Isabella peeked through the slats sectioning off the prep room from the rest of her restaurant's on-display kitchen. Yes, the dark-haired man was still at his table, and yes, he was still staring at her.
Fool, she thought as she jerked out of sight. Hadn't he heard? She was now engaged to Robert "Robbery" Bertini. Here comes the bride, she thought with a fresh spurt of anger. Why hadn't she just gone out with Robert the first time he asked? Or the tenth? It was only her repeated refusals that made her stand out from all the other women he had on his expensively clad arm. She'd seen Goodfellas, she should have known that saying no to a mob boss, even a relatively minor one like Robert, would only encourage him to go after her. Why had he decided to come to her restaurant every Thursday night, anyway? If he'd never set foot in here, none of this would have happened!
Actually, it could all be blamed on meatballs. Isa gave a nearby pan of seasoned meaty goodness an evil glare. Yep, it was their fault. Damned tasty little bastards had put her late parents' restaurant on the map. Who knew they'd also turn out to be a local mafia boss's favorite meal?
"Isa, table nine wants to see you!" her head chef Frank called out.
She grimaced. That was Tall, Dark and Dumb's table, the new customer with the staring problem. Under other circumstances, Isa wouldn't have minded his fixed attention. He certainly wasn't hard to look at—brown hair falling just above his shoulders, a lean build, and a half-smile that managed to be charming and a trifle devious at the same time.
But today was Thursday, so her fiancé—for the time being only, she promised herself—was here with his usual quartet of goons. Isa had already noticed Robert giving a couple of pointed glares to the man for his obvious fixation on her. Soon Robert wouldn't settle for just dirty looks. He'd have the stranger taken out back and his knees broken, if he was in a good mood. Isa didn't want to think about what would happen to the man if Robert was testy tonight.
She made her way to table nine with a polite yet frosty smile on her face. At Spagarelli's, Isa was known for taking time to stop and talk to the patrons, remember the names of her regulars, and even have a drink with some of them. When she'd reopened this restaurant, she wanted to be hands-on with everything, including the customers. Now, of course, it made it impossible for her to refuse Tall, Dark and Dumb's request to speak with the owner. She hoped Robert had chosen now to go to the little boy's room, but he hadn't. Instead, he watched her approach the man's table with narrowed black eyes.
"Isa," he called out, displeasure clear in his gravelly voice.
"Just a moment," she said with false brightness. "I have to attend to a customer."
What she really wanted to tell Robert was to shut the hell up and leave. Permanently. But she couldn't say that, nor could she tell him the other thing that was constantly on the tip of her tongue—that she'd rather marry Al Capone's corpse than him. After all, Frazier was depending on her. Where he was or why she needed to pretend she was going ahead with this wedding, Isa didn't know, but the last time she'd spoken to her brother, Frazier said it was a matter of life and death.
So she played the future Mrs. Robert Bertini, which wasn't easy. Robert had visions of becoming the next Michael Corleone, and to accomplish that, he thought he needed the ideal Mafioso image of being married to a traditional Italian woman. The fact that Isa owned a perfect money-laundering front with her restaurant was just the icing on the cake, she was certain.
Well, Robert had a lot to learn. Anyone who knew her well would have known that trying to blackmail Isa into marriage was a bad idea. Pure-blooded Italian she might be, but a traditional, docile crime-lord wife she was not.
Frustration over the whole situation boiled just below the surface as Isa plonked down across from the man at table nine, making sure her back was to Robert.
"Can I help you?" she asked with far less tact than normal.
A slow smile lit his face, making him look even more wickedly enticing.
"Actually, darling, I'm here to help you."
Isa was not in the mood for banter. She could practically hear the steam coming out of Robert's ears. This man would be lucky to leave here alive. The longer she talked to him, the less chance he had of that. She couldn't afford to risk his life by playing polite restaurateur.
"The only way I'd need your help is if you were a restaurant critic or a health inspector. Now, unless you have something to say about the wine, since you haven't eaten a bite of food, I really must go—"
"Robbery's got you on a short leash, doesn't he?" the man interrupted. "Yessir, he's been glaring holes into my head for the past hour."
Isa's mouth dropped. So did her opinion of him. If he knew who Robert was, and he'd been eye-humping his fiancée right in front of him anyway, then he had to be the world's biggest fool.
"Are you drunk?" she asked low.
He laughed with a toss of his head. "Nothing like that, Isabella. My name's Chance, by the way. Pleased to meet you."