That's Amore! (18 page)

He nodded.

"Uh … no. But my knee can do some damage. And I think my fingers are bony enough that if I punched a guy in the throat I could make it pretty darn hard for him to breathe."

Rolling his eyes, grabbed her hand and lifted it. "Oh, yes, you should really register these things as lethal weapons."

Only his obvious disapproval kept her from yanking her hand away in shock. Because she was apparently the only one of them who had felt the amazing flash of electric heat when their fingers had touched.

"I think Freddy's neck was too fat for you to find his Adam's
Apple
," Luke said, still tsking, but now sounding slightly amused. "A finger in the eye is probably a safer bet."

"I prefer the good old knee to the groin."

"With nutless cowards like him, you might have a hard time hitting the target."

His disgusted words startled a laugh from her lips. "Poor Cassie."

"Cassie?"

"His fiancée."

Finally realizing Luke was still holding her fingers, Rachel slowly pulled them away. She also sent a silent message to her heart to quit its ridiculous super-sonic beating and get back to its regular, uninterested, professional-woman rhythm.

"Thank you," she finally murmured. "I'm glad you showed up."

He met her steady stare and nodded to acknowledge her thanks. Then they both fell silent. Just … staring.

He looked at her as though he'd never met her before, and she couldn't tug her gaze away from his dark brown eyes, sparkling with warmth and energy. Not cold. Nowhere near cold.

"You
do
know who I am, right?" he finally murmured, filling what had been a long, though not uncomfortable, silence.

"Sure." She cleared her throat, figuring her wildly swinging emotions were causing that warble in her voice, and the weakness in her legs. "We've met at your parents' restaurant."

"I wondered if you remembered. Every time I see you, you look the other way or walk out the door." His words, though, light and teasing, held a hint of accusation.

She couldn't deny it. She
had
avoided him, thinking she was doing it because she didn't like the third Santori brother, who wasn't as playful and friendly as his two older siblings.

The happily married ones.

Now she suspected she'd been avoiding him for another reason. Because she found him
too
attractive. Definitely too attractive for a man scheduled to marry someone else in less than a month.

Reading about him in the papers had made him even more interesting to her. Lucas Santori was a hotshot in the D.A.'s office and was often mentioned by the media for his anti-crime crusade. And of course, she couldn't help but hear about him from his very proud parents, who liked to brag about their sons who fought bad guys—as cops, soldiers, or, in Luke's case, prosecutors.

"How's Maria?" she asked, trying to busy her hands with some useless paperwork on the counter. Receipts, order forms, ad copy … none of which seemed to have any words right now, just dark, blurry specks on which she couldn't concentrate. He didn't reply right away, and she looked up in curiosity.

Lucas seemed a bit stiffer, as if he wasn't comfortable talking about his fiancée. Considering Maria was as well liked as your average everyday serial killer, Rachel could understand why.

"Getting jittery. She's actually the reason I came down here," he finally admitted.

"Oh? Don't tell me the
wedding's
off and I'm going to get stuck with that twenty-thousand-dollar dress."

Luke's jaw dropped open and his eyes widened. "Twenty…"

Grimacing and cursing herself for her big mouth, Rachel forced a laugh and shook her head. "I was exaggerating."

Though not by much.

"She's, uh, not going to be able to make her appointment tomorrow."

Another cancellation. Why
was she
not surprised? "What if it needs alterations? We're not dealing with the normal turnaround time here, since she changed her mind so many times before settling on a dress."

"I'm sorry."

"She
does
remember the wedding is less than three weeks away, right?" she asked before she could stop her runaway tongue.

"How could any of us forget?" Luke asked, sounding almost mournful.

She chose to chalk his tone up to standard pre-wedding guy-talk. Not anything more personal. Certainly not an indication that Lucas wasn't exactly thrilled about his upcoming marriage.

Even if he was, it was none of her concern.

"It'll all come together," she said, wanting to comfort him for some reason. "Everyone is stressed this close to the big day. It's perfectly normal."

"Speaking from personal experience?"

His gaze shifted to her left hand and she instinctively curled her ringless fingers. Forcing herself to focus on totaling the
day's
receipts, she said, "Just from being in the business. Not personal experience. I'm completely unattached."

