Читать книгу She's On Top - Susan Lyons - Страница 6

Giancarlo Mancini yawned as he unlocked the door of his room at the Opus Hotel. His bleary eyes barely noticed the blue walls and stylish, starkly modern décor. All he cared about was crashing on the king-size bed.

They’d done location shoots all day and into the evening, then followed up with a private party. He squinted at the clock by the bed. Three in the morning. Late, even for a night owl like him.

What time were they starting today? Fuck, he couldn’t remember his own shooting schedule. Better check, and set the alarm.

He turned on the notebook computer that served as his portable office. While he was waiting for it to boot up, he went to take a piss, wash his face and brush his teeth. He pulled off his shirt, noting that it stunk of smoke.

Yeah, the club they’d gone to was supposed to be smoke free, but his group had had their own room and their own special rules—i.e., no rules. Coke, primo BC marijuana, ecstasy, not to mention cigarettes, cigars and booze. Something to suit every taste. His own choice had been grappa, the Italian wine-based liquor his grandfather had introduced him to when he was a teen.

Yawning again, he went back to the computer to call up the shooting schedule. Yeah, right, he’d planned a short day in the studio. So the talent and crew could recover from the partying.

For him, the party scene he’d once thrived on was getting old. Still, it had been the first day on this project, and he was trying to build everyone into a team that could loosen up and have fun together. Videos took creativity, and creativity required trust and a sense of play. That was his philosophy as a director.

Hard work, a party, a slack-off day, then back to the hard work. As everyone worked through hangovers today, he’d strongly recommend an early-to-bed night.

His own plan was to look for a good Italian restaurant. He could sure handle a great lasagne. Something basic, not all fancied up. The kind of food his mamma used to cook.

The staff at his hotel would have a recommendation. They bent over backward to assist their guests.

Maybe he’d ask that pretty redheaded lighting assistant—what was her name? Tabbi?—to come along. She’d be up for dinner, a little action. Anything to get in good with the director.

He yawned so widely his jaw cracked and his eyes teared up. Nah. The meaningless sex had gotten old, just like the parties. He’d rather eat alone, really relax, get a good night’s sleep. That had its appeal too.

While he had the computer open, he figured he’d better check e-mail.

He skimmed subject lines, then paused and went back to one. “Blast from the past?” Well, damn. Rina Goldberg.

Banff. His first trip outside Italy. His family had scrimped and saved to send him to the summer music school a Canadian relative had recommended. And there he’d found himself in a village not so different from the one he’d left, tucked under mountains as spectacular as the Italian Alps. With a bunch of other eager young musicians with big aspirations.

A homesick kid, he’d laid eyes on Rina Goldberg and immediately felt better. Her coloring made her look Italian. And she was warm and generous, willing to befriend an out-of-his-depth foreign kid.

Sexy too. Man, she’d been sexy. A ripe body, huge brown eyes, masses of curly black hair. His dick pulsed, just remembering how she’d looked. What the hell had she seen in a scrawny runt like him?

He’d have been intimidated, except he’d quickly learned Rina was shy, naïve, as inexperienced as he. They’d both been virgins. And they’d learned about sex together.

Giancarlo ran a hand over his fly, cupping his growing erection. Hell, yeah, he remembered Rina Goldberg. He’d had more than one thought of her over the years. Missed her responsive, generous sexuality. Missed, too, the easy natural connection between them, the way they could talk about anything under the sun.

Did he want to get together with her?

He began to smile, not feeling so exhausted anymore. Lasagne at an Italian restaurant, gazing across the table into those melting brown eyes. She had hung on his every word. Lots of people did that now, but she’d done it before he became successful.

Was she still as sexy? Probably even more so, with maturity and experience.

Would there still be chemistry between them? He sure as hell could imagine himself and Rina rumpling the sheets of this huge bed. That sex wouldn’t be meaningless, it’d be damned fantastic.

He unzipped his pants and slipped them off, along with his underwear. His swollen penis begged for attention and he curled his hand around it.

Hell, he was getting way ahead of himself. A girl like her, some guy had probably snapped her up. She’d be married with a couple kids by now, have the life she’d dreamed of. He should take her at her word. All she’d suggested was a little catching up.

