Page 64 of Empire of Temptation

They were around my age, but I didn’t bother correcting him. “No reason. Just curious.”

“Valentina, there is nothing wrong with staying home, close to family.”

“I know,” I snapped, annoyed that he’d read me so easily.

“Good.” He kissed my hand again. “And so we are clear, you are more beautiful than all of them put together.”

He was being very generous, but I took the compliment anyway. “Thank you.”

The entire room went dark and music filled the space. I sat straighter, eager to see what Gianna’s designs looked like. Lights flickered overhead, illuminating a pathway between the giant boxeson the floor. Models began appearing from backstage one after the other, their walk smooth and steady, and their flat, almost angry gazes focused straight ahead. The clothes were so cool, more androgynous than traditional men’s clothing. I would definitely wear some of the shirts and sweaters.

At the end Gianna emerged and everyone clapped wildly. She waved and smiled, following the models in a long train around the room once more. Then it was over and the house lights came up, and the crowd began talking and moving toward the exits. Luca didn’t stand. He kept hold of my hand and remained seated.

“Should we go?” I asked.

“No, we will wait here for a moment. What did you think of the show?”

“It was so good. She’s mad talented.”

He smiled at me in a strange way—soft and affectionate, yet also amused. He tucked my hair behind my ear. “Yes, I think so too.”

I shivered at his gentle touch. “You’re laughing at me.”

“No, I promise I’m not. I think you are adorable. And also mad sexy.” Then he lowered his head and gave me a deep kiss that was definitely not appropriate in public.

I couldn’t bring myself to complain, though.

When he pulled away I was dizzy and breathing hard. “Was that really necessary?”

“Of course. I want you ready for later tonight.”

My nipples tightened in my bra just thinking about it. Thanks to what happened in the car, I still wore no panties and if he kept kissing me like that, I was going to have problems. As it was, I could already feel sticky wetness on my thighs.

Luca’s phone buzzed. He read the screen, then typed something back quickly. Then he put his phone away and pulled me to my feet. “Come.”

I stood and straightened my dress. “Are we going backstage again?”

“No. We are going to dinner with them.”

We arrived first.

Luca held a chair out for me as we sat down. The restaurant was Italian, naturally, and smack in the middle of Mulberry Street’s Little Italy. The place was quaint and on the small side, not as touristy as the others we’d passed, and the staff spoke to Luca in Italian when we walked in, which he returned in kind. I struggled for classy nonchalance, but hearing him speak his own language was hotter than hell. No doubt my lust was written all over my face.

Needing a distraction, I looked around. I rarely ate out, especially at other Italian restaurants, so I took it all in. A white tablecloth covered the table, a small vase of flowers in the middle. Oil plates and wine glasses were already down, which Roberto hated. He maintained the less on the table to start, the better. I had to admit, the setting did feel cluttered.

The black and white photographs on the walls were reminiscent of my restaurant before the remodel. Roberto had insisted we find local Hudson Valley artists and use their art instead of the photographs. It had worked nicely to brighten the space and the artists were grateful for the exposure. These photographs were dark and dated.

The menu was an eight-page heavy book with plastic sheets. Exactly the menus Roberto had tossed in the trash his first day at Trattoria Rustica. He said simpler was better and Giovanni agreed. The new menu would have limited choices, all fresh ingredients, and printed daily depending on what was in season.

I could see now what they meant, but this was what I knew. What I had grown up with. Cluttered tables, photographs, and plastic menus. The new restaurant was a big change from the old way. What if the valley wasn’t ready for it?

Luca ordered a bottle of wine from the server, gaining my attention. When we were alone I said, “Maybe I didn’t want wine.”

He reached over and placed a hand on my thigh. The warmweight of it was possessive and delicious, like he had the right to touch me. I didn’t hate it. At all.

“You will like this wine,” he said. “It’s produced in Calabria by a man I know. Besides, we have already established that your taste in wine is terrible.”

“No, you’re just a wine snob.”

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