Prologue

Chelle Charming casually slid the revolver back into its holster, patting the hot pink, lacy, satin garter she always wore beneath the holster on her thigh. Straightening, she smoothed down the tight red silk sarong skirt and smiled at Geno, ignoring the slowly cooling corpse at her feet.

"You-you shot him!" Geno whispered desperately, in an appropriate mixture of shock and awe. Poor Geno, so wonderfully charming and debonair, yet uninitiated in the world of intrigue in which he'd found himself only because he was heir to the Francisco fortune: founded on olive oil and blackmail. Of course, his forefathers dropped the production of olive oil generations ago, opting for the more certain income of crime. It was only the past couple of generations that the Francisco men legitimized their businesses and themselves-adopting with the changes a fictionalized past of nobility. Poor Geno didn't know that, though, protected scion and only son.

Chelle smiled slowly at him. "Sometimes, one must do what one must do. You might have been harmed." Her low, slightly hoarse voice embraced Geno, immediately bringing the effect she'd known it would. She watched as the finger-whitening grip with which he grasped the back of the blood red, brocade wing chair loosened a bit. Already forgetting the hired assassin staining the carpet of the Francisco penthouse, Chelle stepped as easily around the corpse as if she were simply walking around a footstool. She approached Geno slowly, allowing the seductive sway of her hips to capture his attention.

So helpless these men. Hadn't she known that always, even when she was merely a girl serving up ice cream at the drive-in back home more than ten years before. It was there that "T" walked in and ordered the malted milk that changed her destiny. Not that "T" had ever succumbed to her charms, much as she'd tried in those early days. Not, cool, calculating, impeccable "T." Chelle doubted he'd ever even considered sampling what she offered; she'd made it very clear she'd find no objections in sharing more than an office with him. Now, she and "T" had long passed that point of sexual interest in one another. No, instead he'd taken her raw talents and helped her develop into what she was today-a hardened, professional, capable of protecting her assignments against a virtual army of thugs if it ever came to that.

Now that she'd eliminated the threat to Geno Francisco's life, it was time for her reward. She'd looked forward to this with gleeful anticipation from the moment she'd seen his face in the dossier tossed into her lap by "T." He was everything she'd ever wanted in a man: tall, dark, handsome to the point of cruelty. If he wasn't quite the stalwart, courageous type she yearned for, it didn't matter. Chelle knew that he'd please her in other ways. She could almost feel his long, thin fingers on her biscotti.

No, that wasn't it. Body. It should be body, not biscotti. His long, thin fingers on her body.

Michelle rolled her eyes and carefully pressed the delete key on her computer's keyboard to erase the mistake. Actually, it wasn't really a mistake, she decided, nearly hypnotizing herself by watching the blinking cursor on her screen. It was logical.

Hunger was once again overriding her need to work on the novel. As steady as the tides rising in the ocean outside her apartment building, Michelle's growing need for food was slowly infiltrating her every thought, tapping her on the shoulder to remind her that she hadn't eaten since a quick cup of coffee and rolls that morning. Glancing at the clock and noting the hands approaching ten in the evening, she wondered if the trattoria would still be open. A little cappuccino. Perhaps an open-faced grilled tomato sandwich on one of their lighter than air rolls. Biscotti alle nocine and custard gelato for dessert.

If she didn't stop now, she'd short-circuit the keyboard with drool. Yes, it was time for food to appease her hunger…and with luck, a glimpse of Gene Francetti, the trattoria's owner, as food for her soul. And best of all, she could write it off as research. After all, wasn't every one of the heroes she created based on the mysterious Gene Francetti, owner of Gene's Trattoria?

Chapter One

Gene Francetti rubbed his fingers across his weary eyes and yawned. It had been a long day-but weren't they all? Up at four. Work by five. And today, he hadn't even been able to take off, as he normally did, during the slow hours of the afternoon to go home, shower and nap for a couple of hours. Even the delicious warmth of the steam rising from the cup of coffee setting before him on the counter failed to rouse Gene, a sure sign that he was just too tired to care.