Yeah, sure. He might be tired but he wasn’t dead, and a guy couldn’t help but hope.

Memories of sex with Rina filled his mind as he slid between the sheets. God, had her breasts really been as full and lovely as he remembered? Who cared? His throbbing erection wasn’t concerned with accuracy, just with stimulation.

He pumped firmly, envisioning lush breasts, curvy hips, petal-soft skin. Thick, dark curls between her thighs. Pouty labia, swollen and wet, telling him she was hungry for him.

Moistening his hand with saliva, he returned it to his engorged dick and imagined sliding inside her. The way she took him in, welcomed him, moved around him as they both drove toward satisfaction.

The high, keening noise she made when she was close to coming. The way her climax pulsed and shuddered around him. The way his own ripped through his body.

Giancarlo let out a wrenching groan as he came.

There was nothing like a morning routine. Over the past couple of months it had become Rina’s habit to rise before seven and go for a three-mile walk with her elderly neighbor, Levi Fischman. Breakfast, after the walk, was Earl Grey tea and low-fat yogurt, which she consumed while checking e-mail and her appointment book, planning her day.

Today, she plunked her strawberry yogurt down beside the computer and checked her watch. Only eight. No chance Giancarlo would have checked e-mail and responded yet, but—

“Oh my God.” Hurriedly she clicked open his message and scanned it.

“Oh my God,” she breathed. She turned to her cat, who was gazing out the window. “He wants to see me!”

Sabine turned to her, sat down neatly with her tail wrapped around her body and began grooming herself.

“Tonight? Oh no, he wants to see me tonight. I don’t have anything to wear.” Nor could she shed twenty pounds in one day. “What was I thinking? This was crazy. Stupid. I don’t really want to see him.”

The cat tilted her head and said, “Mmrp?”

Rina sighed. “Yeah, okay, I do. I want to, but I don’t want to be me. I want to be a skinnier, prettier version of me.”

Sabine studied her for a long moment, then stood slowly, stretched and sauntered over. She leaped into Rina’s lap and began to purr.

“Okay, you love me just the way I am.” Rina stroked the soft fur and immediately felt calmer. “You’re right. It’s not like I want the man to be attracted. The whole point is for us to not be attracted to each other, so I can stop dreaming about him and move on.”

All the same, that didn’t mean she had to wear her dowdiest clothes. Mind busily inventorying the contents of her closet, Rina quickly typed,

Sounds great! Tonight at 7 is good. Where?

Then she headed for the shower where she shampooed and conditioned her hair, shaved her legs and armpits, then trimmed her bush, where the curls grew as exuberantly as on her head. Not, of course, that Giancarlo was going to be getting any peeks at her private parts, but anything that made her feel a tad more feminine would be a confidence booster tonight.

After toweling her hair, she spritzed on a healthy dose of leave-on almond oil conditioner in an attempt to subdue the frizz. Then she examined her face in the mirror and plucked a few stray eyebrow hairs. Could a woman get any hairier?

Though she couldn’t complain about her long, full eyelashes. And her eyes were her best feature. As for her nose—what could she say? It was Jewish, and she was damned if she’d have it fixed. Lips weren’t bad. Full, naturally rosy.

Knowing she’d be teaching until six, she decided to make her clothes-for-dinner decisions now and get everything laid out.

Her wardrobe, much of which she sewed herself, consisted mainly of clothes designed to cover up the body that her girlfriends called voluptuous and her Aunt Rivka called zaftig. A body that was, in fact, just like Rivka’s. Rina’s mom had been svelte, her dad had been fit and muscular, yet she’d managed to get the same zaftig genes as her mom’s sister.

Rina’d been dieting since she was nine, when her mother first started worrying that her puppy fat wasn’t disappearing. “You don’t want to end up looking like your aunt,” her mom had said. But sure enough, that’s exactly what had happened.

Now she studied the dark skirts and pants in her closet. Actually, since she’d been walking and doing yoga, her legs weren’t so bad. Maybe she’d go with a knee-length skirt rather than a longer one. Black, of course. With black pumps that were higher heeled than she normally wore and gave her calves some nice definition.

