He wanted Francesca…

Tony leaned his forehead against the elevator wall, reliving the surprised look on her face when he’d nearly kissed her in the kitchen earlier. What in the world was wrong with him? Thankfully, the doors opened, saving him from reliving that exciting, wonderful, awful moment. Again.

Eyes half-closed, he stumbled to his room, only to curse when he reached into his pocket and found it keyless. He leaned back against his door. Maybe he could just sleep in the hallway. He didn’t want to wake anybody up, least of all Francesca, though she was in the room right next door. The sight of her mussed and sleepy eyed would overload his already weak system.

But then a part of his still-functioning brain—and where was that earlier when he’d been gazing at his best friend as if she was a steak and he a vegetarian who’d fallen off the wagon—reminded him about the key code.

He opened one eye long enough to input his code—the day he and Francesca had met in the fourth grade—and opened the door with a sigh of relief.

In the dark, Tony toed off his shoes, then stripped off his clothes. Little did he know he wasn’t alone….

Dear Reader,

The idea behind this story wasn’t a hard one to come up with-—I’ve always wanted to do a story about best friends falling in love. There’s something about the level of intimacy already established, the history between close friends that makes falling in love more difficult—and in the end, so much more satisfying….

But if my smart, successful heroine was going to fall in love and risk nearly twenty years of friendship, the hero had to be irresistible. So what kind of man could be a more perfect match for her than a rich, gorgeous Italian charmer? Maybe he’s got a few commitment issues, and his list of conquests is organized by zip code, but, hey, that’s just Tony.

I’m willing to bet, though, that you’ll thoroughly enjoy watching my heroine, Francesca, tame him….

I love to hear from readers! Visit my Web site at www.wendyetherington.com or write me via regular mail at P. O. Box 3016, Irmo, SC 29063.

Enjoy!

Wendy Etherington

Books by Wendy Etherington

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

944—PRIVATE LIES

Are You Lonesome Tonight?

Wendy Etherington

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Jacquie D’Alessandro and Jenni Grizzle, who constantly, through every book, scene and sentence remind me that I can do this.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

1

“CHES, hand me a power cord.”

Francesca D’Arcy eyed the jeans-clad lower half of her best friend and business partner, Anthony Galini. Not a bad way to start a Tuesday morning, truth be told. The man did have an amazing body, and he was presently defenselessly flat on his back beneath his desk.

She could envision dropping beside him, pulling his snug black T-shirt from his jeans, rolling up the soft cotton to reveal the sprinkling of jet-black hair against his olive-toned skin, his washboard abs, his broad chest—

Tony nudged her with his bare foot. “Ches!”

“What? Oh, the cord.” She rummaged through the box of computer supplies sitting on the desk. “Uh—which one would be the power cord?”

“The one with three prongs that you’d plug into the wall,” Tony said dryly.

“Cooking’s my forte, not computers,” she muttered, yanking out cord after cord in search of the proper one.

“Somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

“At least I got in bed before this morning.”

It seemed even Tony’s commitment to the resort and winery they were about to open together couldn’t compete with his goal of dating every gorgeous blonde in New York before he turned thirty. She’d lain awake until two-fifteen this morning—when she’d heard Tony enter his room at the resort, the one right next to hers.

“Which svelte blonde was it this time? Bambi? Or maybe it was Bunny?”

“I’ll have you know I’ve never gone out with anyone named Bambi or Bunny.” He paused. “But if you want to introduce me…”

As she finally pulled the right cord out of the box, she dropped it on him. Well, more accurately, she threw it on him.

“Ow! What is with you today?”

It was ridiculous, she knew, but her resentment at being relegated to “good ole dependable Ches” was especially sharp this morning. She hadn’t realized her proximity to Tony over the last several months would bring her semi-dormant lust for him roaring to the surface. Lust she planned to do nothing about, of course. With a friendship that had begun in Mrs. Galloway’s fourth-grade class, she’d had nearly twenty years to tell him about her attraction, and now, in the most important month of their lives, when the professional and personal pressure was the greatest, she was going to attempt to jump his bones?

Think again, sister.

Think business. All business.

She’d sunk every spare penny she had in Bella Luna, the newest brainchild of Tony’s uncle Joe, the patriarch of the Galini family. The Galinis had tended to grapevines in Europe for over a hundred years, and fifteen years ago Joe had bought the eighty acres here on the North Fork of Long Island and built a successful winery in America. With all the new resorts and spas popping up in the area, Joe had recently decided to jump into a new venture and build his own resort. Unfortunately for Joe, two of his own sons were busy running the vineyard in Italy, and most of Tony’s other cousins were fairly worthless in the ambition department. They were all content living off their trust funds, playing tennis at their country clubs, skiing in the Alps, and clubbing in New York.

In truth, Tony had spent a good many years indulging in the same pursuits. Then suddenly, six months ago, he’d called Francesca and asked her if she wanted to run the resort. With construction already underway, he’d sent her building and business plans, estimated costs and profit potential. With her degree in hotel and restaurant management, as well as certification from culinary school, Francesca had been completely unfulfilled working in convention planning at the New York Hilton, and after seeing Tony’s ideas for the resort, she saw the possibility of her dream coming true—owning her own business. She convinced Tony and his uncle to let her buy into the project, and though she could only afford ten percent ownership, she was on her way.

Now they were two weeks away from the grand opening. It was all really happening.

No way was she letting her needy hormones muck it up.

Tony scooted out from under the desk and rose to his full height of six-foot-two. The scent of his sexy, spicy aftershave washed over her. “Let’s turn it on.”

She swallowed, knowing if he pushed any more of her buttons, she’d melt into a puddle at his feet. She managed to find her usual aplomb and propped her hand on her hip—a nice hip, too, in her estimation. Not that he’d ever noticed. “Where would that button be?”

Tony kissed the tip of her nose. “Cute, Franny.”

“You’re really trying to get on my nerves, aren’t you?” Francesca stepped back, rubbing her nose as if she was trying to rid herself of his chaste kiss. In truth, she was tingling from her nose all the way to her toes. Ridiculous. Embarrassing. Useless.

Tony punched the power button on the computer and propped his butt—a magnificent specimen—against the desk. His velvety brown eyes danced. “Can you believe it’s been almost twenty years since you slugged me in the lunchroom and demanded I come up with a cooler nickname than ‘Franny’?”

“And got two days of after-school detention from Principal Duncan for my efforts.”

“Hey, didn’t I pull the fire alarm to get you released?”

“I’ll never understand how you didn’t get caught.”

“I have an innocent smile,” he said, then grinned.

Even at ten, he’d known how to drive women wild with his charm. Of course, she’d been unmoved. At least until the night, eight years later, when she’d accidentally walked in on him as he was getting out of the shower…

Yikes. Bad train of thought.

To distract herself, she glanced around the opulent room they’d converted to their office suite, complete with full bar and sunken living room, decorated to give an impression of class and wealth. She sighed as her gaze fell on the windowed wall to her left, beyond which lay the blossoming vineyards. She still bemoaned this valuable space Tony had commandeered on the third floor. She’d even called Joe when Tony insisted he couldn’t work in an office off the lobby. But surprisingly Joe—a practical, hardworking businessman to the core—had sided with his nephew. They could use the suite to entertain potential clients and guests, he’d pronounced.

That Prince of the Universe upbringing of his would be their undoing.

