The Marriage Arrangement Page 4

  "Are you ready?" she asked.

  He cocked his head. "Why do I feel like I'm about to take a test?"

  Damn, he was sharp. It was as if he easily guessed all her inner thoughts. She laughed and waved her hand in dismissal. "Not a test. Just curious."

  "Why?"

  "Desserts tell a lot about a person."

  His brows shot up. Suddenly, he leaned in, closing the distance between them. She took in the roughness of stubble hugging his square jaw, the bold slash of his nose, the high arch of his forehead, the liquid blackness of his pupils that hypnotized and pulled her in. His spicy, masculine scent danced in her nostrils. She sucked in a breath at the raw intimacy within those precious few seconds. Those carved lips quirked slightly at the left corner and her belly dropped. "I'll take that challenge. Let's do this."

  With an arrogant grin, he tugged her gently into the line. When it was their turn, he pointed directly to the pastry of his choice.

  Ah, the sfogliatelle.

  She'd pegged him for the chocolate torte, but that had been too direct. Her second choice was the canoli, but she admitted it was too simple for him. The intricacy of his choice pleased her. Her mind analyzed all the options and sifted through in her usual favorite game. She loved trying to figure out people by their food or drink choice. Wine, especially, since she was a vintner's daughter, but since Milan, she had switched her skills to dessert.

  "And you, Caterina? What's your choice?"

  She shook herself out of the trance and smiled. "The panforte, please. That one." She picked out the slice crammed with hazelnuts, already salivating over the dense, spicy treat. "Grazie."

  They took their wrapped snacks on plates and found a table, settling into the stools. Neither of them moved to eat at first. Instead, they took in the perfection of the pastries, enjoying the visual stimuli and taking a deep breath of the rich mix of flavors.

  "I had you pegged for the chocolate tart," he said.

  She burst into laughter. "I had you pegged as one, too! And I'm not wrong often."

  "I guess both of us have secrets." His stark words made her shiver, as if he gave her a warning. Her tummy clenched and she crossed her legs, trying to ignore the quick surge of heat that seemed to burst between them in regular intervals. Who would've thought she'd meet a man in a local bar and have it turn into the longest, most perfect date she'd ever experienced?

  She forked up a piece of her treasure, closing her eyes as she enjoyed the explosion of dense bread, spicy nuts, sweet fruits, and the mix of gorgeous honey coating her tongue.

  He cleared his throat and shifted on his stool. She fought a blush as she realized her moan had made him a bit uncomfortable. "Mi dispiace."

  Humor lit his gaze. "No need to be sorry for enjoying your dessert." He cut off a piece of his pastry, exposing the semi-sweet, heavy ricotta cheese baked into layers of thin, crispy dough and smothered with powdered sugar. "Now, tell me what my sfogliatelle tells you about me."

  She tapped the fork against her mouth. "Well, you have layers."

  He snorted. "We all have layers."

  She tossed him a mock glare. "Are you going to argue right away with my insights or let me finish?"

  His lip twitched. "Go ahead."

  "As I was saying, you have layers. Some are easier to figure out than others. You put out a neutral, cool type of distance and don't like to get to really know people. You don't trust easily and prefer to depend only on yourself." Ah, that got his attention. He stared at her with a hint of caution, as if she'd really surprised him. Cat warmed up to the game, excited she seemed to be on the right track. "But inside, there's a sweetness, a vulnerability. You hate tapping into it, because it reminds you of something in your past that changed you. You're much more complicated than you let on."

  He paused mid-bite, a deep frown creasing his brow. A strange energy whipped around him, a primitive type of male force that fascinated her, but he quickly got it under control and he was back to normal in seconds. An easy grin curved his lips. "Do you read tea leaves, too?"

  "Nope. I dislike tea."

  "Along with grappa and espresso. Good to know." He swallowed another bite, his tongue swiping off the sugar, and suddenly her blood steamed like hot lava and she had a crazy urge to lean across the table and kiss him. What would his full lips feel like against hers? Were his muscles as hard as they looked? Would he kiss her with a hint of violence, or surprise her with a stirring type of sweetness, like his dessert? "Ready for my analysis now?"