She added a loose, gauzy black blouse and her favorite scarf, a huge, fringed, silk one with gigantic red poppies embroidered on it. Of course she had dangly earrings to match, with satiny jet beads and glittery red ones.

What a contrast she’d be to the performers Giancarlo was used to working with, who bared nine-tenths of their bodies in tiny skirts, tube tops, bustiers or even skimpier clothing.

She sure hoped that at least he was still kind of funny looking, or she’d be completely intimidated and regret she’d ever e-mailed him.

The hotel had made a reservation for Giancarlo at a restaurant they recommended—Don Francesco’s on Burrard Street. Where, apparently, the Italian owner had studied opera and could, on a special occasion, be persuaded to sing.

It was less than a mile from the Opus Hotel. Freshly showered and shaved, dressed in black pants and a slim-fitting black V-neck sweater made of a cashmere/silk blend, Giancarlo decided to walk. Along the way, he absorbed sights, sounds and smells, storing away each impression for possible use in a video. Vancouver was funky and unpretentious, he thought. A real mix of people: all ages, races, economic levels and sexual orientations.

When he walked into the restaurant, the aromas of Italy greeted him. He sniffed appreciatively, savoring the scents of garlic, rosemary, roasting chicken and lamb.

He gave his name and a waiter in a white shirt and black pants led him to a white-clothed corner table by the window. The restaurant had an elegant simplicity, with creamy yellow walls, gilt-framed paintings of Italian scenes and a wall of dark shelving holding wine bottles. The music, soft enough so as not to interfere with conversation, was classical guitar. His hotel had done well by him.

He’d barely sat down when a man in a suit came over. Perhaps sixty, his face had smile lines and his close-cropped black hair was silvered. “Buona sera, Signor Mancini. Benvenuto a mio ristorante.” He smiled broadly and held out a hand. “Sono il padrone, Francesco Alongi.” In Italian, he went on to say that the Opus Hotel, when making the reservation, had made special note of the fact that they were countrymen.

“Buona sera.” Giancarlo continued on in Italian, exchanging pleasantries, happy for the rare opportunity to speak his native language.

Francesco asked him if this was an evening with a special lady, and he answered, “Spero de sì.” I hope so. That led to a consultation about the appropriate beverage. Always the optimist, Giancarlo placed an order, which Francesco passed along to a waiter.

As he and Francesco chatted, Giancarlo kept an eye on the door.

He recognized her the moment she stepped into the restaurant. She hadn’t changed, except to grow more beautiful. When he let out an approving sigh, Francesco turned to look, and both men spoke at the same time. “Bellissima.”

Now that, Giancarlo thought, his dick pulsing with appreciation, was what a woman was supposed to look like. Curves that, as he well remembered, were soft and utterly genuine, not the product of a plastic surgeon. A lush body covered in a way that was modest yet seductive. Beautifully shaped legs and graceful neck, the glimpse of a forearm as she reached up to brush hair back from her face. A temptress’s hair—an abundance of undisciplined curls that whispered of sensual pleasures.

One day, if he found the right performer, he’d do a video that played on this seductive subtlety. Not the usual in-your-face sexuality so many young—and not so young, if you counted Madonna and Cher—entertainers flaunted.

“She doesn’t recognize you,” Francesco murmured.

Giancarlo realized he’d been staring at Rina for several minutes and she hadn’t moved. She’d been gazing around the room, eyes wide. Fiddling with her fringed shawl, searching for a familiar face and not finding it.

He snapped his fingers. “I forgot how much I’ve changed since she knew me.”

He rose to his feet and hurried toward her. “Rina.” He caught her hands in his, feeling an immediate surge of warmth, connection. Arousal. He squeezed her hands lightly. No rings. Yes, he could let himself hope.

She stood gaping, then her cheeks flushed and she blurted out, “Giancarlo? Oh my God, I can’t believe it’s you.” She glanced down, up again, shook her head. Then she stared at his face. “Okay, your eyes. I recognize your eyes. And your hair. That long curly hair.” Finally she smiled and her own brown eyes began to twinkle. “Your father still hasn’t gotten you to cut it?”

He remembered telling her that his father hated his hair, and said he was lucky he was a musician because no other occupation would allow a man to look like a girl. “He’s given up.” It was the only thing his family had stopped nagging him about, no doubt because they now considered his hair the least of his sins.