The computer chimed as Windows loaded. He turned around and leaned over the desk. “Looks great, huh?”

With her gaze once again dropping to his lower half—this time catching an excellent, close-up view of that great backside of his—she nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yeah.”

“Go check your computer. I want to see if they’re networked right.” He tapped on the keyboard. “I’m sending you an interoffice e-mail.”

“Yeah?” she said, turning her head sideways, still staring at his butt, not really interested in technology at the moment.

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “What are you doing back there?”

She yanked her gaze from his bod. Her face flushed. “I, uh—I’m going to check my e-mail.” She backed out of his office and into hers.

Out of reach of temptation and the influence of his aftershave, she managed to pull herself together.

She sank into her office chair. With a simple walnut desk, chairs upholstered in dark green and her knickknacks and diplomas hanging on the walls, her surroundings were completely different from Tony’s sleek, black-marble-and-glass–appointed room. But it suited her.

The mirror on the opposite wall reflected a woman with her dark-brown hair pulled into a ponytail, an ordinary face—though she had inherited her mother’s naturally tanned skin—blue eyes, and nearly-chewed-off pink lipstick. This last was no doubt a casualty of all that butt-gazing. Her mile-long to-do list lay next to her keyboard. Her in box was a good foot high.

Ah, reality. It’s good to have you back.

Back from her brief foray into fantasyland, she was reminded of the life-affirming decisions she’d made recently.

She was at a point in her life where romantic flings had ceased to be a priority. She was a serious business-woman now, with major responsibilities. Tired of the commitment-wary, ambition-challenged guys she’d dated in the past, she’d decided she was holding out for Mr. Right. And Tony certainly wasn’t him.

Dear Tony. Who always skated by in life, then charmed himself out of any situation he’d screwed up.

Even if he ever looked at her as anything other than a friend, she knew he wasn’t The One. The One was going to walk into her life one day and she’d know, instantly, that he was the love of her life. For five generations the women in her family had fallen completely, instantly in love with their future husbands, and seeing the results of her parents’ wonderful thirty-year marriage, she had no doubt love would find her the same way.

So, in conclusion, all you stubborn, Tony-dazzled hormones back off!

She pulled up her e-mail and opened the one from Tony.

Hi, bella. Have I told you lately I couldn’t live without you?

Francesca sucked in a breath. Her hormones danced a jig.

She scrolled down further.

I’d never manage to eat a decent meal.

-T

“Did you get the message?” Tony called from the other room.

“Oh, yeah.” Clamping down on her disappointment and deciding two could play at this game, she typed,

Ecstasy awaits you tonight…

Then she skipped down a few lines and added,

We’re having fettuccine with scallops.

She hit the send button, rose from her chair, rolled her shoulders back, then marched from the office. The One was just around the corner, poised to save her from this impossible attraction.

He just had to be.

TONY LEANED across his desk and snagged the ringing phone. “This is Tony.”

“Mr. Galini, this is Alice in reservations, I have a Mr. Pierre von Shalburg on the phone. He’s making a reservation, but he insisted on speaking with you personally.”

Tony searched his memory, but came up blank on anyone named von Shalburg. “Who’s he?”

“I thought you’d know. He sounds important,” Alice said nervously.

Shoving aside a stack of invoices he had to get through before he could join Francesca for dinner, Tony sighed. “Put him on.”

How did anybody actually get any work done when people were always calling and interrupting?

This is a customer, Francesca—aka his self-appointed conscience of business responsibility—would have reminded him. Customers come first.

Who knew his impulsive decision to accept Uncle Joe’s challenge to make something significant of his life would involve actual work and stress? He’d only become a businessman to impress the uncle he regarded so highly. He wanted people to look at him with the admiration and respect they gave Joe. Unfortunately, his resort-owner fantasy wasn’t meshing with reality.

He’d pictured walking around the restaurant, smiling at patrons, offering suggestions and wine pairings. He imagined cocktail parties with plenty of lovely ladies in attendance.

But so far…zilch in the fun department. Why had he thought he could do this? He’d been perfectly happy milking his trust fund like nearly everyone else he knew. Hell, it was practically a Galini family tradition.

“This is Pierre von Shalburg,” said an unfamiliar voice.

The man paused at length, giving Tony the impression that he should recognize von Whoever’s name immediately. Which, of course, he didn’t. He fell back on a familiar skill—bluffing. “Ah, yes. What can I do for you?” he asked as he searched the piles of paper on his desk for a pad to take notes.

Von So-and-So cleared his throat importantly. “I believe, Mr. Galini, it’s what I can do for you that should be of interest to your establishment.”

Really? He’d worked his ass off for nearly six months just to have his first encounter with an actual guest want to make him bang his head against the wall. He’d left jet-setting for this?

“Fortunately for you,” the guy continued, “my schedule is free during the weekend you’re planning to open.” He paused. “You are planning to open on time, aren’t you?”

Tony raised his eyebrows. “Of course.” Who was this guy?

“I’m so thrilled for you,” Mr. von Snooty said in such a deadpan voice that Tony pictured him winning the fifty-million-dollar lottery and saying, “I suppose this will do.”

“I’ll arrive on Friday afternoon at precisely three o’clock. I’ll require a suite with a view of the vineyards.” He paused. “You do have rooms overlooking the vineyards, don’t you?”

“Naturally.” What else would they have views of?

“I want room service delivered at precisely seven o’clock in the morning…”

Sighing about the sad state of a world in which jerks like von Whatsisname existed, Tony nevertheless started scribbling notes.

“I’ll inform you of my dietary requirements when I arrive and peruse the menu.” He paused. “You do have menus, don’t you?”

Tony ground his teeth. “Yes, sir, we do.”

“Twelve o’clock, lunch; six o’clock, cocktails; seven o’clock, dinner. I will also require a tour of the facilities, including the winery, and, of course, a tasting.”

“I’m sure we can accommodate you.”

“That will be all, Mr. Galini. Expect me next Friday.”

“Ye—” A dial tone sounded in his ear.

Tony slammed the phone into its cradle. “What an ass.” He looked over his sparse notes and had the feeling he should have asked von Whoever-he-was more questions.

He ran a hand through his hair. What had ever possessed him to actually make something of his life? His friends were probably having drinks at the club about now, talking about their summer trips to Barbados. What was he doing? Sweating and stressing as he installed computers and got insulted by guys named von Something-or-Other, whom he probably could have snubbed under any other circumstances.

It was that look in Joe’s eyes. That look that asked Are you going to be a trust-fund waste like the rest of my brothers’ children? Guilt had suffused him. Guilt that apparently everyone else in his family—except two of Joe’s sons, who ran the family’s Tribiletto winery in Italy—seemed conveniently to have been born without.

Was he really up to this challenge? He had zero business experience. He clearly had no patience with demanding clients. His parents called the resort “Tony’s little distraction”.

His friends thought he’d lost his mind and kept telling him to call a shrink whenever he had the urge to do something productive.

But sometime in the last few months, a deep desire to prove himself had stubbornly sparked to life. He wasn’t selfish and spoiled like his parents. He wanted to prove everyone wrong about his ability to commit. He wanted respect. He needed it.

The question was—could he earn it?

First thing, though, he had to find out who von Snobby was. “Francesca!” he shouted.