Missing his naptime may have done nothing to improve his fatigue, but it would add to his bank account. Properly catered, the D'Antonio-Martini wedding could bring more business to the trattoria as well as inspire more catering jobs from the wealthy guests than just about any other catering job

Even enduring the mother of the bride's annoying tendency to bat her eyelashes and gently caress his arm as they talked was worth the bounty that this gig might bring. It wasn't the first time he'd had to tactfully ignore the come-on of an older wealthy woman; he doubted it would be the last. Heck, and the problem wasn't limited to older women. It seemed women of all shapes, sizes and ages found themselves attracted to chefs.

In culinary school, busy teaching techniques and skills, the teachers hadn't warned their students that in certain circles chefs held all the allure of rock stars. In fact, it was only while working as a sous chef in the city that he first heard of the seemingly impossible notion. But the head chef-at the end of the day sitting back with a glass of Chablis to unwind from the steady pressure of the evening's rush-would empty his pockets of the hotel room keys, business cards and hastily scrawled notes slipped discretely to him during the evening by the ladies-and even some men-who'd dined that evening.

So, Gene managed to persuade the elder Ms. D'Antonio away from the complex and heavy dishes she'd noted on one of the thousand lists stuffed in her purse and toward a lighter, more simple menu that would allow the guests to enjoy their meal without feeling like torpid slugs by the time the wedding cake was cut and served.

The zuppa di polpettine di pane, bread soup, would nicely increase the appetites of the guests who would be able to choose between steak-braciole ripieni di rape-or chicken-pollo avellino. And the side dishes-melanzane alle sirenuse, eggplant; carciofi ripieni, stuffed artichokes; and gatto, potato cakes-would work with either entrée. They still hadn't decided on what kind of cake they'd serve, torn between walnut cake with a cream frosting and chestnut cake with lemon sauce. Gene was mentally debating the merits of both when the tiny bell over the restaurant's door broke into his concentration. Damn. He'd forgotten to flip the small sign in the window to "Closed." Well, whoever it was better be willing to settle for little or nothing. They'd been busier than usual that evening.

Swinging around on the barstool, Gene watched the woman step hesitantly into the restaurant. From the dim confines of the bar area, he was able to study her with tired indifference. A regular. Miranda? Melissa? Merde, he couldn't concentrate. Those weren't it. Just what was the mousy little bird's name?

She wasn't ugly or anything like that. There just didn't seem to be anything remarkable about her that would draw attention. Dressed for the warm summer evening in a white tank top and jeans, she rubbed her arms against the chill of the restaurant's air conditioning. Gene watched with little interest as she glanced nervously around the restaurant, opening her mouth twice as if to call out, but then evidently thinking better of it. Maybe she'd get the hint that he didn't want any more business and leave.

As if she'd read his thoughts, she spun on one moccasined toe and headed back toward the door. And then she stopped, turning so quickly that the long, blonde ponytail neatly bound at the nape of her neck flew out and landed over her shoulder.

"Hello?" she called softly. "Anyone here?"

Sighing, Gene pushed himself off the barstool and walked slowly into the lighted restaurant area. "Can I help you?" he asked, silently adding a prayer that she'd get the hint that they should already be closed. He'd long ago sent the rest of the staff home for the evening.

It was as she turned toward him that he was momentarily taken by the magnetism in her eyes. This little mouse might be ordinary in every other way, but her eyes were remarkable. They seemed blue, but with glints of green and gold adding drama and allure. And it was a different kind of blue-they were nearly the same color as the squash blossom turquoise necklace, her only adornment, that encircled her neck.

"I'm too late." Even through his fatigue, Gene could understand the disappointment in her voice. Mentally kicking himself for being too soft, he sighed and forced a smile.

"Not at all. Though, we don't have much left tonight. Gladly, we were quite busy until just a little while ago."

She took a couple of steps back from him, toward the door. "I-I can just pop over to the convenience store and pick up a frozen pizza or something," she stammered timidly. "I can see you're ready to close."

Unable to keep the grimace from his face, Gene shook his head. No one should be subjected to a frozen pizza of undetermined origin such as they sold at the convenience store-not even this little mouse with the beautiful eyes. Smiling again, he reached out and lightly grasped her elbow.