“I’m glad. I like it.” Then she flushed brighter. “Not that, I mean, my opinion isn’t—” She broke off. “Sorry, I sound like an idiot. But you caught me off-guard. I expected—” Again she broke off, then finished lamely, “Something different.”

“The same scrawny kid?”

She nodded. Then, apparently just becoming aware that he still held her hands, she tugged them free. “You must have grown six inches.”

“Five. And over forty pounds.”

“None of it fat,” she muttered, sounding almost annoyed.

What was up with that? Did she like chubby men?

“And you’re the same,” he said. “Only more mature. More beautiful.”

“Mature, maybe,” she said wryly. “Hardly beautiful.”

“Of course you are.” Why couldn’t women just accept a compliment? Or did Rina hear so many, they were like water off a duck’s back? “Come, let’s sit down and talk.”

Again he captured a hand, to lead her to their table. Touching Rina brought a sense of peace, as well as sexual awareness. Oh yes, she was the same. Back then, he’d thought how unusual that he could feel both comfortable and yet wildly excited. Now, after nine years with other women, he knew the feeling wasn’t just unusual, it was unique. To this one special woman.

“Is this our table?” Rina gazed at him quizzically.

He realized he was standing beside the table, gaping at her while his brain processed his revelation.

“Giancarlo?”

The way she said his name—accent perfect, the way he’d taught her all those years ago—warmed his heart. “You’re not married, are you?” he asked suddenly, needing to know she was available.

She frowned. “Married? No.”

“Engaged?”

Her cheeks flooded with color. “No, but why are you asking?”

Was she playing coy, or did she truly not feel the connection between them? Trying to sound casual, he said, “Just curious. Sorry, there’s so much to catch up on. Come, sit.”

Francesco was there to pull back a chair for Rina. “Signorina, welcome to Don Francesco’s. I hope you enjoy your evening.” He gave her a smile that oozed Italian charm.

“Thank you. I’m sure I will.” She gave the other man a smile of her own.

Giancarlo caught himself scowling. Shit, was he actually jealous? He’d liked the other Italian man when it was just the two of them chatting, but now he wished he’d go away.

“Are you ready for a drink?” Francesco asked Rina, as Giancarlo took his own seat, unassisted.

“Why, yes, that would be nice.” She glanced across at Giancarlo. “Wine?”

“I already ordered. I hope you approve.”

Francesco turned, waved an arm, and a waiter hurried up with an ice bucket and a draped bottle. Francesco shooed him away and extracted the bottle himself.

“Champagne?” Rina’s huge brown eyes went even wider. “Giancarlo, really?”

“Do you like champagne?”

“Yes, of course. I love it.” She squinted at the Veuve Clicquot label, then beamed at him. “Especially when it’s the real thing. This looks so much nicer than the cheap bubbly we drink at music events.” Then she frowned slightly. “Are you sure? It must be terribly expensive.”

He liked that she neither took the champagne for granted nor protested too much. “How often do old friends rediscover each other?”

While they’d been talking, Francesco had peeled the foil off the top of the bottle and undone the metal twister. Now he eased the cork free on a dignified puff of air and poured gently into two delicate flutes. “Salute,” he said, then finally withdrew and left them alone.

Giancarlo lifted his glass and waited for her to do the same. “To old friends,” he said, “and new beginnings.”

Her hand froze, her lips parted. Then she touched her glass to his. “It’s good to see you again.”

Damn. She hadn’t accepted his toast.

He took a deep breath. Un bambino viziato. A spoiled child, his mother called him to this day. Too impatient, too obsessed with getting his own way.

Ever since he’d read Rina’s e-mail last night, he’d had trouble concentrating on anything but memories. Her lush breasts tumbling free of her bra, overflowing his greedy hands. Her soft, utterly feminine skin under his fingertips as his fingers—used to piano keys—learned a whole other style of touch. The hungry whimpers as her excitement built and the rich cry of satisfaction that accompanied her climax.

