So Irresistible

by Lisa Plumley

“I don’t like it when you’re this mysterious.”

  “That’s the name of my game, boss.” She waved, then picked up her purse. “So … are you going to sleep with her again?”

  Lizzy could mean only one woman. Gabby.

  “It wouldn’t be smart, if I did,” Shane returned.

  “I didn’t ask if it would be smart.” Her tone suggested that would be silly. “I asked if you were going to do it.”

  “If I do,” Shane dodged, “you’ll be the first to know.” Pointedly, he glanced down the hallway to his impeccable bedroom, where Lizzy had ostensibly developed Sherlock Holmes–style talents of deduction. Dryly, he added, “Apparently.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise? Given the circumstances?”

  “Are you goading me? You know opposition makes me rebel.”

  “Hmm.” In thought, Lizzy withdrew her keys. “Yeah. I know. So whatever you do, don’t get crazy with Gabriella Grimani.”

  She was goading him. Unsurprisingly, Shane’s most rebellious instincts clamored to the fore. Now that he’d cut them all loose, he was having a hard time stuffing them back where they belonged. Grouchily, he waved at Lizzy. “Get out of here before I make you analyze pizza dough formulas with me.”

  That’s what the notebook was for. To compare Campania’s approach with prefab industry-standardized dough formulas. Part of the Grimanis’ success was due to their pizzas. The rest …

  Right now, given the clean but run-down state of the pizzeria, the rest of their success owed itself to intangibles. Once Shane gathered more information, he’d pinpoint them.

  “I’m already gone.” Smartly, Lizzy saluted him. “See ya.”

  After his assistant left, Shane started working with his usual diligence. But within moments, he set aside Gabby’s pizza-dough formula notebook. Not because his eyes were crossing reading about water hydration levels, ambient room temperature, yeast ratios, overall humidity, 00-flour protein content, and salt measured in milligrams, but because something … different prodded at him. Something that took on fresh significance now.

  You must be new in town, Gabby had said when they’d met. Or you’d recognize me, just like the rest of these … people.

  The rest of these … people at the brewpub.

  Fifteen minutes later, Shane strode into the place, ready to take a new tactic with this fix. The formulas could wait. Right now, he needed to know everything there was to know about Gabby—everything that didn’t involve her sweet smiles, luscious lips, and long, naked legs, at least. He knew those intimately.

  Now he needed to know the rest, starting with what Gabby hadn’t said—but had been about to say—on the night they’d met.

  You must be new in town. Or you’d recognize me, just like the rest of these … people.

  Now Shane knew what she’d been about to say. He’d have bet his currently garaged Ferrari or his summertime apartment in the 16th arrondissement, near the Trocadéro, in Paris, on it.

  Just like the rest of these … pizza slingers.

  Or something very much like it. Because Gabby had been trying to hide her work at the pizzeria from him. She’d been trying to hide herself from him. Inexpertly. But that hadn’t worked last night, and as Shane ordered a Guinness, he swore it wouldn’t work tonight, either. He needed intel. Real intel. Reconnaissance gathered by him, vetted by him, trusted by him.

  He hadn’t gotten very far with getting to know his new coworkers—Gabby’s closest friends—today. He’d been too busy learning a “proper” figure-eight mopping technique and getting the lay of the land at Campania. But tonight … all bets were off.

  Tonight, Shane intended to excel. He only hoped he was researching Gabby for the job at hand … and not to satisfy his own unquenchable curiosity about her. Because he’d already gotten too personal, too fast and too deeply, with this fix.

  Especially with a rival fixer out there, Shane couldn’t forget what his priorities were, what he really needed to win.

  Starting with his father’s respect—and ending with happiness … or at least a way out of the abyss that haunted him.

  “‘Gabby Vivaldi,’ I presume?”

  At that tersely voiced question, Gabriella looked up from the employee work schedules she was slaving over. A sense of foreboding swept over her, triggered by hearing her alias.

  Gabby Vivaldi. She’d given someone a false name one time. One time! Now her erstwhile aka was dogging her mercilessly.

  First Shane had uncovered her deception. Now … Pinkie had?

