Fool, she thought as she jerked out of sight. Hadn’t he heard? She was now engaged to Robert “Robbery” Bertini. Here comes the bride, she thought with a fresh spurt of anger. Why hadn’t she just gone out with Robert the first time he asked? Or the tenth? It was only her repeated refusals that made her stand out from all the other women he had on his expensively clad arm. She’d seen Goodfellas, she should have known that saying no to a mob boss, even a relatively minor one like Robert, would only encourage him to go after her. Why had he decided to come to her restaurant every Thursday night, anyway? If he’d never set foot in here, none of this would have happened!
Actually, it could all be blamed on meatballs. Isa gave a nearby pan of seasoned meaty goodness an evil glare. Yep, it was their fault. Damned tasty little bastards had put her late parents’ restaurant on the map. Who knew they’d also turn out to be a local mafia boss’s favorite meal?
“Isa, table nine wants to see you!” her head chef Frank called out.
She grimaced. That was Tall, Dark and Dumb’s table, the new customer with the staring problem. Under other circumstances, Isa wouldn’t have minded his fixed attention. He certainly wasn’t hard to look at—brown hair falling just above his shoulders, a lean build, and a half-smile that managed to be charming and a trifle devious at the same time.
But today was Thursday, so her fiancé—for the time being only, she promised herself—was here with his usual quartet of goons. Isa had already noticed Robert giving a couple of pointed glares to the man for his obvious fixation on her. Soon Robert wouldn’t settle for just dirty looks. He’d have the stranger taken out back and his knees broken, if he was in a good mood. Isa didn’t want to think about what would happen to the man if Robert was testy tonight.
She made her way to table nine with a polite yet frosty smile on her face. At Spagarelli’s, Isa was known for taking time to stop and talk to the patrons, remember the names of her regulars, and even have a drink with some of them. When she’d reopened this restaurant, she wanted to be hands-on with everything, including the customers. Now, of course, it made it impossible for her to refuse Tall, Dark and Dumb’s request to speak with the owner. She hoped Robert had chosen now to go to the little boy’s room, but he hadn’t. Instead, he watched her approach the man’s table with narrowed black eyes.
“Isa,” he called out, displeasure clear in his gravelly voice.
“Just a moment,” she said with false brightness. “I have to attend to a customer.”
What she really wanted to tell Robert was to shut the hell up and leave. Permanently. But she couldn’t say that, nor could she tell him the other thing that was constantly on the tip of her tongue—that she’d rather marry Al Capone’s corpse than him. After all, Frazier was depending on her. Where he was or why she needed to pretend she was going ahead with this wedding, Isa didn’t know, but the last time she’d spoken to her brother, Frazier said it was a matter of life and death.
So she played the future Mrs. Robert Bertini, which wasn’t easy. Robert had visions of becoming the next Michael Corleone, and to accomplish that, he thought he needed the ideal Mafioso image of being married to a traditional Italian woman. The fact that Isa owned a perfect money-laundering front with her restaurant was just the icing on the cake, she was certain.
Well, Robert had a lot to learn. Anyone who knew her well would have known that trying to blackmail Isa into marriage was a bad idea. Pure-blooded Italian she might be, but a traditional, docile crime-lord wife she was not.
Frustration over the whole situation boiled just below the surface as Isa plonked down across from the man at table nine, making sure her back was to Robert.
“Can I help you?” she asked with far less tact than normal.
A slow smile lit his face, making him look even more wickedly enticing.
“Actually, darling, I’m here to help you.”
Isa was not in the mood for banter. She could practically hear the steam coming out of Robert’s ears. This man would be lucky to leave here alive. The longer she talked to him, the less chance he had of that. She couldn’t afford to risk his life by playing polite restaurateur.
“The only way I’d need your help is if you were a restaurant critic or a health inspector. Now, unless you have something to say about the wine, since you haven’t eaten a bite of food, I really must go—”
“Robbery’s got you on a short leash, doesn’t he?” the man interrupted. “Yessir, he’s been glaring holes into my head for the past hour.”