A few seconds later, the intercom speaker on his desk phone beeped, then Francesca’s calm voice floated out. “We spent an unmentionable amount of money on the phones, Tony, maybe we should actually use them.”

And, boy, could that woman be bossy. “Hey,” he said into the speakerphone, “I just got off the phone with this guy—do you know a Pierre von Something-or-Another?”

She drew a swift breath. “Pierre von Shalburg?”

“That’s him!” He sagged in relief. “You know him. He yammered on like I should know who he is, but I didn’t have a clue—”

“Oh, God. Tony, did you say you just talked to him?”

“Yeah. He yammered on—”

“What did you say?” Francesca yelled.

Scowling, Tony tapped his pen against the desk. “I said yes.”

“To what exactly?”

“To him coming here for opening weekend.”

A long silence ensued. Then, “You’d better meet me in the kitchen.”

List in hand, he headed out of his office, down the hall and took the elevator to the kitchen. He’d been pleasant enough to the guy. Francesca acted as though he couldn’t deal with a simple reservation. He hadn’t exactly bubbled over with enthusiasm, though, and he doubted their guest-to-be would bend beneath his smile. Why couldn’t von Shalburg have been a six-foot blonde with legs to die for?

As he approached the open doorway, he saw Francesca standing behind one of the assistant chefs—sous chefs she called them—hovering as he cooked scallops in a big frying pan. She looked tired. Her usually jaunty ponytail hung limply against her neck. Sweat glistened on her face.

Actually… He angled his head. She looked really good sweaty. Not unkempt so much as…mussed. As if she’d rolled out of a bed she hadn’t wanted to leave.

He’d seen Francesca first thing in the morning many times. Throughout their teenage years, her parents had let him stay with them when his parents had gone out of town and they’d been between housekeepers—which was often, since his mother was forever accusing his father of sleeping with them, and he was always trying to make up for his behavior by taking her to Aspen or Paris or St. Croix.

That was Francesca—always around when he needed her, always willing to see him through any situation.

They had been best friends since they were ten, when Tony’s parents had decided he should start attending public school on Long Island, rather than going back to boarding school in England. Years later, he’d learned this change of heart hadn’t been prompted by his homesickness, but the hundred-thou-a-year his parents had saved by keeping him home.

Francesca’s tongue peeked out to flick across her bottom lip, and he groaned. How would she look with her long, dark hair loose and caressing her face? The strands looked silky, but how did they feel? He couldn’t recall ever gliding his hands through her hair. Why was that? Why hadn’t he—

Because she’s the only true friend you have.

He shook his head. What the hell was wrong with him? Erotic fantasies about Francesca? He’d definitely been working too hard.

And last night didn’t count. He’d only been consoling Barbie on the breakup of her engagement.

He walked into the kitchen, then leaned against the counter. “I could use a martini.”

Francesca glanced at him, her blue eyes sharp. “I’ll page the bartender.”

“Do we have a bartender?” He winced as she continued to glare. He was an owner now, not a guest. He really needed to come up with a mantra or something to help him remember that. “Hell, now I’m starting to sound like that pompous jerk.”

Crossing to the industrial-sized, walk-in freezer, he headed straight for the ice-cold bottle of Grey Goose on the third shelf. He mixed his drink—and one for Francesca as well. She’d been working as hard as he had. Probably harder.

Maybe he should volunteer to take her out. She deserved a night off.

“Pompous jerk?” she asked, lifting one eyebrow. “That would be Pierre von Shalburg, I assume?”

He sampled his martini, found it nicely balanced, so he pushed the second glass across the counter to Francesca, which she picked up by the stem between her thumb and forefinger and sipped. He smiled at the elegant picture she made—even in jeans, a stained T-shirt and an apron. “That would be him,” he said finally.

Eyes narrowed, she set down her martini glass with a clang. “What did you say to him?”

He cut his gaze right then left, looking for an escape. He drank again from his glass. “He pretty much did all the talking.”

He thought he saw smoke seeping from Francesca’s ears. “Do you have any idea who he is?” she asked.

“Well, no, not exactly.”

“He’s the principle critic for A Vino magazine.”

Thank God. Finally, a name he recognized. Just last week Uncle Joe had gone on and on about the influence of the magazine, since A Vino was the resort industry’s premier review—

Oh, hell. He leaned heavily onto the counter. “He can make us or break us.”

Francesca crossed her arms over her chest. “You do have a talent for succinctness.” She glared at him. “When absolutely forced beyond reason.”

“I did okay. Really,” he added, when she continued to stare daggers in his direction. He grasped her hands, sliding his thumbs across her skin. “I wrote down everything he said and assured him we could accommodate his every desire.” He smiled. “You know how good I am at that.”

To his surprise, instead of returning his smile, she scowled and pulled her hands from his grasp. “No, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

Well, I could—

No, no, no. This is Francesca, you idiot. Your best friend.

He couldn’t put any moves on her.

He wasn’t a long-term guy—his personal relationship record was three months. Francesca needed more from a man. She’d told him so dozens of times. Usually after she’d broken things off with a guy who turned out to be “commitment-phobic.” And if there was ever a commitment-phobic guy, it was him. Again, a Galini family tradition—with the exception of Joe and his wife. And, really, he could modestly admit to himself that he had plenty of female attention. Why limit his talents to just one? It didn’t seem equitable.

Besides, he wasn’t attracted to Francesca. Not at all. Not in the least.

He drained his martini. “Well, anyway, here’s the list.” He pushed the scribbled note toward her. “When do we eat?”

“Any minute now.” Finally giving him a quick smile, Francesca glanced over the note. “Imagine Pierre von Shalburg at our resort. If we can impress him, we’ll have solid bookings for the next year. I’m sure the staff can handle the meal requirements. We’ve already been working on some grand opening specials. And Joe will be here to do the tour—”

“I’ll do the tour.”

Francesca eyed him skeptically.

“Ches, if there’s anything I understand it’s the vines. I’ve been pruning every winter and harvesting every fall since I was fourteen.”

She held up her hand. “I know, I know. Sorry.”

“Dinner, Ms. D’Arcy,” the sous chef announced, setting two plates on the counter in front of him and Francesca.

“Thank you, Kerry,” she said.

The scent of sautéed scallops wafted past him, and Tony put all thoughts of the cranky Pierre von Shalburg out of his mind. He selected a ’96 chardonnay from the fridge and poured the straw-colored liquid into two glasses. He paused with the bottle hovering over a third glass. “Kerry?”

“No, thank you, sir,” the sous chef said, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel. “I still have prep work for tomorrow.”

Tony set aside the bottle, then picked up his glass. He touched the crystal to Francesca’s. “To success.”

They had been eating like this, standing at the counter in the warm, busy kitchen in the basement, nearly every night for a month. Tony found himself checking his watch in the afternoon in anticipation of dinner with her. Must be a latent longing for all those impersonal meals he’d endured growing up with nobody but the housekeeper for company.

As they enjoyed the delicious meal, they discussed plans for the critic’s visit.

With the number of resorts in the area growing, they’d had to find ways to distinguish themselves from the competition. Since the wine production had always been their focus, it seemed logical to focus on food, wine and music, rather than spa services.

Would von Shalburg participate in their planned cooking classes?

Tony doubted it.

Would he relax in the jazz-themed bar at night?

Maybe. But certainly alone.

Would he like the wine-pairing sessions?