"You're lucky to have come. You can have your pick of tables," he assured her in his most silky voice. "Though I warn you, the menu might be limited. Still, if you're hungry…"

It was as if her stomach answered for her. A soft grumble, unable to be contained by the hand she quickly placed over her stomach, rumbled its reply.

"As I thought, mia piccolo topo," Gene laughed wearily, tugging her toward a table near the kitchen door. "Come. Sit. What would you like to eat?"

"Really…I don't want to be any bother," she replied, glancing nervously back at the door.

"It's no bother at all. In fact, I've been so busy tonight I haven't eaten myself. Would you join me for dinner? Nothing too elaborate, but something that will fill our empty stomachs." Just why it had suddenly become important that she should eat and that he should eat with her was a mystery. A puzzle he really had neither the ambition nor the desire to solve. Perhaps it was just what he needed to gather the energy to go home and face Penny's insistent demands.

"If…if you're sure-"

"I'm sure," Gene stated firmly, pulling out a chair as she sank slowly into it. "Now, let me recall-yes, an omelet Florentine with perhaps some fried bread. And for later, cappuccino and biscotti. I believe I have some rather nice biscotti alle nocine…and as I recall, that is what you like."

Her soft bow mouth dropped open slightly as those incredible eyes widened. "How did you remember? I mean you have so many customers and-"

Gene shrugged. "It's wise for a chef to remember those who patronize his cuisine as often as you do, mia piccolo topo. Secret of the trade. I'll be back in just a few minutes." He smiled and walked away from her, stopping by the kitchen door. "And, I do believe we have a serving or two of raspberry gelato left. The perfect ending to a meal." With a nod, he disappeared into the kitchen.

There should be a law. Some sort of method with which society could deal with the criminally good-looking, Michelle decided watching Gene stroll through the swinging doors into the kitchen. Tall, at least six feet and every inch of that gorgeous. From the short black pigtail he always wore tied neatly at the back of his neck to the heels of the imported Italian leather boots on his feet, Gene Francetti looked more like a movie star than a chef. No man had the right to wear simple black jeans and a casual black T-shirt as if it were an Armani tailored suit. No man had the right to make her heart beat double time just with his presence.

Yes, there ought to be a law, but Michelle doubted that there was probably a prison built strongly enough to keep the women of the world away from the men of the world like Gene Francetti.

She didn't stand a chance. Michelle realized that she should forget her silly infatuation with Gene Francetti, but those resolutions always faded as quickly as dew on a hot summer's morning. Even though he could remember her favorite foods, she bet he didn't even remember her name. What was that "mia piccolo topo" stuff any way? She doubted it was anything nearly as nice as it sounded coming from his seductive, deep voice.

If only she were more like Chelle Charming. Fictional she might be, but even as a fictional character Michelle had created, Chelle would have had Gene Francetti eating out of the palm of her hand within seconds. For the past seven years, ever since he'd bought the diner and patiently remodeled and renovated it into the stylish trattoria it was today, Michelle had rarely missed having her breakfast here before heading down to the newspaper to confer with her editor and make the changes on her daily column. And, when her budget allowed, she made a point of either stopping by at lunch to pick up the daily brown bag special or treating herself to his delicious cuisine for dinner.

Michelle never wanted to try to calculate the time or the money she'd invested just to fill her stomach with his great food and fill her soul watching him from afar. She'd probably paid for the beautiful crystal wall sconces that flickered, gently casting just the right amount of illumination on the dining room to create a romantic atmosphere.

Yet, no matter how much of her income she invested in eating at the trattoria, it was far better than the alternative-ptomaine poisoning. And she'd surely kill herself with that if she tried to cook anything beyond a burned fried egg occasionally. Cooking hadn't been high on the priority list of womanly skills passed on from her globetrotting mother. Now, surviving at an archaeologist's dig in Egypt with only a backpack and a bottle of boiled water…that seemed more to be more important than lowly household skills to her mother. Michelle smiled. Mom may never have perfected the skills of a housewife but she was still Michelle's greatest inspiration.