Isa’s mouth dropped. So did her opinion of him. If he knew who Robert was, and he’d been eye-humping his fiancé right in front of him anyway, then he had to be the world’s biggest fool.
“Are you drunk?” she asked low.
He laughed with a toss of his head. “Nothing like that, Isabella. My name’s Chance, by the way. Pleased to meet you.”
He held out his hand. Isa shook it briefly and then stood.
“Enjoy the rest of your wine, Mr. Chance.”
“Just Chance,” he corrected, giving her another appraising stare. “You know, with your black hair and cedar eyes, you look a lot like your grandmother when she was younger.”
Isa froze…and then sat back down. “How do you know my grandmother?” Or that she looked like me when she was young?
Chance cast a glance over her shoulder. “We’ve got company coming, darling, but suffice it to say my sire’s an old friend of your grandmother’s, and I am here to help you.”
Robert’s most trusted cohort Paul appeared in the next moment. With his massive size and steamrolling personality, Isa mentally referred to him as Bowling Ball.
“Isa,” he rumbled. “Boss wants to see you now.”
She stood at once, her mind in a jumble. What had her grandmother done? She wasn’t even supposed to know Frazier was in trouble. My God, the woman was seventy-five, she couldn’t take the stress!
“Next time try the 1997 Cabernet,” she said to Chance, tapping on his wine bottle. “In fact, there’s a store on Twelfth Street called Blue Ridge Vineyards that sells them. They close at seven on weekdays, so you should be able to pick up a bottle tomorrow.”
He inclined his head with another smile. “I’ll remember that.”
Isa hoped Chance would get the message to meet her there tomorrow night. Whatever her grandmother was up to, it had to be called off. Robert wasn’t some average stalking suitor who could be dealt with by filing a restraining order. He practically owned the police, and whatever Chance was—a private investigator her grandmother hired, maybe?—he wouldn’t be able to handle the heat Robert would bring.
With an inward sigh, Isa went off to pacify her fiancé.
Chance heard the men following him. Their heavy footfalls, combined with huffy breathing and accelerated heartbeats, made them as noisy as if they were clanging cymbals together. He inhaled, sorting through the bonanza of the evening’s scents to filter what was theirs. The one called Paul had recently cleaned the gun in his jacket; the scent of oiled metal was palpable even above the odors of garlic, spaghetti and meatballs. The other one, Ritchie, was less fastidious with his firearms—and his personal hygiene. He smelled like he hadn’t taken a bath for days.
Chance didn’t quicken his pace from the same leisurely stroll he’d used while leaving the restaurant. Isabella had watched him go, surreptitiously, of course, but he’d caught her eye right as he went out the door. And then she’d blushed as he winked at her.
That blush was what he was thinking about now, far more than the two meatwagons following him to the parking lot. He’d been observing Isabella since he arrived in Philadelphia over three days ago. Familiarizing himself with her routine, marking the places she visited…and watching Robert “Robbery” Bertini as well.
Robert was much less interesting a subject, in Chance’s opinion, and not just because Isabella was infinitely more attractive. Robert was a typical schoolhouse bully, and all his clothes, money, houses or influence wouldn’t change that. Hi
s insistence on marrying a woman who didn’t want him was just as spiteful as a child demanding a particular toy because some other child had it. As a vampire, Chance had seen Robert’s type in one form or another for multiple decades, and his tolerance for his sort hadn’t grown with time.
Normally vampires didn’t interfere in human’s affairs. Humans had their own laws and social structure, and to say they differed from vampire society was to put it mildly. Most vampires had enough to handle within their own group of allies and enemies without adding human trials and tribulations to that.
But in this case, Chance could intervene. Isabella’s grandmother, Greta, had once been a member of his sire Bones’ line. Time had passed, but Bones’ sense of responsibility to her hadn’t. Even though Chance was Master of his own line now and no longer under Bones’ authority, his sire had asked him for a favor. So Chance could meddle to his heart’s content with the wedding plans of the arrogant mobster. Someone who would blackmail a woman into marriage made Chance angry. Power was supposed to be used for the protection of those you cared about, not for selfishness. Apparently no one had taught that to Robert Bertini.
