“I’m glad. I like it.” Then she flushed brighter. “Not that, I mean, my opinion isn’t—” She broke off. “Sorry, I sound like an idiot. But you caught me off-guard. I expected—” Again she broke off, then finished lamely, “Something different.”
“The same scrawny kid?”
She nodded. Then, apparently just becoming aware that he still held her hands, she tugged them free. “You must have grown six inches.”
“Five. And over forty pounds.”
“None of it fat,” she muttered, sounding almost annoyed.
What was up with that? Did she like chubby men?
“And you’re the same,” he said. “Only more mature. More beautiful.”
“Mature, maybe,” she said wryly. “Hardly beautiful.”
“Of course you are.” Why couldn’t women just accept a compliment? Or did Rina hear so many, they were like water off a duck’s back? “Come, let’s sit down and talk.”
Again he captured a hand, to lead her to their table. Touching Rina brought a sense of peace, as well as sexual awareness. Oh yes, she was the same. Back then, he’d thought how unusual that he could feel both comfortable and yet wildly excited. Now, after nine years with other women, he knew the feeling wasn’t just unusual, it was unique. To this one special woman.
“Is this our table?” Rina gazed at him quizzically.
He realized he was standing beside the table, gaping at her while his brain processed his revelation.
“Giancarlo?”
The way she said his name—accent perfect, the way he’d taught her all those years ago—warmed his heart. “You’re not married, are you?” he asked suddenly, needing to know she was available.
She frowned. “Married? No.”
“Engaged?”
Her cheeks flooded with color. “No, but why are you asking?”
Was she playing coy, or did she truly not feel the connection between them? Trying to sound casual, he said, “Just curious. Sorry, there’s so much to catch up on. Come, sit.”
Francesco was there to pull back a chair for Rina. “Signorina, welcome to Don Francesco’s. I hope you enjoy your evening.” He gave her a smile that oozed Italian charm.
“Thank you. I’m sure I will.” She gave the other man a smile of her own.
Giancarlo caught himself scowling. Shit, was he actually jealous? He’d liked the other Italian man when it was just the two of them chatting, but now he wished he’d go away.
“Are you ready for a drink?” Francesco asked Rina, as Giancarlo took his own seat, unassisted.
“Why, yes, that would be nice.” She glanced across at Giancarlo. “Wine?”
“I already ordered. I hope you approve.”
Francesco turned, waved an arm, and a waiter hurried up with an ice bucket and a draped bottle. Francesco shooed him away and extracted the bottle himself.
“Champagne?” Rina’s huge brown eyes went even wider. “Giancarlo, really?”
“Do you like champagne?”
“Yes, of course. I love it.” She squinted at the Veuve Clicquot label, then beamed at him. “Especially when it’s the real thing. This looks so much nicer than the cheap bubbly we drink at music events.” Then she frowned slightly. “Are you sure? It must be terribly expensive.”
He liked that she neither took the champagne for granted nor protested too much. “How often do old friends rediscover each other?”
While they’d been talking, Francesco had peeled the foil off the top of the bottle and undone the metal twister. Now he eased the cork free on a dignified puff of air and poured gently into two delicate flutes. “Salute,” he said, then finally withdrew and left them alone.
Giancarlo lifted his glass and waited for her to do the same. “To old friends,” he said, “and new beginnings.”
Her hand froze, her lips parted. Then she touched her glass to his. “It’s good to see you again.”
Damn. She hadn’t accepted his toast.
He took a deep breath. Un bambino viziato. A spoiled child, his mother called him to this day. Too impatient, too obsessed with getting his own way.
Ever since he’d read Rina’s e-mail last night, he’d had trouble concentrating on anything but memories. Her lush breasts tumbling free of her bra, overflowing his greedy hands. Her soft, utterly feminine skin under his fingertips as his fingers—used to piano keys—learned a whole other style of touch. The hungry whimpers as her excitement built and the rich cry of satisfaction that accompanied her climax.
Even more than the sex, that feeling of rightness, just being with her. Seeing her smile, hearing her laugh, watching as she picked up her clarinet and got lost in a world of her own. Man, he hoped she’d stuck with her gut feeling and gone with the clarinet rather than the piano. Yes, she was a brilliant pianist, but her face didn’t take on that same look of rapture as when she played a clarinet. There was so much to learn about her, and yet…
He’d wondered how he’d feel, being with her again. And now he knew. The same, and even stronger because now he had the experience and wisdom to appreciate who she was and what they could have together.
But still, he cautioned himself, they’d barely spoken. He was leaping to crazy conclusions, based on the sight of her, the touch of her hand. Now it was time to get to know each other all over again.
“It’s good to see you, too.” He watched as she sipped from her glass. “Do you like it?”
“It’s wonderful.” She favored him with a brilliant smile.
He took a sip too, and bubbles exploded on his tongue. How many glasses of champagne had he drunk in the last few years? But this tasted different, fresher and richer, because of the woman who sat across from him.
He wanted to reach for her hand. Damn, he wanted to take her hand, drag her out of there and make love to her all night long.
His dick, already throbbing with arousal, went hard. Oh yeah, he wanted to savor every inch of this woman with his fingers, his eyes, his lips, his tongue. Then he wanted to plunge inside her and claim her as his own.
“Giancarlo?” That little frown was back, creasing her forehead. “Are you all right? You look kind of…intense?” She raised a hand and fussed with that silky scarf.
He was making her nervous. And probably not in a good way.
“Pazienza,” he muttered under his breath. Patience came hard for him, but he could do it if the prize was worthwhile. “Are you hungry? Shall we order an appetizer?”
She grabbed the menu and studied it, as if relieved to escape his gaze.
He glanced at his own. Lots of classic dishes and a few more exotic ones featuring fresh game. But there, that was what he craved. Lasagne. Satisfied, he turned back to the antipasto selection. “Shall we get a couple of appetizers and share?”
“I can’t possibly eat an appetizer and a main course.”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who exist on salad,” he teased. “I work with them all the time—anorexics, bulimics, constant dieters. Man, it’s a pain to eat with them. Food’s made to be savored, not picked at.”
She