April’s menu

BARONESSA GELATERIA

in Boston’s North End

In addition to our regular flavors of Italian gelato, this month we are featuring:

 Heart-shaped confections

Rita reveled in her secret admirer’s delightful surprises—a pewter heart pin, silver charm bracelet and crystal heart paperweight. The trinkets touched her, but made her wonder: Just who was the mysterious gift giver?

 Chocolate lovers’ supreme

In dark suits that outlined his masculine physique, chestnut-haired Dr. Matthew Grayson was near perfection, the epitome of a refined, tasteful man. Why, then, did he bring out the earthy, naughty side of nurse Rita?

 Steaming-hot espresso

One kiss… That was all Rita wanted. Just to feel Matthew’s lips against hers and to fantasize about him taking her innocence. But when she kissed him, the brooding doctor stole more than just her virtue….

Buon appetito!

Dear Reader,

Spring into the new season with six fresh passionate, powerful and provocative love stories from Silhouette Desire.

Experience first love with a young nurse and the arrogant surgeon who stole her innocence, in USA TODAY bestselling author Elizabeth Bevarly’s Taming the Beastly MD (#1501), the latest title in the riveting DYNASTIES: THE BARONES continuity series. Another USA TODAY bestselling author, Cait London, offers a second title in her HEARTBREAKERS miniseries—Instinctive Male (#1502) is the story of a vulnerable heiress who finds love in the arms of an autocratic tycoon.

And don’t miss RITA® Award winner Marie Ferrarella’s A Bachelor and a Baby (#1503), the second book of Silhouette’s crossline series THE MOM SQUAD, featuring single mothers who find true love. In Tycoon for Auction (#1504) by Katherine Garbera, a lady executive wins the services of a commitment-shy bachelor. A playboy falls in love with his secretary in Billionaire Boss (#1505) by Meagan McKinney, the latest MATCHED IN MONTANA title. And a Native American hero’s fling with a summer-school teacher produces unexpected complications in Warrior in Her Bed (#1506) by Cathleen Galitz.

This April, shower yourself with all six of these moving and sensual new love stories from Silhouette Desire.

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Taming the Beastly MD
Elizabeth Bevarly

For Gail Chasan.

Thanks for the memories (and so much more).

For nurses everywhere.

(Especially my favorite, Lisa Dobson.)

ELIZABETH BEVARLY

was born and raised in Louisville, Kentucky, and earned her B.A. with honors in English from the University of Louisville in 1983. Although she never wanted to be anything but a novelist, her career side trips before making the leap to writing included stints working in movie theaters, restaurants, boutiques and a major department store. When she’s not writing, Elizabeth enjoys old movies, old houses, good books, whimsical antiques, hot jazz and even hotter salsa (the music, not the sauce). She resides with her husband and young son in Kentucky.

Meet the Barones of Boston—

an elite clan caught in a web of danger, deceit…and desire!

Who’s Who in

TAMING THE BEASTLY MD

Matthew Grayson—Though he was raised with wealth and privilege, his past has left him with scars—some visible and some private. He exudes a gruff, arrogant confidence, but just who is the real Matthew Grayson?

Rita Barone—Despite her sizable trust fund, she’s dedicated her life to nursing. But has her secret admirer revealed the sensual woman living undercover inside her?

Emily Barone—This young Barone cousin knows all about keeping her feelings inside, hidden and alone….

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Prologue

There was no disputing the fact that surly Boston winters tended to slow things down in the emergency rooms of the city’s hospitals. But that only meant it wasn’t standing room only, Rita Barone thought as she gazed at the still-bustling E.R. this bitter early February morning. There was plenty here to keep the staff busy. Certainly enough to make her wish she hadn’t picked up the shift to help out one of the other nurses. Normally, she worked in the coronary care unit, which was a walk in the park compared to the E.R. Still, Rita had started in the E.R. at Boston General, so in a way, this was like coming home.

At home, though, she didn’t have to treat overblown cold sores and ingrown toenails. No, when Rita went home—home to the big Beacon Hill townhouse where she’d grown up, and not the North End brownstone she shared with two of her sisters—her parents pampered her like a princess. In fact, she could be living the life of a princess at this very moment had she chosen, since each of the Barone siblings had collected a million-dollar trust upon turning twenty-one. But Rita, crazy as it might sound, had wanted to be a nurse instead of a princess. Now, after almost three years of employment at Boston General, she knew she had made the right choice. Princesses, she knew, hardly ever saved lives. Plus, they didn’t have nearly as good a health plan as she did.

Cold sores and ingrown toenails, here I come, she thought wryly now as she leveled an espresso-colored gaze on the wretched refuse cluttering the E.R. waiting room. The people seemed not to have changed one bit since she had been a regular staff member here.

But then, she hadn’t changed much herself, had she? she thought further. She still wore the slate-blue scrubs she preferred for work, and she still bound her dark-brown hair in a tidy braid. But then, why fix it if it wasn’t broken, right?

“Excuse me, but I’ve been waiting for more than a half hour now,” a young woman told Rita as she leaned over the counter of the nurses’ station. She seemed to be checking the desk to make sure there were no extra doctors hiding there. “How much longer will it be until I can see someone?”

Rita offered up a halfhearted smile. “It shouldn’t be too much longer, I wouldn’t think,” she said, knowing she was being optimistic, but feeling hopeful all the same. “This flu that’s going around has hit everyone hard. We’re even short a doctor this morning because of it.”

Plus, they were understandably obligated to take the most serious cases first. With a slight fever and cough, and no family doctor, this woman was in for a wait.

Now, too, they were expecting an ambulance, whose arrival they had been alerted to only moments ago. A homeless man had gone into cardiac arrest not far from the hospital. Rita had already notified the coronary care unit, and they were sending down their best—Dr. Matthew Grayson, who was something of a legend around Boston General.

Truth be told, his legendary status wasn’t due entirely to his talent as a heart surgeon. No, part of his status was less legend-like than it was fairy-tale-like. Dr. Grayson definitely resembled a certain fairy-tale character—the Beast from Beauty and the Beast. It wasn’t just because of his attitude, either, though certainly that had been described as beastly by more than one CCU nurse. One would think that as a result of working in the unit herself, Rita would have more than a nodding acquaintance with Dr. Grayson. But she didn’t think anyone in the CCU—or at Boston General for that matter—had any kind of acquaintance with the man.

Although Rita had never been put off by Dr. Grayson the way many were, she could see why others might find him difficult. At times he was gruff to the extreme. Even in his best mood, he was standoffish. His beastliness was only enhanced by the scars on the left side of his face and neck. She didn’t know what had caused those scars—Dr. Grayson never mentioned them, and neither did anyone else if they knew what was good for them—but whatever it had been had done a thorough job in marking him. It was obvious that he’d had cosmetic surgery, but even plastic surgeons couldn’t work miracles. Dr. Grayson, she was sure, would remain scarred for life.

But whether he truly was a beast, Rita couldn’t say. Yes, he could be intimidating, but he was a dedicated professional who saved scores of lives. Rita admired and respected his skill as a surgeon, and she figured he probably had a reason for his gruffness. In any event, he’d never turned that attitude on her. Come to think of it, he pretty much steered clear of her, which was just fine with her.