In fact, it was high time someone put the Bugsy wanna-be in his place. A smile tugged at Chance’s mouth. Why not? he thought. It wasn’t what his sire Bones told him to do, which was to simply alter Robert’s mind until he no longer believed that he wanted to marry Isabella, but Chance would make sure it still all turned out the same. Well, with just a little well-deserved comeuppance added to it.
And that would mean more time in the lovely Isabella’s company. Maybe enough to find out what else would make her blush. Chance already had a few ideas.
“Hey, buddy,” the one named Paul growled behind him. “We wanna talk to you.”
Chance turned, noting with amusement that they’d picked the darkest end of the parking lot for their confrontation. How unoriginal.
“If you’re going to warn me to stay away from Spagarelli’s beautiful proprietor or you’ll hurt me in various exaggerated ways, save your breath,” Chance replied calmly. “I’ll be seeing her—and you idiots too, I suppose—there tomorrow night at nine sharp.”
Paul’s mouth dropped, making him look like a freshly caught blowfish.
“You know who you’re talkin’ to?” he finally demanded.
“Of course. Spaghetti alla nona, side of extra meatballs.”
Ritchie cracked his knuckles as he stepped nearer. “You’re in for a beating, dickhead.”
“Really? Fuggetaboutit,” Chance mocked with a heavy Italian accent.
Ritchie swung. Since he was human, to Chance it looked like he was moving in slow motion. He ducked neatly and at the same time, pivoted Ritchie a little to the right.
That roundhouse punch landed in Paul’s face instead.
Paul rocked back even as Ritchie gasped. Chance didn’t bother to suppress his laughter.
“Ouch. You owe your friend an apology,” he chuckled.
Ritchie whirled around even as Paul began cursing about his nose being broken. From the sudden sweet smell in the air, Chance didn’t have to glance his way to know he was correct.
With a snarl, Ritchie came at him again. This time, Chance didn’t duck out of the way. He simply moved to the side and stuck out his foot.
Ritchie tripped and went flying, the momentum from his charge making him land with a heavy thud several feet away. More rich, mouth-watering scent filled the air. Ritchie had skinned his knee and his elbow on the asphalt badly enough that both were bleeding.
“Will we be dancing like this for long?” Chance asked.
Ritchie got to his feet slowly, giving Chance a furious look. Paul was still focused on his nose, more red staining the front of his shirt.
“You got fancy moves, pal?” Ritchie asked, drawing a gun from his inner jacket. “Try dodging this!”
He fired twice in quick succession, hitting Chance in the chest. The bullets weren’t silver, though, so their pain only lasted a few moments. Long enough for him to drop to the ground like a regular person would, clutch his chest (to hide the rapidly healing wounds), gasp out a few breaths…and then let his breath rattle out in one last, dramatic exhalation.
Oscar-worthy, if he did say so himself.
“Jesus!” he heard Paul hiss above him. “Ritchie, what the fuck? There’s people around here!”
Ritchie’s heartbeat was galloping, from the thrill of his presumed kill, or the fear of getting caught. Either way, its sound made Chance’s fangs ache with longing.
“Get his keys,” Ritchie said roughly. “We’ll put him in his trunk, you follow in your car behind me, and we’ll bury this fuck before Letterman comes on. Hurry.”
Chance felt them tug his car keys from his hand, lift him up with much muttered cursing about being quick to avoid potential bystanders, and then the thump of landing in his own trunk. Mentally he counted off the time. Less than two minutes from shots fired to body hidden, not bad. Clearly this wasn’t their first time.
He was jostled more as Paul swung the vehicle out of the parking lot. Careful, Chance thought over the squeal of tires. You dent my new Camaro and I’ll shove the steering wheel right up your ass.