  She swallowed and re-focused. "Sure."

  "The panforte is the traditional fruit cake that Americans usually mock for being bland, cheap, and too heavy. But the Italians have managed to master it to an art form, which is a quest for specific flavors to balance and play off each other in the ultimate taste."

  His words dripped with sensuality. His voice deepened and his gaze pinned her across the table, weaving a spell. Her heart pounded and her palms dampened. She tried to speak, but found her mouth too dry.

  He lifted his fork. "May I?" he asked.

  Still silent, she managed to nod. He broke off a piece, placing it on his tongue, then closed his eyes as he registered the flavors.

  Cat swayed in her chair and realized she now knew exactly what it was like to swoon. Holy crap, he was seducing her with her own game and he didn't even know it. Or maybe he did.

  His eyes opened. "Ah, it's a trick. At first, all the complicated textures and tastes can throw a person off and make them believe you're a bundle of contradictions. Normally, this type of dessert would peg you as challenging, assertive, and a complete emotional mess."

  Her jaw dropped. "You got all that?"

  "I'm not finished. The panforte is a trick. Because the goal of the dessert is to balance all that chaos into one perfect experience. This slice features ripe figs, a touch of orange peel, chocolate, hazelnuts, and is that clove? Coriander? Something to add spice. It's a jumble, but somehow, it works to achieve one lasting note. Which means you're actually quite stable. Quietly intelligent and not as flashy as people believe you are. In that way, you put on your own show and don't allow too many people to see the real you. Yet your feelings run deep, and there's something you're craving. Something you haven't found, something you're still searching for with a kind of desperation."

  "And what do you think that something is?"

  His gaze dropped to her mouth. The word dropped from his lips like a gunshot.

  "Passion."

  Oh, my God. How could he possibly know that? Heat slithered in her veins, between her legs, tingling her breasts. Breathless, she held his gaze and waited. Seconds ticked by. What would happen next? What did she want to happen?

  "Caterina! Ciao!"

  The warm voice cut through their connection and put an end to the intense standoff. She turned, strangely relieved, her mouth breaking into a huge smile at the familiar figure. Rising from her chair, she stepped over and hugged the older woman, who wrapped her in strong arms and returned her embrace with full enthusiasm. "Mama Conte, I'm so glad I didn't miss you. You're working late."

  The matriarch of the pastry empire, La Dolce Famiglia, was a familiar presence in the Milan bakery. With her long grey hair twisted up in a bun, her features were classic and elegant, hinting at a shimmering beauty from youth. Generous laugh lines were carved into her olive skin. She wore wide-legged black pants and a simple white blouse on her petite frame. She suffered from arthritis and walked with a cane, but as the mother of four children and a powerful force in the food empire and business world, she cut a dynamic figure. From the first day Cat had stumbled into the bakery, Mama Conte had treated her with a nurturing warmth she desperately needed, until her regular visits were not only about the treats, but the company. The Conte family made her feel alive and welcome, and reminded her of her father, soothing some of the sting from missing him.

  Her sharp brown gaze took in her companion, and she blew off Cat's question with a generous smile and a humph. "Michael
gives me a hard time but sometimes I crave being in the store. Talking to people was a critical part of our success. No one likes to eat good dessert alone. You need good conversation. Good company, si? Especially from handsome young men. Who is this, my child?"

  "Oh, yes, this is Lee. I told him he had to experience the power of La Dolce Famiglia."

  Lee smiled warmly and shook her hand. "Signora Conte, a pleasure to meet you. Your bakery is extraordinary."

  "Grazie. Everyone calls me Mama Conte. I'm glad Caterina was able to share her love for a well baked dessert." Her dark eyes held a mysterious glint. "Are you staying with us for a while, I hope?"

  "A week. I'm here for work, but I was lucky enough to be saved from a lonely dinner tonight."

  Cat tried not to blush, but Mama Conte looked delighted. "Perfecto. Why don't you both come to dinner Sunday afternoon? You both need a good home cooked meal. Too much fast food at cafes ruin the stomach."

