Ariana had left home specifically to work for Stefano and Sonia, in hopes of inheriting the business from her childless relatives. Marriage to Rick got in the way. But soon after Ariana found herself divorced and jobless, she’d accepted Stefano’s offer to take over. In record time, she’d put the restaurant in the black and on the map, and had secured financing for much-needed renovations. She’d even approved every blue pencil mark on the prints she carried in her pack.
Now she had seven days—the contractors wouldn’t arrive until a week from Monday—to clear out the place before they started knocking down walls. Since Uncle Stefano insisted that he supervise the moving of the equipment and furniture into storage, he ordered Ariana to take the week off—her first real vacation since she moved to California—to rejuvenate before her life descended into complete turmoil.
And who was she to argue? Stefano had a way of making his rare commands sound like sweet talk—a skill he’d developed to deal with his loving but willful wife. A woman Ari reminded him of, judging by the times he called her Sonia, particularly during a disagreement. Ari swallowed a bittersweet smile.
Sonia’s death and Ari’s divorce had been strong catalysts to her single-minded pursuit of success for the restaurant. She’d worked tirelessly for five years. But now she really needed a break. For herself. For her sanity.
The cable car rattled and shook as it moved uphill, a familiar buzzing hum beneath her feet and a crisp San Francisco night chilling her cheeks. The fog was rolling in late tonight. Fingers of smoky moisture twirled toward them from the Bay. But over her shoulder the scene was clear—the glittering, neon and historic charm that was San Francisco.
The cable car paused between the intersections at Geary and Powell, then shrugged forward when no one jumped aboard at Union Square. The main cable car traffic at this time of night was on the return trip, from the Wharf to the hotels at Market Street and stops along the way. At least, that’s what she’d heard.
On most Friday nights, and Saturday through Thursday as well, she was helping her hostess find seats for customers, checking on orders with her chef or serving her specialty drinks in the bar. She knew little to nothing about the charming, diverse, anything-goes city she called home. Her explorations were limited to the nightspots her former husband once played with his band and the blocks around Chinatown where she lived in a rent-controlled apartment above Madame Li’s Herb Shop.
But she had one week to see the city, every inch of it if she could, before she immersed herself in supervising the contractors who would turn her quaint dockside eatery into a restaurant of international reputation.
Before she could contemplate what her father would think of her bold, risky move from storefront eatery to full-fledged culinary powerhouse, a flutter of glossy pages caught her eye from farther down the bench, snared She slid over and plucked the magazine from the seat, recognizing it as one of the hip women’s periodicals her landlady bought for her shop so the older patrons who stopped by for her delicious blend of tea and gossip could laugh at their younger counterparts and their silly ideas of womanhood.
She might have agreed with them about some of the magazine’s topics, but this issue’s feature caught Ari’s eye.
Sexy City Nights: San Francisco Style.
Sex. Now there was an interesting activity Ari barely remembered. She fanned the pages until she found the large color spread featuring a couple leaning against the bright orange railing of the Golden Gate. Darkness and a fine mist of fog shadowed the models’ bodies, but their faces were angled into the photographer’s light just enough to capture expressions. Wanton desire on the man’s. Sheer ecstasy in the eyes of the woman.
Whatever he was doing to her, she was enjoying it.
A lot.
The cable car rattled along, slowing beneath a bright street lamp long enough for Ariana to see that the man’s left hand had disappeared somewhere beneath the woman’s incredibly short and fluttering skirt.
Ari swallowed, briefly marveling at the bold sensuality of this mainstream magazine. But soon her intimacy-starved imagination superimposed her own face, equally enraptured, equally pleasured, over the model in the photograph. A pressure, not unlike the sensation of a man’s fingers, slipped between her thighs and stirred a throbbing loneliness she usually felt only late at night after a hot shower or early in the morning after a restless battle with erotic dreams.
How thrilling, how inviting—to be in a public place while a man touched you privately—with only the night and the thin misty remnants of fog to shield the sensations from prying eyes. For a woman to risk such discovery, the desire for a man’s touch and utter need for intimacy would have to override every ounce of good sense, every inkling of decent behavior.
Ari sighed. Once upon a time, she’d been caught up in a man enough to leave her logic at the door. Unfortunately, though the sex hadn’t been bad, her ex-husband, Rick, had been more concerned with his own pleasure than hers. And she, barely into her twenties and wholly inexperienced, hadn’t known better.
On the bumpy road to now, she’d learned about her needs. But by the time she knew what she wanted from a man, Rick had packed his bags for a gig in Seattle, leaving behind the divorce papers, their apartment lease and an ocean of emotions she’d only just emerged from.
But now she had a whole week off and a magazine detailing a city full of possibilities.
Benny leaned over the wooden bench to peak over her shoulder. “So, what are you planning to do when Athens closes?”
Ari turned the page of the magazine, intrigued by another sultry photo shot in a cell at Alcatraz. Talk about bondage.
She glanced up to see if Benny had noticed, but his eyes were back on the line, his hands working the brake and bell with practiced grace.
“We’ll be closed for over a month, but I only have a week for vacation. I’m not letting those contractors tear out one nail unless I’m watching.”
Benny shook his head and clucked his tongue. “You can’t be there all the time. Girl as young and pretty as you shouldn’t be cooped up in that restaurant as much as you are. You need to get out. See the city. Enjoy being young while you can.”
Ariana folded the next page over, her breath catching at the image of nude lovers immersed in the mineral baths in nearby Napa Valley. She’d never been to Napa. Not once. And by the looks of the photo, she was missing a lot more than wine.
“Sounds like a plan,” she answered. “I’ve got one week to experience San Francisco. Think that’s enough?”
Benny laughed heartily, the booming sound coming from even his belly. The straining cables beneath the street, the heartline of old San Francisco seemed to chuckle right along with him.
“With the right man, a woman can experience the world in one night.”
Ariana laughed in response, but privately mulled his words over, allowing her romantic side to believe Benny knew what he was talking about—that there was a man out there for her. One completely enamored with her. One who would put her pleasure, her satisfaction, before his needs. No, her pleasure and satisfaction would be his needs.
She wanted a sexy, uninhibited, confident man who would show her the soul of the city and the depths of her desires. And then, at the end of the week, he would fade away as if he’d never existed, leaving her with a lifetime of scorching memories to heat her through the cool San Francisco nights.
Without warning, the quixotic fantasy was slapped out of her head. Her hat tumbled onto her lap and she scrambled to catch it and the magazine before they flew off the car. Adjusting her backpack, she grinned wryly at the long tube that had just hit her—and at her own fanciful interlude. Such a dream lover didn’t exist…in her experience. She had no men at all in her life except for Ray, the restaurant’s day manager, who was happily married and treated her like a sister; her uncle,