Thoughts of Isabella brightened his mood. She had a beautiful face, a curvy body that bucked today’s frightful stick-figure trends, and an ironclad streak of loyalty mixed with bravery. It wasn’t every person who would sacrifice themselves to save their undeserving brother, after all. Frazier Spaga had gotten involved with Robert Bertini because of the lure of easy money. Now he was being used as collateral over his sister, and Isabella thought she had nothing but herself to ransom him back.
But you’re wrong, Chance mused with a smile. You just don’t know it yet.
Chapter 2
Isa walked into Blue Ridge Vineyards fifteen minutes early. She didn’t want to run the risk of missing Chance if he showed up. What a strange name, she mused. Maybe it was an alias.
Again, she wondered what her grandmother was up to. Isa hadn’t bothered to call her and ask, of course. No need to upset her by telling her she was pulling the plug on whatever it was the sweet old lady had put into motion. Chance had said his “sire,” which Isa surmised was just a formal word for father, had been a friend of her grandmother’s. Despite Isa’s inventive lies, her grandmother must have figured out that Frazier was in trouble, which wasn’t uncommon. He’d been very rebellious as a teenager and though he’d calmed down in his twenties, he was hardly a stellar citizen. Isa didn’t know how Frazier managed to pay his rent every month, since he hadn’t held a regular job in years.
Still, when you added her brother’s abrupt disappearance with Isa’s surprise engagement to a man like Robert, no wonder her grandmother was spooked.
“Hi, Isa,” the store clerk greeted her. Since she bought a lot of her wine from this place, she’d been on a first-name basis with most of the employees for a while.
“How’s it going, Jim?” she asked.
“Can’t complain, who’d listen?” he replied with a friendly smile.
Who indeed? Isa mentally agreed. Certainly not the police. She’d gone to them right after Robert proposed, if that’s what you could call him saying, “Good news, Isa. I’ve decided we’re getting married,” and cutting off her immediate, sputtering objections with, “Seen your brother Frazier around lately?” with a knowing gleam in his dark eyes. Robert had followed up with, “Yep, I know for a fact you’ll see him after our wedding, but if we don’t have one…well. That brother of yours. He’s accident prone, isn’t he?”
She’d relayed that to the first police officer she saw at the station the very next day, and Isa would never forget what he did. He looked around, shut his office door, and slid her complaint form back across the desk at her.
“You seem like a nice lady,” he’d said without looking at her. “So I’m going to say congratulations on your engagement…and don’t ever file this form to me or anyone else if you care about your brother. Or yourself.”
That’s when she knew all the whispers about Robert Bertini were true. He really did run the streets, and apparently had considerable clout with the police as well.
She might have tried again. Called the FBI, Homeland Security, someone, but later that day, she received a phone call at her restaurant.
“Isa,” her brother said as soon as she answered. “Don’t say my name, and listen very carefully. I need you to go along with this engagement. Robert thinks he has both of us cornered, but it’ll all work out, I promise.”
“You’re all right?” she’d asked low, trying to look casual in front of her employees.
“Yes. I can’t explain, but just hang in there and play along. I’ll contact you again as soon as I can, but not on the phone. Robert will probably tap all your phones next.”
The line went dead, but Isa said, “Wrong number, no problem,” and then hung up like nothing unusual had happened.
It was only later that she’d wondered how Frazier could have said things like “play along” and “Robert thinks he has both of us cornered.” As a hostage, Isa didn’t think Frazier would have been granted private phone privileges, but it also didn’t make sense that he’d say such things in front of one of his captors. Had Frazier somehow managed to get away?
“Hello, Isabella.”
Isa had been so caught up in her thoughts, she hadn’t even heard the store’s door open. Yet there Chance was, standing behind her with a faint smile on his face. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting, his hair looked to be deep brown instead of the darker shade it had seemed last night, and his skin was surprisingly pale. The eyes she hadn’t been able to guess a color on before turned out to be an intriguing mix of gray and blue. Like the ocean, she thought. Right before a storm.
She was staring. With a shake of her head, Isa brought herself back to the present.
“Jim, do you mind if I show my friend the new stock in the back?” she asked, flashing a smile at the clerk.
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