Last Bite: A Novel of Culinary Romance

by Nancy Verde Barr

  WE ARRIVED AT THE hotel in Ravenna, and while Danny looked for a place to park, I checked myself in and then went to call Sonya and Sally from the house phone. There was no answer in either room; I guessed they were at dinner. I went to the ladies’ room, and when I came back out Danny was all checked in and waiting for me. “Do you mind going right out? I’m really hungry.”

  “Me too. Let’s go. Do you have any place in mind?”

  “The backyard,” he said, leading me out the back door of the hotel. “I don’t know Ravenna at all, but I said, ‘Seafood, outdoors, near the water’ to the desk clerk and he pointed this way.”

  “What? You didn’t ask for a moon as well?” I asked, following him out the door.

  The outdoor restaurant was practically in the water in our backyard. We sat at a simple wooden table next to a stone fireplace where the chef, a large man with a deep baritone voice, was tending to several small whole fish on the fire and singing Italian songs about the sad lot of fishermen. A waiter brought an unlabeled bottle of local sparkling white wine to our table and left menus. Danny was watching the chef, and I was watching Danny and wondering when I had let myself go from “Not interested” to “No problem—I’ve always wanted a fling with a meadow vole.” It was Italy. I was letting it cloud my judgment. I should tell him again, now, that I don’t want to get involved. Let him know that the other night, it was the limoncello talking. Tell him that today was fabulous, but, as I said, I’m not looking for a relationship. I’ll offer a good friendship.

  He turned to look at me, then gazed up at the full moon in the sky. “I guess you ordered the moon, because I forgot to ask for it.” He lowered his head and his amazing blue eyes smiled into mine. “Thanks.”

  Then I thought about Mary and all the money she had spent on the lacy French underwear she’d brought me for my birthday. I was wearing it, and I knew it would hurt her deeply were I not to take advantage of it. “You’re welcome,” I said with the best come-hither smile I could manage.

  In the corridor outside my room, I stopped, closed my eyes, stood on one foot, and put my finger on my nose.

  “What in all creation are you doing?”

  “This is the test the police use to determine if you are sober enough to drive or engage in other activities that require a clear mind. I wanted you to see that I am in good condition for the other activities part.”

  He put his hands on his hips and gave me a shocked look. “Are you hitting on me, Casey Costello?”

  “All that Irish charm and you have to ask? I just don’t want you to use my wine consumption as an excuse to walk away again.”

  He slipped his arm around my waist and opened the door. “There isn’t enough wine in Italy to make that happen tonight.”

  When we walked into the room, I saw that his bags were there as well as mine. I had been curious about how he’d planned to handle sleeping arrangements. Now I knew.

  “Well, you were very sure of yourself,” I said, pointing to his luggage.

  “Not very. That’s why I bought you the perfume.”

  “I wish I’d known. I would have held out for the body cream as well.”

  He stepped close to me, and ran his hands under my T-shirt. “If I remember correctly from the slit in your skirt, you don’t need body cream.”

  “Want and need are not the same thing,” I mumbled against his neck.

  He unhooked my bra and caressed my breasts. “You’re dead wrong there,” he said, gently stroking my nipples with his thumbs to prove his point. Okay, so there were exceptions, and if he pulled another “No, Casey” exit, I would have no choice but to dismember him.

  But there were no nos from either of us. Not when he lifted off my T-shirt and slipped off my expensive French bra; not when I unbuttoned his shirt and ran my hands over his chest; not when he slipped his hand into my pants and I undid his. Not once from the moment he lay me on the bed and his hands wandered over my body the way he had said one should tour Florence, slow and meandering, or when his mouth lingered at the high spots. Every aroused inch of me craved him, and he covered my body with his and gave me what I wanted and needed.

  Chapter 20

  Didn’t expect it to go down this way.

  —KT Oslin

  When I opened my eyes the next morning, the first thing I saw was Danny coming out of the shower, wrapped in a towel. “Good morning, Princess,” he said, smiling at me.

