That's Amore! (19 page)

Rachel blessed the day the Santori women had decided to give all their wedding patronage to her fledgling shop. They'd put she and Ginny in the black within two months of their grand opening.

The only one absent from this family event was the bride. Who, to be honest, nobody seemed to be missing.

"Mary mother of God," Mrs. Santori said with a definite huff, "Gloria, you're going to pop the seams. Let Rachel do her job and give you an extra inch."

Four would be better. But Rachel kept her mouth shut.

"Yeah, the size tag will still say eight," Lottie said. "You said that was all you wanted, to fit into a size eight. You never said it couldn't be an
altered
size eight."

Gloria cast a hopeful glance toward Rachel, who hurried to agree. "Oh, absolutely. The size on the tag is the only one that matters." Then, not untruthfully, she added. "I work with these dresses all the time and they all run much smaller than standard sizes."

The oldest Santori daughter-in-law finally stopped trying to tug the zipper up her back, and lowered it instead. She immediately heaved a deep breath, her face returning to its normal color. "Oh, thank God. I was about ready to try water pills and laxatives."

Luke's mother made the sign of the cross. "And how would that have affected the baby?"

Gloria twirled around as Rachel went to work with the measuring tape and pins. "I stopped nursing last month." Giving Rachel a mischievous grin in the mirror, she added, "Baby Mikey is six months old now, and Tony isn't the most patient man in the world."

If Gloria had thought she'd shock her mother-in-law, she'd obviously guessed wrong. Mrs. Santori merely smirked. "So, I guess you never tell my Tony they are fine to play with when they're not full to bursting like a pair of water balloons?"

Lottie snorted. Gloria grinned. Rachel chuckled under her breath. And Meg, growing pale, murmured, "Uh, water balloons?"

"All done," Rachel said, before the conversation turned to breast-feeding and breasts and Santori men playing with said breasts.

Rachel couldn't go there. Not even in her mind. Not without feeling all tingly, just at the thought of being touched by one of those men in particular. The one whose bride should have been here, the center of attention, right now.

"So what was Maria's excuse for not showing up this time?" Lottie asked, not hiding a frown.

Her mother pursed her lips. "She has a dentist appointment."

"Huh. You know, it kinda says something about a bride if she'd rather get a root canal than get fitted for her wedding dress." The other women mumbled and Meg coughed into her fist, but Lottie appeared unrepentant. "Oh, come on, you know it as well as I do. She's about as interested in getting married as I'm interested in staying a virgin until my wedding night."

Mrs. Santori grabbed the gold cross hanging around her neck and raised her eyes heavenward. "Lottie!"

The young woman flushed a little, shifted in her chair, and re-crossed her legs. "Sorry." Not too sorry, because she persisted. "But it's true. I hear her latest demands are that there
be
no mother's cakes and no Italian food of any kind at the wedding? She's decided to call in some French caterer at the last minute?"

Mrs. Santori blanched and her lips tightened. But she merely shrugged. "It is not our wedding."

Lottie shook her head in disgust,
then
shrugged. "I guess we can look on the bright side. Today sure has been a lot more pleasant than it would have been if she was here."

"That's not nice to say about your brother's fiancée," Mrs. Santori said with a hard stare.

"I know. But we're all thinking it, aren't we?" Lottie retorted, glancing around at all of them, as if daring them to deny it.

Mrs. Santori didn't answer. Neither did Gloria. Or Meg.

Rachel continued to work, staying out of this family discussion. But she couldn't help feeling very, very curious.

Maria didn't seem too anxious to get on with this wedding, judging by her complete disinterest in her own gown. Lucas's family didn't seem too happy about things, either.

Which left her wondering … how, exactly, did the groom feel about his upcoming nuptials?

CHAPTER FOUR

Luke tried to keep
his mind off Rachel Grant the next day, knowing it was not only wrong but also dangerous to be thinking so much about a woman other than the one he was supposed to marry in a short time.

But he couldn't get her out of his head. Her smile. Her husky voice. The unconscious grace in her movements. The affection in her eye when she spoke of people she cared about—like Luke's own family. The resolution in her voice when she talked of using her delicate little fingers as lethal weapons against offensive oafs like the one yesterday.

"Get out of my head," he whispered as he parked his SUV outside his parents' restaurant after work.

She wouldn't. She certainly hadn't gotten out of his head throughout the long, sleepless night before, or today at work when he'd had a hard time concentrating on a thing anyone said to him. His co-workers chalked it up to pre-wedding distractions. Hmm. He guessed wondering if he'd made a terrible mistake and proposed to the wrong woman a few months before meeting someone who could be the
right
one—would be distracting for anyone.

