John looked back at the screen. Antonella was stretching, tossing her head back. That strong, curvy, flexible body, mmm. He could feel it in his grasp, writhing desperately. He licked his lips. She massaged her temples, a tiny frown between her brows. A headache. Aw. Poor baby. Working so hard. She needed Big John to give her a neck rub.

After which, he would rip those cock-teasing panties off her, stuff them into her mouth, and make her forget all about her poor head.

It was the least he deserved, after all this fucking aggravation.

Chapter

2

“Grazie for the telephone call, Signorina D’Onofrio,” said the inspettore, Osvaldo Tucci, the person at the comissariato who had finally fielded her call. “I do not believe that we have any pending missing-persons reports from Castiglione Sant’Angelo, and to be sincere, without a surname for reference, it will take a long time to—”

“But that’s just my point,” Nell argued stubbornly. “If he got on a plane for New York weeks ago, why would it have ever occurred to anyone to declare him missing? Perhaps you can cross-reference. I know he was a resident of the Palazzo de Luca. And I know that he was married to Lucia de Luca, sometime between 1957 and 1964, I think. Doesn’t that help?”

“I am not familiar with all the palazzi of the noble families in Castiglione Sant’Angelo,” Inspettore Tucci said, his voice heavy with professional patience. “There are many of them, and I did not grow up here myself. I was transferred here from Calabria. But I assure you, we will look into this, and get in touch with the Detective Lanaghan as soon as possible.”

They closed the call with a polite round of pleasantries, and Nell hung up, frustrated and unsatisfied. Not that she’d expected anything to be easy, or obvious. But it would have been nice.

Lunch prep at the Sunset was as busy as ever, and she was glad. It kept her too frazzled to dwell on poor old Marco’s sad fate. Or wonder, uneasily, if Lucia had been forced to witness her husband’s murder.

The thought chilled her to the bone.

At three-fifteen, Nell felt a familiar tingle in the nape of her neck. She looked up from the banana kiwi smoothie she was blending. It was him.

Thank God. She welcomed the little thrill gratefully. Her drug of choice. A scary analogy, but damn it, she didn’t have much to thrill about these days. She’d take what she could get.

He was frowning at his favorite table, which was occupied. He chose another, pulling out his laptop. Monica jerked her chin in the direction of his table, even though the man had seated himself in her section, not Nell’s. Oh, God. Even Monica knew.

Norma tapped her shoulder. “Get that strip steak ready pronto, Nelly. That guy looks hungry.”

“I don’t want to give him the strip steak,” Nell said rebelliously. “Always the same damn thing, every day. It can’t be good for him. To say nothing of the nutritional implications and saturated fats, a person needs stimulation, variety, change! Or else they’re as good as dead!”

“You’re a fine one to talk, sweet cheeks. I have a suggestion for you. Go tap him on the shoulder and tell him he needs a change. Like the tofu cashew stir-fry. Or the curried chickpeas. Or dinner with you.”

“You’re crazy,” Nell said, aghast. “He doesn’t know I exist!”

“Whose fault is that? You’d be take-your-breath-away gorgeous if you played yourself up a little bit! Go get the man some coffee!”

Nell stomped out onto the restaurant floor, tired of being lectured, hounded. She set the coffee on the table beside the black-haired man with more force than necessary, slapped a menu down, and whipped out her order pad.

“What would you like? The usual?” she demanded. Monica passed with a tray of sundaes and made audible smooching sounds. Nell glared at her.

The black-haired man frowned into his screen. “Why do you even ask? You know exactly what I want.” He sounded irritated.

Nell braced herself. “Good question. One to which I have perhaps given more thought than it deserves. I’m prepared to answer, however.”

His fingers slowed their tapping on the keyboard, and then stopped. He reached slowly for his coffee. “Go on.”

Nell’s heart thumped. “Although I know you want the strip steak, the one day I don’t ask will be the day that, out of sheer perversity, you decide you want the bulgur pilaf.” She tried to sound breezy.

“Not likely.” He looked up. For the first time, she had his full attention. It was dizzying. He looked into her face, eyes narrowed. They were dark, penetrating. Gorgeous. He had unbelievably long lashes.

“Therefore,” she continued, “by saying, ‘the usual,’ I’m killing two birds with one stone. I’m acknowledging that you have a relationship with us, and that we will gladly cater to your preferences. But the fact that I ask at all pays homage to the fact that life is full of surprises—and people do change.” She poised her pen over the pad. “Your order?”

He stared at her for a long moment. Blinked. She waited, belly fluttering. “The usual,” he said.

Nell scribbled and fled.

Back behind the counter, Norma gave her cheek an approving pinch. “Good start! Not what I told you to say, but he sure took notice! No, don’t look now. He’s still looking. Practically staring! For goodness’ sake, look nonchalant. Look busy!”

“Yeah. Like, play it cool,” Monica advised.

“Leave me alone. You’re embarrassing me to death. Monica, would you take over his table? I can’t face him again,” Nell begged.

“Not in a million years,” Monica said, heartless. “All yours, babe.”

“I’ll dip up his coleslaw,” Norma said in a businesslike tone. “Put the roll in the grill, and tuck that hair behind your ears. Monica, get a bowl of soup, and pass me those veggies!”

Norma and Monica smartly assembled his lunch and passed the tray into Nell’s nerveless hands. The black-haired man pushed his computer to one side of the table and watched as she laid the dishes down. His gaze on her face made her skin tingle and burn.

Nell straightened her spine and forced herself to look into his eyes. “Will that be all?” Her voice was embarrassingly tremulous.

His eyes traveled down her body. Slow, cool, assessing.

She wished desperately that she hadn’t called his attention to herself. If he kept looking at her like that, she was going to melt, burn, fly into a million pieces.

“For now,” he said simply.

She fled again, and behind the counter, Norma and Monica hooted and cheered in whispers. “He’s eating you with his eyes, honey! Don’t look! Get the coffeepot and do a round of refills,” Norma directed.

“Yeah, chica, you did good. Tomorrow wear something sexier. Say, like, a tight ribbed turtleneck. Sleeveless, ’cause you got good arms. If you don’t have one I’ll lend you one of mine,” Monica offered.

“Ladies, do you mind?” Nell hissed, grabbing the coffeepot. She did as Norma suggested, refilling coffee cups to steady her nerves.

She didn’t really have much experience with men. She’d dabbled in college, but this guy was in another league from the unthreatening, callow literary types she’d discussed poetry and philosophy with.

It was embarrassing. Such a brief, inconsequential encounter, but look at her. She’d almost had a seizure.

The moment he had finally taken notice of her, a primitive emotion stabbed through her, part excitement, part naked fear. She couldn’t tell if the feeling was pleasurable or not. She had never felt so vulnerable, or so female. And all he’d done was ogle her.