  Her eyes widened. "Oh, that's so nice of you but we just met, and I don't think--"

  "You must come. One o'clock. I shall make you a special dessert."

  She glanced at Lee in embarrassment. Oh, my God, what if he had no interest in seeing her again? What if he was involved with someone else? She'd seen no ring but nowadays a woman never knew. Trying not to panic, she began to stammer like she always did when she got nervous. "Umm, Mama Conte, grazie, but Lee has work and I have, well I have--"

  "Sundays are meant for pleasure and the Lord, not work." Her booming voice brooked no argument. The woman beamed a smile, scribbled something on one of the business cards in her pocket and handed it to Lee. "You'll need to take the funicular to my home in Bergamo, but it's not too far."

  "Oh, but you see, I can't because we--"

  "We'd love to come." Lee's deep voice interrupted her pathetic attempts to reject the invitation. Her head swiveled around to stop him, to tell him he didn't have to, but Mama Conte was already nodding with satisfaction.

  "Bene! I must go, or Michael will worry." She hugged and kissed her, then Lee, and walked out of her bakery with her head held high and a smooth grace, even with her slight limp.

  "Caterina?"

  She jerked around. "Yes?"

  "Breathe. I think you're freaking out."

  She half closed her eyes and groaned. "I'm so sorry, Lee. I didn't know she was going to bully you into dinner with me. Listen, forget the whole thing. I'm going to tell her I got sick and you had to work, it's absolutely no problem."

  A frown touched his brow. "Well, that would be a problem to me. Because I want to go to dinner with you and experience a real homemade meal at Mama Conte's house."

  She blinked. "You do?"

  "Of course. It's a win-win. I get to spend more time with you, and I get to eat. Unless you don't want to go with me?"

  Her worries scattered away and left her with a sense of budding excitement. Her nerves tingled. "I do."

  He grinned. "Good. Then let's finish up so I can walk you home."

  They ate their desserts and walked side by side. Crowds had thinned. Shops closed up. The click of her heels on the pavement and their whispered voices added a sense of intimacy to the stroll. He stopped outside her place.

  "Thank you for a perfect evening," he said.

  "Thank you."

  He studied her in the darkness. His gaze drifted over her face, similar to a caress, and then he smiled. "Buona sera, Caterina."

  Tongue tied and ridiculously hoping for a kiss, she said her goodbye and dove for the door. Peeking out the window, she watched him pivot on his heel and disappear down the road. Feeling as if her head were stuffed with cotton balls, she drifted up the steps and walked inside. The scent of ripe roses hung heavy in the air.

  She threw her purse on the table and stood in front of the flowers. Her fingers touched a velvet petal, and a shiver shot down her spine.

  Presto.

  Soon.

  Who sent them? Did she have a secret admirer who'd been keeping his distance, afraid to approach? Normally, the thought would thrill her, but tonight, a strange uneasiness bubbled through her veins. Tonight had been special. For the first time, she'd met a man who intrigued her, and she didn't want to break the spell by thinking of another unknown man lurking in the background.

  The spell....

  She gasped, her gaze falling on the violet-covered book.

  Impossible. Just a coincidence. Right?

  She thought of her list hidden under her mattress and shivered. She was on overload, and there was too much to think about right now. She'd get into her comfy pajamas, crawl into bed, and get some sleep.

  Tonight, she would dream of seething dark eyes, rich panforte, and soul-stirring, carnal kisses.

  Tomorrow, she would ponder the mystery of the flowers.

  Chapter Four

  Rip took in the sprawling terra cotta villa perched on the peak of a hill. The walled city of Bergamo was snugly situated at the foothills of the Alps and separated into upper and lower towns. The combination of old and new mingled into sheer perfection, leaving the bustling city of Milan a distant memory.

  Mama Conte's estate included a sloping roof, wrought iron balconies, and elaborate stone pillars flanking the front door. Bright yellow and red surfaces competed with bursting buds of wildflowers in vivid colors. The massive white-peaked tips of the Alps shimmered in the distance.