Besides, it took a lot more than scars and a bad mood to intimidate Rita Barone. The second-youngest of eight children from a celebrated Boston family, she’d had no choice but to learn early on to take care of herself and not let things get to her. She’d grown up with four rough-and-tumble older brothers who’d suffered every manner of injury known to humankind, not to mention their own forms of beastly behavior, especially when puberty struck them.

As if conjured by the thought, Dr. Matthew Grayson himself appeared then, rushing toward the nurses’ station. His white coat flapped behind him over dark trousers, a white shirt and a discreetly patterned necktie in varying shades of blue.

“Has our cardiac arrest arrived yet?” he demanded without so much as a hello as he came to a stop behind Rita.

“Any time now,” she told him.

Really, she thought, considering him, if it weren’t for the scars on his face, he’d be an extremely handsome man. Standing at about six-foot-three, he towered over Rita, something she wasn’t accustomed to at five-eight herself. Add to that impressive height his solid, athletic build, his dreamy green eyes and his chestnut hair with its golden highlights, not to mention the perfectly tailored, very expensive dark suits he generally opted for, and you had the makings of a Hollywood movie star. Only the scars marred his perfection.

Then again, she thought further, in some ways those scars almost added to his allure. They kept his exquisite good looks from being too exquisite, and somehow made him seem more human.

Of course, at the moment, he seemed more godlike, as he towered over her. Rita fought the urge to stand up, though that scarcely would have made a difference, thanks to the disparity in their heights. Instead, she remained seated, as if she were completely unaffected by his nearness. And she was—except for the way her heart rate seemed to have quadrupled the moment she saw him striding toward her.

But then, what else was her heart supposed to do? she wondered. They were expecting a cardiac arrest any moment, and Dr. Grayson had already surged into action in anticipation. It was normal that she be surging, too, albeit in other ways. Ways that had nothing to do with the good doctor’s presence. Especially once she heard the siren outside announcing the arrival of the ambulance. She leapt up from her chair and circled the nurses’ station with Dr. Grayson right on her heels.

In a flurry of motion and clamor, the paramedics wheeled in an elderly man who was screaming and keening and flailing his arms about. He was filthy, Rita saw as she approached, hurrying her stride to match the paramedics’ as she directed them to an examining room, and he was clearly terrified. As she strode alongside him, instinctively she reached for the man’s hand and held it, then winced a bit when he squeezed tightly enough to hurt her. He was obviously much stronger than he looked.

“It’s okay,” she told him as they came to a halt in a small room. “You’re going to be all right.” She didn’t know if that was true, but she wasn’t about to cite heart-attack survival statistics for him right now. “You’ve got the best here to help you,” she said further. “We’ll take good care of you.”

The man stopped trying to strike the paramedics then, and he stopped shouting. When he turned to look at Rita, he was breathing rapidly and raggedly, and his pale-blue eyes were filled with fear.

“Who—who’re you?” he gasped. Then he grimaced in pain.

“My name is Rita,” she said soothingly, stroking her other hand over the one he had wrapped so fiercely around hers. As discreetly as she could, she took his pulse, not wanting to alarm him again. It wasn’t quite as erratic as she would have thought under the circumstances, but it was still thready.

“You—the—doc?” the man asked with some difficulty, his voice raspy, his breathing becoming more labored.

“No, I’m a nurse,” Rita told him as she noted the activity surrounding them. It looked as if half the staff was in the tiny room, tending to the man, even though she knew it was only a fraction of those working this morning. “But there’s a doctor here,” she said further. “You’re in the emergency room of Boston General, and you’re having a heart attack. I’m going to take your blood pressure now,” she then added. When he recoiled and opened his mouth to shout again, she hastily, but very calmly, added, “It won’t hurt, I promise. But you need to let us check you out, to see how you’re doing.”

“We’ve stabilized him,” one of the paramedics said from the other side of the gurney, “but he’s not out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot.”

Rita threw the man a censuring look. The last thing this guy needed to hear was that he was still in danger.

“Am I—” He grimaced again, groaning. “Am I—gonna—die?” he demanded.

“No,” Rita said firmly, gritting her teeth at the paramedic, who just shrugged off her reproach. “You’re going to be fine. What’s your name?” she asked the old man.

He gazed at her warily for a moment, still clearly frightened, then, evidently deciding she was okay, he told her weakly, “Joe.”

“Do you have any family, Joe?” she asked as the others were working to monitor him, hooking him up to oxygen and an EKG. He fought the mask at first, but Rita soothed him, promising him it was for his own good and that it would only be temporary. “Is there anyone we can call who might make you feel more comfortable?” she asked again.

He shook his head, took another indifferent swipe at the oxygen mask, then surrendered to it. “No. No family,” he told her, sounding even weaker than he had before. After a small hesitation, he added, “But—but you kinda—” He expelled a sound of pain, then grabbed her hand again with a brutal grip. “You,” he tried again, “you—make me feel—more comfortable.”

Rita smiled again, flexing her fingers against the force of his grasp. “Well, then, Joe, I’ll just stay right here with you. How will that be?”

He nodded faintly. “That’d be good. Don’t—go nowhere.”

“I won’t,” she promised him.

“And later,” he said, his voice quavering as he spoke, “after—after they’s—done with me, if I—if I make it through—don’t—go nowhere then, neither.”

Rita patted his hand gently. “This is where I work, Joe. And you know, sometimes I feel like I never leave.”

That roused a brief, if feeble, grin from him in response, but he was clearly growing weaker now. She sent up a silent prayer that he would be all right. She knew nothing about him except that he had no home and no family and that his name was Joe. But he was obviously a fighter—and a survivor—and she had no choice but to admire that. Surely he’d survive this, too.

“This is Dr. Grayson,” Rita told him, nodding her head toward the surgeon who now stood on the other side of the gurney. “He’ll be looking at you here in a minute. He’s very good. The absolute best.”

When she looked up, she saw that Dr. Grayson was studying her with much consideration, as if he wanted to ask her something, and she opened her mouth to ask what. But Joe began thrashing and screaming then, and thinking he must be in pain, Rita glanced back down to tend to him. But it obviously wasn’t pain that was causing his reaction. He was looking right at Dr. Grayson and had somehow managed to lift his hand to point at the scars on the other man’s face.

“Don’t let ’im—come near me,” Joe said with much agitation. “He—he ain’t—no man. He’s a—monster.”

Dr. Grayson simply ignored the comment and reached toward Joe. Joe, however, shoved his hand away before the doctor could touch him, and began to thrash even more.

“Git ’im—away from me! Git ’im away!”

“Joe, please,” Rita tried again.

But the old man wouldn’t be calmed. “His face!” he cried, pointing at Dr. Grayson. “He’s like one a’them—one a’them gargoyles on—St. Michael’s. They—come after me sometimes—in my—in my dreams. To take me—to hell. They’s monsters! Git ’im away!”

