Are You Lonesome Tonight?

“Hmm… Yes?”

“No.” She leaned toward him. “We’re trying to attract all the guests we can handle. Bookings equal revenue, remember? As much as you obviously don’t want to admit it, we need Pierre von Shalburg. He could bring us industry buzz and accreditation.”

“He could bring us a giant pain in the—”

“We agreed we were going to give this our best shot.”

Tony hung his head. He’d agreed all right—to the coup sponsored by Francesca and Uncle Joe.

No, that wasn’t true—or fair. Fact was, in addition to being one of the few Galinis in his generation capable of guilt, he’d also been a complete sucker for the hope and resolve that had shone in Francesca’s eyes that fateful day six months ago.

She’d always had so much faith in him—faith that he could get through his English final in high school, faith that he could graduate college, faith that he could resist Tiffani Lambeau’s determined advances even though she claimed her new husband ignored her, and, more recently, faith that he would be the best, most charming resort host on Long Island.

“Has it really been all that bad?” she asked softly.

Startled, he lifted his head. “No, of course not.” And it hadn’t. Watching the resort go from mere drawings on a page to three-dimensional reality, having people listen to his opinion on something besides which was the hip nightclub this month had been great. The responsibility gave him a sense of belonging and acceptance he hadn’t anticipated.

He just kept waiting for the whole thing to fall apart. No one—save Joe and Francesca—expected him to succeed. Not his acquaintances, his parents or his friends. He, in fact, knew they all had a pool going on the precise moment his dismal failure as a businessman would occur.

At least he’d cost that joker Sonny Compton—who’d started the pool—two hundred bucks already.

Francesca slid her hand over his. “You can do this.”

He stared into her sparkling, earnest blue eyes and almost believed her.

She was the only one who knew of his need to prove he wasn’t like his parents, that he could be a success in business—or anything else. He also suspected she knew he was terrified of everything he had to do in order to provide that proof….

He gripped her hand tightly. “I can’t thank you enough—”

“Don’t, Tony. I didn’t do anything, and I should be thanking you. I could never have jumped into the business at this level without you and your connections.”

“The only reason Joe offered to let me into the project was because he knew I’d turn to you for help.”

She shook her head, and tendrils of long, dark hair brushed her cheeks. “That’s not true.”

He thought it was, but he wasn’t particularly interested in examining Joe’s motives at the moment. He’d rather look into Francesca’s eyes. He’d rather stroke his thumb across her palm, feel the warmth of her skin, feel her pulse race in time with his. He’d rather brush her hair away from her cheek.

As if in a dream he did all these things, when he should have kept his hands to himself and his thoughts under control.

As his hand cupped her face, her breath came in short gasps. Her spicy, fruity scent enveloped him. He licked his lips, imaging the taste of her—wine and butter and something that would be hers and hers alone.

He glided his other hand to her waist. He leaned forward.

“What the hell are you doing?”

2

STUNNED, Francesca stared at Tony, at the glazed, desire-filled look in his eyes. She felt as if the world had suddenly starting spinning in a different direction.

He jerked his head and his hands back. “I—I’ve got to run.” He drained his wineglass, then stepped away from the counter.

She acutely felt the loss of his warmth, but since she’d so rudely drawn attention to his touch in the first place, she didn’t see how she could ask him to come back. “Run?”

“Out.” He grabbed her plate and his, then rinsed them both in the sink before putting them in the dishwasher. “To uh—I’m going up to…to the chateau.”

“Fontaine?” she asked, still confused about his odd behavior.

“Yeah. Meeting some friends.” He smiled, holding out his hands. “You know me, unending social life.”

Yeah, she did, and she was getting damn sick of it. She slogged away late into the night, while he took off for fun at least five nights a week. “We have work to do.”

“It’ll keep till morning.”

“What about the invoices?”

“Almost done. I’ll catch up tomorrow.”

“No, Tony—”

“I’ll see you in the morning. Coffee in the lobby?”

Since they’d been doing that for weeks, she nodded.

He leaned forward as if he was going to brush her cheek with his lips as usual, but she felt only a puff of breath against her skin. Giving her an odd look, he jumped back.

And, before she could even fully register the fact that he was leaving, he’d scooted across the room.

She watched him—specifically his great butt—as he disappeared around the corner.

Prince Galini has left the building.

She sighed. How could she be annoyed with him and still desire him? The transition to working every day had been hard for him, she knew, but his lack of commitment was getting old.

What did you expect, girl? That twenty-eight years of hedonism and indulgence were going to disappear overnight?

It was probably better he was gone. With him also went his disturbing effect on her.

She knew one thing for sure—The One had better hurry his late ass into her life soon, or she was going to burn up from the inside out.

With effort, she focused her brain on a safer topic. Pierre von Shalburg would do nicely. As much as Tony complained—a trait inherited from his spoiled parents, which Tony had, she was thankful, only a touch of—she was ready to jump up and down with the coup of having the influential critic attend their opening weekend. She wasn’t worried about his eccentricities or demands. Par for the course in the hotel business. The challenge of impressing the critic and getting Bella Luna on his Top Picks far outweighed the fear of a possible poor review.

Spurred into action by the opportunity, she cast a quick good-night over her shoulder to Kerry and headed upstairs to her office. She went online and searched for articles and reviews written by von Shalburg, cross-referencing them for commonly mentioned ingredients, favored presentation of dishes and service comments. She learned he liked all kinds of seafood—convenient, since Francesca had found a fabulous fish supplier. Shalburg was also a respected sommelier and could spot a weak wine with one sniff. He favored delicate and savory as opposed to overly spicy food, and he liked his service unobtrusive and as silent as possible—no surprise, given Tony’s “pompous jerk” assessment.

She rubbed her hands together. Now, what recipe could she come up with to wow him?

The phone rang before she’d managed to consider even one entrée.

When she answered, a familiar voice asked, “How’s my angel?”