Why hadn't he met Rachel first?

Or not at all.

No. He couldn't even
pretend
he wished that. Especially on days like today, when he'd spent all morning on the phone with Maria, who'd suddenly decided she hated every single thing about their wedding plans, from the food to the dress to the music.

He'd bowed out of the food and the music. But he'd pinned her down on the dress, rightfully saying there was no time to order another one.

Yet even as he'd said it, he'd been worrying more about Rachel—and how the rejection of a twenty thousand dollar gown might affect her business than he had about his high-strung fiancée.

"Eyes front," he muttered under his breath as he got out of his car and walked around it to the sidewalk. Ten steps to the awning; a few more until he was inside with his parents, his brother, the regulars.

But his eyes weren't obeying his brain. They shifted, looking left. Up the block. Toward the bridal shop.

A panel truck was double-parked at the curb in front of Rachel's building. Watching a uniformed deliveryman exit the store, pushing a large dolly, he remembered the desk she'd been preparing for last night. She'd gotten her delivery.
Which meant she was sitting up there again this evening, with her little screwdriver and her small hammer out of her Tonka Toy toolbox, about to set up a desk that probably weighed more than she did.

"Not your concern," he reminded himself.

But his feet didn't listen to his brain any better than his eyes did. Because he suddenly found himself turning away from the restaurant, and striding a few doors up the street.

When he got to the boutique, he figured he'd just peek inside, make sure Rachel had help with her task, then slip away. Nice and easy. A look, that was all.

But she didn't have help. Luke couldn't contain a groan when he saw her in there, trying with all her might to tug at an enormous cardboard box.

"Dammit, Rachel," he muttered.

His hand reached for the doorknob, but his subconscious tried to talk him out of it.
Don't do this.

He almost obeyed the mental voice. Then he muttered a curse and consigned it to the depths of his subconscious, where it could party all night long with his conscience. And he walked into the darkened shop.

She immediately looked up, a flash of concern on her face. Probably understandable, given what had happened the previous evening with the s.o.b. in the brown suit.

When she saw and recognized him, he expected the concern to fade away. It didn't. If anything, she seemed more disturbed. Her frown deepened,
then
she quickly dropped her eyes, shielding her expression behind her bangs and her half-lowered lashes. She said nothing for a long, thick moment.

"You look like you need some help," he muttered, answering a question she hadn't even asked.

She'd been asking more than that one question with her discomfort and her silence. And he'd been less than honest about his one answer. But it would do for now.

"My aunt wanted to stay, but I was afraid she'd hurt herself so I told her I had help."

Unbuttoning the sleeves of his dress shirt, he rolled them up as he walked across the store. "You really do need to start locking the door after hours."

"I was going to, but since the delivery man left this monstrosity right in the middle of the floor, I would have had to walk across it to get to the door."

"The monstrosity you were about to try to wrestle into the back room all by yourself." Shaking his head, he squatted down and tested the weight of the box, lifting one corner. Then he grunted. The thing had to have a couple hundred pounds of pressed wood sections inside. "The guy couldn't even bring it into the back for you?"

She made a tiny little sound, almost a clearing of the throat, but probably more like a groan of embarrassment. "It won't fit."

He sat back on his haunches, following her stare. She was right. The box wasn't going to fit through that narrow doorway.

"I was trying to open it, figuring I could just carry it piece by piece."

"You should've stuck with your shoe box system." Then, not bothering to ask if she wanted his help, he tore open the end of the carton and began pulling components out.

"Lord have mercy, are those the directions?" she asked as a wad of paper about the size of
Chicago
's phone book came tumbling out.

"'Fraid so."

"Wow, I hope you're good with your hands?"

There was a loaded comment. Because yeah, if he did say so himself, he was damn good with his hands. As well as other body parts. All of which were dying to prove the point to the woman staring at him in wide-eyed innocence.

Maybe not
complete
innocence. Her bottom lip disappeared between her teeth and a flash of embarrassment crossed her face. She'd obviously just realized how her words had sounded.

"Uh, I mean … I hope you're handy in the…"

Bedroom? Oh, most definitely.

She cleared her throat, appearing more and more uncomfortable. "Do you know how to handle tools?"

He couldn't help responding, "I've been known to effectively use a tool or two."

Why he wanted to bait this woman—to ratchet up the awareness factor even higher than it already was—he had no idea. But he couldn't resist. Especially when the embarrassment faded from her face, only to be replaced by a look of heated amusement. Not to mention a spark of devilment.

