“Angie! You made it!” Rico called from behind the bar. “Good to see you out again, baby!”
“Hey, Rico. I’ve missed you, too!”
While tame by Denver standards, daVinci’s was the sole place for nightlife in town, especially on a Friday or Saturday night. Her high-school friend, Rico, the owner, would keep the creeps at bay while she reentered the social scene one aching toe at a time. Sometimes there were perks to being surrounded by overprotective Italian men. When it came to her social life, though, they were just a pain in the ass. But at least she’d have someone to talk with tonight. She didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts any longer.
Or memories of her dream lover
.
She sighed. The chances of a man anywhere near as exciting as her angel-man-wolf fantasy showing up tonight were slim to none. Not that she was ready for another relationship yet. After giving Rico her wine order and exchanging a few inane pleasantries, she knew the conversation would turn to Allen. It did.
“He’s been in here several nights a week since you dumped him. Different woman every time.”
“Probably because they’re smarter at recognizing an asshole than I was.”
Rico looked guilty. “I wish I’d known, baby. He runs a good cleaning business. I’ve been a client of his business for years. But I wouldn’t have let you out of here with him if I’d known he’d ever hurt you.”
Angelina’s face grew warm with embarrassment. Rico didn’t know the whole story. He thought her pain was emotional, not physical. If he knew what had happened at the club, he’d have told her brothers and together they’d have beaten Allen to a pulp. Not that he didn’t deserve it.
But sweet little Angelina Giardano did not go to kink clubs.
Rico pulled her back from her thoughts. “I have to warn you, I think he’s coming in here looking for you.”
“Well, he may find me, but if he comes anywhere near me again, I’ll…” She had no idea what she’d do, but it wouldn’t be pretty. Her brothers had been good for one thing—they’d taught her how to fight. “I’m finished with men.”
Rico laughed.
“I’m serious!”
“You just haven’t found the right one, baby.”
Yes, I have
.
He just doesn’t exist in reality. Why did her mind keep conjuring up thoughts of her dream lover? He had to be a spillover from a shapeshifter romance novel she’d read or something. The images lingering in her mind were so vivid—an angel who was half wolf, half man, with a delicious sprinkling of soft, black hair on his forearms.
She reached for her white zin and took a gulp. Maybe she should give up reading those novels that were warping her perspective on men and BDSM. And her libido. She picked up the cardboard coaster and fanned herself.
No, tonight she planned to enjoy Rico’s company and hang out with any of her other friends who might show up. Woman-on-the-make wasn’t her style, anyway. She’d dated Allen for months before she’d even let him touch her intimately. Of course, she thought she could trust him. She’d learned just the opposite.
Men were not to be trusted. Not only was she clueless about choosing the right man, but she knew every man in Aspen Corners. By now, everyone knew about her break-up. Hopefully Allen hadn’t told anyone what actually had happened.
Not that there were all that many available men in town and they all knew what her overprotective brothers would do to anyone they didn’t deem “safe” (read: boring). Ironically, Allen had passed their inspection with flying colors. Successful businessman. Meek. Safe.
Boring.
Until he put on his leather pants and transformed himself into a sadistic bastard.
Angelina sipped her wine, nibbled on salty pretzels, and talked with Rico for half an hour about what was going on around town. She watched as Rico delivered two beers to a booth in the back—one, a bottle of Birra Moretti. Italian beer. She hadn’t noticed the booth being occupied earlier, and couldn’t see who sat there from this vantage point. One must be Italian, given the choice of beer.
Steer clear of that table, Angie
.
Taking another sip, her gaze remained focused on the booth, anyway, through the reflection in the mirror behind the bar. She caught a glimpse of a man’s white shirt sleeve rolled up to reveal a tanned forearm sprinkled with black hair. Just like the man in her dreams. Her clit responded as if he’d touched her.
Oh, come on
. Most Italian men have dark hair on their forearms. Was she going to think every man she saw was her dream lover sent from God?
As if the angel-man-wolf even existed.
Angelina took another sip of wine, then bit into the last pretzel. Rico returned to refill the bowl and looked over her shoulder as someone came in the door.
“Uh-oh. Don’t look now, baby, but Allen just strutted in.”