Now, why on earth had she needed to volunteer that tidbit? Lord have mercy, this man was making her jumpy and uptight. She couldn't control what was coming out of her mouth … odd for Rachel, who was usually adept at hiding her true thoughts since the customer always had to be right. Even a customer who insisted on a strapless gown when she had no breasts to hold it up, or a halter one when her rolls of back fat were hanging out all over the place.

If asked for her opinion, she gave it as carefully as possible. If not, she kept her mouth shut.

"No wonder my mother likes you," Luke said, breaking into a rueful smile.

Oh, he looked amazing when he smiled. So amazing she lost track of the short column of numbers she'd been mentally adding.

"Why?" she couldn't help asking.

"Well," he
said,
a twinkle visible in his brown eyes, "because she's a consummate matchmaker. With very available sons."

"The engagement
is
off?" she squeaked out, shocked into asking the question. Of course, she realized her mistake a half a second after the stupid words left her silly tongue.

He stared at her. Hard. "I meant my brothers. The twins."

"Oh, of course."

Candy apple red. The color of her first car. Her favorite lipstick. And now, her face.

Luke apparently noticed. He continued to stare, his gaze questioning as he studied her cheeks, her hair, her lips. Then finally, sounding almost confused, he asked, "Why did you assume it was me?"

She could tell him one of a number of truths. She could admit she found him incredibly attractive. Could tell him she'd been trying to convince herself she didn't like him when, in actuality, she probably liked him more than a nice woman who respected other women's boundaries should.

Or she could tell him it was a natural assumption, considering he was marrying a cast iron bitch.

Instead, she lied. "Oh, I didn't. I was joking."

Lame, Rachel. Very lame.

Finished with the receipts, she rubber-banded them together, stuck them in a manila envelope, and carried them to a shelf loaded with shoeboxes of varying size, shape and condition behind the counter. After checking the dates, she found this month's box, opened it, and put the receipts inside.

"Now, there's an effective filing system," Luke murmured, sounding amused.

She glanced over her shoulder. "Don't I know
it.
But only for one more day. We have a desk with built-in file drawers being delivered tomorrow and I'm going to get organized if it kills me." Then she looked around, unable to hide a sigh. "
Which means I need to get to work.
I have furniture to move around before it shows up, and I need to clear a big place on the back room floor to put things together."

She hadn't been hinting around for his help. She
hadn't.

"Can I give you a hand?"

Drat. Okay, maybe she had. But only because she could use some help. Not because she, uh, wanted him to stay or anything. Any pair of hands would be useful.

Especially big, strong male ones, connected to thick, muscular arms that looked like they belonged on a lumberjack rather than an attorney.

Okay, bad thought. She obviously wanted him to stay for all the wrong reasons.
Say no. Say no and get away from him now before you get in any deeper.

Once again, however, her tongue moved without any interference from her brain. "Thanks. That'd be great."

CHAPTER THREE

Rachel really
had
needed his help. Luke kept reminding himself of that over the next hour as they emptied boxes and folded them out of the way, rearranged an old bookcase and disassembled some shelves. Slowly but surely they made space in the tiny, crowded back room of the dress shop.

Tiny. Crowded. Dangerous.

"Whoops, sorry," she mumbled when she slipped on a scrap of lace, bumping against his side.

That was the dangerous part.

"It's okay," he said, biting the words out from between tightly clenched teeth.

Liar.
In no way was it okay.

Because the enforced proximity had made the two of them brush against each other more than once. Each contact—though innocent—shocked him, until he remained on edge, expectant, waiting for the next brush of her hand, or slide of her shoulder against his. Or just the feel of her long, silky hair flitting across his skin when she tossed it back to get it out of her face.

It was the heat of the closed-in space, the unexpectedness of
it, that
was all. It had nothing to do with the sunniness of her smile, or the throaty warmth of her laugh. It was completely unconnected to those clear, sparkling eyes or the slight southern twang in, her voice.

But even as he told himself that, he wondered if he was wrong. Because he had never reacted this way—with such instant awareness—to anyone before.

Not until today. Three weeks before his wedding.

Hell.

He should have followed Mr. Brown Suit out the door. Instead he'd stayed. And gotten
himself
into some completely unexpected trouble. Not merely because of his cold feet or her killer smile. No, what had really done him in was that he liked her. Really, truly, liked her.

"So, earlier, when you said you need space to 'put things together' you weren't talking about the actual furniture, were you?" he said as they finished a final trip to the Dumpster in the back, now filled with scraps of wood and shoeboxes.

