.
But she’d been turning to him for advice and hanging out with him when she should have been doing inventory or planning marketing strategies and menus. She had to make a success of Sorabella’s—both for her bank account and her family’s pride. Nathan Pearce was a temptation she couldn’t afford. She cleared her throat, which still sizzled from the whiskey. “Mr. Craig appears to have suffered an allergic reaction.”
“But the paramedics aren’t working on him,” Nathan pointed out. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“No, of course—” Gia stopped mid-lie. Nathan deserved better. “Yes.”
“I suspected so,” he said, his shoulders sagging. “I rushed over to help, but when I got there, Jason and Dale were already giving the guy CPR.”
Despite the gravity of the situation, she wanted to laugh at the idea that Nathan knew not only the waiter’s name, but the busboy’s as well.
Elliot Craig had never taken the time to notice anybody.
Ridiculously, she wondered if the critic had liked the pesto. Maybe he’d at least died happy.
“My brother’s a firefighter in Cincinnati,” Nathan added. “I used to volunteer. I’ve witnessed a bad scene or two.”
“Right. You’re from Ohio.” And she definitely wasn’t. A lifetime New Yorker. Brooklyn, until last year when an Italian movie icon had declared her marinara sauce the best in the city, allowing her to barely afford a move to the high-rise island of Manhattan. “I appreciate your help, as always.” Impulsively, she laid her hand over his. “The police are going to question you.”
His thumb slid across her knuckles, and the promise of something much more carnal than a consoling friend would offer moved through his eyes. “I don’t mind.”
She pulled her hand back. “I doubt you’ll say that an hour from now.”
As she scooted out of the booth and stood, he followed her. “Bet I will.”
Gia indulged in his smile briefly, then her hostess appeared beside her. “The police are here.”
Chapter Two
Despite Gia’s assurance she was fine, Nathan held her hand as her office was turned into a makeshift interrogation room for the NYPD. He couldn’t hold her the way he wanted to, so he was settling—again—for being the steady friend.
“It appears somebody attempted CPR,” homicide detective Carl Anderson prompted. “Was it you?”
Gia shook her head. “Jason and Dale. One of the waiters and the busboy. I made everybody take a class just after the holidays.”
The detective flipped through a small notebook. “So you didn’t touch the body?”
Gia’s olive-toned skin went pale. “No.”
“But you knew Elliot Craig.”
“Yes.”
The restaurant was now empty except for Nathan, Gia and the detective. The cops had arrived, supervised the removal of the victim, questioned everybody—employees and diners alike—then unceremoniously sent everyone out and locked the doors. Knowing Gia’s commitment to her restaurant, Nathan figured she was struggling to decide if a dead body or an interruption of dinner service was more traumatic.
“He comes in every few weeks,” Gia continued.
“For a review?”
“He’ll write up the meal on occasion, but not always. Technically, that’s skirting an ethical line. He eats for free when he’s reviewing.”
“But he ate free here all the time?”
Gia’s lips turned up in a small smile. “No reason to piss him off.”
“Pretty good gig,” the detective commented, to which Nathan agreed.
Plenty of men would pay, and pay big, to see Gia’s stunning face and eat her delicious food on a regular basis—in fact he was the president of that fan club. But since Craig had acted like a pompous jerk from the moment he walked in, Nathan doubted the critic was as lovestruck as Nathan himself. He probably just enjoyed being fawned over.
“Was Craig easily pissed off?” the detective pressed.
“A lot of people found him annoying.”
“Including you?”
Gia’s eyes flashed with resentment, but Nathan doubted anybody who didn’t know her well—or who didn’t study her movements as closely as he did—would be aware of it. “He was aggressive and demanding, but a lot of food people are. He seemed to like eating here.”
Raising his eyebrows, the detective propped his hip against the desk. “I’ve read the reviews. He wasn’t all that complimentary.”
“Elliot never complimented anybody if he could help it.” Gia’s half smile appeared again, sending sparks of need through Nathan’s body. “But then I’m no Joel Robuchon.”
The detective cocked his head. “Who?”
“A French chef of some renown,” Nathan told him, tired on Gia’s behalf of the seemingly pointless questions. “Could these questions wait until tomorrow? Ms. Sorabella has been through quite a lot tonight.”
“You’re the boyfriend?” Anderson asked, giving Nathan his full attention for the first time.
“No,” Gia blurted before Nathan could speak.
Was he really that far from boyfriend material? Unsurprised by the pain that jabbed his heart, Nathan reminded himself that he hadn’t exactly put himself out there with Gia. For a while, he’d simply been happy to breathe the same air she did. Lately he’d begun to want more—a lot more—but he could hardly push for it under tonight’s circumstances. “I’m a friend,” he told the detective.
“How close?”
Ignoring Anderson’s question, Gia laid her hand on Nathan’s knee and leaned toward him, whispering, “Sorry. I didn’t mean…”
Her touch was akin to downing several tumblers of whiskey in a single gulp, and her closeness allowed him to indulge in the captivating, subtle scent that clung to her skin. “It’s okay. I’m glad to be a friend.”
“You always seem to be around when something crazy happens.”
“Like two weeks ago when Franco came down with the stomach flu and I learned how to be a maître d’ in ten minutes?”
Her grin blossomed full-out, the one that inevitably sent his fantasies spinning out of control. “Exactly like that.”
“You’ve been there for me, too, though. Remember all those confessions of my romantic woes?”
He’d only known Gia a few weeks when he’d told her about his girlfriend, the one he’d followed to New York only to have her run off with a hot-shot navy pilot on leave two weeks later. They were now happily tucked away in Southern California. In turn, Nathan was left lusting after a stunning Italian restaurant owner he had as much chance with as he had of landing a fighter jet on an aircraft carrier.
“I remember,” she said, “but your crappy past doesn’t remotely compare to mine. At least you had one great relationship.”
“One I couldn’t hold on to.”
“Yeah, well, I’m zero for twenty—and that only covers my dates during the past year.”
“They were all idiots.”
“So was she.”
Warmth infused him, both at her words and the understanding in her eyes. Moments like these gave him hope…though the timing couldn’t be worse.
Gia squeezed his hand. “Thanks for sticking.”
“Franco and the rest of the guys wanted to stay, too. I convinced them I’d take care of you.”
“And why would you volunteer for that? I don’t expect you to save me all the time, you know.”
“But I like to.”
Meeting his gaze, her eyes focused with determination. “Why?”
He scrambled for the right answer. If their relationship—such as it was—could be plotted with angles and measurements, he’d be on much firmer ground. Her importance in his life had grown exponentially with every word of welcome, smile and conversation. The shared confessions were absolute proof his feelings were much more than a crush and they weren’t going away. Maybe if he drew a diagram of—
“Yo!” The detective slammed his hand onto the desk. “Could you wind up your personal drama so I can get on with my investigation?”
“Sorry,” Nathan said, dragging his attention from Gia.
“Yeah, yeah, got the hots for each other.” Anderson waved his hand. “Doesn’t take a detective to figure that out. But back to the dead guy…”
Gia scowled—whether at the memory of a deceased customer or the idea of them having the hots for each other, Nathan wasn’t sure. “I don’t know what else I can tell you. Elliot started to eat his dinner, he gasped then collapsed. He probably had a heart attack. I’m sorry he died, but I don’t see how we can do anything about it now.” Rising, Gia faced the detective. “Have you eaten? I’m sure we have plenty of leftovers in the kitchen. I’d be glad to throw something together for you.”
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