Even more than the sex, that feeling of rightness, just being with her. Seeing her smile, hearing her laugh, watching as she picked up her clarinet and got lost in a world of her own. Man, he hoped she’d stuck with her gut feeling and gone with the clarinet rather than the piano. Yes, she was a brilliant pianist, but her face didn’t take on that same look of rapture as when she played a clarinet. There was so much to learn about her, and yet…

He’d wondered how he’d feel, being with her again. And now he knew. The same, and even stronger because now he had the experience and wisdom to appreciate who she was and what they could have together.

But still, he cautioned himself, they’d barely spoken. He was leaping to crazy conclusions, based on the sight of her, the touch of her hand. Now it was time to get to know each other all over again.

“It’s good to see you, too.” He watched as she sipped from her glass. “Do you like it?”

“It’s wonderful.” She favored him with a brilliant smile.

He took a sip too, and bubbles exploded on his tongue. How many glasses of champagne had he drunk in the last few years? But this tasted different, fresher and richer, because of the woman who sat across from him.

He wanted to reach for her hand. Damn, he wanted to take her hand, drag her out of there and make love to her all night long.

His dick, already throbbing with arousal, went hard. Oh yeah, he wanted to savor every inch of this woman with his fingers, his eyes, his lips, his tongue. Then he wanted to plunge inside her and claim her as his own.

“Giancarlo?” That little frown was back, creasing her forehead. “Are you all right? You look kind of…intense?” She raised a hand and fussed with that silky scarf.

He was making her nervous. And probably not in a good way.

“Pazienza,” he muttered under his breath. Patience came hard for him, but he could do it if the prize was worthwhile. “Are you hungry? Shall we order an appetizer?”

She grabbed the menu and studied it, as if relieved to escape his gaze.

He glanced at his own. Lots of classic dishes and a few more exotic ones featuring fresh game. But there, that was what he craved. Lasagne. Satisfied, he turned back to the antipasto selection. “Shall we get a couple of appetizers and share?”

“I can’t possibly eat an appetizer and a main course.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who exist on salad,” he teased. “I work with them all the time—anorexics, bulimics, constant dieters. Man, it’s a pain to eat with them. Food’s made to be savored, not picked at.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “I could point out that salad’s food too. And I’m sure you don’t want fat women in your videos. Right?”

Ruefully he grinned. “Yeah, okay, you got me. Societal standards dictate skinny, except for breasts, of course. And I know that’s tough to achieve, for a lot of women. But hey, we’re not making a video together, we’re friends having dinner. Tell me you’re eating more than salad.”

She sighed and he guessed he wasn’t completely forgiven for being insensitive. “I was looking at the grilled salmon,” she said. “How about you?”

“Lasagne,” he said promptly. “Not glamorous, but I’m sick of fancy food.”

Her lips curved up. “Craving some of your mamma’s home cooking?”

He laughed. “I told you about my family, didn’t I? Yes, I’ve eaten in many of the fine restaurants of the world, but there’s something about Mamma’s lasagne and spaghetti bolognese that can’t be topped.” He tapped his menu against the table. “If I order an appetizer, can I persuade you to at least taste it?”

Her lips curved. “I can usually be tempted.”

Those words, coming out of that sexy mouth, made his dick surge hungrily. He adjusted his napkin to hide the bulge in his lap. “Then, how about the paté? Or the oysters? Do you like oysters?”

She shook her head. “I may not be a practicing Jew, but I still avoid certain foods like oysters. And paté’s too rich for me. Try again.”

“That’s right, I’d forgotten you were Jewish.”

“Goldberg?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Yeah, right.” He laughed. “Okay, let’s see. How about funghi?”

“That’s mushrooms, right?” She studied her menu. “Sautéed with garlic, lemon and basil. Mmm, that sounds good.”

“Funghi it is.” And how wonderful that she didn’t steer away from garlic, another habit that was endemic among the women he worked with.

The moment Rina put the closed menu down, Francesco was there, easing up behind her. He rested a hand on her chair, almost touching her shoulder. “Bella, the wine is to your liking? And you are ready to order dinner?”

Rina tilted her head to smile up at him. “The champagne’s wonderful. And yes, we’re ready to order.”

Fuck. Why was she giving her smile to Francesco? And wasn’t the guy the owner of the place? Why was he playing waiter?