She nodded.

He persisted. "As in assembling?"

"Yes." Seeing his skepticism, she fisted her hand, put it on her hip, and tilted her head back. "I know how to use basic tools."

He followed her stare and noted the rinky-dink toolbox. His three-year-old nephew had sturdier looking stuff in his toy box. "You're going to use that?"

"I'll be fine," she insisted, her tone allowing for no further argument. Then, as if realizing she might have sounded ungrateful, she added, "I so appreciate your help, even though you really didn't have to stay…"

They'd gone over that a few times already. "Forget it. I'd be willing to bet you put in some overtime hours on my behalf in recent weeks."

She glanced up, appearing puzzled. "I don't know what you mean."

"Well, I know there's been a lot of
… indecisiveness
with my family."

The confusion disappeared from her face, and she chuckled. "Oh, you mean the four different bridesmaids gown styles? The three shades of pink? The two types of headdress?"

"And the partridge in a pear tree," he said, unable to hold in a rueful chuckle.

Her eyes sparkled as she laughed with him. "It's not so bad. Weddings are pretty…"

"Torturous?"

She tsked. "I was going to say energetic."

"Yeah. Like the electric chair." Electric chair. Condemned man. Kinda fit the direction of his thoughts these days.

"Pessimist," she said with an amused frown.

"Optimist."

Her eyes narrowed and she said,
"Man,"
as if getting the last word with the ultimate insult.

He couldn't help replying, with equally exaggerated disgust,
"Woman."

Their playful bickering brought a feeling of pleasure deep inside Luke's body as he acknowledged how relaxed he felt in this woman's company. He hadn't felt this way for a long time. A
very
long time.
Why didn't I meet her six months ago?

"I hope this desk isn't too big," he said, looking around the circle they'd managed to clear in the back room.

"It's huge." She didn't sound worried. Again the optimist. "I think my aunt pictures it doubling as a back-up sewing table, but I plan to keep it perfectly neat and for business only. She'll probably be disappointed when she sees how organized and professional I'm going to make this place."

He raised a brow, unable to help it. Given the woman's shoebox filing system, he wondered just how organized she was going to be.

Rachel seemed to sense his skepticism and she frowned. "I
am
organized and businesslike."

"Uh-huh."

Her eyes narrowed. "Very organized."

He didn't say a word, merely letting his gaze fall on the teetering pile of bridal magazines in one corner and the haphazard stack of packing boxes in another. They hadn't been shoved there during the rearranging, but had remained exactly where they'd been when he arrived.

Following his stare, Rachel blew out a long breath and swept a strand of hair off her face. It was a nervous habit, one that caught his eye every time. When she was deep in thought—or nervous—she shoved her hair out of the way as if it was an unwelcome shroud instead of the pure spun gold that looked softer than any silk gown in this place.

He gulped the image away, returning his attention to the job at hand.

"Okay," she
admitted,
her tone grudging. "Organization has never been a strong suit of mine. Or Ginny's. But my father did teach me a lot about bookkeeping and management. If you looked at our books, I'm sure you'd be very impressed."

"As opposed to being terrified when I look around this maze and wonder if I'm going to stumble over a dead body back here?"

"Well,
that
was gentlemanly," she said with a half-smile, not sounding offended.

"I'm not the gentleman of the family."

"I know."

"Zing right back."

She flushed. "I mean your brother Joe seems to hold that title. He's so polite and all."

Joe? Luke almost laughed. "Joe considers himself a hammer jockey. I think he'd be crushed if he thought women didn't consider him rugged and dangerous."

"Meg certainly doesn't."

No, Joe's wife of one year, Meg, considered him her other half, which, to anyone who knew them, appeared absolutely true. They were so blissfully in love it made his teeth hurt to be around them. He still really needed to deck his brother for that, considering the trouble Joe's sappy "happily married" talk had caused for Luke lately.

"By the way," Luke said, remembering her words, "I think I've been exceedingly polite this afternoon."

Rachel winced in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, you're right, you've been wonderful."

Their stares met. Held. The air—already stuffy—grew more heated, until finally Rachel cleared her throat and added, "And so is your family. Your sisters-in-law and your sister Lottie have been real angels to deal with."