Glancing around the dining room at the round, dark oak tables scattered in an almost careless fashion around the room, she realized she had been right. He must have forgotten to flip the sign and lock the door to close up for the night. She could tell because the white damask tablecloths they used for the supper trade were gone, replaced with the bamboo place mats he used for the morning trade.

"Damn," Michelle whispered, torn between equal desires to sit and enjoy her one chance in all these years to share a few private minutes with Gene Francetti and to get up while he was busy clanking pans in the kitchen and run all the way home. Fasting one night wouldn't kill her. Yet, if she did that she knew she'd never be able to come into the place again. The embarrassment she'd suffer would dominate her wish to see him, even from afar.

Already the sweet smells of good cooking was coming from the kitchen, helping her decide against flight. She really should use these few minutes to prepare. How could she dazzle him? Make him see the exciting woman just waiting to spring forth and entrap him with her charms?

Get real. Much as she might wish to be exciting and alluring, there was no changing the fact that she was simply Michelle. A nice enough person, she hoped, but nothing that was going to make any man-especially one like Gene Francetti who could probably have his pick of glamorous babes-look twice at her. Maybe it was something in the genes. Even as intelligent and adventurous as her mother was, she couldn't manage to keep Michelle's father with her. The rabbit hadn't even breathed his last before he'd taken off for parts unknown, leaving his pregnant wife to finally obtain a divorce and raise their daughter on her own. What chance would Michelle have then?

A plate in each hand, Gene Francetti backed out of the kitchen. With a flourish, he set a plate before Michelle. "Senorita, your omelet Florentine." Kicking a leg over the chair on the opposite side of the table, he lowered himself down, carefully placing his plate before him. His long fingers fanned the air above the plate as he inhaled deeply. "Ah, this was exactly what I needed. Thanks for coming in. I might have fallen asleep in the bar if you hadn't." He laughed, a short deep chuckle, before closing his eyes and bowing his head. The "amen" he whispered was barely audible.

"I feel incredibly stupid coming in this late," Michelle replied, waiting until he lifted his gaze toward her. She fumbled for her fork. "I sort of got carried away with work and forgot about the time."

Gene lifted a bite of the eggs to his mouth and shook his head. A small sigh escaped his lips as he chewed. "Yes indeed. This is perfect, if I do say so myself," he laughed. "You know that happens to me all the time. I just get so involved in what I'm doing-so focused, I guess-that I forget everything except what I'm doing. What kind of work are you involved in?"

Oh, no. Here it came. The inevitable reaction to her profession. It would be one of two. Either a rolling of the eyes and the suggestion that wouldn't it be better if she had a job that actually paid or the notion that she lived some sort of glamorous, exciting life. Both of which were about as removed from reality as it came.

"I'm a writer, mostly free lance articles and a daily column in 'The Globe," she replied softly, spearing a morsel of the eggs and spinach. "But, I'm working on a novel, too."

"You must be very lonely," he commented, rising from the table and strolling to the bar. Within seconds, he was back with two glasses and a bottle of wine. It gave Michelle time to regain her composure. She'd been so stunned by his awareness that, indeed, writing was a lonely business that she'd nearly dropped her fork. She swallowed slowly as he pulled the cork from the bottle and filled the glasses. "At least that's what I've always thought. I mean…it's not the kind of job where you're surrounded by people all the time or do you work regular hours at the newspaper?"

"No, I only go in for about a half hour each day to hand in the next column and check the one that's to be printed that day. Sometimes not even that often if I'm able to write a few in advance." She sipped the clear, dry wine, the perfect accompaniment to the omelet. "You surprise me, though. Normally, that's not the reaction people have when I tell them about my career."

"Oh? What kind of reaction do you usually get?" he asked, arching one perfectly shaped eyebrow at her over his glass.

"Mostly people mistakenly think I live some sort of glamorous artist's life. You know-parties and travel and that sort of thing. Or, they suggest I find a job that actually pays." Michelle covered the giggle with her fingertips. "What they don't understand is that I'm neither glamorous nor poverty stricken."