“Joe, it’s all right,” Rita said firmly, grabbing his arms and holding them at his sides. “Dr. Grayson is here to help you. He’s an excellent surgeon and a wonderful man. No one is going to hurt you,” she said even more forcefully. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, I promise. I’m right here, and I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

For whatever reason, her vows reassured him. Or maybe it was just that he was too weak and in too much pain to fight anymore. Rita gave up trying to be a nurse then and let the other RNs tend to Joe’s medical needs. Instead, she picked up the man’s hand once more and held it tightly, and murmured soothing words about how he was going to be just fine because he had Dr. Matthew Grayson to take care of him.

And he would be fine, Rita told herself, feeling strangely attached to the old man for some reason. Because he did have Dr. Matthew Grayson to look after him.

Who wouldn’t be fine with someone like that to watch over him?

One

The coronary care unit at Boston General in the trendy North End was quiet for a Friday at dinnertime—no doubt the rowdy April weather outside was keeping many visitors at home—which meant that Rita Barone actually found five full minutes to steal away from the nurses’ station for a cup of bad coffee from the vending machine in the CCU waiting room. Coffee—even bad coffee—was her only hope to get her through the evening shift, one she hadn’t worked in months. After three years at Boston General, she had finally landed regular hours in the day shift, and only had to pull night hours now to cover for friends, like tonight, or to pick up extra Christmas money. Not that extra Christmas money was generally a big deal, since the Barones of Boston were never strapped for cash. But Rita was the kind of woman who liked to rest on her own laurels, and not the family’s, so she rarely, if ever, took advantage of the Barone family’s very fat coffers.

Three years, she reflected again as she watched the vending machine spit its dark-brown brew into a paper container that was in no way large enough to qualify for a respectable cup of coffee. In fact, it had been three years to the day today, she realized further. She had begun working at Boston General as a student nurse exactly two months before her June graduation from Boston University, and exactly one month following her twenty-second birthday. Now, at twenty-five, here she was celebrating her anniversary by being back on the evening shift.

She glanced down at her watch, then shook her head morosely. She’d only started two hours ago, and already she was hitting the caffeine. The six remaining hours had never seemed like such a long, looming stretch of time.

She kept a close eye on the too-full cup of coffee as she made her way back to the nurses’ station, then returned to her seat and set the hot brew to the side to cool a bit. Absently, she tucked a stray strand of dark-brown hair back into the thick French braid that fell to the base of her neck, then brushed at a stain of indistinguishable origin on the pants of her slate-blue scrubs. It wasn’t until she was reaching for a patient chart that she saw the small white package tucked sideways into her note slot on the desk.

And she battled a wave of apprehension that shimmied down her spine when she saw it.

It hadn’t been there when she’d gone for her coffee, because she’d had to reach into her mail slot to grab some of the spare change she always left there for the vending machines. So whoever had left it had done so just now, while she was gone. It was a small square box wrapped in white glossy paper, tied with a gold ribbon, obviously a gift. But instead of being delighted by such a surprise, Rita went cold inside. This was the third time she’d found a gift in her note slot wrapped in exactly this way. As always, when she looked for a note to accompany the gift, she didn’t find one. And, as always, that bothered her. A lot.

Okay, she admitted, she had been delighted the first time such a gift had shown up, on Valentine’s Day, two months ago—for all of a few hours. When she’d returned from lunch that day and found a tiny present tucked into her note slot, she’d been reluctantly enchanted, especially when she found that there was no note accompanying the gift to explain its presence. She’d been even more enchanted when she’d opened the box to find a small pin inside. It was a pewter heart, not much bigger than a postage stamp, wrapped diagonally with a gold Band-Aid. She’d thought it an appropriate gift for a cardiology nurse, and had immediately pinned the heart to the breast pocket of her scrubs, just above her name tag. Then she’d waited for the giver to come forward and identify him- or herself, and his or her reason for the gesture.

Of course, since the occasion on that first gift’s appearance was Valentine’s Day, her co-workers had proposed that Rita must have a secret admirer. Rita, naturally, had considered such a suggestion ridiculous. Grown men didn’t have secret crushes on grown women—not emotionally sound grown men, anyway. But her fellow nurses had insisted, and it hadn’t been long before the rumor mill at Boston General—an astoundingly active one—was churning out a story about Rita Barone’s secret admirer.

Who could it be? everyone wondered. One of the handsome new interns? A co-worker who was too shy to make his affections known? A former patient who felt his life had been saved by the lovely, dark-eyed, dark-haired cardiology nurse?

Although a number of people had remarked on the pin that day, none had claimed to be the one who gave it to Rita. Nor had any of her co-workers seen anyone put the gift in her note slot. So Rita began to wear the pin daily, certain that eventually someone would admit to having given it to her. Perhaps there was supposed to have been a card, but it had got lost somehow. Perhaps someone simply wanted to tease her a bit by leaving her curious for a few days before identifying himself as the giver. Perhaps the person was shy, in which case that shyness might be assuaged if the person saw her wearing the gift.

But in spite of Rita continually wearing the pin, and in spite of the number of comments she received about it, no one ever came forward.

The second gift had arrived in her note slot last month, on her birthday. Again, it had been wrapped in white, glossy paper with a gold ribbon, and again, it had appeared without a card or note. When Rita had opened that one, hoping perhaps it might offer some clue as to the identity of its giver, she had found inside an inexpensive silver charm bracelet with a dozen delicate little charms related to the nursing field. She’d been reluctantly pleased by it, too, but hadn’t quite been able to halt the feeling of foreboding that had accompanied her pleasure.

She’d told herself her apprehension was silly, that obviously she did have a secret admirer—and hey, why was that such a bad thing? Then she’d donned the charm bracelet, as well, hoping again to “out” the giver.

But again, no one came forth to claim the identity of Rita Barone’s secret admirer. No one came forth for any reason at all.

Now, as she eyed this latest gift with a mixture of hesitant pleasure and growing dread, she lifted her right hand to stroke the bandaged heart pin fastened, as it always was, on the pocket of her scrubs. When she did, the charm bracelet clinked merrily on her right wrist.

Now the mysterious giver had struck again, had left her a third gift—on the third anniversary of her having started work at Boston General.

Whoever it was, she realized then, was commemorating special occasions and events—first Valentine’s Day, then her birthday, and now the anniversary of her first day at work. It must be someone who worked at the hospital, she thought. And it must be a secret admirer—for lack of a better ID. There were too many romantic overtones for it not to be. Still, she couldn’t begin to imagine who might be leaving her gifts like this. She’d noticed not one hint of interest from anyone of the opposite sex, absolutely no clue that there was a man out there who regarded her as anything more than another human being who inhabited the same planet. Not at work, and not anywhere else, either.

Not unless she was overlooking any hints and clues a man might be giving out, which she supposed was possible, since she’d really never been much interested in the opposite sex. Her sisters Gina and Maria often told her she was so focused on her work that she was missing out on everything else life had to offer, including romance.

Of course, Rita didn’t necessarily disagree with that. Her work was very important to her. More important, she admitted, than anything else. Except for family, of course. The Barones were a close-knit bunch, and family would always come first for all of them. But Rita had never wanted to be anything but a nurse, ever since she was a child, and the job gave her more satisfaction and fulfillment than she could imagine receiving anywhere else. She helped save lives here at the hospital. What could possibly be more important than that?