  “I got a voice mail from Shane Maresca this morning.” Her pastry chef strode into her office, wearing a miniskirt, laced-up Doc Martens, and a “Killers” T-shirt. Her platinum blond hair was short and spiked. She brandished her cell phone. “But it’s not for me. And it’s not for you. It’s for ‘Gabby Vivaldi.’”

  “That’s me.” Gabriella wriggled her fingers. “Gimme.”

  “It’s pretty mushy,” Pinkie warned. “X-rated, too.”

  Gabriella lifted her chin. “Now I’ve got to have it,” she joked, all but daring Pinkie to make fun of her. “Please.”

  At that, her friend relented. Her cell phone’s slight weight struck Gabriella’s palm. She listened to Shane’s message, feeling happy to know he had called her this morning. She had meant something to him—something more than a trailing gig.

  “I had a really good time last night, Gabby,” Shane said, winding up his call. “I would love to see you again. Soon.”

  Hearing his deep, husky voice made Gabriella press her thighs together in desperate, unwise, below-the-desk yearning. Her hand trembled as she returned Pinkie’s phone to her.

  “Thanks.” Breathlessly, Gabriella gestured toward her friend’s phone. “I forgot I gave Shane your number last night. I was a little … giddy. I’ll give him my real number next time.”

  Pinkie’s brow arched. “Then there’ll be a next time?”

  “Well, he might need to call me about … work issues.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Pinkie’s gaze was skeptical. “Let me get this straight. You didn’t trust him enough to give him your real name or phone number, but you trusted him enough to hire him?”

  Gabriella was surprised to see betrayal on her friend’s face. But only for a second. Because Gabriella had grown used to that look lately. She had to be strong enough to move past it.

  “I need warm bodies in this place,” she said. “Shane is—”

  “Beyond warm. I get it.” Pinkie shrugged, almost seeming to soften. Then, “Are you going out for after-work drinks again tonight? Everyone else is already down at the brewpub.”

  It was tempting. Maybe she’d see Shane there, Gabriella reasoned. Maybe she’d make a dent in repairing her battered friendships. Maybe she’d forge new camaraderie. All the same …

  “No. I’ve got a lot to do here.” Gabriella gestured at the grid that housed her schedules. Before service, she was busy overseeing prep work. During service, she was glued to her position as expeditor. After service … she was getting frisky with the most intriguing man she’d ever met. “I’m way behind.”

  Her friend folded her arms, still looking betrayed. Also, oddly hopeful. “You had no trouble cutting loose last night.”

  Pinkie’s salacious tone wasn’t lost on Gabriella. She felt her cheeks heat. Just because hookups were common among her crowd of friends and coworkers didn’t mean she was comfortable having her personal life collide with her work life.

  Besides, right now, she was too tired to think straight. Having an all-night sex marathon did that to a person.

  Time to cut to the chase. Deliberately, she asked, “Is this an invitation? Are you inviting me to after-work drinks?”

  Uncomfortably, her friend shifted. “Not exactly.”

  “Not yet, you mean.” Gabriella tried to smile. “Right?”

  “No. Maybe not ever! Do you have any idea how dictatorial you can be when you’re under stress?” In frustration, Pinkie gestured. “I thought after last night you�
�d loosen up.”

  She had. Memorably. But not at work. At work, she couldn’t ease up. Not for a second. Not after the mess she’d caused.

  Gabriella sighed. “I guess you thought wrong.”

  “So … what? That was just your way of vetting new hires last night?” Pinkie wanted to know. “You spot a likely looking candidate across the bar and then take him home with you?”

  “Technically, we went to his place,” Gabriella told her. “And if everyone wanted to interview the way Shane did,” she kidded, “it would make my job a lot more enjoyable.”

  Pinkie didn’t even blink. “What’s he got on you?”

  A whole lot of sexual magnetism. “Nothing!”

  “Everything is changing,” Pinkie complained. “You’re changing, Campania is changing… .” Her pastry chef crossed her arms again. “Your stupid rift with your dad ruined everything around here.” Pinkie waited a beat. “It ruined our friendship.”

  Hurt, Gabriella looked away. “I hope that’s not true.”

