That's Amore! (17 page)

Hard to get? As if she'd let this man
get
her?

Not in this lifetime, mister.

Moving her hands behind her back, she felt around on the counter for the phone. Or a weapon. She found nothing. No scissors, no wickedly sharp, metal letter opener—if they really made those things anywhere but in old black-and-white film noir movies. Finally, though, her fingers closed around the hard base of a plastic bride-and-groom cake topper.

Better than nothing.

But just in case, she also lifted her leg slightly to warm up her knee for action. Then she gave him one final warning glare.

"Ten."

I'm getting married.

Hitched. Tying the knot. Settling down.
Goin
' to the chapel.

Putting his head in the noose.

He shook off the thought and tried to focus on the truth.
I,
Lucas
Santori,
am getting married.

He still couldn't believe it. In less than three weeks he would be a married man. Nineteen days until a wedding. A ring. Two ecstatic families. A Knights of Columbus Hall decorated in white, green and red to honor the flag. Tureens of Italian wedding soup and platters of homemade raviolis and red gravy. His two grandmothers arguing over which of them made the best brachiole. Tables overflowing with Italian cookies and confetti—candy coated almonds. A bride carrying a borsa, the white silk bag stuffed to overflowing with cash-filled envelopes. Anisette toasts and cream cake and Rudy Martinelli crying and red-faced as he danced with Maria to the sweet-enough-to-make-you-puke song "Daddy's Little Girl."

Then the crowning moment when the deejay would have them turn to the crowd and would say, "Ladies and gentlemen, meet Mr. and Mrs. Lucas Santori."

Ball and chain, here's my friggin' leg.

Walking down

Why in God's name had he proposed to Maria Martinelli? When the hell had he fallen in love with her? More importantly,
had
he fallen in love with her? The last couple of months had gone in such a blur, he really couldn't say. He'd fallen all right, but not necessarily in love. Just into an engagement he never would have predicted six months ago.

It had started as a blind date with a neighborhood girl, the daughter of one of his father's boyhood friends. She'd seemed a lot like the women in his family. Friendly, nice, traditional. No, she hadn't inspired any great passion.
Which hadn't seemed such a bad thing, since she was a good Catholic girl.
Luke hadn't even tried to push their relationship to a more physical level. Somehow, now, with the wedding just a few weeks away, it seemed damn near criminal that he hadn't ever
cared
about their lack of intimacy. That didn't bode well for their sex life.

They'd dated. He'd liked her. His family had been wildly enthusiastic—as had hers. Then for some unfathomable reason, he'd found himself putting a ring on her finger, wondering who the insane person was who'd taken over his vocal cords.

And she'd turned into Bride-zilla.

"Joe, it's your fault, you sorry sonofabitch," he muttered, knowing his older brother's blissfully happy marriage of one year and his wife's pregnancy had given Luke sappy visions of the same thing for himself.

"And yours, Tony." Oldest brother Tony was married, too. He and Gloria had two sons and promised the continuation of the Santori way of life, right down to Tony managing the family pizzeria for their Pop.

A guy passing on the sidewalk paused and gave him a strange look, obviously having heard him talking to himself on a public street. Luke merely shrugged. "I'm getting married."

The guy nodded, an expression of understanding—and sympathy—appearing on his face. As he began to walk away again, he muttered, "Three words of advice: run like hell."

Run? Run out on Maria?

Well, that didn't sound so bad. Particularly since he barely recognized the demanding, shrill woman she'd become in the past couple of weeks, so unlike the quiet, traditional, soft-voiced one he'd dated at first.

But running from her father, affectionately called
Chicago
's godfather by folks in the neighborhood?

Suicide.

Luke knew Rudy wasn't
really
mafia. But he was old school, meaning, easily insulted and not very forgiving.

This errand to the bridal shop was a prime example of Maria's irrational behavior lately. She couldn't make her fitting tomorrow—yet another dental appointment like so many others she'd been going on recently. The woman was going to have more crowns than the
Windsors
if she kept on at this rate.

But instead of calling the dressmaker to reschedule, she'd begged Luke to go to the shop in person to let them know about the cancellation, claiming the shop owner didn't like her.
Which was why he was now strolling down the block from his parents' restaurant—where he'd stopped, as he often did, for a beer after work—toward the boutique.

From what Mama said, the shop owner would likely still be there, working her fingers to the bone. The Santori clan had all but adopted the newcomer to the area, which surprised him, since the sweet-faced little southerner was so unlike his mother, sister or sisters-in-law. But for some reason, Rachel Grant was practically all the women in his family talked about these days.

Probably because they were all too nice to talk about what was
really
on their minds: his upcoming marriage to a diva
who
made
Cher
look like a sweet, selfless girl-next-door.

"What have I gotten myself into?" he whispered, shaking his head as he again mulled over the mess he'd made of things.

When he pushed the door open and saw the curvy blonde dressmaker in the arms of a beefy guy in a brown suit, he figured his day had gone from bad to worse. Bad enough he'd just acknowledged he might be facing a marriage without passion.

Much worse, he'd apparently walked in one someone else's amorous moment.