Well, there was saving her own life, Gina would always argue when Rita pointed that out, seeing as how Rita didn’t much have one outside work. And there was living her life, Maria would chime in, the one outside work, anyway. Whenever her sisters offered their opinions in such a way, Rita would blithely remind them that her work was her life, and she enjoyed it very much, thanks. And she truly did believe it was enough. She had a full, and very satisfying, life without having to wade through all the politics and games of a romantic relationship—especially a workplace romance.

Still, she thought now as she gingerly fingered the third little white package, it would be nice to discover who was leaving the gifts for her. If nothing else, she could rest easy knowing there was nothing more to it than someone having a bit of fun. Because she just couldn’t quite shake the sensation that there was something a bit sinister about all this anonymous gift-giving, even if the gifts in question had been totally benign.

Rita checked one more time to see if there was a card or note to accompany the gift but, not surprisingly, she found none. So, inhaling a deep breath, she tucked her finger under the gold ribbon and slowly slid it off. Then she carefully peeled back the white paper. Just as it had been with the previous two gifts, the box was plain and white, too, with no markings that might identify where the gift had been purchased. Placing it cautiously on the desk, Rita lifted the lid, then pushed aside a fold of tissue paper.

“Oh, my,” she said softly, reverently, when she saw what was inside. A small, cut-crystal heart winked merrily at her from its cushion of tissue in the box, shattering the harsh fluorescent overhead light into a billion kaleidoscopic colors. It was meant, she supposed, to be a paperweight. Somehow, though, it was much too beautiful for so functional a purpose.

A crystal heart, she remarked again. Was it a symbol of what she did for a living, caring for a fragile organ? Or a symbol of the giver’s fragile feelings for her? And how would she ever know if the giver never came forward? And why wouldn’t he? It had been two months since that first gift had appeared. Surely, by now, he was ready to make himself known. Unless…

Unless his intentions were less than honorable.

“Have you nothing better to do with your time, Ms. Barone, than enjoy an extended coffee break?”

Rita jumped at the gruffly offered question, not so much because of the question itself—unfair as it was—but because the voice belonged to Dr. Matthew Grayson. In addition to his medical skills, he was renowned for his no-nonsense approach to his work.

And also because of his complete intolerance for anything bordering on fun.

Tall, dark and brooding, that was Dr. Grayson. All the nurses and other doctors thought so. And most steered clear of him whenever they could, because they didn’t want to get caught in the storm swirling in the dark clouds that always seemed to surround him. Rita, though, had always thought him rather intriguing. Nobody was born grouchy and aloof, she reasoned. Something had to happen in a person’s life to make him that way. And Rita couldn’t help wondering what had happened in Matthew Grayson’s.

She also couldn’t help wondering if it had anything to do with the scars he bore on his left cheek and neck. The worst of them were a trio of nearly straight lines that ran from his cheekbone to his jaw—three parallel stripes, roughly a half inch apart and three inches in length.

Automatically she slammed the lid back down on the box she had just opened. For some reason, she didn’t want Dr. Grayson to know about her secret admirer—if admiring was indeed what was behind the mysterious gifts. As discreetly as she could, she slid the box back into her note slot, tossed the white wrapping paper and gold ribbon into the wastebasket beneath her desk, and then turned in her chair to face him.

Big mistake, she realized immediately. Because being seated while he was standing left Rita gazing at a part of Dr. Grayson she really shouldn’t be gazing at.

“Dr. Grayson,” she said as she abruptly stood, telling herself she was only imagining the breathless quality her voice seemed to have suddenly adopted. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Obviously,” he replied wryly.

“And I wasn’t enjoying a coffee break,” she assured him.

He gazed pointedly at the cup sitting before her chair.

“Okay, yes, I was having coffee,” she conceded. “But I wasn’t enjoying it. It’s from the vending machine,” she added meaningfully.

Dr. Grayson, however, evidently didn’t catch her meaning, because he only continued to scowl at her. Granted, it was kind of a handsome scowl, what with those dreamy green eyes and that full, luscious-looking mouth, but it was a scowl nonetheless. So Rita countered with the most dazzling smile she could conjure from her ample arsenal. She knew it made him uncomfortable to be smiled at. Probably, she thought, because he didn’t know how to smile back. In fact, she’d never seen him smile. And, true to her supposition—and his own personality—Dr. Grayson only deepened his scowl. So Rita smiled even more dazzlingly, this time batting her eyelashes playfully.

There, she thought triumphantly. Take that, Dr. Grayson.

But instead of being immobilized by her mischievous warfare, Dr. Grayson only looked more ferocious. So, with an imperceptible sigh, Rita surrendered.

Point to Dr. Grayson.

“Rita,” he said in a tone of voice that indicated he wanted to start all over again and pretend the last few moments hadn’t happened, which was fine with her, “we’ve just admitted a new patient who will be arriving in CCU shortly, a Mr. Harold Asgaard. He’s scheduled for surgery at seven in the morning, but I want him monitored closely throughout the evening and all through the night.”

Somehow, Rita refrained from a salute. Still, she dutifully replied, “Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.”

“Good.”

“Anything else?” she asked when he added nothing more. She found it odd that he’d sought her out just to tell her to closely monitor a patient who was scheduled for surgery in the morning. That was standard operating procedure in CCU.

Dr. Grayson dropped his gaze to the chart he held in one hand, began scanning it, then shook his head. “No, I think that’s all for now. You’re on evening shift tonight?” he asked, stating the obvious, still scanning the chart, as if he were uncomfortable meeting her gaze.

“Um, yes,” Rita replied in light of the obvious.

“Covering for Nancy?”

“Rosemary, actually,” Rita said. “Her great-grandmother’s one-hundredth birthday party is tonight, so she and I traded off today. Nancy’s left the unit. She transferred to pediatrics last week.”

Dr. Grayson nodded, as if just now remembering, and continued to scan the chart. Continued to avoid Rita’s gaze. “That’s right,” he said absently. “I’d forgotten.”

Rita eyed him suspiciously. It wasn’t like Matthew Grayson to forget things. And it wasn’t like him to avoid anyone’s gaze. What was up with him today? He seemed a little…off.

“Is everything okay, Dr. Grayson?” she asked before thinking. “You don’t seem like yourself.”

His gaze shot back up to meet hers, and only then did Rita realize how familiarly she had spoken to him. Boston General didn’t have rules against such behavior, but Dr. Grayson did. And everyone knew it, because he’d made it clear over the years that he was not the kind of person who spoke about personal things. But Rita couldn’t help it. It was in her nature. Family matters were a big deal with the Barones, and were generally discussed quite candidly.

Still, she should have known better with Dr. Grayson. She didn’t know what she was thinking to have asked him such a question and offered such a remark about his well-being.

“And who do I seem like, Rita?” he asked coolly.

“Uh, no one in particular. Just…you know…not yourself.”

“And how does myself usually seem?” he asked further.

“Uh… I, uh… What I meant was… It’s just that…” Great. Now she’d done it. How did one get oneself out of a painted corner without messing up one’s shoes? she wondered.