  “It’s your fault if it is,” Pinkie accused. “Because I—”

  “I’m trying to fix it all. I’m working my ass off! Can’t you see that?” Gabriella tossed down her pen. “If I could have a little cooperation around here, maybe it wouldn’t be so hard.”

  “Right. So you leave, and we’re all supposed to fall in line, now that you’ve decided to grace us with your presence?”

  “When are you all going to get over that?” Honestly perplexed by Pinkie’s resentment, Gabriella stared at her. “I went away to Astoria. I came back. I’m here now. Let it go!”

  Silence. Then, “Not everyone moves as fast as you do.”

  Gabriella narrowed her eyes. “Is that a dig about Shane? About my getting together with Shane? Because if it is—”

  Looking exasperated, Pinkie shook her head. “If you’d quit being so stubborn and defensive for thirty seconds—”

  “Maybe if everyone would quit attacking me, I would.”

  “We’re not attacking you! We’re … hurt, that’s all.”

  “Well, you should get over it.” Annoyed that no one could see how difficult this was for her, Gabriella picked up her pen again. With effort, she looked at her morass of schedules. “If you can’t do that, I’ll have to find someone who can.”

  More silence. It practically vibrated with disbelief.

  Gabriella glanced up at Pinkie again. “Someone has to make the hard decisions around here. Right now, it’s me.”

  “I see.” Tight-lipped in the dim after-hours pizzeria lighting, Pinkie glared back at her. “Fine. If that’s the way you want it … then fine. Just don’t say I didn’t try.”

  Her pastry chef huffed off, her footsteps loud in the otherwise deserted pizzeria. A door slammed. Pinkie was gone.

  The funny thing was, Pinkie’s parting shot had been almost identical to Gabriella’s after her showdown with her dad.

  Fine. Just don’t say I didn’t try.

  Those defiant last words had been delivered with a lot more bravado and a metric ton more tears in Gabriella’s case, but they’d had a similarly unmoving effect on Robert Grimani. Her father hadn’t relented. He hadn’t called Gabriella back—or phoned her the next day. He hadn’t followed her out of the pizzeria and into the alleyway, where she’d been wrestling with unlocking her bike for a bad-tempered, wounded getaway.

  He had let her go, all the way to Astoria, without a word.

  There’d been plenty of words before that, of course. Gabriella had pushed determinedly for improvements to Campania. Updated lighting. A new sealed-concrete floor to replace the cracked linoleum. Appetizers that went beyond stodgy garlic bread and garden salads. Potential expansion to Seattle. She’d waged a campaign on a daily basis, convinced she could prevail with her father the same way she always did with everyone else.

  Instead, Robert Grimani had listened to each of Gabriella’s carefully crafted pitches. Day after day, he’d given her the impression she was close to a breakthrough … until she’d had no choice but to push harder than ever. On that fateful last day, finally and astonishingly, her dad had turned her down flat. He’d let her storm out. But first—and worst—he’d informed her that he’d only been humoring her every time she’d brought up those issues, hoping she’d eventually wear down and give up.

  It was as if her dad didn’t know her at all.

  “I’m a traditionalist,” he’d explained. “I like things the way they are. The way your Nonna Grimani and Poppa wanted it.”

  “Yes—over fifty years ago, Dad!” Gabriella had cried. “It’s time to move on. It’s time to innovate. Time to refresh the menu, bring in some modern ingredients and techniques—”

  His upraised hand had stopped her. “No. This place isn’t one of your fancy MBA classrooms. It’s your heritage. You can’t mess around with your heritage. What do you think your mother and I have been working for all these years?”

  “I don’t know,” Gabriella had shot back, hurt and proud and embarrassed to have gotten so vulnerable. She’d taken a look around the boisterous, customer-filled, less than sophisticated pizzeria, so familiar and beloved. “But if it’s this place, maybe you can keep your ‘heritage.’ Maybe I don’t want it.”

  Not like this. Not with someone who doesn’t respect me.

  “Gabriella,” her dad had said, “you don’t mean that.”

  “I never say anything I don’t mean.”