CHAPTER TWO

Luke stiffened
when he entered the store and saw Rachel Grant being held by another man. Anything would be better than walking in on a lover's tryst when his own love life had been pretty damned barren lately, so he'd expect a little discomfort. Not anger. Since he was only casually friendly with Rachel, seeing her in another man's arms
couldn't
have been what made his blood start pounding hard in his temple and something like fury seethe through his veins.

Wondering for a brief moment what on earth would have inspired the reaction, he finally chalked it up to embarrassment.
Maria, from now on,
do
your own dirty work!
Interrupting lovers' trysts wasn't in the groom's job description.

The tryst thing probably wasn't a bad supposition, considering Rachel's incredible, traffic-stopping figure, and her smile which had left Lucas speechless on more than one occasion. Not to mention the emptiness of the shop and the sinfully seductive lingerie hanging on display in one corner of the
quiet,
closed bridal boutique.

Then Rachel whacked the guy upside the head with one of those plastic bride and groom statues that went on top of a wedding cake, and all hell broke loose. The bride separated from the groom, who went flying into a rack of wedding shoes. There he sat, like a wooden soldier in a white satin canoe.

The plastic bride—broken and smeared with some red stuff he quickly identified as blood—stuck sideways out of the thick, sandy-colored hair of the jackass in the brown suit.

And Rachel Grant heaved with anger.

"Ow, you hit me!" the amorous guy said, his yelp loud enough to be heard out on the street.

"I gave you fair warning, now get out before I call the police. You can feel free to explain to your fiancée why I am no longer able to do her fittings."

"I'm bleeding." As if shocked by his own words, the guy touched a fingertip to his temple where a miniscule scratch was visible. Then he disentangled the plastic bride's arm from his hair and threw her to the floor.

"I'm sorry I hurt you, Freddy," Rachel conceded, a grudging tone in her voice. "But I had the right to defend myself."

Luke's jaw clenched, as did his hands. His pulse began to throb in his temple as he realized he most certainly hadn't interrupted a tryst. He'd walked in on an
assault.

"I think I'm gonna need stitches."

"Be glad it wasn't one of the cake knives or you'd be bleeding like a stuck pig," she snapped, obviously having used up her tiny bit of sympathy for the whining assailant.

The man didn't look very glad. In fact, he began to look entirely pissed off. Luke realized the time had come to step in when the stranger's two hammy hands curled into fists and he leaned toward Rachel in a threatening manner.

"Stop right there,
Freddy,"
Luke murmured, his voice steady and even. Probably only those who knew him well would recognize the tone and realize he was damn near furious.

He dealt with some scummy people in his job at the Chicago D.A.'s office, and had prosecuted some really bad ones. None angered him as much as those who abused women or children. "Lay a finger on her and you'll be spending your wedding night in intensive care."

The bastard finally turned around and saw him standing there. So did the blonde—Rachel. Initially, the man's scowl betrayed his annoyance at being interrupted. Then, when he saw the fury on Luke's face—not to mention his tall, threatening form—his eyes widened in fear.

Sighing visibly, Rachel stepped back to lean against the checkout counter. She began to look a little stunned, as if her bravado had been used up and she'd realized this bastard might have hurt her had Luke not arrived on the scene.

"You okay?" Luke asked as he strode across the store to her side, taking her arm to steady her since she suddenly appeared a bit wobbly on her feet. She nodded.

"You want me to call the police?"

"This is none of your business," the other man blustered. "Besides, it wasn't what it looked like."

"Yes, it was," Rachel said, bringing a hand to her face and pushing a long strand of her pale blond hair off her cheek.

Her hand shook. But her voice didn't.

Luke glanced at the counter. "Where's the phone?"

"Don't," the man said, sounding desperate. "I'm
sorry,
I obviously misread your signals."

Rachel Grant's spine snapped straight and fire appeared in her eyes as she stared the man down. Obviously her quick flash of uncertainty had evaporated. "Signals? What signals would those be? The dozen times I've told you 'no'? The afternoon last week when I said I'd rather stick flaming pins in my eyes than have anything to do with you?"

Luke waited, letting Rachel decide how to handle things. He had to hand it to her, she wasn't getting all hysterical or weepy, the way a lot of women might after being physically manhandled by a letch who couldn't take no for an answer. In fact, she was holding up remarkably well.

He'd met the woman several times at his parents' place, but he hadn't formed too deep an impression of her—beyond acknowledging her beauty and her smile, which made everyone around her feel warm and happy. Including him. And, of course, that if he hadn't been stupid enough to go and get himself engaged to someone he wasn't even sure he liked anymore—much less loved—he would definitely have wanted to get to know her better.

Now, however, he was seeing past the thick blond hair, the wide blue eyes, the pretty face and the curvy figure. She was tough. Smart. Good under pressure.

"Please, I just got cold feet. I love Cassie and I didn't mean any harm," the now-sweaty and red-faced Freddy said.

Rachel paused, then muttered, "Go, before I change my mind and let him call 911."

She was also forgiving.