Was he hustling Rina?

Francesco glanced over at him with a knowing smile then, behind Rina’s back, tapped his left thumb against his wedding band.

Giancarlo let out a long breath. The guy was only being Italian, showing his appreciation for a beautiful woman. Giancarlo’s beautiful woman. And giving him special service, because he was a fellow Italian. Francesco’s behavior was a compliment.

Damn, he wasn’t used to being jealous.

He gave Francesco a rueful, apologetic smile, then gestured to Rina to go ahead.

She ordered salmon and asked what it came with. When Francesco answered, “Rice and a selection of vegetables,” she said, “Could you leave off the rice and give me extra vegetables, please?”

“Anything for you.”

Giancarlo rolled his eyes. Then he said, “If you don’t like rice, why not get potatoes or pasta?” He slanted a grin at Francesco. “After all, you can have anything you want.”

She gave a composed smile. “Thanks, but I prefer vegetables.”

Giancarlo placed his own order, and then he and Rina were alone again. He watched her sip champagne, enjoying the sparkles in her eyes and in the wine, enhanced by the candlelight. “You’re lovely, Rina.”

Her jaw tightened. “Giancarlo, it’s kind of cute when Francesco does the flattery thing. It’s part of his shtick, you know? But I’d rather you didn’t do it.”

“It’s genetic with Italian men, to appreciate female beauty.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Gimme a break.”

“I don’t think so,” he said softly. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to get used to it.” He heard her breath catch and held her gaze across the table.

She softened. Something inside her—the something that had been keeping her guard up—let go. He saw it happen when her eyes began to glow. With warmth, attraction, passion. Yes! He wasn’t alone in his feelings.

He was about to reach for her hand when she blinked and the glow was gone. She sat back in her chair and folded her arms under her breasts, which plumped their abundance even more. That semisheer top was tantalizing. Was that a black lace bra he could glimpse underneath, or just his lustful imagination?

His hands ached to cup those full breasts. He wanted to bury his face in them, suckle her nipples, hear her cry out. Rina’s breasts, as well as being the epitome of femininity, were sensitive, he recalled. Her entire body was responsive. She was as well crafted and tuned as the finest of musical instruments and, for the first time in ages, his fingers itched to play.

So did his dick. If he didn’t stop thinking about making love with her, he was going to embarrass himself.

She shook her hair back from her face. “What do you want from tonight?”

He almost groaned. If he told her the truth, would she run? Pazienza, he cautioned himself. “What you said in your e-mail. To see you, catch up.”

“That’s not how you’re acting. You keep, uh, kind of…Oh damn, never mind.”

What had she been going to say? Flirting? “What do you want, cara?” he asked.

She made another of those little catch-breath sounds and glanced away. “I w-want—” Her voice broke and she cleared her throat. “I thought we’d talk about what we’ve done since we last saw each other.”

He noted she’d said, “I thought,” and not told him what she wanted. “And reminisce about that summer at Banff?” he asked. If they did, she’d have to remember how great they’d been together. He might have been an inexperienced kid, but there was one thing he was confident of: he’d satisfied his girl.

Rina tugged on the end of her scarf and the whole thing began to slip, but she caught it and wrapped it tighter around her neck. “That was a fun summer. I’d been looking forward to it all year.”

Okay, he’d accept her diversion. For now. “Me too. Though I was terrified.” He grinned at the thought of the boy he’d been. “I was in such a hurry to get away from my small village, Domodossola, and big extended family. But the moment I got to Banff I was homesick.”

“You were lucky to have a home to be homesick about.”

“Your father was with the army—no, air force—wasn’t he? I remember you saying you moved a lot.”

She nodded. “I’ve lived on Forces bases all over the place. God, I’ve had enough travel to last me a lifetime. Dad was training fighter pilots in Cold Lake, Alberta, the year I went to Banff.”

“And now you’re in Vancouver. What brought you here, and do you plan to stay?”

“I am so staying.” She said it with total conviction. “Along with all the places we lived, we also did a lot of tourist-type travel. Vancouver stuck in my mind. The ocean, the mountains. Cosmopolitan, yet beautiful and not overdeveloped.”

“I can see that. Just from the few days I’ve been here.”