  He turned toward Caterina, taking in the slight nervousness of her features, and found his heart softening. She wore a floral dress in sunny yellow, leaving her hair to spill loosely over her shoulders. A gold chain with a heart locket circled her neck. Her makeup was light and natural, allowing him to catch the beauty mark on her right cheek, and the warm pinkish glow to her skin. She looked different today--more approachable and down-to-earth, though her shoes were low-heeled Louboutins and completely impractical for walking. But she'd warned him about her passion for shoes, and kept her complaints to a minimum as she picked her way through the cobblestones and trekked up the hill toward the funicular--the cable railway that pulled them up the steep hill from Milan to Bergamo. The moment he greeted her, her cheeks flushed and her amber eyes glowed with open pleasure. She was genuinely happy to see him, and not even trying to hide it, which made an answering leap of his heart he tried to ignore.

  He should be thrilled his plan was going so well. Their date had been flawless. Even better, she'd made the first move, approaching him, not the other way around. But her unexpected warmth and openness, the way she had him yearning for more, made his gut twist with tension.

  And guilt.

  Since his conversation with Edward, he'd never once considered they could have a real, intimate relationship. Yet, he'd spent the last two days thinking about her, and nights dreaming of her naked and in his bed, until he woke in a tangle of sheets with a throbbing erection and an ache in his chest.

  The game had turned on him. For the first time in years, he actually craved a woman's touch. She wasn't supposed to be funny and sweet. She was supposed to be a shallow, spoiled socialite who cared nothing about anyone else.

  "Are you ready?" he asked, shifting the bottle of Chianti and bouquet of fresh flowers they'd brought for their hostess.

  "Yes, it'll be fun."

  He knocked on the door, and it was answered by a lovely young woman who immediately ducked her head with shyness, offering a smile from beneath the mass of dark curls sliding over her cheek. "Buon Giorno! Come in. I'm Carina."

  He stepped inside, and the scents of garlic, lemon, and basil assaulted his senses. "Nice to meet you, Carina. I'm Lee, and this is Cat. Thank you so much for having us."

  A rapid rush of Italian rose in the air. Carina sighed and shouted back. "I got the door, Mama, and I'm bringing them into the kitchen! Sorry, Mama's cooking, follow me."

  The girl led them down the short hallway and paused in the archway of the long, open kitchen. Ceramic tile gleamed clean and bright and set off the pine cabinets and heavy table. Massive counters flanked the roo
m and were covered with fresh herbs, tomatoes, and an array of pots and pans.

  Two women stepped before them--a dual vision of thick black hair, strong features, and dark eyes. They looked similar to Carina but older, and more confident. Closing the distance, they gave them warm hugs, making Rip feel like an old family friend.

  "Welcome to our home," the shorter, curvier brunette said. "My name is Venezia."

  "I'm Julietta," the taller woman said. Her husky voice held an undertone of authority. She wore a conservative business suit, and her smile held the practiced ease of someone comfortable in a leadership role. Rip pegged her for early thirties.

  Venezia motioned toward the man setting out bottles of wine on the counter, and he walked over. "And this is my boyfriend, Dominick." The man nodded and shook their hands, his brown eyes and curly dark hair cutting a striking appearance. His arm hooked around Venezia's waist with a casual affection that hinted at a long-term relationship, even though there was no ring on Venezia's finger. "Happy to have you," he said.

  "Mama has been wanting to invite you to dinner for a long time, Cat. She says you are our best customer," Julietta said.

  "I am. Is it wrong to even worry about the extra ten pounds I gained due to her baking skills?"

  Venezia waved her hand in the air. "Women with curves are treated like goddesses here in Italia, right, Carina?"

  The younger girl smiled, but she shifted under her baggy clothes as if she was still trying to accept her body. Rip thought she looked around twenty, but still in the midst of dealing with physical and emotional changes. Women were always so hard on themselves with looks, especially in an American culture that relished thinness and judged with a vicious ruthlessness anyone different. Rip winked at her. "Personally, I refuse to date a woman who won't eat bread. It's a deal-breaker for me."

  Carina laughed.

  He handed Julietta the wine and flowers, nodding at her thanks, then eased them into the main kitchen area where the cooking was happening. "Mama treats Sundays like a national holiday in our home. I hope you brought your appetite."