Only if he could tell everybody what he thought and have them bow and definitively agree with every word he said.

Finally, frustrated, Francesca shoved her plate aside. “Well, what do you think he would like?”

“How about a day at the spa? We could foist him off on Chateau Fontaine down the road.”

Francesca sighed. “No, do you plan to shuffle off every troublesome guest?”

“Hmm… Yes?”

“No.” She leaned toward him. “We’re trying to attract all the guests we can handle. Bookings equal revenue, remember? As much as you obviously don’t want to admit it, we need Pierre von Shalburg. He could bring us industry buzz and accreditation.”

“He could bring us a giant pain in the—”

“We agreed we were going to give this our best shot.”

Tony hung his head. He’d agreed all right—to the coup sponsored by Francesca and Uncle Joe.

No, that wasn’t true—or fair. Fact was, in addition to being one of the few Galinis in his generation capable of guilt, he’d also been a complete sucker for the hope and resolve that had shone in Francesca’s eyes that fateful day six months ago.

She’d always had so much faith in him—faith that he could get through his English final in high school, faith that he could graduate college, faith that he could resist Tiffani Lambeau’s determined advances even though she claimed her new husband ignored her, and, more recently, faith that he would be the best, most charming resort host on Long Island.

“Has it really been all that bad?” she asked softly.

Startled, he lifted his head. “No, of course not.” And it hadn’t. Watching the resort go from mere drawings on a page to three-dimensional reality, having people listen to his opinion on something besides which was the hip nightclub this month had been great. The responsibility gave him a sense of belonging and acceptance he hadn’t anticipated.

He just kept waiting for the whole thing to fall apart. No one—save Joe and Francesca—expected him to succeed. Not his acquaintances, his parents or his friends. He, in fact, knew they all had a pool going on the precise moment his dismal failure as a businessman would occur.

At least he’d cost that joker Sonny Compton—who’d started the pool—two hundred bucks already.

Francesca slid her hand over his. “You can do this.”

He stared into her sparkling, earnest blue eyes and almost believed her.

She was the only one who knew of his need to prove he wasn’t like his parents, that he could be a success in business—or anything else. He also suspected she knew he was terrified of everything he had to do in order to provide that proof….

He gripped her hand tightly. “I can’t thank you enough—”

“Don’t, Tony. I didn’t do anything, and I should be thanking you. I could never have jumped into the business at this level without you and your connections.”

“The only reason Joe offered to let me into the project was because he knew I’d turn to you for help.”

She shook her head, and tendrils of long, dark hair brushed her cheeks. “That’s not true.”

He thought it was, but he wasn’t particularly interested in examining Joe’s motives at the moment. He’d rather look into Francesca’s eyes. He’d rather stroke his thumb across her palm, feel the warmth of her skin, feel her pulse race in time with his. He’d rather brush her hair away from her cheek.

As if in a dream he did all these things, when he should have kept his hands to himself and his thoughts under control.

As his hand cupped her face, her breath came in short gasps. Her spicy, fruity scent enveloped him. He licked his lips, imaging the taste of her—wine and butter and something that would be hers and hers alone.

He glided his other hand to her waist. He leaned forward.

“What the hell are you doing?”

2

STUNNED, Francesca stared at Tony, at the glazed, desire-filled look in his eyes. She felt as if the world had suddenly starting spinning in a different direction.

He jerked his head and his hands back. “I—I’ve got to run.” He drained his wineglass, then stepped away from the counter.

She acutely felt the loss of his warmth, but since she’d so rudely drawn attention to his touch in the first place, she didn’t see how she could ask him to come back. “Run?”

“Out.” He grabbed her plate and his, then rinsed them both in the sink before putting them in the dishwasher. “To uh—I’m going up to…to the chateau.”

“Fontaine?” she asked, still confused about his odd behavior.

“Yeah. Meeting some friends.” He smiled, holding out his hands. “You know me, unending social life.”

Yeah, she did, and she was getting damn sick of it. She slogged away late into the night, while he took off for fun at least five nights a week. “We have work to do.”

“It’ll keep till morning.”

“What about the invoices?”

“Almost done. I’ll catch up tomorrow.”

“No, Tony—”

“I’ll see you in the morning. Coffee in the lobby?”

Since they’d been doing that for weeks, she nodded.

He leaned forward as if he was going to brush her cheek with his lips as usual, but she felt only a puff of breath against her skin. Giving her an odd look, he jumped back.

And, before she could even fully register the fact that he was leaving, he’d scooted across the room.

She watched him—specifically his great butt—as he disappeared around the corner.

Prince Galini has left the building.

She sighed. How could she be annoyed with him and still desire him? The transition to working every day had been hard for him, she knew, but his lack of commitment was getting old.

What did you expect, girl? That twenty-eight years of hedonism and indulgence were going to disappear overnight?

It was probably better he was gone. With him also went his disturbing effect on her.

She knew one thing for sure—The One had better hurry his late ass into her life soon, or she was going to burn up from the inside out.

With effort, she focused her brain on a safer topic. Pierre von Shalburg would do nicely. As much as Tony complained—a trait inherited from his spoiled parents, which Tony had, she was thankful, only a touch of—she was ready to jump up and down with the coup of having the influential critic attend their opening weekend. She wasn’t worried about his eccentricities or demands. Par for the course in the hotel business. The challenge of impressing the critic and getting Bella Luna on his Top Picks far outweighed the fear of a possible poor review.

Spurred into action by the opportunity, she cast a quick good-night over her shoulder to Kerry and headed upstairs to her office. She went online and searched for articles and reviews written by von Shalburg, cross-referencing them for commonly mentioned ingredients, favored presentation of dishes and service comments. She learned he liked all kinds of seafood—convenient, since Francesca had found a fabulous fish supplier. Shalburg was also a respected sommelier and could spot a weak wine with one sniff. He favored delicate and savory as opposed to overly spicy food, and he liked his service unobtrusive and as silent as possible—no surprise, given Tony’s “pompous jerk” assessment.

She rubbed her hands together. Now, what recipe could she come up with to wow him?

The phone rang before she’d managed to consider even one entrée.

When she answered, a familiar voice asked, “How’s my angel?”

“Hi, Dad,” Francesca returned, smiling as she leaned back in her chair. “How’s Palm Springs?”

Her father had owned a bakery while she was growing up, but he’d sold the business a few years ago, and he and her mother had spent much of that time traveling. Francesca was glad to see them relax and enjoy retirement. While they’d never lacked for anything during her childhood, they’d never had anything close to the financial freedom of Tony’s family or many of the other families whose children had attended her school. They’d put every spare penny into buying a house in a mostly posh area so she could get a great education, and the longer she spent in the “real world,” the more she appreciated their sacrifice.

“Great. Weather’s primo. I beat your mother today at golf.”

“She let you, you know.”

He sighed. “I know, but she loves me enough to let me win occasionally.”

“Just remember, Dad, she can’t even make a decent PB and J.”

“Why would anybody put jelly on first and try to spread peanut butter on top of that?”

Francesca laughed at the memory. “Got me.”

She caught her father up on the busy week and assured him she couldn’t wait for their visit on the second weekend after the resort opened. With the critic’s visit imminent, Francesca was glad she hadn’t insisted on having her parents for the grand opening and had instead taken her dad’s advice that she didn’t need the added pressure of family underfoot.