She nodded happily, accepting his compliment of the city she so clearly loved. “A decent symphony orchestra too. Anyhow, when my parents died—”

“Oh, Rina, I didn’t know.” He’d reached over to cup her hand in both of his before he even thought. “I’m sorry. When did it happen?”

She didn’t pull away, and he savored the feel of her warm hand between his as she said, “Right after Banff. They were both killed instantly when a truck crashed into their car.”

“That’s terrible. And you were so young. Seventeen? And an only child.”

She nodded. “My Aunt Rivka—Mom’s sister—and Uncle Daniel took me in. They lived in Toronto, which is where Mom grew up. I’d just started grade twelve in Cold Lake, so finished in Toronto. Anyhow, what with life insurance and my inheritance, I had enough money to pursue my musical education and buy a house. So I went—” She broke off and slid her hand free from his as a waiter approached with a plate of sautéed mushrooms, mostly portobello.

When the waiter went to put the plate in front of him, Giancarlo said, “In the middle, please, so we can share.” Then he urged Rina, “Taste,” and picked up his own fork.

The mushrooms were firm, not overcooked. The garlic, lemon and basil made an effective combination. “Good,” he said. “Yes?”

“Excellent.”

She put down her fork but he said, “No, we’re sharing. Remember?” When she’d speared another mushroom, he said, “Go on, tell me what happened after high school. And, did you choose the clarinet in the end?”

She chuckled. “Yeah, your advice was good. I had an amazing teacher in Toronto. And then…” She paused, then finished quietly, “I went to Juilliard.” He saw the glow of pride in her eyes.

“Juilliard,” he said reverently. “You did make it to Juilliard.” She’d wanted it so badly. They both had, back then.

She nodded, her lips curving as if a smile was fighting to get out. “My Toronto teacher had a connection there—one of the instructors—and I could afford to go to New York and take a couple of lessons with him. Then, not to boast, but I aced the audition. Piano and clarinet.” Now she let herself smile widely. “You remember that it was one of my dreams to go there?”

“Of course. Rina, that’s wonderful. Sad, though, that it was your parents’ death that got you to Toronto, and the instructor with connections.”

Softly she said, “Yes, though I know they’d have been so happy I got in.”

He reflected a moment. “The house was one of your dreams too, wasn’t it? You said you wanted to find a cozy home in a lovely place, and no one could ever again force you to move.” After a sip of champagne, he went on. “Juilliard, the house, first chair in a major orchestra, and a husband and kids.” He put his glass down. “You said you’re not married. No kids?”

She was about to answer when Francesco dropped by to top up their champagne and ask if they were enjoying the mushrooms. Giancarlo told him even his mamma couldn’t better them.

Rina sat back, enjoying the banter between Giancarlo and the restaurant owner, who was treating the two of them like celebrities. No doubt the star treatment had far more to do with Giancarlo’s status in the entertainment world, not to mention the fact he was Italian, than to her own charms.

She sipped champagne. Like sunshine distilled into a glass. She’d recognized the label, knew this was the real stuff, but had no idea how much it must cost.

Was she in the middle of a fantasy? Another crazy dream?

The man across from her was easily the most handsome she’d ever met. Had she had the slightest clue he’d have morphed from gawky kid to GQ cover model, she’d never have had the nerve to e-mail him. But, despite his transformation, she could still see the old Giancarlo in the curve of his lip, the sparkle in his eyes, those lovely long-fingered hands, his enthusiasm for food and wine. And his apparent interest in her.

The man had focused on her as if she was the most fascinating woman in the world. Ten minutes ago, three extraordinarily striking young women had walked by on their way to a neighboring table and he’d never even glanced up. His gaze had been intent on her face.

And when he’d held her hand…it felt like they were alone in the world.

Maybe she should stop drinking. She was so confused.

For minutes at a time she’d forget the years that had passed and feel like it was the old Rina and Giancarlo, the fat girl and the skinny boy, taking up where they’d left off.

Then she’d refocus and really see him. See how those mischievous curls now framed a strikingly masculine face, see the breadth of his shoulders and the great musculature revealed by that sexy V-neck sweater. Note the silky quality of that sweater, not to mention the flashing ring on his finger that could only be a diamond. This man was very different from the boy she’d known.