“Yes, Rita, everything is fine,” Dr. Grayson finally interjected before she gave herself enough rope for a self-inflicted hanging. And in doing so, he simultaneously put her out of her misery, and put her back up in the process. “Not that that’s any of your concern,” he added sharply.

Another point to the beastly Dr. Grayson, Rita thought.

She bit her lower lip to keep in a tart retort. Instead, she nodded silently and glanced momentarily away. But when she looked his way again, she noticed his eyes weren’t meeting hers, though his attention was lingering on her face. More specifically, on her mouth, she realized. He was noticing how she was anxiously biting her lip and…

…and probably thinking her the worst kind of neurotic.

Immediately, she ceased her fretting and forced herself to attention. “I’m sorry,” she said, though even she couldn’t detect a trace of apology in her voice. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Didn’t you?” he asked.

She shook her head, knowing she spoke the truth. Why would she want to pry into Matthew Grayson’s life? Just because she found his seemingly inexplicable gruffness intriguing? Just because he had such dreamy green eyes? Just because he seemed to be as dedicated to his work as Rita was to hers? Just because he had such dreamy green eyes? Just because she’d been wondering since the day she started working in CCU what his story was? Just because he had such dreamy green eyes? Just because she wished she could work up the nerve to ask him about those scars on his face and neck?

And had she mentioned his dreamy green eyes?

Get a grip, Rita, she told herself. This was Matthew Grayson, MD, whose green eyes she found so dreamy. He was a distinguished cardiac surgeon and an eminent curmudgeon, probably almost ten years her senior and too serious by half. He wasn’t the kind of man she should be wondering about in any way. He wasn’t her type at all.

Not that she had a type, she quickly reminded herself. But if she did have a type, it wouldn’t be Matthew Grayson, MD.

Even if he did have dreamy green eyes.

“No, I didn’t,” she said, recalling now that he had asked a question. “I didn’t mean to pry. I was just a little concerned, that’s all.”

Dr. Grayson studied her for a moment more, long enough to make Rita think he was wondering something about her, too. Then, in a brisk, that-will-be-all kind of voice, he assured her, “You needn’t be concerned about me.” Before she had a chance to comment further, he spun on his heel and walked away.

Point three to the Beast.

Rita was a Barone, though, and Barones always got in the last word, no matter how many points behind they were. Always. So, quietly enough that he couldn’t hear, and to his retreating back, she said, “Trust me, Dr. Grayson, when I say that I won’t be concerned about you. Ever.”

Point to the Barone. Finally.

Then Rita returned to both her chair and her work. Still not feeling as if that last word was quite enough, however, she glanced back up in time to see Dr. Grayson’s imposing figure disappearing around the corner at the end of the corridor. And she fired off another last word to punctuate the others.

“Beast,” she said.

For some reason, though, it didn’t make her feel any better.

Matthew Grayson managed—barely—to make it back to his office in the medical towers adjoining Boston General before his knees finally collapsed beneath him. He staggered over to his desk and toppled into the leather chair behind it, then inhaled a deep, ragged breath in the hopes that it might quell the rapid-fire banging of his heart. Then he called himself every kind of fool.

Rita Barone had come this close to catching him this time. When he’d seen her leave the nurses’ station, he’d thought she was taking a longer break than a few short minutes, so he hadn’t been in any hurry to slip the little package from the pocket of his jacket into her mail slot. Plus, he’d had to wait for another nurse and a visitor to conclude their conversation near the nurses’ station and walk off before he could even approach. He couldn’t risk anyone seeing him anywhere near Rita’s station when he did what he had to do.

He’d only just managed to leave the gift and steal away before she’d returned. Lucky for him she’d been entirely focused on not spilling her coffee as she’d walked down the corridor. Had she glanced up, even for a second, she would have seen him standing there, then would have found the gift after he left, and then would have had no trouble deducing who had been leaving her mysterious presents for the past two months.

And damned if Matthew didn’t feel like the biggest buffoon on the planet for leaving those mysterious presents. Here he was, a thirty-three-year-old man, one of the most noted surgeons in New England, and a member of one of Boston’s most illustrious families, and he was behaving like a goofy junior-high-school kid, leaving secret gifts in the locker of the girl he liked. What in God’s name had reduced him to such behavior?

Well, of course, he knew that. And he felt like an even bigger buffoon admitting it. It was the simple presence of Rita Barone in the coronary care unit at Boston General. The “beastly” Dr. Grayson—yes, he knew quite well what his nickname was around the hospital; he had ears, after all—had a crush on one of the nurses. And not just any nurse, but a nurse who was young and pretty and vivacious. A nurse who would surely be shocked and repulsed if she ever found out the identity of her secret admirer.

Talk about your Beauty and the Beast scenarios. Without even meaning to, Matthew had reduced himself to a cliché.

Gingerly, he lifted his hand to his left cheek, tracing his index finger over the scars that even the most talented plastic surgeons and the most sophisticated cosmetic surgical techniques couldn’t erase. The deepest of the wounds had gone straight down to the bone. Well, the deepest of the physical wounds, at any rate. Over the past twenty-three years, Matthew had undergone more surgery for his face than he cared to think about. Really, he supposed he looked pretty good, considering the viciousness of the attack and the depth of the damage. Physically, any scarring that was left was relatively superficial. Emotionally, however…

Well. Those injuries had gone straight down into the bone, and in many ways, had been even more damaging than the physical ones. Nor were they as repairable. Although he knew no one was perfect, Matthew was imperfect in ways that most people were not. He couldn’t imagine someone like Rita Barone—someone who was very nearly perfect, at least in his eyes—ever wanting to get any closer to him than she had to.

He propped his elbows on his desk, closed his eyes, and buried his face in his hands, hoping that by doing so, he might be able to think about something else, visualize something other than Rita’s dark, soulful eyes and her lush mouth. But he couldn’t stop replaying the image of her nibbling her lip the way she had, and he couldn’t halt the heat that swept through him when he remembered it. He could still hear the sound of her soft sigh and her reverently whispered “Oh, my” as she opened the box with the crystal heart, and that, too, filled him with a strange sort of warmth unlike anything he had ever felt before.

She had liked her gift, he realized, relief coursing through him like a slowly thawing springtime stream. And she had been wearing the bracelet and pin, too, just as she had worn them at work every day since he’d left them for her. Something about that gladdened Matthew, as if there was a little part of him she kept with her every day, even if she didn’t realize it herself.

Surely, he thought further, there was something wrong with him, finding a guilty sort of pleasure in a secret he was sharing with no one.

No, he immediately corrected himself, dropping his hands from his face to place them resolutely on his desk. He did not have a crush on Rita Barone. It wasn’t that at all. He focused his gaze on the opposite wall of his office, the one hung with his degrees and awards and commendations. He wasn’t the kind of man to have crushes. He was far too pragmatic and accomplished.

He admired Rita Barone, he told himself, that was all. Admired her on a professional level, and nothing more. Surely there was nothing wrong with admiring a co-worker. Nor was there anything wrong with being unable to verbally articulate that admiration. There were plenty of people who were uncomfortable expressing such sentiments. Matthew had never been one for the touchy-feely sharing of emotions—none of the Graysons were—and God knew he wasn’t about to start now.