She knew what was going on here. Knew full well.

"So, have you been complimented on your prowess?" Her words were whispered, almost purred.
A
smile of pure mischief played on those full lips of hers, making Luke's heart
skip
a beat.

He quirked a brow. "I'm not one to boast."

She waited.

"But I suppose I've received some enthusiastic compliments in the past."

Not lately. Not anytime lately. He'd been less sexually active in the past six months than he'd been in the preceding six
years.
Which had to explain why he'd had such a basic, hot reaction to Rachel, even when their conversations had been merely cordial and friendly.

This definitely wasn't one of those innocent moments. They both knew they'd moved beyond cordial and friendly. Into dangerous territory.

They fell silent and in that silence exchanged a wealth of words. Neither of them moved or breathed. Until, finally, Rachel broke the connection by glancing toward a rack full of wedding gowns. "Well, I suppose you'll be a handy husband for Maria to have around, then."

That effectively doused whatever the hell they'd both been thinking. Luke sucked in a ragged breath,
then
slowly let it out with a nod. "Right."

Returning his attention to the job at hand, he grabbed for an excuse—any excuse—to end their private interaction. "I think you might be right. I might not be the man for this job."

Oh, how he wished he could be. But not now. Not when another woman was wearing his ring and her damned wedding dress was likely one of the ones hanging in the back room right now.

"Maybe you should leave," Rachel murmured, apparently feeling just as guilty and uncomfortable—if only for the direction of their thoughts—as Luke.

He shook his head. He had nothing to feel
really
guilty about. Yet. And he intended to keep it that way.

Luke wasn't a cheat. He wasn't a slimy prick like the brown-suited guy who'd hit on Rachel the night before.
Which meant, he would keep his physical distance.
At least long enough to figure out what he was going to do and what his intense interest in Rachel really meant.

Was he just another groom with cold feet? He immediately thrust that idea out of his mind. Because he'd been completely faithful, in his actions and in his brain, until the minute he'd found himself alone with Rachel the night before.

Meaning, sharing another private evening with her was probably a very bad idea. "I think we need to call in reinforcements. This is a job for one of the other Santori men."

"Oh?"

Nodding, he pulled out his cell phone and called his brother, Joe. As usual, his good-natured sibling didn't hesitate before agreeing to swing by the shop on his way home. "One down," he said as he cut the connection. Then he dialed another familiar number.

"Who now?" she whispered, looking uncomfortable at needing this much help. Hell, for
all the
woman had done for the women of his family lately, putting together a desk was the least they could do.
They.
Plural. As in, no-way-in-hell-was-he-going-to-be-alone-with-her-again.
Which was the real reason he'd asked Joe to come help.

Well, that and the fact that Lucas could reduce a witness to a squirming mess on a witness stand, but could hardly tell a monkey wrench from a tire iron. He'd definitely been exaggerating about his prowess with certain tools.

Of course, they hadn't
really
been talking about the kind that came in a big metal box. And they both damn well knew it.

"I'm hungry," he explained as the phone began to ring. "Pepperoni and green pepper okay?"

She nodded. "But only if it's on me."

"You gotta be kidding. You don't really think my parents charge me, do you?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Then we'll order Chinese."

"You think my mama's not gonna find out from my brother Joe if I order Chinese carry-out when I'm four doors up from the restaurant? I don't know about you, but I don't particularly want to be on the receiving end of one of her lectures." He shuddered. "Or worse, her martyred silent treatment."

Her chuckle made her blue eyes sparkle in the late-day sun slanting through the front windows of the shop. "Okay. Pizza. But only if you'll let me run next door to buy the six-pack of beer to go with it."

"Deal," he agreed, knowing Santori's didn't deliver beer. Then, before she could leave to go to the liquor store next door, he said, "But better
make
it a twelve-pack. I have the feeling once the word gets out that I'm up here doing something involving tools and grunt work, we're going to draw a crowd."

Rachel bought
a case of beer. And it was a good thing. Because within an hour of Luke's arrival, his father, two of his brothers, one of his sisters-in-law, and his sister were crowded into her small shop. She had to wonder who was holding down the fort back at the restaurant, and assumed Luke's mother and one of the cousins who worked in the kitchen were covering for a while.

As usual, the Santoris were loud. Good-natured. Rowdy. The brothers gave Luke unending grief about his lack of prowess with a drill. In return, he told them he was going to make sure they got called for jury duty. Their father stayed out of the fray, for the most part, watching with an indulgent smile, occasionally muttering something in Italian under his breath.