This man could have pretty much any woman he wanted. And probably had.

And yet here he was, being charming and apparently sincere with her. Plain old Rina Goldberg. The fat girl with the big shnoz.

Her fork had been sneaking toward the mushrooms and she hurriedly pulled it back. Sure they were vegetables, but she knew damned well they’d been sautéed in butter and olive oil.

“Eat, eat,” Giancarlo urged, and she realized Francesco had departed while she’d been musing.

“You sound like my aunt.”

He laughed. “And like my mamma. Now, on the subject of mothers, you have no children?”

She shook her head. Kids were still one of her dreams, but he didn’t need to know that.

“And the music? You’re still playing, of course?”

“I’m principal clarinet with the operatic society. I hope to make it to first chair with the symphony orchestra.” Should she mention the audition?

Before she could decide, he was saying, “Of course you will. You were very talented even then, before Juilliard.” He raised his glass to her. “And what else with your music? Where else do you play? And I imagine you teach?”

“Yes.” She smiled. He knew how tough it was for a musician to make a living. “I play for the CBC Orchestra, and I’m part of a quintet that does a fair number of gigs. I teach clarinet and piano—classical—to adults and kids, and love it.” Not all her students had talent, but she felt such joy at helping others develop an appreciation for music.

For her, music was such a huge thing. Spiritual, uplifting. Her mother had stressed the Jewish creed of tikkum olam, repairing the world. Though Rina wasn’t a practicing Jew, she felt that filling other lives with music was her way of practicing tikkum olam.

“And where, after the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra? On to New York? Chicago? Philadelphia?”

Damn, he had to ask that. He’d unerringly named the three top symphonies in North America. Slowly she said, “My home’s here.”

“Truly? Forever? I mean, yes, I understand you want stability after all the moving, but you’d cut off your career because of a house, a city?”

He was right. The VSO wasn’t a top, or even second-rank, orchestra. Maybe she did have the talent to play in one of the best. But she’d have to move again. Leave Vancouver…

“It’s not just a house,” she said softly, “it’s my home. For now, that matters a lot. Once I make it to the VSO, I’ll see if I’m happy there. For the rest of my musical career.”

He squinted at her. “The opportunity to play with the best in the world versus a home?” She could tell from his expression that he didn’t get it. All the same he nodded slowly and said, “I can see how, for you, that’d be a tough decision.”

For her. Not for him. It seemed pretty clear he’d always put career ahead of home. And yet, this music video thing of his was so different from the career he’d once dreamed of.

She tilted her head. “How about you, Giancarlo? You were going to be a concert pianist. You wanted Juilliard, too, then to perform all over the world.”

Was it the restaurant lighting or did a shadow cloud his eyes for a moment? He waved a hand dismissively. “A child’s dream. Even more, it was my parents’ dream. The truth is, I didn’t have the talent.”

“You did! You were brilliant.”

He shot her an amused look. “Ah, and you were qualified to judge, at all of seventeen?”

Maybe he was right. She’d seen him through the admiring, biased eyes of a friend and lover. “Well, I thought you were brilliant.” How sad for him to lose his dream because of lack of talent. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you.”

“No, no. It was partly, too, that I didn’t want to work that hard. You, now, I remember how hard you practiced. But me, I was always ready to desert the piano and go play.”

Or play—that is, have sex—on the piano. She tried not to blush.

“Do you play at all now?” she asked.

His mouth tightened. “There’s no time.”

“But you enjoy what you’re doing? Directing music videos?” She tried to keep her tone neutral and not sound like she was criticizing him for having turned commercial.

“I love it.” His face lit. “It’s creative, exciting, challenging, fun. On a good day, it feels more like a party than a real job.”

Yes, she did remember his irresponsible, carefree side. She shook her head affectionately. “You haven’t changed.” Then she quickly added, “Well, of course you have, especially physically, but that boy is still inside.”

“Of course he is. And he’s very happy to be sitting here with you, Rina.”

Giancarlo’s voice had always been appealing, and now it had deepened to a resonance that sent shivers of awareness through her. Especially when he was saying nice things and gazing at her with soulful chocolate eyes.