He admired Rita Barone, he told himself again, more adamantly this time. He respected her dedication to her work, and he appreciated her ability to relate to patients in a kind and caring fashion.

Take last February, with a homeless man named Joe. Rita had calmed the man’s fears, and stayed by his side throughout his open-heart surgery. Because of her, the old man had made a total recovery.

Matthew had been amazed by her kindness and nurturing during that time. He’d envied her then—and still did—the gift she had for relating to and sympathizing with others, two things he’d never been able to master himself. Of course, there was a reason for that, but it didn’t keep Matthew from feeling diminished in that regard. As he’d watched Rita interact with Joe, Matthew had been touched on a level where he’d never felt anything before.

Back in February, he’d wanted to do something to let Rita know how much he had appreciated her help with Joe. Since he was uncomfortable vocalizing such things, he’d decided to leave some small token of his gratitude in her mail slot instead. He’d seen the bandaged heart pin in the hospital gift shop, and he’d thought it would make an appropriate gift. He’d written a note of thanks to leave with it, but the day had been so hectic, he’d forgotten to include it. He’d also forgotten that the day in question was Valentine’s Day.

It was only later, when he began to hear the rumors about Rita Barone’s secret admirer that he realized what he had done. The last thing he’d wanted to do at that point was identify himself and risk being labeled Rita’s secret admirer by the hospital grapevine. That would have only led to teasing, and Matthew hated to be teased. There was a reason for that, too, but no one would have cared. All he’d known then was that he couldn’t let himself be fingered as Rita Barone’s secret admirer. So he’d tossed the note in the garbage and kept his mouth shut.

Of course, that didn’t explain why he’d felt compelled to leave her another gift last month, on her birthday, or a third gift this evening, on the anniversary of her start at Boston General. Hell, it didn’t explain why he even knew those dates. And it certainly didn’t explain why he’d deliberately made sure those gifts were given anonymously. What did explain that, Matthew thought now, was…

Ah, dammit. He didn’t have an explanation for it.

Sure, you do, he told himself sarcastically. You admire her. On a professional level. There’s nothing more to it than that. Even if she does have the kind of dark, soulful eyes a man could get lost in forever and never find his way back.

Oh, stop it, Matthew commanded himself. You’re getting maudlin in your old age.

And old was often how he felt around Rita Barone. Old and scarred and beastly.

Enough! he shouted inwardly. He had plenty to occupy his mind at the moment other than thoughts of a certain dark-eyed, dark-haired nurse that made him feel foolish. He had surgery scheduled early tomorrow morning, and he had yet to make his final rounds. Rita Barone was the last thing he should be thinking about. She was his co-worker, nothing more. And she was too young and spirited and beautiful to be interested in someone old and scarred and beastly.

And even if there was the potential for something to develop between them—which was highly unlikely—her family was the nouveau riche Barone clan, while his own was old-money Bostonian. The Graysons had come over on the Mayflower, for God’s sake, and they never let anyone forget it. The Barones, on the other hand, had come over in steerage. They came from humble beginnings and had only recently made their fortune, and in the Italian ice-cream business, of all things. Talk about your frivolous pursuits. The Graysons, by and large, were financiers. Much more respectable work—at least, as far as the elder Graysons were concerned.

No, there was no way his parents would ever approve of a Grayson–Barone merger, and they’d make things very difficult for Matthew—and for Rita, too. Especially after the sordid, scandalous stories that had been splashed across the tabloids last month about one of Rita’s sisters. He vaguely remembered something about suggestive photos better suited to men’s magazines than respectable newspapers. Not that the tabloids were in any way respectable. But they were read. Doubtless the photos had never been meant for public consumption, but consumed by the public they had been—rabidly. And although the old-money Bostonians might turn their noses up at scandal and gossip, it certainly didn’t keep them from gossiping about scandal. There was no way Matthew’s mother would let any of the Barones come near her family or her home.

Not that it mattered. There were just too many things that didn’t mesh between Matthew and Rita for there to be anything to worry about, he told himself again. Therefore, he wouldn’t worry about it.

And he wouldn’t think about her dark, soulful eyes.

Two

Rita was absolutely beat when she finally got home just after midnight. Not surprisingly, the brownstone on Paul Revere Way looked dark and quiet as she climbed the handful of steps to the front door and unlocked it. Her older sister Gina had moved out last month, after marrying Flint Kingman, and Rita and Maria were still trying to find a suitable tenant for the empty top-floor apartment. And her younger sister Maria was doubtless just out, as she so often seemed to be these days.

In fact, Maria had been going out way more often than usual lately, Rita reflected as she locked the door behind herself. Which was surprising, because Maria didn’t have a steady boyfriend, or much of a social life outside of her work managing the original Baronessa Gelateria on Hanover Street. She used to be home as often as Rita was. But for the past couple of months she’d been out quite a lot, something that suggested there might be someone special in her life. But Maria hadn’t mentioned meeting anyone, and Rita certainly hadn’t seen her with anyone out of the ordinary.

As she stepped into the foyer of the brownstone, she realized immediately that she was indeed alone. The first floor of the four-story brick building served as a kind of community living room for the sisters, and tended to be a place of congregation, regardless of the hour. With its hardwood floors and leafy plants and beige furnishings and powder-blue accents in the form of pillows and such, the first floor of the brownstone was inviting in a comfy, elegant kind of way that made people want to linger. At the moment, though, it was empty, and not so much as a discarded jacket or pair of shoes indicated that anyone had been home anytime recently.

Rita had, as she always did in the afternoons following her shift, walked home tonight, unconcerned about her safety because the streets of Boston’s North End were always well populated on a Friday night, even in a light drizzle, as there was tonight. Now she shrugged off her raincoat and ran her fingers through her damp, dark bangs, then forsook the elevator to make her way up the stairs to her third-floor apartment. Once inside, she hung her coat on the rack by the door and went straight to her kitchen to brew herself a cup of chamomile tea. She wasn’t normally a night owl, but she was still too wound up from her shift to go to bed just yet. So, dipping her teabag in and out of her mug, she moved to the bathroom for a long, hot soak in a tub full of lavender-scented water.

It was going on one-thirty, and she was about to turn off her bedside lamp, when she heard Maria coming in downstairs. Pushing back the covers, Rita climbed out of bed and padded barefoot to her front door, waiting until she knew for sure that her sister was alone before opening it. It wasn’t so much that she didn’t want to interrupt anything Maria might be doing with the potential someone special in her life that she didn’t seem to want to tell anyone about, but Rita didn’t want anyone else to catch her in her neon-pink pajamas decorated with ice-cream desserts, which she’d fallen in love with at the store and thought appropriate for a Barone. But she detected no footsteps other than Maria’s on the stairs, so she stepped out of her apartment, peeked over the stair rail and called down to her sister.

“Hey, you,” she said. “Where have you been?”