  “Anya should have been so lucky,” I said.

  “There are advantages to being a commoner.” He walked over to the bed and kissed me. “How much time do we have before we have to leave?”

  “A couple of hours. Enough time for breakfast . . .”

  “And if we skip breakfast?”

  “Enough time for me to take a quick shower and then whatever you have in mind.”

  I was in and out of the shower and back in the room, wrapped in a terry robe, in no time. He was on the bed, leaning back against the pillows. I snuggled up next to him.

  “That was such an incredible day yesterday, Danny. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, untying my bathrobe belt and slipping his hand inside. “I thought the night was pretty incredible,” he added, leaning over to kiss the top of my breast.

  I put my hands on his face, encouraging him to breast center. “I mean, I can’t believe you even found the old Vespa.”

  “I told you. I can do anything,” he said doing anything with my other breast.

  The anything was sending warm sensations everywhere. I cooed, “You just didn’t tell me you could do it so well.”

  He looked up from anything and grinned at me. Then his expression changed. “Oh, I meant to tell you. When I went in to arrange for the scooter, I saw that friend of yours from the party at Oran Mor.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “What’s his name? That guy with the red pajama top who was at your table.”

  “George Davis! Believe me, he’s no friend.”

  “No, not Davis. What is his name?”

  “It’s George Davis. The obnoxious, ugly guy in the red pajama top and ascot. He was sitting next to Sally.”

  “That’s who I mean, but the clerk in the rental place called him by a different name. What was it? I should remember. The pajama guy kept complaining and complaining, and the poor clerk was frazzled. There were these long lines of people waiting to be helped and the clerk would look up at them, then back at the guy, and say, I’m so sorry, Signor . . . what was it? Signor . . .” Danny tapped his forehead and then had a eureka moment. “Signor Davinsky. That’s it. Davinsky. I can’t believe I couldn’t remember. The clerk must have said it a hundred times.”

  My brain began to shuffle information like an electronic mail-sorting machine. It tossed data into different slots, trying to find the one where that name fit. Not there, not there. It took less than a minute for the mail to land in the right box, and when it did, my blood ran cold. I sat up, and I spoke only when my heart had stopped racing and I was sure I could control my voice.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. The clerk was holding his passport, and he looked down at it every time he said it.”

  “But his name is Davis.”

  “A lot of people shorten their names for business so they’re easier to remember.” He began to fondle my breast again, obviously finished with any conversation about George. But I wanted to know more.

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “No. I was going to when I first saw him, but then he was making such an ass out of himself and annoying all the people lined up waiting to get cars that I didn’t want to let on I knew him. I turned my back so he wouldn’t see me.” He began to kiss the places he had been fondling, and it was hard for me to avoid the sensations his touch aroused. But the information he was giving me was arousing concern.

  “What was he complaining about?”

  “Everything, and in two languages. He complained in English that the car wasn’t what he’d orde
red, then he started mouthing off in Russian that he was going to call the authorities. Then back . . .”

  I interrupted him. “You speak Russian?”

  “Yeah. I guess I didn’t tell you this. My father’s brother was one of a group of entrepreneurs who went to Russia after perestroika. He opened a catering business that was going gang-busters and he wanted me to join him in it after culinary school. He asked me to study Russian because he said the Russian lowlife would rob you blind if you didn’t understand the language. I worked with him for about a year before going back to Ireland. My Russian got very good, but my food was going to hell.”

  “What’s the Russian lowlife?” Besides George Davis-Davinsky, I was tempted to add.

  “Russia has a black market like you wouldn’t believe. People steal and sell anything illegal of any market value. There are huge profits being made, and the Russian Mafia is involved in the biggest.”

  “There’s a Russian Mafia?”

  “Sure is, and it’s every bit as powerful and frightening as the Italian Mafia in the movies.”

  My cold blood ran even colder. I knew that Sally couldn’t possibly know what she was dealing with. “What types of things do they sell?”

