Page 33 of Protecting Bianca

“We’re almost there.”

A few minutes later, he pulled in front of a black-bricked restaurant with gold writing on the door:Il Posto.

The valet was waiting outside. “Good evening, Mr. Payne. Good to see you again.”

He handed the man his keys.

“Good evening, Roberto. How are you?”

“Very well, sir.”

He walked over to my door and opened it for me. I took his hand and climbed out. His hand was cooler now, but something about his touch warmed me.

He opened the front door for me, and I smiled when we walked inside. I’d expected something more formal with the valet out front, but the inside was unexpected. There were vines crawling across the stone walls and plants hanging from the ceiling. Sconces lit the restaurant throughout and the tables were covered with red instead of white linens. It was as though we were eating al fresco in some quaint Italian village.

“It’s wonderful here.”

“I met Alessandro in Naples when I was stationed there. He told me of his dream to open a restaurant, but he wanted a fresh start someplace else. So, I helped him open one here.”

“In New York City?”

He shrugged as though it wasn’t the hardest place in the world, arguably, to open a new restaurant. Judging by the packed tables and busy kitchen, though, it wasn’t doing too badly.

A man wearing a white open-collared shirt, black pants, and shoulder-length brown hair walked toward us. His infectious smile pulled at my lips. “Mickey,” he called with his arms wide open. “My friend, how are you?”

“I’m good, Sandro. How are you?”

He pulled Jager into his open arms and patted him on the back. Then he turned to me and the sheer joy on his face was palpable. “Who is this beautiful woman?”

“Sandro, this is Bianca. Bianca, I’d like you to meet my good friend Sandro.”

I stuck out my hand, and he immediately took it and brought it to his lips. “Bianca,” he repeated, except his voice was lowered and it felt like my name was an aphrodisiac on his lips. My body shivered, and I smiled.

Jager cleared his throat and slapped Alessandro on the shoulder. “Do you have a table for us?” Alessandro kept his eyes on me and smiled.

“Of course. Follow me.” He led us to the back of the restaurant where a table was set inside a small alcove with flowers draped above it.

Alessandro handed us the menus. “I’ll give you a few minutes to look these over.” Then he left.

I couldn’t help it; I had to ask. “Mickey?”

Jager smiled. “We had a hard time pronouncing each other’s names, so I called him Sandro, and he called me Mickey, after Mick Jagger.”

“Ah, that makes sense.”

I looked around. “This place is gorgeous. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“He had a vision.”

“And some money. It must cost a fortune to keep up something like this.”

“It’s worth it.”

He said it quietly, and I had the feeling that Jager helped his friend more than he was letting on.

“Everything is homemade, but you’ve got to try the lasagna. It takes two days to make.”

“Sold,” I said.

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