By comparison, Café Tuscany had five-star ambience, but Gina felt perfectly at home here with the rich scents drifting from the kitchen and the sunlight spilling in the window. An astonishing sense of peace crept over her. Right here, right now, she could believe everything would be all right.
Tony joined her at a table in front. She smiled as she accepted the cup of dark espresso and took her first sip. “Still the best,” she told him. “I grind and blend my own beans, but it’s not the same.”
“When I die, I will leave you the secret in my will,” he teased. “Now talk to me. What is this big trouble in your life?”
Gina sighed and gazed into Tony’s dark-brown eyes. There was so much fatherly concern there. She realized suddenly just how much she had missed this man, missed sitting here and talking about her hopes and dreams until she was certain he must be bored silly, but he had never complained. Some of the time Francesca had been with them, clucking over Gina’s disappointments and offering encouragement.
“Did I ever thank you for everything you did for me?” she asked.
“You did, but there was no need. For Francesca and me, you are the daughter we never had.”
“How is Francesca? I should have asked.”
“Still the most beautiful woman in the world,” he said, a gleam in his eyes. “She will be here soon. It will make her very happy to see you again. You can tell her everything you saw in Italy. She still dreams of seeing it again one day.”
“Then take her, Tony,” she said with a sudden sense of urgency. “Don’t let time slip away.”
He regarded her worriedly. “You aren’t sick, are you?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“It’s just that you sounded so sad, as if there were things you wanted that you might never have.”
She shook her head. “No, just things that mean the world to me that I could lose.” She told him the whole story then, leaving out none of the sordid details about Bobby’s betrayal of her and their investors.
True to his word, Tony listened and said nothing until she wound down. “Now, to top it off, the attorney who’s filed charges against Bobby is right here in Winding River. He thinks I’m as guilty as Bobby or, at the very least, that I know something that will help his case,” she concluded.
“But you don’t?”
She shook her head. “I was as shocked as anyone. I’m embarrassed to say that the first clue I had of how bad things are came when I read that deposition. That’s when I looked at the books.”
“Then tell him that, tell this man what you have told me. Hold nothing back. He will believe you.” He patted her hand. “If he does not, send him to me. I will tell him that Gina Petrillo does not lie.”
If only it were that simple, Gina thought. She glanced outside and spotted Rafe standing on the sidewalk, leaning against the bumper of a very fancy car, staring right back at her.
“Speak of the devil,” she muttered, resigned to the fact that the man was going to be true to his word and haunt her everywhere she went, even here in this place that had always been her sanctuary.
Tony followed her gaze. “That is Rafe O’Donnell?”
“In the flesh.”
“He looks like a reasonable man.”
“He’s not,” Gina said. “If he were, he would go away and leave me alone. I told him when I would return to New York. He doesn’t believe me. He’s determined to stick to me like glue until I go back.”
Tony stood up. “Then we should invite him in to join us, show him that you have nothing to hide, nothing to fear from him.”
“I don’t know,” Gina protested, but Tony was already opening the door and beckoning Rafe inside.
“Better you should sit here than loiter on the sidewalk outside,” Tony told him, ushering him to the table. “I will bring you an espresso, then I must get back to work in the kitchen so things will be ready for lunch.”
Rafe sat down opposite Gina, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He looked totally at ease, not one bit like a man on a mission to make her life a living hell. And, to her very deep regret, he was still the sexiest male she’d stumbled across in a very long time. She had really, really hoped she’d been wrong about that.
Rafe glanced around, surveying the restaurant with fascination.
“Is this where you got your start?” he asked.
“I worked at Stella’s for a while as a waitress, then came here. Tony taught me to cook.”
Rafe gestured toward the mural. “Who’s the artist?”
Gina turned to look at the familiar painting, tried to imagine how it must look through Rafe’s no-doubt jaded eyes.
“Francesca, Tony’s wife, painted it from an old photograph,” she explained a bit defensively. “She was born in Naples. She says that painting keeps her from being homesick, so I suggest you not make fun of it.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because it’s probably too hokey for a sophisticated man like you,” she said.
“Are you sure you’re not projecting? I like it.”
She studied him to see if he was mocking her, but his expression was serious. “You really like it?” she asked skeptically.
“I said I did, didn’t I? I’m not an art snob, Gina.” He regarded her pointedly. “Are you?”
She flushed at the accusation. “I always loved it because of what it meant to Francesca, but it’s not exactly great art.”
“It doesn’t need to be. There’s a simplicity to it that I find appealing. It gives the restaurant a personal touch, a certain charm.” He met her gaze evenly. “Now I imagine your restaurant has Venetian-glass chandeliers, oil paintings you picked up in Florence, dark wood, fresh flowers and green linen tablecloths.”
He was closer to the truth than Gina cared to admit. Bobby had believed that to charge the outrageous prices he intended to charge, the atmosphere