  “You name it. If it’s illegal and there’s a market for it, the Mafia will make the deal.”

  “Weapons?” I asked.

  “That’s a very big item. Weapons and formulas for making nuclear bombs. Lots of that goes on. There’s a guy, Vladimir Chomsky, on trial now for attempting to sell nuclear information to the North Koreans. He hasn’t been convicted, but the government has a pretty tight case.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “It’s in the American papers. Small articles, but I notice them because I’m interested. Mostly my uncle keeps me up to date on what’s happening. He took a real beating from a Mafia type before he learned how to deal with them.”

  “How do you deal with them?”

  “You pay. One way or another.” He was slipping the robe off my shoulders and I stood up quickly, leaving him with a handful of terry robe and a questioning look. I had to stop Sally from going off with George tomorrow.

  I began to get dressed. “Danny, I just remembered that I made some changes in the recipes for today and I never gave them to Sally or Sonya,” I said, improvising. “They have to have them this morning, and I have to take them to them. It shouldn’t take long.”

  He looked puzzled. “Well, I’m disappointed by the sudden change in plans, but I do appreciate the work ethic.”

  “I’ll be back soon.” I kissed him.

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with my not buying you the body cream, does it?”

  “No. Honestly.” I started to leave.

  “Shouldn’t you take the recipes with you?” he asked when I started toward the door empty-handed.

  “Yes, of course,” I said, picking up my tote bag.

  SALLY WAS NOT IN her room. I hurried to the dining room. She was not there either, but Sonya was.

  “Hey, good morning, Casey,” she said, smiling at me. “How was your Roman holiday?”

  The one a million years ago? I thought. “It was so incredible!” I tried not to rush the details about the day, but I needed to talk to Sally, so I gave her a brief, enthusiastic description and then said, “Sonya, I was looking for Sally. Have you seen her?”

  “She’s not back yet.”

  “Back from where?”

  “Her business with George.”

  My eyes shot open wide. “That’s tomorrow, Sonya. Saturday. Sally said Saturday.”

  “George changed it to yesterday. Sally said they’d be gone overnight.”

  My heartbeat quickened. I was on the brink of hyperventilating. I took a sip of Sonya’s water. “Do you know where she was going with George?” Maybe they weren’t going to Yugoslavia to see Boris. Maybe it was something else.

  Sonya pursed her lips and then said, “Please. Do we know anything about George?”

  More than I’d like to, I thought. “Is she coming here to the hotel when she gets back?”

  “No. She’s going to meet us in Comacchio.”

  I wasn’t going to Comacchio. The restaurant where I would be prepping was totally in the other direction. “How do you know she’ll get there?”

  Sonya gave me a matter-of-fact look. “Sally’s never missed a deadline or a show. She’s never canceled on me. She’ll be there.”

  I tried hard not to show my panic. “I just have this uncomfortable feeling that George will, will . . . I don’t know, like not bring her back or something.”

  She leaned toward me. “Casey. George is an A-number-one asshole, but I doubt that he’s a kidnapper.”

  I let out my breath so I could speak. “Listen. Will you call me at my restaurant and let me know she’s there?”

  She put down her cup and gave me a puzzled look. “What’s up, Casey? Is there something I should know?”

  “I just feel weird when she’s with him. Humor me, please. Call when she gets there.” I said “when,” but my head was screaming “if.”

  “All right. We’ll be in Comacchio before you’re at the restaurant. I’ll call there and let you know.”

  “Thanks, Sonya.”

  WHEN I GOT BACK to the room, Danny was sitting at a small desk drinking coffee and looking over a map. He was wearing jeans but no shirt, shoes, or socks. Not only did I hate George for what he was doing to Sally, I hated him for interfering with what could have been a rather nice morning.

  I dropped my tote next to the desk. “Danny, I’m going to need your help.”

  “No problem. I’m a real pro at backups and swaps now.”