  “Well, then …” Agitatedly, her father had gestured, his face turning red, his chest puffing up. “Maybe I don’t want you to have it! Maybe I want Pinkie to have it! Your cousin is—”

  “Fine,” Gabriella had interrupted, too hurt to listen. “Give the pizzerias to Pinkie. She’ll turn them into cupcake shops. Just don’t say I didn’t try. Because I tried my hardest.”

  That was when Gabriella had walked away, barely able to see the path to the pizzeria’s back door because of the tears in her eyes, following the same footsteps Pinkie had just trod. It had been the last time Gabriella had spoken to her dad for months.

  Honestly, the whole thing still stung. A lot.

  It didn’t help that, although Gabriella’s showdown with her dad had been private—happening here, in her office, in fact—she suspected her cousin, Pinkie, knew about the whole thing.

  And she wanted Gabriella to fail, all over again, too. Because that might mean she would get those cupcake shops of hers.

  Resolutely, Gabriella got back to work, determined not to let that happen. Now more than ever before, she needed to win.

  For her sake. For her dad’s sake.

  For the sake of everything the Grimanis had built … and Gabriella had accidentally endangered with one wrongheaded burst of defiance. Their confrontation had left her dad unarmed, upset, and shorthanded, easy pickings for the company that had pushed for a takeover. If only she hadn’t been so proud, so stubborn …

  So willing to throw away all the good with the bad.

  When she’d been in Astoria pulling shots of espresso and longing for the smells of garlic and sausage, Gabriella had missed everyone. She’d wanted to forget her pride and come home.

  Her mother’s phone call had given her the chance to do just that—and save the day, too. With her usual confidence, Gabriella simply hadn’t thought it would be so difficult.

  Yes, she was doing things at the pizzeria her father’s way, as a tribute to him and his love of tradition.

  Yes, she was sticking by the rules she’d flouted before, as a safeguard against stirring up more disaster.

  Yes, she was being hard-core about the chain of command, lest she be tempted to lean on someone she couldn’t trust.

  But even given all that, shouldn’t things have been easier?

  Not with a saboteur out to wreck her family’s pizzerias, Gabriella reminded herself as she went back to work drawing up schedules. Not with her hanging on by her fingernails this way.

  Of course saving the day was going to be difficult. Wasn’t it alw
ays? Which was why, Gabriella decided, she had to focus—starting with not getting caught up in Shane Maresca’s sparkly eyed charm three days in a row. Starting tomorrow, Gabriella vowed, she’d be strong.

  Strong enough to resist him.

  No matter what it took.

  Chapter Eight

  April 25th: Infiltration Phase

  “Hey, Gabby.” Catching sight of her near the pizzeria’s drinks station, Shane touched her arm. The contact jolted him—and made him want to touch her more. Intimately. With effort, he didn’t. “C’mere. There’s something I want to show you.”

  She faced him with her eyes wary, both hands full of roll-ups—napkin-wrapped cutlery bundles used to set up tables.

  Her gaze dropped to his hand on her arm. She leaned away from his touch. The electricity between them faded to a low buzz.

  Wariness still came off her in waves, though, confusing Shane. They’d been so close before. But after three days of working together, he and Gabby had yet to repeat the intimacy they’d shared after their brewpub meet-up. In fact, they’d been circling each other like Wild West desperados instead, both of them unsure who was going to make the first move. And when.

  This pizzeria wasn’t big enough for both of them.

  Shane hadn’t anticipated that. Truth be told, it was driving him crazy. Working with Gabby and not touching her?

  That was torturous. He still wanted her.

  He wanted her right there, in booth number six, in fact.

  “I’m really busy, Shane. Jeremy was late today. Jennifer didn’t show at all. My backup is on the way, but—”

  “It’ll only take a minute,” he cajoled. “Come on.”

  Refusing to take no for an answer, Shane gently towed Gabby toward the back of the house. They passed through the kitchen on the way. Bowser, Emeril, Frosty, and Pinkie were hard at work doing prep for the first seating. Farther in the back, Scooter was manning the dishwasher. Near the adjacent time clock, Hypo was peering worriedly at his tongue in the mirror.

  “It’s nothing serious, Hypo,” Shane called. “Penguins!”

  Visibly, Hypo calmed down. He waved. “Thanks, dude.”