“Dad, thanks for giving me a great business sense,” she said after the update.

“And how is Tony?”

“I wasn’t comparing myself to Tony.”

“Oh, yes, you were.”

“No, I—”

“Tony has his own strengths, angel. He has a great sense of what people need.”

What they need? Oh, God, if he sensed what she really needed from him—to satisfy a gnawing itch of desire that had taken up residence in her body and refused to leave—she’d die of embarrassment.

“…that charm of his is legendary,” her father continued. “He could charm your mother into letting him win every golf match.”

It didn’t help her case against Tony that her father had always favored him. He’d always hoped she’d turn her interest to Tony and “bring him around.” Like a wary stallion, she assumed.

“I’m sure he could, Dad,” she said.

“I know you’re busy. I’ll let you go.”

She pushed aside her worry about Tony, the business and everything else. She missed her dad. Missed his guidance and clear head. “I’m never too busy for you.”

They talked a bit longer, and as she finished the phone call, she was smiling, but the smile faded as her father’s words came back to her—his charm is legendary. She needed to remember that whenever she got weak. Whenever she was tempted to fantasize about Tony’s butt. Or his smile. Or the charming way he always managed to be the center of attention.

Professionally, she wanted a successful resort. Personally, she didn’t want an affair. She wanted a life partner, a love for a lifetime. And Tony, Mr. New-Blonde-Every-Saturday-Night, didn’t come close to qualifying.

Closing her eyes against her troubles, she leaned her head back against her office chair. And—for some reason—a vision of Tony’s hands drifted through her mind.

She couldn’t explain it, to herself or anyone else, but his hands turned her on. She was fascinated with them.

Being a man of six feet tall, his hands were large, his fingers long. A bit of dark hair touched his knuckles. His sporty silver watch was perpetually wrapped around his wrist, highlighting his tanned skin.

Nothing unusual really.

Yet, she couldn’t stop thinking about the strength—and the pleasure—those hands could surely induce. Tony was never at a loss for female companionship. What ecstasy could those practiced hands bring? Would his touch be sure and relentless? Or soft and tentative? Or…both?

She forced her eyes open. Work, that’s what she needed. More and more work. These wild feelings for Tony would pass. They’d never been this intense before, had they? She’d always been able to talk herself out of an attraction to him. And she would again.

She hoped.

She had to.

“THANKS, PAUL. I appreciate the lift home.”

Paul saluted and bounced the keys to Tony’s Mercedes in his palm. “No problem, Mr. Galini. I’m glad to drive your baby anytime.”

Tony cast a longing look at his car idling in the driveway. He’d been at Chateau Fontaine, drinking and socializing. In truth, he’d had little to drink, but he’d let time get away from him—as usual—and had stayed later than he planned. With the long work hours, he was plain exhausted, and he hadn’t wanted to drive himself back to Bella Luna, even over the mere mile separating the two properties.

He was dead on his feet, and his last, semi-conscious concern was for his car.

“Take care of her, Paul. I’ll call you and arrange a time to retrieve her tomorrow.” He slid a folded fifty-dollar bill into the valet’s palm. “Remind me to tell your boss about your invaluable service.”

“You bet, Mr. G.” Paul saluted again, walking backwards towards the car. “That redhead wanted you, man. I’m tellin’ ya. I can get her room number if you want it.”

Tony yawned. This working for a living was hell on his social life. “Um-hmm. Maybe tomorrow.”

Paul and the Mercedes slid out of the horseshoe-shaped drive as Tony unlocked the front door and entered the lobby. Normally, he paused to gaze into the starlit sky, of which the glass dome over the lobby afforded him an unrestricted view, but tonight he shuffled his feet across the cream-tiled floor and headed straight for the elevator.

He’d share coffee with Francesca in the morning and enjoy the sunlight instead.

Francesca.

He leaned his forehead against the elevator wall, reliving the surprised, almost horrified look on her face when he’d nearly kissed her in the kitchen earlier.

What in the world was wrong with him?

Thankfully, the elevator doors opened, saving him from reliving that exciting, wonderful, awful moment. Again.

Eyes half closed, he stumbled down the third-floor hall, only to curse softly when he reached into his pocket to find it keyless.

He leaned back against his door. Maybe he could just sleep in the hallway. He gazed blearily down at the Cabernet-colored carpet beneath his tasseled loafers. He really needed his cushiony-soft down-feathered pillow, but he didn’t want to wake anybody up, least of all Francesca, though she was in the room right next door. The sight of her mussed and sleepy-eyed, clad in whatever big, baggy T-shirt she wore to bed would overload his already weak system.

But then some part of his still-functioning brain—and where was that part earlier when he’d been gazing at his best friend as though she was a steak and he a vegetarian who’d fallen off the wagon?—reminded him about the key code. They’d had electronic, numeric key pads installed at each door, so guests could set their own codes and enter their rooms without keys.

His idea. And, if he must say, a brilliant one.

He opened one eye long enough to input his code—the day he and Francesca had met in the fourth grade—then opened the door with a sigh of relief.

In the dark, he kicked off his shoes, then stripped off his clothes. Naked, he crawled into bed. He was asleep before his head sank fully into his plush feather pillow.

FRANCESCA MOANED in the middle of an erotic dream.

Starring Tony.

Part of her thought this was a really bad idea, but that part was quickly overridden by the warm, confident, male hand gliding up her waist to cup her satin-clad breast.

She arched her back, pressing her body more firmly against his, her fingers stroking his trim, muscled sides, smiling at the weight of his body on hers, at the hard ridge of male flesh pressed against her middle.

As she slid her hands lower, she found bare skin. Oh, God, he was naked. How many nights had she lain awake imagining Tony naked? That one glimpse at eighteen hadn’t been nearly enough. And since then he’d…filled out quite a bit. He was a couple of inches taller, his shoulders were broader. Where else, exactly, had he grown?

A wicked giggle escaped her mouth at the thought.

He trailed his lips over her throat, then sank his teeth lightly into her earlobe. “Ah, bella, I love to hear you laugh.”

She trailed her fingers across his bare butt.

He sucked in a quick breath. “I like that even better.” He flicked his thumb over her burgeoning nipple, then impatiently pushed up her camisole.

Heat flooded her body, the very blood in her veins. She slid her hand up his back, threading her fingers through the wavy hair at the base of his neck, urging him on. A hunger she didn’t think could ever be satisfied had begun to grow deep within. She wanted his touch, craved his attention. She wanted all that charm and energy and expertise focused on her. And her alone.

She recalled her thoughts earlier about his hands; those hands were currently stroking her flesh, sending her nerve endings on a crazy roller-coaster ride….

His mouth captured hers, his tongue slid past her lips, confidence and seduction inherent in every move. He was warm and tasted like…like…

Like cigar smoke?

Not in this fantasy, buster.

The odd smell brought her fully awake. Tony was indeed in her bed. And naked. And currently trailing his fabulous mouth across her chest.

Oh, hell.

HEART POUNDING, Francesca shoved Tony’s shoulder. “Tony!”

He didn’t seem to hear her. His mouth reached her nipple. His tongue flicked across the distended peak.

Francesca gasped. Oh, heavens, he was even better at this than she’d imagined. A steady, insistent throbbing pounded between her legs. Longing filled her belly. She’d wanted him for so long…

No. Not like this. Not when he wouldn’t even remember anything. When he probably didn’t even know who she was.