Gene nodded, spearing more food and eating it before responding. "I used to get the same reaction myself. Back when I opened up this place, I think just about everyone outside my family quoted the statistics of new restaurants failing in their first year. And the ones who didn't suggested that I didn't need to go to these lengths just to have someone cook supper for me when all I had to do was find a wife. People can be pretty strange."

"That would be rather an elaborate step especially when you're the chef yourself," Michelle suggested. "What got you interested in cooking?"

"I didn't care for the alternative, actually," he chuckled again. "Back when I was a teen-ager I was preparing for a life of easy money from petty crime. You know-hanging out with the bad boys, flirting with danger." He shook his head as if he was amused by the memory. "And my first job with this gang was acting as look-out while they hit a bunch of cars in a parking lot…you know, stereos, cell phones, loose change. My pay from this enormous heist was a portable CD player. When my dad found out about it-and realized that the opera CD wasn't really my style of music-he called the cops and turned me in."

"He didn't!" she interrupted.

"Oh, he most certainly did. One of the kindest things he'd ever done for me-probably the toughest, too." Carefully, Gene folded his napkin. "Ready for that cappuccino?"

Michelle glanced down at her plate, surprised to see that it was bare. How could she eat that entire omelet and fried bread and not remember a morsel of it? She knew very easily how, but really didn't want to admit it. That might mean giving into the fantasy that this wasn't just an anomaly never to happen again. "Sounds great."

Moments later, after savoring the gelato and biscotti, Michelle cautioned a look over at Gene Francetti. He was looking at her thoughtfully, as if there were a question about her forming in his mind. It made her squirm uncomfortably in her chair. "So, tell me…how did your father turning you over to the police lead to this restaurant?"

He nodded and glanced away. "I'm sorry," she said immediately. "I shouldn't have asked that. Just a writer's curiosity, I suppose."

"No, I'm very comfortable talking about it. In fact, my brother Benno is a juvenile probation officer. He calls on me all the time to talk to his charges about how I managed to turn my life around. Though, I have to tell you, I was never quite the desperado I envisioned myself to be." He sighed and leaned back against his chair. "The police took me in and the owner of the CD player identified his property. They wanted me to inform on my friends, but I wouldn't do that. No, they played me like a deck of cards. Told me that they knew who else was involved anyway and after I made an appearance in court, they released me into my parents' care. And, of course, I couldn't beat feet fast enough to let my buddies know that the cops were on to them. Which is exactly what the cops figured I'd do."

"Oh my goodness…and did that get you into even more trouble?" This was a part of him she'd never even imagined, not in any of the thousand dreams of him she'd conjured over the years. She had imagined his past as many things, but never as a street thug.

"Well, it didn't win me any favors. Didn't take too much for them to round them all up and confiscate most of the stuff from that heist. And naturally, my buddies thought I was working with the cops. I was in one hard spot. So, the judge gave me a choice-I could either spend the rest of my youth doing hard juvie time with my buddies who really wanted to settle the score with me or I could attend vocational school. Amazingly, I didn't have to think very long about which I'd prefer."

"But…why cooking? Weren't there other vocational classes you might have taken?" Michelle leaned an elbow on the edge of the table and palming her chin as she gazed at him.

"Sure. I could have taken any number of classes. Except that I figured on two things-cooking would be easy and it would be classes filled with women. And, if I played my cards right, I could get the women to do my cooking for me. What I hadn't counted on was that every other young stud had the same idea. The only female in the class was the teacher's assistant-all of sixty and with the personality of Attila the Hun."

"'Attila the Hun?' Surely you exaggerate a bit?" Michelle giggled.

"I kid you not. If not Attila, then at least Genghis Khan. I mean a real barbarian. A couple weeks into the course a couple of guys just vanished. Never showed up again. The suggestion was made to avoid the sausage because it was probably Stu and Ernie."

"But you made it through? I mean, obviously…here you are."

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "That's right, here I am."