He let her get away with changing the subject to a very innocuous one. Because they had no business thinking
wonderful
thoughts about each other. No business at all. "Thanks. They are all pretty great."

She nodded. "And determined. Gloria says she'd get the last of her baby weight off or else she'd wear four body girdles, but there was no way she'd let me order a bigger size bridesmaid gown than her pre-pregnancy one."

Lucas flinched just at the thought of women and their torturous contraptions of beauty. "Tony's wife. She's as bossy as a real big sister."

"I know. With the two adorable little boys. I guess they're keeping up the family tradition."

"Well, God help them if they have five of them like my parents did."

"I've never heard your parents complain. In fact, to hear your mother tell it, her boys are'a'da best men in all-a-Shee-ca-gooo."

She did a lousy job of imitating his mother's thick Italian accent, particularly with the twangy, musical lilt to her voice, but he didn't have the heart to tell her. Especially because she looked so darn cute when doing it. "How about you? Lots of siblings?"

She shook her head. "Only child." Her eyes clouded a little. "My father died last year, and my only family is now Aunt Ginny, who's been a surrogate mother—and friend—for a long time."

He nodded and remained quiet for a moment, in silent understanding. Then, wanting to lighten the moment, he shook his head. "So, no sisters or brothers. Meaning you never had the joy of the big hand-me-down marathon during Labor Day weekend before back-to-school."

Raising a brow, she said, "No, I'm afraid not."

"Fortunately," he explained, "I was always the same height as Joe, even though he's a year older. So jeans that were too short for him got passed down to Mark or Nick."

The words were an opening he hadn't intended, and she reacted to them. Her gaze traveled over him, from head to toe, as if assessing his height, his build. Her lips parted as she drew in a deep, slow breath, and he nearly groaned when she slipped her tongue out to moisten them. The atmosphere thickened yet again. No matter how many times either of them tried to retreat behind a wall of friendly, casual conversation, they kept coming back to this. This unexpected attraction. That was the only word for it—it wasn't just awareness. It was attraction. On both their parts.

Which left him with only one choice.
No more retreating behind words or laughter or desks. It was time to get out of here for real.

And after making his excuses and brushing off her thanks, that's exactly what he did.

"I
'm almost there
. I'm so close," Gloria Santori said
,
her face mottled red with exertion as she hissed the words between clenched teeth. "A little more. One … more … inch… Yes, yes, oooh…"

"For cripe's sake, Gloria, you sound like you're doing a porn movie."

Surprised into a laugh by the caustic tone of Luke's sister, Lottie, Rachel looked around the fitting room of the shop to see everyone else laughing as well. Even red-faced Gloria—who'd been trying desperately to fit into her bridesmaid gown—chuckled. Then she shot her sister-in-law a glare. "Oh, look what you did. Now I have to suck it in all over again."

So far, the entire afternoon had been like this—fun and raucous, silly and companionable. Like it always was when with the Santori clan, though,
this time, only the women of the family were
around. Rachel was enjoying herself tremendously just sitting back and watching the interactions of this close-knit group.

Closest to Gloria—who was already turning blue from lack of oxygen as she tried again to zip up the too-tight dress she refused to have let-out—sat Luke's mother. Mrs. Santori wore a brightly colored, flowered sundress that made her look much too young to be the mother of six adults. In the months since she'd met her, Rachel had never seen the Santori matriarch in anything but a dress. And, as usual, she wore a small pin with the colors of the Italian flag. The woman's jewelry always reflected her ethnicity. Sometimes it was something as simple as a pin made of dried pasta.

Luke's sister, Lottie, sat beside her mother. Slumped back in her chair in boredom, her long legs were sprawled out in front of her and crossed at the ankle. She'd inherited her family's dark hair and eyes, like her brothers, but thankfully not the masculine features that made her older siblings so striking. Instead, she had her mother's soft, round face, and wide smile—though her biting wit and scruffy clothes labeled her the tomboy Rachel suspected her to be.

Sitting on the other side of Gloria, with her swollen feet resting on another chair, sat Meg, Joe's wife. She watched the goings-on with a Madonna-like smile, absently rubbing her large stomach and asking the baby within to give her kidneys a break or to get his foot out of her rib cage.

Both of Luke's grandmothers, one of his aunts and two of his female cousins had come in earlier. Since they weren't part of the bridal party, however, they'd been much easier to deal with, and had already departed.