Flirting with Fire

Gathering her wits, she absorbed her surroundings, so familiar, so treasured. As typical in Manhattan, space was at a premium. Beyond the front door and hostess stand were a few booths. The bar was in the back, where the restaurant hooked to the left, leading to a dining room of twelve tables. The modern decor contrasted with her traditional Italian menu. While the walls were dark, mirrors reflected ceiling and floor lights. The tables were antique mahogany, and the candles resting in the center were surrounded by amber glass, casting a soft, golden glow on the diners.

Named for her family, opened on a loan from her grandfather and featuring her Tuscan grandmother’s recipes, Sorabella’s was her baby—her life, really. She had an obligation to be a success, to carry on the dreams of her immigrant heritage.

The image of Elliot’s florid face, his limp body splayed on the table, flashed before her. She closed her eyes, only to have the vision intensify. Fresh pesto sauce splattered across the white tablecloth. An overturned wineglass, deep red liquid dribbling across his fleshy hand.

The next thing she knew, Nathan was sliding into the booth next to her and pressing a heavy crystal glass into her hand. “Drink it.”

In a daze, she did. After a sip, she coughed. “What the hell?” she asked, her throat burning.

“Whiskey. Feel better?”

She whipped her head toward him. “No, I—” Her gaze collided with those lovely gray eyes of his, turning her instantly into a marshmallow. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

Over the past few months they’d shifted from restauranteur and customer to good friends, confidantes in the hectic world of dating in the city. With his golden blond hair, tailored suits and impeccable manners, he was attractive and nice, but not her usual type. Not that her tendency to try to rehabilitate bad boys was working out, either.

At first, she’d tried to treat Nathan with strict professionalism, even though he’d eaten in her restaurant at least three times a week since he’d moved to the city four months ago. But eventually she’d found herself in deep conversations with him late at night, after restaurant traffic dwindled. He was smart and insightful, caring and generous. Far from the boyfriend mistakes of her past.

But she’d been turning to him for advice and hanging out with him when she should have been doing inventory or planning marketing strategies and menus. She had to make a success of Sorabella’s—both for her bank account and her family’s pride. Nathan Pearce was a temptation she couldn’t afford. She cleared her throat, which still sizzled from the whiskey. “Mr. Craig appears to have suffered an allergic reaction.”

“But the paramedics aren’t working on him,” Nathan pointed out. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“No, of course—” Gia stopped mid-lie. Nathan deserved better. “Yes.”

“I suspected so,” he said, his shoulders sagging. “I rushed over to help, but when I got there, Jason and Dale were already giving the guy CPR.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, she wanted to laugh at the idea that Nathan knew not only the waiter’s name, but the busboy’s as well.

Elliot Craig had never taken the time to notice anybody.

Ridiculously, she wondered if the critic had liked the pesto. Maybe he’d at least died happy.

“My brother’s a firefighter in Cincinnati,” Nathan added. “I used to volunteer. I’ve witnessed a bad scene or two.”

“Right. You’re from Ohio.” And she definitely wasn’t. A lifetime New Yorker. Brooklyn, until last year when an Italian movie icon had declared her marinara sauce the best in the city, allowing her to barely afford a move to the high-rise island of Manhattan. “I appreciate your help, as always.” Impulsively, she laid her hand over his. “The police are going to question you.”

His thumb slid across her knuckles, and the promise of something much more carnal than a consoling friend would offer moved through his eyes. “I don’t mind.”

She pulled her hand back. “I doubt you’ll say that an hour from now.”

As she scooted out of the booth and stood, he followed her. “Bet I will.”

Gia indulged in his smile briefly, then her hostess appeared beside her. “The police are here.”

Chapter Two (#ulink_e76be7d5-56c2-5c22-a414-a064bbc0654e)

Despite Gia’s assurance she was fine, Nathan held her hand as her office was turned into a makeshift interrogation room for the NYPD. He couldn’t hold her the way he wanted to, so he was settling—again—for being the steady friend.

“It appears somebody attempted CPR,” homicide detective Carl Anderson prompted. “Was it you?”

Gia shook her head. “Jason and Dale. One of the waiters and the busboy. I made everybody take a class just after the holidays.”

The detective flipped through a small notebook. “So you didn’t touch the body?”

Gia’s olive-toned skin went pale. “No.”

“But you knew Elliot Craig.”

“Yes.”

The restaurant was now empty except for Nathan, Gia and the detective. The cops had arrived, supervised the removal of the victim, questioned everybody—employees and diners alike—then unceremoniously sent everyone out and locked the doors. Knowing Gia’s commitment to her restaurant, Nathan figured she was struggling to decide if a dead body or an interruption of dinner service was more traumatic.

“He comes in every few weeks,” Gia continued.

“For a review?”

“He’ll write up the meal on occasion, but not always. Technically, that’s skirting an ethical line. He eats for free when he’s reviewing.”

“But he ate free here all the time?”

Gia’s lips turned up in a small smile. “No reason to piss him off.”

“Pretty good gig,” the detective commented, to which Nathan agreed.

Plenty of men would pay, and pay big, to see Gia’s stunning face and eat her delicious food on a regular basis—in fact he was the president of that fan club. But since Craig had acted like a pompous jerk from the moment he walked in, Nathan doubted the critic was as lovestruck as Nathan himself. He probably just enjoyed being fawned over.

“Was Craig easily pissed off?” the detective pressed.

“A lot of people found him annoying.”

“Including you?”

Gia’s eyes flashed with resentment, but Nathan doubted anybody who didn’t know her well—or who didn’t study her movements as closely as he did—would be aware of it. “He was aggressive and demanding, but a lot of food people are. He seemed to like eating here.”

Raising his eyebrows, the detective propped his hip against the desk. “I’ve read the reviews. He wasn’t all that complimentary.”

“Elliot never complimented anybody if he could help it.” Gia’s half smile appeared again, sending sparks of need through Nathan’s body. “But then I’m no Joel Robuchon.”

The detective cocked his head. “Who?”

“A French chef of some renown,” Nathan told him, tired on Gia’s behalf of the seemingly pointless questions. “Could these questions wait until tomorrow? Ms. Sorabella has been through quite a lot tonight.”

“You’re the boyfriend?” Anderson asked, giving Nathan his full attention for the first time.

“No,” Gia blurted before Nathan could speak.

Was he really that far from boyfriend material? Unsurprised by the pain that jabbed his heart, Nathan reminded himself that he hadn’t exactly put himself out there with Gia. For a while, he’d simply been happy to breathe the same air she did. Lately he’d begun to want more—a lot more—but he could hardly push for it under tonight’s circumstances. “I’m a friend,” he told the detective.