For a moment his comment was greeted with stunned silence. It wasn’t often that Rafe could render Lydia speechless. He savored the moment.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” she asked eventually. “You’re finally paying serious attention to someone?”
“I don’t know how serious it is, but I am definitely paying attention,” he admitted reluctantly.
“Well, hallelujah! Forget the billing report. I can do it myself.”
“You cannot fake a billing report,” he scolded.
“Of course not,” she said indignantly. “But I ought to know how you’ve been spending your time—at least some of it. I am the one who sends your work out there and answers your phone and relays your messages. I’ll bet I could come pretty darn close to getting it right.”
Rafe decided to challenge her, though he was pretty sure she was right. Lydia was an extremely efficient woman who paid great attention to detail. “How many contracts do I have on my desk right now?”
“Thirty,” she said at once. “I overnighted them to you yesterday. And you were on the phone at least three hours yesterday working on the Jackson-Waller electronics merger.”
“Five,” he retorted firmly. “Not three, five.”
“Did you do any other work yesterday that I don’t know about?”
“Not officially,” he conceded. “I’m not billing my mother, remember?”
“Ah, so the rest of the time you were concentrating on Gina?” she said, managing to lace the suggestion with innuendo. “I guess we can’t bill for that, can we?”
“You don’t have to make it sound as if we were wrestling around naked in the mud.”
“Is that how it sounded?” Lydia chuckled gleefully. “You sound a little defensive, boss. Why is that? Nobody expects you to put in twelve-hour days. There’s nothing wrong with taking a little time out for dinner. Maybe a little socializing. Have you been doing more than that? Is your conscience bothering you?”
“Don’t smart-mouth me,” he grumbled.
“So, tell me,” she began in a confiding tone that sounded a bit like a reporter for some sleazy tabloid, “have you slept with Gina yet?”
He wasn’t nearly as shocked by the question as he probably should have been, but he absolutely, positively refused to be drawn into that particular discussion. He ignored the question and remained stubbornly silent.
“Not talking, huh?” Lydia said smugly. “I guess I can draw my own conclusions.”
“Just keep your theories to yourself. And get me the file on the Whitney case. I’ll need it in the morning. Joel Whitney—”
Lydia interrupted. “Mr. Whitney called yesterday with one of his usual inane questions that he could have answered himself if he knew how to read the contracts he signed. I’ve already put it in the mail.”
Rafe laughed. “Okay, okay, you’re the best secretary in the entire universe.”
“Yes, I am,” she agreed with no hint of false modesty. “You know, though, these expenses for moving every piece of paper in your office from New York to Wyoming are adding up. Ever thought of just staying there and transferring all the files? A moving van might be cheaper in the long run. And I hear Wyoming is great for skiing in the winter.”
“I don’t ski. Why would I want to stay in Wyoming?”
“Because of a certain chef.”
“Who owns a restaurant in New York,” he reminded her, vaguely disgruntled by the suggestion that he might be stuck in Wyoming forever if he wanted to be with Gina. “She’ll be back, Lydia. So will I.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
Rafe seriously doubted that, but he hung up, grateful to have gotten the woman’s docile cooperation just this once, even if it had been feigned.
He leaned back in his chair and stared out the window. Summer was winding down. The observation startled him. He’d been here way too long, if he could tell just from glancing outside that the seasons were changing. The slant of the sun was different, the intensity of the heat had lessened. He opened his appointment book, looked at a calendar and realized he’d been here for over two months, from the end of June to the beginning of September. Moreover, he hadn’t gone completely stir crazy. Far from it.
He looked at that pile of contracts sitting on his desk, weighed those against the chance to catch a glimpse of Gina and stood up. To soothe his guilty conscience, he stuffed several contracts in his briefcase and headed for Tony’s. If there wasn’t a law against working away from New York, then there certainly wasn’t one preventing him from working at a restaurant table. Half the lawyers he knew conducted their business over lunch. Of course, most of them were with their clients or an opposing counsel.
The only companion he was hoping for was Gina.
Gina was so exhausted from her overnight work-a-thon she could barely see straight and the lunch hours were just getting started. Fortunately, most weekdays Tony’s was fairly slow at midday. A few people came in for pizza, a few for his stromboli or meatball sandwiches, but the real rush didn’t start till evening. The prospect of sneaking back to the hotel for a nap was the only thing keeping her going.
She was sitting at the island which doubled as a chopping block, her chin resting in her hands, her eyes half-closed when Peggy came in to announce that Rafe was in the dining room.
“He wants to see you, if you’re not too busy,” she told Gina. “Since there’s not another paying customer in the place yet, I told him you’d be right out.”
For a moment Gina’s heart leaped at the prospect of seeing Rafe, but during the long night when she’d been baking cannoli shells and preparing tiramisu for today’s dessert specials, she’d spent a lot of time thinking about their relationship. She’d managed to convince herself it was doomed.
When she got back to New York—if she went back