At the summons, Maria looked up over the stair rail two floors below and smiled. Her dark hair fell just below her shoulders, and her dark eyes twinkled merrily, even in the scant stairwell light. “Hi,” she called softly out of habit, even though there was no one else in the building to disturb anymore. But instead of answering Rita’s question, she asked one of her own. “What are you doing up so late?”

Rita hesitated a moment before telling her sister, “I got another anonymous gift at work tonight.”

Immediately Maria’s smile fell. “That’s what? Three now?”

Rita nodded.

“And you still have no idea who’s leaving them?”

Now Rita shook her head. “And no idea why.”

“Let me drop my purse and shoes in my apartment,” Maria said, “and I’ll be right up.”

Rita murmured her thanks and returned to her own apartment, leaving her door open so that her sister could come inside. A few moments later Maria arrived, still dressed in her Friday-night outfit of black capri pants and sapphire-blue silk shirt. The combination was striking with her dark good looks, and Rita, who was hopelessly fashion-challenged, made a mental note to copy a similar outfit the next time she went out. Then she wondered why she was bothering to make such a mental note, seeing as she never went out anyway.

She sighed fitfully as Maria took her seat on the overstuffed chintz sofa opposite the overstuffed chintz chair Rita occupied herself. Her decorating sense was no better than her fashion sense, so she’d copied the room down to every detail from a photograph in a magazine. Between the chintz furniture and the lace curtains, and the hooked floral rugs on the hardwood floor, she’d managed to capture an English-country-cottage look fairly well, right down to the dried flower wreaths and watercolor landscapes on the cream-colored walls. Usually, this room soothed Rita. Tonight, though, she just felt edgy.

“You didn’t see who left it?” Maria asked without preamble.

Again Rita shook her head. “And it’s really starting to creep me out, Maria. I mean, why would he leave gifts without letting me know who he is?”

“What do your instincts tell you?” Maria asked.

Rita thought about that for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “Part of me feels like whoever is doing it is doing it because he’s shy and is afraid I might rebuff him.”

“How does the other part of you feel?”

Rita met her sister’s gaze levelly now. “Like maybe he’s not shy. Like maybe he’s a—” She couldn’t even say the word aloud.

“A stalker?” Maria asked, voicing the very word Rita had hoped so much to avoid. Just like that, a cold shudder went scurrying right down her spine.

“Yeah,” she said. “Like maybe he’s…one of those.”

Maria looked doubtful. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe I’m being naive, but I bet you do just have some kind of secret admirer at the hospital. I mean, don’t stalkers usually strike closer to home? And don’t they inspire terror? What was the gift this time? Unless it was a decapitated pet or a dismembered Barbie doll or something, you’re probably fine.”

Rita rose from the sofa and went to retrieve the square white box from her purse, then took it to Maria and placed it in her palm.

“Too small to be a decapitated pet,” her sister quipped. “Unless you’ve been keeping goldfish you haven’t told me about. Just promise me there’s not a severed Barbie hand in there.”

“Maria,” Rita said pleadingly.

“All right, all right. Enough with the sick jokes. I was just trying to make you feel better.”

“Talk of headless animals and doll parts is not making me feel better,” Rita told her.

“I apologize. It’s late,” her sister said by way of an explanation. Then Maria opened the box and moved aside the tissue, sighing with the same sort of delight Rita had exhibited herself upon seeing what was inside.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” she said as she carefully withdrew the crystal heart from inside the box.

“Yeah, but does it refer to my job, or the guy’s feelings for me?” Rita asked.

“And it’s also Waterford,” Maria added, not answering the question, as she held the heart up to the light. “Which means, A, this guy’s got good taste, and B, this guy’s got good money.”

“How can you tell it’s Waterford?” Rita asked, moving to the sofa to sit beside her sister.

“The little seahorse etched on the side,” Maria said, pointing to the logo in question. “See?”

Rita did see the logo. What she didn’t see was why the purchaser had spent so much money this time. She’d seen the bandaged heart pin in the hospital gift shop for ten dollars, and even with her unpracticed eye, she knew the charm bracelet couldn’t have cost much more than that. This, though, was clearly a costly little trinket. Why the sudden leap in price tag?

“Okay, so the first gift came on Valentine’s Day,” Maria was saying as she admired the crystal heart, “and the second—” She gasped suddenly. “Oh, wow. I just now made the connection. Valentine’s Day. The family curse. No wonder you’re concerned.”

Rita expelled an errant breath and told herself her sister was being silly. Oh, sure, there were plenty of Barones who believed in the curse Lucia Conti had put on the family two generations ago, but Rita had never been one of them. She was too sensible to believe in curses. Well, pretty much. But she’d heard the story like everyone else in the family, and she could see why some of the Barones believed in it.

When Marco Barone, Rita’s grandfather and the founder of Baronessa Gelati, had first come to the United States from Sicily in the thirties, he worked as a waiter at Conti’s, a restaurant on Prince Street that was owned by friends of his parents, another Sicilian couple. The Contis had a daughter named Lucia, who, it was said, loved Marco very much, and it was always understood between the two families that Lucia and Marco would someday marry. But Marco met and fell in love with Angelica Salvo, who also worked at Conti’s, and they married instead. On their wedding day—Valentine’s Day—Lucia, it was also said, had put a curse on them and every future generation of Barones. “You got married on Valentine’s Day,” Lucia was reported to have said, “and may your anniversary day be cursed. A miserable Valentine’s Day to both of you, from this day forward.”

Of course, not every Valentine’s Day had resulted in misfortune for the Barones. But a number of tragedies, and a lot of things that had gone wrong for the family had happened on that date. On that first Valentine’s Day after their wedding, Angelica miscarried her and Marco’s first child. Some years later on Valentine’s Day, another child of theirs, one of a pair of twin sons, was kidnapped from the hospital nursery when he was only two days old and was never seen again.

And more recently, there had been a professional debacle this past Valentine’s Day, when Baronessa Gelati had thrown a huge gala to launch a new flavor, passionfruit. Someone had spiked the gelato prior to the event with habanero peppers, and everyone who tasted it suffered from a burning mouth. One man had even suffered from an attack of anaphylaxis, a serious allergic reaction. It had been a public-relations nightmare that not even PR whiz Gina had been able to handle. The Barones had been forced to hire an outside spin doctor to help get the company’s image back on track. They were still seeing repercussions from the incident.

Not the least of which was Gina’s marriage to said spin doctor, Flint Kingman, which, now that Rita thought about it, sort of negated the Valentine’s Day curse.

But Rita could still see why Maria might bring up the Valentine’s Day curse now, even if Rita didn’t believe in it herself.

“So the first gift came on Valentine’s Day,” Maria began again. “And the second gift came on your birthday. Both special occasions,” she noted. “But today isn’t a—”

“Today is the third anniversary of my first day working at Boston General,” Rita said morosely. “Another special occasion of sorts. Whoever’s doing this even remembers the day I started working there.”

“But that narrows it down,” Maria said triumphantly. “That means whoever’s leaving these is definitely someone you work with, and he must have been there three years ago when you started.”

Rita rolled her eyes. “Oh, fine. That narrows it down, all right. To about a couple hundred people.”

“But it must be someone you work fairly closely with,” Maria said. “It’s probably someone in CCU.”

