planning, consistently good food, and luck had pulled him through.
Now Antonelli’s was thriving.
But its success had come at a personal cost to Gregg. As always, when his thoughts turned to Lynn, his former fiancée, he felt a twinge of regret. They’d dated a couple of years and had been engaged another eighteen months before she’d called it quits a year ago. She’d said she could deal with a rival if the rival was female, but there was no way she was going to spend the rest of her life competing with a restaurant for his time and attention.
Gregg hadn’t tried to change her mind. He’d loved Lynn, yes, but not enough to give up the business he’d worked so hard to build.
Not enough. Those were the key words, he guessed. At least that’s what Glynnis had said.
“Hey, boss, you gonna work or you gonna daydream?” Maggie said, poking him.
Gregg blinked, then grinned. “Sorry.” He began to stack the salads on racks that would slide into one of the big refrigerators.
After that, the day passed quickly. So quickly that before Gregg knew it, it was eight o’clock. He alerted Janine, their evening hostess, that he was expecting a guest and asked her to buzz him in his office when the March woman arrived.
On the dot of eight-thirty, Janine said his visitor was there.
Too curious to wait, Gregg abandoned the supply order he’d been working on and walked out front. He saw the woman immediately. Janine had seated her in one of the alcoves, as Gregg had requested. The woman hadn’t seen him yet; she was looking out the window, so he had a chance to study her for a few moments.
She was pretty and younger than she’d sounded on the phone—probably in her middle twenties. She wore her dark, chin-length hair swept back from her face and caught up in the back with some kind of silver clip. She was dressed simply, in black slacks and a wine-colored sweater. A black leather jacket was draped across the back of her chair.
As he got closer, she turned, and their eyes met. Hers were large and gray—beautiful eyes, he thought—and filled with an emotion he couldn’t identify. He frowned. What was it? Concern? Uncertainty? Fear? Whatever it was, it only reinforced his own uneasiness over the reason for her appearance in Ivy.
“Miss March? I’m Gregg Antonelli.” He held out his hand, and she took it. Her hand felt cool, and her handshake was firm.
“Hi. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
He liked her voice. It was much softer than it had seemed on the phone. Gregg sat down across from her and beckoned to Chris, who waited on this section. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“I don’t think so, thank you.”
“What about dinner? You were still planning to eat with me?”
“Yes, I’d love to.” She looked around. “This is a very nice restaurant.”
“Thanks. We’ve done well.”
Picking up the menu, she studied it for a moment, then said, “What do you recommend?”
“Depends what you like. Pasta? Chicken? Veal?”
She put the menu down and for the first time, she smiled. “I’m a pasta person.”
“Then I recommend the combination ravioli and tortellini. That’s our specialty. My personal preference is the marinara sauce, but we do offer it with a cheese sauce, if you’d prefer that.”
“That sounds good. With the marinara sauce.”
Gregg turned to Chris. “We’ll both have the ravioli and tortellini, and I’ll have a glass of the house Chianti. And the lady will have…?”
“Iced tea, please.”
Within moments Chris had brought them a basket of warm focaccia bread and a plate of seasoned olive oil for dipping, followed by their drinks. All the while he was serving them, Gregg studied Sabrina March. She was a small woman, with narrow wrists and slender arms. He’d bet, standing, she wouldn’t reach five feet four inches. She had a small, heart-shaped face which, along with those expressive gray eyes, made her seem vulnerable, yet her voice and mannerisms and the way she met his gaze squarely suggested self-confidence. It was an intriguing mix that he found especially attractive.
When Chris left them to get their salads, Gregg said, “Tell me, Miss March, just how are you related to Ben?”
She reached for a piece of bread, hesitated, then said, “I’d rather explain why I’m here first.”
Gregg tensed at the evasive answer, certain now that he wasn’t going to like what she had to say.
“First of all, please call me Sabrina.”
“All right, if you’ll call me Gregg.”
She put down her piece of bread. Leaning forward, she fixed those big eyes on him. “I just want you to know that I hate having to bring you this kind of news.”
“What news?”
She spoke slowly. “The man you know as Ben Arthur is dead. He died last Thursday.”
“What?” Gregg stared at her. “That can’t be true.”
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid it is true.”
“And just what do you mean by the man you know as Ben Arthur?”
“His…his name is really Ben March. Benjamin Arthur March.”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull—”
“I’m not trying to pull anything,” she cried. “I’m telling you the truth.”
She reached for her handbag and pulled out a wallet. Removing two laminated cards, she handed them to him. They were both Ohio driver’s licenses. Her picture was on the first card. Sabrina Isabel March. An address in Rockwell, Ohio. And Ben’s picture was on the second. Benjamin Arthur March. With another Rockwell address.
Gregg felt as if someone had kicked him in the stomach. What the hell was going on here?
“Mr. Antonelli…Gregg,” she continued softly, “I’m so sorry.” She sighed deeply. “You asked me how I’m related to…Ben. Ben March is…was…my father.”
“Your father,” he said dully.
“Yes.”
“But—”
“I know, he never said anything about having a daughter. Obviously, there were a lot of things he didn’t tell you.”
Gregg didn’t know what to think. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t he tell us about you? I mean, he told my sister he was divorced. And why use a different name? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I know. The thing is, when my father met your sister, he wasn’t divorced. He was still married.