Taking the not so subtle hint, Michelle folded her napkin and stacked her dishes neatly. She wanted the night to last forever. She wanted to go on sitting here and talking to this man forever. It was better than she'd ever imagined. He was warm and clever. There was a boyish charm just beneath the sexy exterior that moved her nearly as much as his dark good looks. If she hadn't known it before, she knew it now. This guy was totally out of her league-that is if she really had a league to begin with. "I really need to let you get out of here. If you'd figure up what I owe you-"

He waved the notion aside. "On the house. Hell, I probably owe you more than just one tossed together meal for all the patronage you've given us, M-M-M-"

"Michelle." She reached her hand across the table. "Michelle Koslowski."

His hand was warm; his grip strong and steady. A tremor of primal delight coursed through her body, causing her to wonder if it had made her hair stand on end.

"I feel like a jerk. Please, don't think I'm not pleased to meet you…officially that is. And I'm sure I knew your name. It's just that I'm really bushed. And I have a bitch on wheels waiting for me at home."

Slowly, Michelle pulled her hand from his. If she didn't know better, she might have imagined reluctance on his part to relinquish it. Somehow, she knew all along that he was probably deeply involved with another woman. A man like him would never lead a solitary life. Still, it didn't seem quite appropriate for him to refer to his girlfriend as a "bitch." It just didn't fit with the man she'd yearned for all these years or the man with whom she'd just shared dinner.

"And here I am keeping you from her. I hope she won't be too angry," Michelle demurred, rising to stand next to the table. An unwelcome notion struck her. She looked into his eyes, silently begging him to dispel her fear. "You didn't mess up any plans just to feed me, did you?"

"No, not at all. Benno said he'd go over and let her out. He probably took her for a run on the beach. Besides, I had to eat anyway."

Michelle began backing toward the door. "But, you might have preferred eating with her." This just wasn't making sense.

"Well, I might have, but we have very different tastes in cuisine. I don't like anything that comes in a can and that's all she eats."

"Ummm…I'm sure you must have other things in common. Have you been together long?" she asked, instantly regretting her words. "Never mind. It's none of my business. I always ask too many questions."

"About two years." He took a step toward her. "And how would you learn anything if you never asked any questions? I never really wanted her, you know. But when I moved into my new place, Benno and Leo decided I needed a good watchdog and as a housewarming present they gave me Penny. She's an Airedale-a very demanding Airedale. Guess that's why I usually call her a bitch."

"A bitch? Oh…a dog." Michelle brightened, feeling a smile spread across her face. "I thought you meant…Well, never mind what I meant."

"You didn't think I meant a woman?" He clasped his hands across his flat abdomen and roared with laughter. "That's a good one. But, I suppose it serves me right. I guess I need to be a bit less obtuse when I refer to Penny. I wonder how many other people are under the illusion that she's my girlfriend. I guess I better watch what I say a little closer."

Nodding, Michelle continued to edge toward the door. "I suppose…thank you again. It was delicious. It always is. You're too kind." As always, when she was nervous, she began chattering like a parakeet. Biting her lip, she resolved to shut her mouth and keep it shut.

"I expect we'll see you tomorrow, then. Breakfast?"

Again she nodded, almost preparing herself to spin and run from the trattoria as fast as her feet could carry her. Just as she turned, the door behind her flew open. An older, heavyset man stumbled in, his eyes wild and one hand clutching his chest. Startled, a shriek escaped Michelle's lips as he reached out for her. She felt Gene's hands grab her shoulders and pull her back against him. It was like backing into a brick wall-a wall that protected comfort and strength.

The man fell to their feet, face first on the floor and smashing a chair in the process.

"Are you all right?" Gene whispered through her hair and into her ear.

Dumbly, she nodded. With no will of her own, Gene pulled her back behind him as he knelt and rolled the man over on his back. The man's hands flopped limply out to his sides. It was then that Michelle noticed the red stain spreading across the front of the man's white shirt. He'd been shot.

The man's eyes flickered, losing a bit of their wildness before they narrowed to focus on Gene's face.

"Buono sera, Eugene," the man croaked, reaching up to pat Gene on the face. "You don't remember me, do you? It is I, your zio Guiseppe."

"Un-un-uncle Guiseppe? What are you doing here? And who the hell did this to you?" Gene stammered.

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