haven’t said much.” His gaze danced over her face as he took a sip of his soda.
“Just processing the morning.” A funny thought popped into her head and she set down her fork. “Who is Larry Coleman, anyway?”
“An old friend from college. He’s on wife number three and he’s used that jeweler for years. Makes a special trip from Chicago to New York and everything. Based on his repeat visits, I figured I’d get the attention of the jeweler pretty quick.”
“You can’t be old enough to have friends on their third spouse.” The words were out and bouncing between them like an errant ping-pong ball no one could catch.
“When you’ve got a large bank account and a roving eye like Larry does, thirty-five is plenty old to be on number three.”
“Are you on any number?”
Smooth, Steele. Why not just ask him if there was any reason to be feeling guilty for the sexual buzz that’s still humming in your veins at that kiss.
“Nope. You?”
“No.”
“Ever get close?”
The words were casual—too casual—and she fought to pull her hormones out of the equation for a moment and focus on him. “If skirting the edges of relationships that usually fail between dates five and seven is getting close, then yes. However, I think a more accurate answer is no way.”
“Shame.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a shame the five-through-seven guys can’t see what I see.”
“What’s that?”
“A vibrant woman with a lot to offer.”
She sat back and tossed her napkin on the counter. “I wasn’t fishing for a compliment.”
“And I wasn’t casting my reel.”
“So what’s your point?”
“You’re a beautiful woman with a wicked intellect to round out the package. If a guy’s cutting and running after a handful of dates, then he’s the one with the problem.”
She had no idea why she was pressing the issue, but a retort was out of her mouth before she could even think to hold it back. “Conventional wisdom would suggest my career ambitions are the problem.”
“Most people who spout conventional wisdom don’t have all that much of it.”
“Thanks, Mark Twain.”
“You’re welcome.” He snagged the wax paper that had wrapped his sandwich. Casually, he wadded it up, his gaze speculative from across the table, and she suddenly felt like one of those diamonds he’d inspected with the jeweler’s loupe.
Her mind raced over the events of the morning. The flowers. His visit to her office. The trip to the jeweler. “What do you really want from me? I’d wager a rather large sum you don’t spend your days traipsing through Manhattan with your other professional enemies.”
“I never traipse. And I’d hardly call you an enemy.”
“We’ve been up against each other for several jobs. I’d hardly call us compatriots.”
He snaked out a finger and ran it down the top of her hand, tracing over each knuckle with exquisite care. The sensation was wicked in the extreme, and a tight ball of need centered low in her belly. “We’re not enemies. Especially not after what we discussed this morning about the job in Rome. I want your help with the ambassador.”
“What makes you so sure I’m your girl?”
“You’ve got the talents I need. You already know the job and the players. You’re smart and you pay attention.” He ran that long finger once more over her hand. “And if I play my cards right, there may be a lot more kissing.”
She snatched her hand back, unable to bear that seductive touch a moment longer. “This is a job, not a flirtation.”
“Can’t it be both?”
She bit down on a retort, well aware her actions in the next few minutes would determine the course of their professional—and personal—relationship moving forward. “I don’t take assignments because they’re fun.”
“Why work then?”
“Because it’s my job. My livelihood.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the process.”
* * *
When Kensington said nothing, he pressed a bit harder, his curiosity growing stronger. He could still feel the softness of her skin imprinted on the tips of his finger, and a strange need to understand her better gripped him. “Why were you the one to end up with all the responsibility?”
“In my family?”
“Yes, but professionally, too. The House of Steele’s reputation is tied to all four of you, but you’re clearly seen as its public representative. I have to imagine that has carried over to the more personal side of your family dynamics.”
“At times.” She nodded slightly, as if deciding something, before she pressed on. “Do you have siblings?”
“Two sisters.”
“How do the three of you get along?”
He thought of the two women he loved to distraction, both of whom were happily married and raising children in the Seattle suburb where he grew up. They’d saved him—ensuring he had a soft place to land no matter how far he roamed—and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for them.
“Really well. They’re both older than me. They wanted different things but are happy with their lives. And other than constantly pressuring me to settle down and do my duty to populate the world, we’re close.”
“So they live normal lives?”
The word normal caught his attention, and he thought of the unpleasant childhoods he and his siblings had endured. Sidestepping the thought, he kept his voice even and ignored the whispers of the past that skittered around his ankles. “As much as anyone can claim that description.”
“My bigger point is, they have families. Regular jobs.”
“Sure.”
“That is so not my family.”
Jack couldn’t dismiss the feeling that some answer—some clue to who she was—danced just out of his reach. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not bad—it’s just different. We’re different.”
“Do you support each other?”
“Of course. We drive one another crazy but we support each other without question.”
“Sounds like a family to me.”
The warmth that briefly tinged her features as she talked about her family faded. “Yes, a family I’m responsible for.”
“They’re all adults. Successful, accomplished ones. Why are you responsible for them?”
“I need to hold us all together.”
“No. You feel the need to be in control, and there’s a difference.”
* * *
A heavy chill that invaded the bones wrapped Giuseppe DeAngelo’s body like a tight blanket. He added as much urgency to his steps as his old bones would allow as he walked from the main farmhouse to the vineyard.
The grapes.
Per favore, Dio.
The prayer was a litany in his head, over and over as he shuffled toward his beloved fruit. They hadn’t had a winter