Like involuntarily looking at an accident at the side of the road, Angelina’s gaze went immediately to the mirror to find Allen with his arm wrapped around a very petite blonde with huge breasts. Surely they were implants. The air escaped Angelina’s lungs.
“Rico, quick! Which man can I trust in here?”
She needed to move before Allen saw her sitting here—alone. No way did she want him to think she was without her own replacement model. Rico scanned the room and pointed to the booth in the back.
Great
.
“Those guys should be safe. They were involved in the search-and-rescue yesterday up on the north slope.”
Her gaze followed the direction of his finger. Mr. Sexy Italian Forearm—and a SAR man to boot. Along with his SAR partner.
Thanks a whole helluva lot, Rico
.
She scanned the barroom quickly, but only saw couples and Mr. Davis, who rented the apartment upstairs and looked as though he’d had a few too many—several hours ago.
Her gaze returned to the booth. What choice did she have? Drawing in a deep breath for courage, Angelina stood up, tucked her purse under her arm, draped her shawl over her arm, and picked up her drink. She looked at Rico, “Cover me. I’m going in.”
“I’ve got your sexy back, baby.” He winked and Angelina suddenly wished she’d worn something less revealing—with a bra. Too late now.
As she approached the booth, she heard two deep male voices engaged in quiet conversation. Apparently, they’d been holed up back here since she’d arrived. She brushed a strand of loosened hair off her shoulder. Before she could see either man’s face, another tanned, muscular forearm appeared. No surprise, given their line of work.
When she could see the face of the one in the dress shirt, she nearly stumbled over her shoes. His black hair framed the face of an Adonis. The white shirt contrasted starkly with his bronzed skin. A sprinkling of chest hair peeked from the opening at the collar of his shirt.
Why did he have to be Italian? Wasn’t Adonis supposed to be a Greek god?
At least she had a bargaining chip to entice him into helping her. She’d yet to meet an Italian-American man who would turn down home cooking from the Old Country. If he’d help her out tonight, she’d offer to prepare a special meal for him as his reward.
The other man, whose face she couldn’t see yet, wore a plaid flannel shirt, also with his sleeves rolled up. When his profile came into view, she saw he was younger than the Italian. Clean-cut. Chiseled features. He could have been a model. His tanned arm was sprinkled with gold-flecked hair, kissed by the sun. His long fingers were wrapped around a brown bottle of Bud Lite.
Damn
. Gold band on ring finger. Well, that pretty much ruled him out, even if all she planned to do was flirt and hang out. She did have her standards. She’d definitely have to win the Italian over to her cause.
When she arrived at the table, two pairs of sexy eyes looked up at her in unison.
Oh, man.
Her heart thudded against her chest. Way out of her league. Yes, she’d definitely have to offer them that gourmet meal. When they smiled at her, a frisson of electricity jolted from her wildly beating heart to her clit, surprising her. These men had just turned her burner on with just their smiles.
What happened to the no-more-men rule, Angie?
The Italian had short, wavy black hair. His moss-green eyes narrowed as if he were trying to place her, then he smiled in the most disconcerting way. She knew she’d never seen him before, but he seemed oddly familiar. He was the spitting image of Raoul Bova, from
Under the Tuscan Sun
. She’d seen the movie many times with Mama. That must be it.
His gaze devoured her, sweeping her length, virtually removing her dress. She shivered at the intensity of his gaze. Her nipples rose like a soufflé on steroids. Judging by the smoking-hot look he gave her as he smiled, he’d noticed her girls’ response, too.
Definitely not a safe man. And why did her clit throb at that thought? She croaked a husky “Hi,” then cleared her throat, remembering her mission. “Rico tells me you’re SAR and I really need rescuing tonight.”
Mio Dio.
Did she really say that? How many times had women used that line on them? Well, desperate times and all.
The Italian broadened his smile. Her fingers twitched with the urge to stroke the five-o’clock shadow darkening his jaw. Unlike the clean-cut man, this man’s kisses would leave abrasions on her skin. Her nipples tightened even further at the thought.