  I pulled a chair up next to him. “I wish that were what this is about.” I knew Sally expected me to keep quiet about it, but I was sure she was in trouble, and right now, he was the only person who might be able to help.

  “Whoa,” he said when I’d finished. “That does not sound good.”

  “Did you ever hear the name Davinsky when you were in Russia?”

  “No, but my uncle may have. Do you want me to call him?”

  “Would you, please?”

  He looked at the clock. “Yeah. I should be able to get him now.” Danny called while I paced, fretted, and tried hard not to think of Sally in the same thought with cement shoes. After speaking Russian for a few minutes, Danny hung up and said, “He’s out for about three hours. I left this number for him to call.” I was still pacing and wringing my hands, and he stood me still by placing his hands on my shoulders. “Come here,” he said, putting his arms around me. “I’m sure it’s going to be fine, Casey. Try to relax.”

  “I’m afraid that’s no longer an option.”

  “Can you fake it? You’re going to have to go to the restaurant and get set up. You can’t assume the worst.” I knew he was right, but it seemed absurd in light of the fact that, for all I knew, Sally could already be swimming with the fishes. “Why don’t you take the car to the restaurant and I’ll call you or come there when I hear from my uncle.”

  “How will you get there?”

  “I’ll get there. Don’t worry about it.” He kissed me and then said, “Now go. And let me handle it.”

  I DIDN’T DO MUCH driving in the United States, and I discovered that Italy was not the ideal place to practice one’s skills, or lack thereof. Italians blasted their horns to move me out of their way and then zoomed by me with nasty stares. After just barely escaping being obliterated by an Alfa Romeo, I parked in front of the small seaside Ristorante da Rosa. I took several deep breaths, told myself the show must go on, and walked up to the building. The restaurant structure itself was simple and unremarkable, but the outdoor dining terrace was magical. It was off to the side of the building and framed above by a vine-covered pergola. I could see tiny Christmas-tree lights attached to the deep green vine. Large terra-cotta pots were scattered throughout the space, and they all held white flowering plants with lush, deep green leaves. The tab
les were covered with starched white linen cloths and all had glass-enclosed candles and small vases with fresh flowers. The view from the terrace was the seductive blue of the Adriatic Sea.

  “È bella, no?”

  I turned and recognized the woman from the tape I’d watched a few weeks ago in Sonya’s office. She was wearing the same flowered housedress and frilly apron.

  “Bellissima! It must be so romantic at night, with the little lights and the moon over the water,” I said.

  “Paradiso. I am Rosa,” she said extending her hand. “You are American. Are you the television people?”

  “Yes. I’m Casey Costello. I’ll be helping you get the food ready.”

  “Ah, yes. Your producer called and left a message for you. ‘Sally is here.’”

  I looked up to where God was and said, “Oh, that is so good.” Rosa gave me a questioning look. “Just scheduling difficulties,” I said to cover.

  “But they are fixed. No?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, then. Come in. We’ll have espresso, first, no?”

  “Yes. That sounds terrific.” I hadn’t had time for breakfast, and I could feel my energy level sagging. “Could I use your phone first?”

  “Certo.”

  I called Danny, told him that Sally was back, and asked if he had heard from his uncle.

  “Not yet. I’ll call as soon as I do.”

  “You have the number here?”

  “You mean the one you wrote on the pad on the desk, the pads on both bedstands, and left on a piece of paper in my pocket?”

  “Check the bathroom. I taped it to the mirror.”

  I could hear the hissing of the espresso machine, and soon Rosa was carrying a tray with two small cups of deep brown espresso and a plate of biscotti that she had made herself. “Sit. Sit,” she said, nodding toward a table in the center of the kitchen. It was the same one as in the tape.

  Rosa spoke to me a little in Italian and when I answered her in Italian, she seemed pleased that I knew her language. I told her that my Nonna’s family was from Naples.

  “Ah, then do you know how to make the brodetto, the fish soup?”