“But I started in the E.R.,” Rita reminded her sister. “And then I worked briefly in geriatrics before I moved to CCU.”

“It still must be someone at work,” Maria said. “That’s where the gifts arrive, and with this anniversary thing, you know that must be it.”

It still didn’t help, Rita thought. There were scores of people who could be possibilities.

“I think it’s kind of sweet, really,” Maria said. “Kind of romantic.”

“Romantic?” Rita echoed, thinking that was a strange word to be uttered by a Boston University MBA who spent most of her time working. “Since when did you become such a romantic?”

Maria blushed a little at the question, something else Rita thought odd. “I’m not a romantic,” she said. But there was something in her tone that suggested otherwise. “I just don’t think it’s a stalker, that’s all. I think it’s someone who has a crush on you.”

Rita frowned. “Maria, grown men don’t have crushes.”

“Sure they do,” she objected. “And sometimes it’s the big, strong, tough guys who are the most susceptible.”

Oh, spoken like an idealistic, virginal twenty-three-year-old, Rita thought wryly. Not that Rita should throw stones, seeing as how she was a somewhat idealistic, though definitely virginal twenty-five-year-old. Still, she had seen more of the world than her younger sister had, mostly thanks to that time in the E.R. And she hadn’t seen any big, strong, tough guys who would qualify for secret admirer status. Stalker status, surely, but—

Oh, dammit. She’d let that word out again. Somehow, though, deep down, she wasn’t any more convinced of that possibility than Maria was. Her instincts were good, and although she couldn’t rule out the sinister entirely, Rita still felt more strongly that whoever was leaving the gifts had no intention of hurting her.

But she couldn’t be sure.

Of course, she’d been known to be wrong before.

“I don’t know what to do,” Rita said. “Whether this person is a crazy psycho or not, I don’t like getting anonymous gifts. But I don’t know how to out the person, either.”

Maria nestled the crystal heart back into its tissue bed and replaced the top on the box. “I don’t think it’s anything to worry about,” she said. “But if it makes you feel that uncomfortable, then maybe you should stop wearing the pin and the bracelet. Maybe if you did, your secret admirer would notice, and then maybe he’d say something about it and reveal his identity.”

“I suppose it’s worth a shot,” Rita said absently.

“And if you want to find a new home for this heart…” her sister added with a smile, holding up the box meaningfully.

Rita smiled back as she retrieved the box from Maria’s grasp. She wasn’t sure why she wanted to keep it, but she did. She wasn’t sure why she wore the pin and heart to work everyday, either. Maybe, deep down, she did know whoever was leaving the gifts was doing it because he admired her secretly.

And maybe, deep down, something about that made Rita feel nice. She’d never had anyone admire her before. Not for herself, anyway. She’d had the occasional date in high school and college, of course, but she’d always wondered if the guys in question had only asked her out because she was one of the wealthy Barones. Especially after her twenty-first birthday, when, like all her siblings, she’d come into a trust fund worth a million dollars.

Rita had yet to touch her own million, however, and had instead left it invested, thinking someday she’d need it for something. She didn’t know what. She did know, however, that she wasn’t suited to the social butterfly life, and she loved working as a nurse. Maybe someday, she thought, she’d have children, and she could use the money for them. But her secret admirer obviously didn’t know or care about her wealth, otherwise, he would have revealed himself to her right off the bat, and would have tried to insinuate himself into her life. So maybe it was Rita herself, and not her money, that attracted him. In that respect, she couldn’t help but like him.

“No, the heart is fine where it is,” she said as she took the box from her sister and cradled it in her hand.

She just wished she could say the same for herself. Because in spite of Rita’s instincts saying the contrary, Maria was right in that stalkers tended to target women at their homes, eventually. Rita wondered if her mystery man knew where she lived. If it was indeed someone she worked with, he’d certainly have no trouble locating her. Even if it wasn’t a co-worker, if he’d found her at the hospital, all he would have to do was follow her home one day to find out where she lived. Of course, if he’d done that, he’d also know she walked home alone. And he’d probably know Gina had moved out. And he’d probably know Maria was often not at home these days, something Rita was going to have to ask her younger sister about soon. Which meant he also probably knew that left Rita home alone much of the time.

She exhaled a slow, unsteady breath and told herself she was overreacting. Maria was probably right, too, in that whoever was doing this was harmless. Rita reminded herself that her instincts were good, and that her instincts told her she probably had nothing to fear. But in reminding herself of that, she inescapably reminded herself of something else, too.

That she’d been known to be wrong before.

“Do you have a date for the party next weekend?” Maria asked as she rose to leave. “You did remember the party next weekend, didn’t you, Rita?” she added, probably because she thought Rita didn’t remember.

And she was right. Rita didn’t. Until now.

“The one at the Baronessa business headquarters?” Maria went on. “The one to launch the family’s new PR contest to counter all the bad press from the passionfruit disaster? The contest that was Gina’s brilliant brainchild? The contest where the winner gets to name a new flavor of gelato? Remember that?”

“Oh, no,” Rita groaned. “I forgot all about it. There’s been so much going on at work lately.”

Her sister frowned at her. “Rita,” she said in the scolding tone of voice impatient mothers used with recalcitrant toddlers. “You are going, aren’t you? All the Barones are expected to be there, to show our support for the family and the business. You have to go. You know you’ll never hear the end of it if you don’t.”

“Yes, yes, I’m going,” Rita assured her sister.

“And you do have a date for the party, don’t you?” Maria asked further. “Because you know you’ll never hear the end of it if you don’t,” she repeated with a smile.

Rita closed her eyes and bit back another groan. What Maria said was certainly true. The older generation of Barones was crazy for grandchildren and grand-nieces and grand-nephews, and they weren’t afraid to let anyone—especially the potential bearers of said grandchildren and grand-nieces and grand-nephews—know it. Whenever a Barone of marriageable age showed up at a family gathering without a date, they were set upon by the older generation, wanting to know how they expected to get married and have children if they remained alone.

With Rita, though, who never brought dates to such events, it was becoming a problem of epic proportions. Naturally, it wouldn’t have been a problem had she entered the Sisters of Charity as her sister Colleen had. Religious conviction was the only acceptable excuse for such longstanding abstinence from a social life. And even trying to use Colleen as an excuse these days didn’t wash, seeing as how she had left the Sisters of Charity not long ago and was now engaged to her college love.

“Um, actually…” Rita began. But she couldn’t quite make herself finish the revelation.

“Rita,” Maria said again in that same motherish tone, “you haven’t even invited a date yet?”

“I forgot, all right?” Rita said.

“And you probably don’t have anything to wear, either, do you?”

“Well…”

“Fine,” Maria said in a voice of put-upon patience. “I’ll take off early Monday and we can go shopping. I wouldn’t mind picking up something new myself. The date, though…” she added, letting her voice trail off meaningfully.

“I know,” Rita said. “I’ll take care of it. I promise.”

Though how she was going to keep that promise was beyond her. This event was going to be a stellar, five-star, formal event. It called for someone suave, someone debonair, someone who was tall, dark and handsome, and sophisticated, distinguished and well-connected. Someone like…

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