Angelina’s face flushed. She took a gulp of wine hoping to cool down, but the liquid went down her windpipe instead. As she sputtered for air, both men jumped up and stood beside her.
“Cough,
cara
,” the Italian ordered. The other man placed his arm across her midriff to support her as he patted her back.
Cara
? A distant memory flitted across her mind. That and her close proximity with the two virile men caused her to go into a fit of coughing.
“Good girl.” The Italian’s hand stroked her back, skin on skin through the keyhole. Her fantasy angel-wolf-man had said that, too.
Snap out of it, Angie. He doesn’t exist
.
Heat radiated from both men’s bodies, making her feel even hotter. She held a shaky hand to her throat and placed her glass on the table before she spilled or dropped it.
“Can you talk?” the non-Italian asked. She noticed a woodsy scent about him.
As the coughing spell ended, she croaked out, “I’m fine.”
“How did we do,
cara
?”
Mamma mia
. Northern Italian. Just like her dream lover.
Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!
The corner of his mouth twitched, breaking into a dazzling smile. She blinked a couple of times, stunned at his beautiful face, then grinned back. God, so much like the man in her recurrent dream, only ten times better.
Then she realized they thought their rescue work was done.
“Um, that wasn’t the rescuing I had in mind.” When she saw something akin to disappointment in their eyes, she rushed to assure them. “But you both did great,” Men had such fragile egos. Both remained poised to spring into action again at her very command. What power. Heady stuff.
“Do you mind if I sit?”…
before I fall off these damned shoes
?
“Of course! Pardon our manners.” The man on her right had a Texas drawl. He gestured for her to have a seat—across the table from him. Happily married, no doubt. Angelina slid into the far side of the booth, the Italian joining her, heat from his body enfolding her. She took another sip of wine, a smaller one this time. The Texan sat down again, too.
The Italian leaned toward her and asked in a near whisper, “What else can we do for you,
cara mia
?” The timbre of his voice sent tingles over her entire body. The suggestive tone in his voice caused any number of lewd and lascivious acts to flit through her mind. He had short-circuited the electrical fields between her brain and her body, jolting places back to life that had long gone dormant.
She needed to bring her body temperature down before she caught fire. Good thing she hadn’t put on much make-up, or it now would be sliding down her neck.
“I’m Angelina.”
“Angel?” the Texan asked. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
Before she could correct him, the Italian said, “
Angela mio
.” My angel?
Taking her fingers, he brought her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips across the knuckles. His scratchy scruff tickled, causing gooseflesh to rise on her arms. Then he turned her hand over and brushed his lips across the underside of her wrist.
Mio Dio
. Did her clit just spasm? Taking a ragged breath, she pulled her hand back with great reluctance. Italian men and their damned sex appeal. He still reminded her so much of…
“Have we met?” she asked, suddenly needing to know why he looked so familiar.
“
Perdono
. Marco D’Alessio,” he said by way of introduction, “but please call me Marc.” Pointing across the table. “This is my squad partner, Luke Denton.”
Still rattled by her body’s reaction, she tried to distance herself from the disturbing presence next to her and turned her attention to Luke, reaching her still-tingling hand across the table.
“Angel, pleased to meet you,” Luke said, shaking her hand and smiling as if he had a secret. He wore a braided leather bracelet on his right wrist that was well worn. His chestnut hair was disheveled, with a slight part on the right. Smoky blueeyes, perhaps gray, drew her in. There was a sadness there that tugged at her emotions a bit.
What in the hell was she doing sitting in a bar with a sexy married man and one who reminded her too much of her dream lover? Oh, yeah.
Allen
.
“This is really embarrassing,” she said as she leaned toward them, motioning for them to lean closer as if she were spelling out a plot to overthrow the government. “I need your help. Did you see the man and woman who came into the bar a moment ago?”
Both shook their heads no, then in unison leaned outside the booth in a comical way to inspect the bar’s latest arrivals.
“You mean the blond guy checking himself out in the mirror—the one with the skinny woman?” the Texan asked. He made skinny sound undesirable. If only he weren’t married.
Marc clenched his fists and sat back in the booth, growing very still. He reminded her of a wolf about to pounce.
Stop it, Angie. Now! He’s not your angel-man-wolf
.