The guy left so fast Luke didn't even have time to give him a little shove for good measure. He thought about going after him, or calling his brother Mark, who worked on the Chicago P.D. Two things stopped him from doing it: the man's "cold feet" remark—since his own felt like frigging icicles these days.

And the sound of Rachel Grant's harsh, ragged breathing.

Once they were alone in the store, he hesitated, wondering if he should leave now, giving the woman a chance to pull herself together. Another part of him—the big brother part
who'd
rip out the throat out of any man who tried something like that on his baby sister Lottie—instead reacted with pure instinct.

He held out his arms.

And she dove right into them.

Rachel couldn't seem
to stop shaking. She wasn't prone to hysterics, and her eyes weren't full of tears. Concern hadn't given way to fear, nor was she shocked by what had just happened. But she couldn't stop the shivers racing up and down her spine, making her legs weak and her breaths choppy.

The ugly scene with fat-fingers Freddy hadn't come as a complete surprise, given the man's persistent come-ons at earlier meetings. Still, she'd never expected him to put his hands on her against her will. And her worst nightmares hadn't prepared her for a sloppy kiss from those big, squishy lips, which looked like two fat, bloated worms ready for the fishhook.

Yuck.
The memory made her shiver some more.

When she'd moved to Chicago, she'd never imagined having to defend herself against a man who was about to pledge to love, honor and cherish a nice, friendly woman like Cassie-the-twit. She'd certainly never expected to get more attention from men at work than she'd ever had helping manage her father's dry cleaning business in North Carolina. Why would she, when the only male customers she ever saw were engaged to be married?

Grooms were supposed to hit on strippers. Women who popped out of cakes at bachelor parties.

Not dressmakers who'd measured their brides for their wedding gowns.

"Shh, it's okay, don't cry," she heard, the soft male whisper tickling the hair at her temple as his warm breaths touched her cheek. "He's gone, honey, he can't hurt you anymore."

She supposed the slow, deep shudders wracking her chest seemed like sobs to the big, solid man she was pressed against.

Very big. Very hard. Very warm.

Absolutely delightful.

Awareness washed over her. Awareness of the breadth of his firm body, just beneath her fingers, which were tightly clenching his shirt. The dress shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, and Rachel's mouth was an inch away from the tanned skin of his throat. She inhaled his spicy, masculine scent, watching the way a few springy, black hairs on his chest moved beneath her slowly released exhalations.

His heartbeat was strong. Rapid. She could feel it since they were pressed tightly together. Rachel's breasts suddenly felt heavier, more sensitive, almost tingling as he shifted a tiny bit, so their bodies scraped even more delicately against one another.

Their hips touched, as did their thighs. His trousers brushed against her bare calves, and one of her feet had slid between both of his. If they were sitting, she'd be straddling his thigh. The thought made pure warmth and liquid heat ooze through her body, to settle with insistence between her legs.

Oh, God, what was happening to her? Comfort had changed to something else—something heady and wicked and dangerous. She was mentally cataloguing how seductively perfect it felt to be in his arms, how much she suddenly
wanted
this man.

This
man. Luke Santori. The man she'd decided must have been adopted because of how unlike his easy-going brothers he was.

Boy, had she been mistaken. How on earth could she ever have thought Luke was cold when his whole form gave off such sizzling heat? Not to mention the tender, sweet way he stroked her back, making soothing sounds against her temple. Saying more soft things she couldn't quite make out, beyond the word "safe."

Safe? Good Lord, she was nowhere near safe. This was the Nazi bride's groom and here she was curling into him like a stripper against a pole. She jerked back, bringing her shaky fingers to her mouth, trying to regain control of herself.

"Rachel?"

She gave him a slow nod, silently telling him she was okay, though, in truth, she was anything but. "You sure you don't want me to call Mark?"

"Mark?"

"My brother. He's a cop and his station's not too far from here."

Another big hunky Santori brother to fill up every molecule in this suddenly small-feeling shop?
No, thanks.
Her senses were already on overload, pushing her into dangerously aware territory. Territory she had no business even glancing at, much less curling up against.

Engaged man territory.

"I don't think so. I'm okay, and I somehow doubt he'll be back. Especially if his fiancée starts questioning him about the cut on his head." Still feeling too close, too affected by a man she had no business being affected by, Rachel stepped away, retrieving the poor little groom figurine, who'd landed among the white satin wedding shoe display.

"Who was that guy?" Luke asked, leaning one hip against the counter and crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"The husband-to-be of one of my customers."

He frowned. "Nice."

Hearing his sarcasm, she for some reason felt compelled to elaborate. "It's not as uncommon as you think. Grooms with cold feet seem to think the dressmaker's their last chance for a fling." She grinned wryly. "I suppose they consider me a safer bet than risking communicable diseases at their bachelor parties."

A flash of something like anger made his eyes blaze and his jaw tighten. "This has happened before? Why don't you have a panic alarm or something?"

She shook her head. "Nothing like
this
has happened before. It's usually harmless flirtation. But it's still annoying."

"It's more than annoying." His jaw remained tight, his pulse visible in his temple. "What if I hadn't shown up here?"

"I didn't feel in any real danger."

Until you walked in.
"Do you know self-defense?"

"Like karate or something?"