Knowing she had to wake him up, she shoved his shoulder again. His tongue flicked again.

Moaning, she wrapped her legs around his waist—and, oh wow, his erection pressed harder against her—then flipped him over onto his back. She reached over to the bedside table and turned on the light for good measure.

He blinked in the sudden pool of brightness. “Ches?”

Her heart was racing, and her body throbbed. Still, she managed to raise her hand. “Present.”

He propped himself up on his elbows. “What’s—” He stopped, his gaze sliding from her face to her body. “Holy—” His gaze jerked back to hers. Lust shone from his chocolate-colored eyes.

Vowing she wouldn’t revel in his admiration, Francesca yanked the strap of her camisole back onto her shoulder, covering her naked breast. His erection pulsed beneath her, reminding her that she still straddled him—and that she excited him. She closed her eyes and forced herself to slide off his aroused, luscious body and stand next to the bed.

Mmm. Good move, sister.

Still not fully awake, Tony clearly hadn’t realized she wasn’t the only one not dressed decently. He, in fact, wasn’t dressed at all, and she couldn’t resist a long, leisurely stare down his body. He had wide shoulders, trim arms and a muscled chest and stomach, all of which she’d seen at the country-club pool many times over the last several years, and which were evidence of his devotion to exercise and lifting weights.

But then her curious gaze hit on his…other parts. Parts she hadn’t seen in a long, great while. Parts that wanted her.

Oh, yeah, he’d grown all right. And was continuing to gr—

“Ches?”

She jerked her gaze back to his. He’d banked the lust, and now she saw mostly confusion. What was she doing ogling him?

“I, uh—” She went for indignation. “What are you doing in my room?”

He snatched the comforter over his body. “Your room? This is my—” He stopped as he looked around. “This is your room.”

Thanking heaven she’d managed to compose herself, she crossed her arms over her chest. “And you’re here because…?”

He leapt off the bed, wrapping the bed covers around his waist. “I thought—What are you wearing?”

She raised her eyebrows. “My pajamas.” She flicked her gaze toward the digital clock. “It’s 2:00 a.m. What else should I be wearing?”

“A T-shirt,” he muttered, dragging his hand through his already mussed hair.

“Why—” She stopped and glanced down at herself. Okay, so maybe the hot-pink satin was a bit much. A T-shirt probably suited practical, business-savvy Francesca D’Arcy better, but, hey, a girl couldn’t be practical all the time.

Still, she grabbed her robe from the hook over the bathroom door. It matched the pajamas, so it didn’t cover much, but she felt slightly more practical wearing it.

With the bulky comforter around him, Tony waddled across the room, then through the doorway and into the living area of the suite. “I’ll just, uh, get my pants.”

Francesca watched him go, the gold-colored comforter a stark contrast to his tanned shoulders and back. Whoa, baby.

Knees weak, she sank onto the edge of the bed. The bed where she and Tony had just rounded second base, cruising their way rapidly to third.

She leapt to her feet. Bed bad. Pacing good.

She’d barely begun her fourth pass across the room, trying to figure out what to say to her best friend and how to say it, when his voice startled her from her thoughts.

“I didn’t realize dreams literally came true.”

Her heart thudded. “What?”

“One minute I’m dreaming about us, and the next… I’m not dreaming, but living.”

She turned toward him as he leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. He’d put on his black pants and white shirt, though he’d left the shirt unbuttoned. The trim muscles on his chest peeked tantalizingly through the opening. “Me, too,” she said quietly.

He cocked his head. “Weird, huh?”

She sighed—with relief or disappointment, she wasn’t sure. “Oh, yeah.”

“How do you feel about what just…what just almost happened?”

She groaned. How was a woman supposed to resist a man concerned about how she felt? “I’m not sure,” she said. “How about you?”

“I look at you, and I see my good buddy Ches, but—” his gaze flicked toward the bed “—then I remember….”

“Yeah.” At least he wouldn’t have to sleep in that bed every night.

They stared at each other from across the room. Most people might assume Tony was relaxed, as he was propped against the doorway and smiling. But Francesca knew him better than probably anybody—his moods, his gestures, his dreams, even his lies.

Tony was troubled.

His smile was forced. His posture stiff. His erection unabated.

He straightened suddenly. “Well, this is damned awkward.”

Just what she’d feared. Every time she’d thought about admitting she desired him as more than a friend, this is what she pictured—laughing, teasing, charming Tony replaced by a pensive, awkward stranger.

“Yeah” was all she said.

“Maybe it will be different in the morning.”

“Maybe.” Though she didn’t see how. She knew his touch now. Imagining the sparks they’d create was a great deal different than actually experiencing them. She knew she’d never be able to look at him the same way, and she doubted he would either.

The idea filled her with sadness. They’d weathered many crises in the past. They had to find a way past this, too.

“I think I’ll go back to bed,” he said. “In my own room this time.”

She nodded. “That’s probably best.”

He walked toward the door, and she followed him, wondering what she could say to change things, to go back, to make him comfortable with her again, but she felt as though she was hanging on an emotional precipice, and she was fresh out of rational, practical ideas.

As he pulled open the door, he looked back at her. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

Oh, God. They couldn’t be friends anymore? They couldn’t be business partners?

“We chose the same access number—the day we met.” He paused. “Weird, huh?”

Knowing she couldn’t take much more upheaval, she let go of the breath she’d been holding. “Definitely.”

He yanked her to him, laying a quick, hard kiss on her forehead. And, somehow, she felt passion, regret and strength all in that one gesture. “Night, Ches.”

“Night.” She closed the door, then banged her head lightly against the hard metal surface.

3

TRAY OF COFFEE and fresh croissants in hand, Tony paused in the lobby solarium.

Nope. Still couldn’t see her without picturing her in that pink silky thing she slept in. He’d thought for sure he’d wrestled his attraction into submission early this morning.

He couldn’t sleep, so he’d decided to talk some sense into himself.

Risking nineteen years of friendship just to assuage his lust was a bad idea. Screwing up his business partnership—the one chance he had to prove he could succeed at something besides clubbing—was an even worse idea. He liked women. He didn’t obsess about them. He simply enjoyed them—in and out of bed. He wasn’t an animal, after all.

He was a man.

A man who wanted a woman beyond reason.

A woman he shouldn’t, couldn’t have.

“Is this what we’re reduced to?” she asked suddenly, turning to stare at him over her shoulder. “Avoiding each other? At a loss for words?”

Tony forced a smile and continued the last several feet to the wicker chair where Francesca sat. “I’m not avoiding you,” he said firmly, setting the tray on the table in front of her.

“You were just standing there trying to figure out how to tell me we’re out of Irish breakfast tea?”

He sat, then poured her a cup, using the delicate china he’d brought her from London two years ago. “I was wondering how to approach you. You look like you’re wearing armour this morning.”

She took the cup and saucer, adding milk and sweetener, then she glanced down at herself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re wearing a turtleneck, Ches.”

She sipped her tea, not meeting his gaze. “It’s cold.”

“In Alaska.” He leaned back in his chair. “Here, on Long Island, in late May, it’s due to be a balmy seventy-five by noon.”

“So at noon, I’ll change.”

Even in a white turtleneck, jeans and a navy blazer, she was lovely. Fresh and sexy. And—

Off-limits.

The clothes and her stiff posture made it plain what her attitude about last night was—I don’t want to talk about it.

Fine by him. He wanted to forget the whole thing, too.

“How does the menu for von Nose-in-the-Air look?” he asked.

She narrowed her eyes. “It’s von Shalburg, and you’d better start practicing it, since you’re going to be following him around saying, ‘Yes, Mr. von Shalburg.’ ‘Whatever you say, Mr. von Shalburg.’”

“Surely, I don’t have to—”

“Oh, yes. You do.”

Tony sighed. When did he get to compliment and dance with the ladies? When did he get to have cocktail parties in the owners’ suite? When did he get to sip wine on the veranda?”

“Work first; fun later,” she said, as if she’d read his thoughts.

“Much later,” he grumbled.

“Now, what do you think of the menu?” She pushed a sheet of paper across the table. “I need some help with wine pairings.”

He studied the suggestions. At least wine he understood. “I’ll okay it with the sommelier, but personally, I think the ’96 chardonnay was excellent with the fettuccine and scallops last night, so that’s a definite yes. Adding shrimp, mussels and basil is a nice touch.”

“I’m thinking we’ll use that dish for the cooking classes, too.”

“Mmm. Good idea. The grilled teriyaki salmon and asparagus could also take a chardonnay. Maybe a younger one—the ’99, I think.

“Of course, the Italian trio of spaghetti, baked ziti and lasagna has to go with the Chianti—really any year. We haven’t made an unremarkable one yet.”

Finished, he glanced at Francesca and found her smiling at him.

“I couldn’t do this without you, you know.”

“Without my money, you mean.”

She blinked in surprise. Tony longed to call his bitter words back. He didn’t resent his family money. He knew he was immensely blessed, and it was selfish and childish to think otherwise. He just wished he’d made some kind of contribution to his by-birth windfall.

Francesca slid her hand over his. “Without you.”

He gripped her hand. “You know I don’t mean to complain. I’m just—Commitment isn’t my strong suit.”

Her blue eyes went soft, and maybe a bit regretful, as if she realized they weren’t just talking about the resort anymore. “I know.”

He’d vowed just minutes ago to forget all about her and that pink silky thing, and he would, just as soon as he made sure they were on the same page in this. “Last night was an honest mistake, right? We’ve both been working a lot, keeping late nights and stuff.”

She looked relieved. “Exactly.”

“Your faith in me and your friendship mean everything. I’m not going to do anything to risk that.”

“Me either.”

Whew. He should have known he didn’t have to worry about practical Francesca getting all caught up in the emotion of last night—as he had.

But not anymore. He reminded himself if he hadn’t bailed out on working last night, everything would have turned out very differently. “I’m determined to help this resort succeed. We’re going to make this work.”

“Of course we are.” She let go of his hand, then directed her attention to the legal pad in her lap. “You have to last at least through the summer, so I can win the pool from Sonny Compton.”

“Ha, ha.”

She stood, tucking her pad under her arm. “Let’s take a walk outside. The concrete people are pouring the swimming pool deck this morning, and I want to see how it’s going.”

He rose as well. “That’s my kind of pool. I’ll even volunteer to be the first one to take a dip.”

She linked arms with him, and her old, easy smile returned. “Let’s wait a couple of days until the deck dries, okay?”

“Since I don’t want to be a permanent fixture at the pool, I think I’ll take that advice.”

They strolled across the lobby, through the French doors to the veranda. In the last week, the landscaping company had added huge terra-cotta urns filled with ferns, ivy and bright geraniums. The scent of rosebushes and fruit trees filled the air. Their perfume washed over him, reminding him of the delicate fruity fragrance that always clung to Francesca.

Oh, no, you don’t. If you have to think of a woman, think of Barbie, her broken engagement, her big blue eyes, the sway of her jeans-clad backside as she wandered over to one of the roses and inhaled the—

No, no. Francesca had blue eyes; Barbie had—

Actually he had no idea what color Barbie’s eyes were. He’d find out. Yes. Absolutely.

And Francesca’s curvy backside was off-limits. Strictly.

He forced his gaze from Francesca and focused on the truck churning out mushy cement near the still-empty pool. Men in work boots and shovels spread the mixture of cement and smooth stones in between wooden rails that laid out the path of the deck, then the sidewalk that would wind through the flower and herb garden.

Off to the side stood a familiar figure wearing worn overalls, his silver hair glinting in the sun. Uncle Joe.

Pride filled Tony at the realization that he was going to earn his uncle’s respect and help fulfill his long-held dream to reach even more people with the Galini family hospitality. Tony knew he’d inherited his ease with people and his love of socializing from Joe. He respected his uncle as he did no one else and yearned for Joe’s admiration in return.

During the resort’s construction, Joe had arranged to incorporate the new venture into the advertising campaign he’d recently launched with Matt and Jillian Davidson to promote the Galini-label wines along with their century-old Tribiletto label worldwide. Throughout it all, Joe had never stopped running the winery and gift shop in the old farmhouse on the vineyards’ west side.

His energy was boundless, a quality Tony knew he should take note of and remember the next time he had the urge to complain about his own schedule.

“Oh, there’s Joe,” Francesca said, waving. “Hey, Joe!”

Joe waved back, then slogged through the mud toward them. “Ciao,” he said, kissing Francesca on the cheek. He pulled Tony to his chest for a brief hug. “I got your message, bella. Pierre von Shalburg, eh? Quite a triumph.”

Smiling, Francesca shook her head. “I can’t imagine who could have managed to arrange such a thing.”

Joe winked. “Somebody powerful, I’ll bet.”

“Handsome, too,” Tony added.

Joe laughed. “Don’t forget charming.”

“And with an irresistibly sexy nephew.”

Francesca rolled her eyes. “Good grief.”

“So, bella, what do you have planned to knock off Mr. von Shalburg’s shoes?”

“That’s socks, sir,” Tony said. Joe was forever getting American expressions mixed up.

“Socks?” he asked with a confused frown.

“You step into someone’s shoes, and knock someone’s socks off.”

Joe waved his hand. “Sì. So, where’s the menu?”

Francesca handed a paper to him, and he took a few moments to examine the dishes. “Excellent, though you may want to add an exotic or expensive ingredient or two—maybe caviar or truffles with the salad course. That Shalburg fellow is something of a snoot-head.”

Francesca frowned. Tony laughed.

“I got that one wrong, too, eh? Hmm, I meant aristocratic, high and mighty—”

Tony stopped laughing long enough to say, “No, you got it right, Uncle Joe. Snooty is, in fact, exactly the right description for good ole von Shalburg.”

Francesca planted her hands on her hips. “You’re not helping, Joe.”

“What did I say?”

Tony laid his arm across his uncle’s shoulders. “She’s just a little uptight about von Snoothead’s visit.”

“I didn’t get much sleep last night either,” she added before thinking, then glanced at Tony. Her face flushed to the roots of her hair.

Tony couldn’t help remembering the image of her stretched out on the bed, one silky, perfect breast exposed, her curvy body and olive-toned skin enticingly set off by her pink satin camisole. Desire slammed into him with the force of a stormy wind off Long Island Sound. He swallowed. “Yeah. There’s a lot of that going around.”

“Let’s go over by the pool and see how the pouring is coming along.” Not looking at Tony, she stepped out of her heeled sandals and into a pair of rubber boots that looked as if they’d just fallen from the pages of the L.L. Bean catalog. Tony glanced down at his Italian leather loafers and winced.

“Where are your work boots?” Joe asked.

“What would I want a pair of work boots for?” He pointed at Francesca’s feet. “Especially ones as ugly as that.”

Francesca and Joe exchanged an exasperated look.

Tony just shrugged, then rolled up his black pants. He balanced himself on the wooden frame for the sidewalk and used it like a tightrope to walk to the pool.

He, Joe and Francesca introduced themselves to the site foreman, but as the others discussed the mix ratio of concrete to stone, Tony gazed at the still-empty pool. Francesca would look great stretched out by the pool, wearing nothing but a bikini, sunglasses and a smile. What color would her bikini be? He recalled a red one from last summer when he and a bunch of their friends had rented a house on Martha’s Vineyard.

Or maybe pink, like the now-infamous nightie.

She’d smile and turn toward him, sliding her hand up his bare thigh.

No, she’d probably just glare at him. No that’s what she’s doing now, you idiot.

He rubbed his hands together, as if he’d be glad to volunteer to spread the concrete himself—if only he was properly dressed. “Well, it looks great to me.”

Francesca promptly turned back to the concrete conversation, and he fought against the provocative images of her and her bikini. He stared—hard—at her white turtleneck.

Nope. That didn’t help. He knew what was under there. He’d touched and sampled what was under there. If only he could get under there again…

“Ms. D’Arcy!” someone called from a distance.

They all turned toward the veranda.

The housekeeping manager, Mabel, waved, but she wasn’t smiling. “It’s Chef Carlos.”

Now that man would put just about anybody off their pleasant thoughts.

FRANCESCA had barely cleared the kitchen door when the resort’s prized, can’t-run-the-place-without-him chef jabbed his knife into the chopping block.

“I will not work with that, that imbecile, that klutz, that…food masochist!”

Chef Carlos was half Cuban and half Puerto Rican, so to describe him as passionate was an extreme understatement. He was also highly respected, a perfectionist, well-traveled, sophisticated, and a Ricky Martin lookalike.

Since Francesca had known him only by reputation before interviewing him last month, his appearance had been something of a shock, but that was nothing compared to actually dealing with him and his…problem on a daily basis. In public, “fans” followed him around, they screamed, they tore at his clothes. Explaining he was not the internationally known entertainer was useless.

Even in the privacy of the resort, the problems continued. Francesca had gone through endless interviews with housekeeping managers before she’d found practical, sixty-something Mabel, who didn’t want to jump him, just mother him. And Carlos himself didn’t help much. Personality-wise he had little in common with the butt-shaking performer—he was a grouch, and his perfectionist nature had everyone jumpy and irritable.

“My art requires at least a minute bit of assisted skill. As much as I’m able to juggle, I cannot withstand the pressure entirely alone.”

“Of course, Chef,” she said, though she didn’t agree with his assessment of Kerry, whom she thought was a talented, even-tempered sous chef.

Chef Carlos heaved a deep sigh. “What do I expect with such a child?”

“Kerry is twenty-three, Chef. He’s an adult.” Carlos hadn’t had such a prestigious job at that age. Maybe there was a bit of jealousy here as well.

“I want him out.”

But she couldn’t get rid of Kerry. He had the secret stash of Hawaiian gourmet chocolate to make her favorite midnight snack—chocolate-covered marshmallows. He refused to reveal his source, and she couldn’t make it through the night without those marshmallows. “No,” she said simply.

“No? Did you say no? No one tells the great—”

“Oh, come on, Chef.” Francesca tapped her foot. “What did he do—specifically, without histrionics?”

Francesca figured very few people ever argued with the talented chef, but if she didn’t let him know early on that she wouldn’t be bullied, she’d be dealing with scenes like this every week, hell, maybe every day. With von Shalburg’s visit as well as their opening round of guests just a few days away, she had to establish leadership and strength now or she wouldn’t ever be able to. Still, her heart pounded with the idea that Chef Carlos might pack up his knives and go home.

“He…he cut the carrots for the pasta primavera a quarter-inch too short.”

“He—” Francesca leaned against the counter for support. Life had really been okay at the Hilton. She’d had a perfectly nice job, a perfectly nice paycheck…distance from an unreasonable attraction to her best friend.

This is your dream, angel. Make it work.

She could all but hear her father whisper encouragement in her ear.

“Where is he?” she asked after a bracing roll of her shoulders.

“Here, Ms. D’Arcy,” a low voice answered from the back door. Kerry held a cardboard produce box in front of his body like a shield. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. It just sort of happened.”

Francesca hurt for him. He was so quiet and tender-hearted. The food business was tough, and she worried about him being able to survive in a world where Pierre von Shalburgs and Chef Carloses flourished.

“Let’s see if we can’t work this out,” she said.

Encouraged, Kerry took a few, halting steps forward. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Food is as much about presentation as it is taste. Chef Carlos is well known for his perfectionism. If you have to pull out a ruler to make the cuts exact, then do it.”

Kerry nodded and made a small mewing sound. Carlos lifted his chin.

“And, Chef Carlos, remember, these last few days before opening are for practice. There’s no need to berate Kerry for a small mistake. Nurture him. He’ll help you look like the genius you are.”

Carlos inclined his head. Kerry mewed again.

Crisis number one of the day averted. Hallelujah. She glanced at her watch. Nearly ten o’clock. How long before the next bump in the road appeared? Oh, probably about as long as it took for Tony to appear and—

“What is that mewing sound?”

Kerry’s face flushed. “I, uh…found them in the herb garden.” He extended the box he held.

With her stomach churning, Francesca approached him. Even Chef Carlos wandered over to see the box’s contents.

A mother calico cat and three tiny kittens lay inside.

The blood drained from Francesca’s face. Cats? In a commercial kitchen? Cats equaled rats according to the health department, not to mention, Chef Carlos would probably blow another gasket—

“How adorable!” Carlos exclaimed.

Francesca stared at him in shock just as the lights went out.

AS THE SUN disappeared over the horizon outside, Francesca used a flashlight to make her way upstairs to Tony’s office. She collapsed into the chair in front of his desk. “We should have power tomorrow. Thank God for the back-up generators. At least we don’t have to worry about the food spoiling.”

With the exterior floodlights reflecting off the windows and a pair of candles sitting on either end of Tony’s desk, she had just enough light to see his smile flash. “I knew you’d get to the bottom of everything.”

“Oh, I don’t know if I got to the bottom of anything. The power company claims there was a snafu in setting up our account, but when I pointed out we’ve had power for a month now, the representative just said ‘oh.’” Francesca shook her head, which had been throbbing since about 10:00 a.m. “I didn’t see the point in arguing. I asked her if she showed a balance on our account, she said no, so I told her it sure would be nice to actually get what we’d paid for, and she promised it would be on again by eight tomorrow.”

“A.m. or p.m.?”

“Who knows?” She sighed, frustrated. “Oh, and watch for saucers of milk on the kitchen floor.”

“Saucers of milk?”

“We have a family of cats as our first guests. Though I hope not long enough for the health inspector to notice.”

Tony clasped his hands and leaned forward. She wanted to rest her head on his chest and hold on to him more than she wanted to do just about anything.

Except maybe rip his clothes from his body.

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