of Manhattan’s Little Italy. Their paths didn’t cross often anymore but they were there for each other when it mattered.
Obviously babies mattered.
Somebody—one of Stefano’s new brothers-in-law—brushed past him, a screaming infant in his arms. A smell wafted from the child.
It wasn’t baby powder.
“Sorry,” the guy said, and grinned.
Gianni managed a smile in return. “No problem,” he said, and headed for the terrace where he took a deep, deep breath of fresh air. Okay. He’d stay out here where he could enjoy a little quiet along with the view of Central Park forty stories below and think about whether he wanted to see Lynda tonight without having to pretend he was delighted that his two best friends had obviously lost their minds.
Maybe he should have stayed with his instincts and opted out of this party. He’d been tempted to send a gift from Tiffany’s, tuck in a note explaining how sorry he was he couldn’t make it in person, etc., etc., etc., but how could he not show up at this celebration for Stefano’s child? He’d missed the wedding—bad weather that shut down all the airports had seen to that.
So, he was here.
The blonde with the up-to-her-ears legs was here, too.
Gianni scowled. Was he back to that? Well, there was nothing else to think about. The lady had made an impression. A negative one. And, since he hadn’t come up with much else to do after he’d made the rounds, his thoughts naturally returned to her.
He’d had a toothache once. Try as he had, he couldn’t keep the tip of his tongue from returning to the offending molar.
This was the same ridiculous thing.
Gianni looked into the Lucchesis’ enormous living room. There she was now, talking animatedly with Tomasso’s wife, Karen, as if they were old friends. She smiled, she touched Karen’s arm, she even grinned.
She hadn’t even managed a tilt of the lips for him.
Not that he cared. She wasn’t his type at all. He preferred his women petite, dark-haired and quintessentially feminine. Lynda met those standards. She was also all curves, where the blonde was as skinny as a boy. Lynda smiled when a man smiled at her. The blonde didn’t. She meted out favors with the stinginess of a miser opening his purse.
A waiter stepped out on the terrace. “Something to drink, sir?”
Gianni nodded, took a glass of red wine from the tray and raised it to his lips.
He and the blonde had arrived in the lobby at the same time. The doors of the private elevator for the penthouse were closing when he heard a voice call out.
“Hey,” a woman said.
A slim hand had thrust between the doors.
Gianni hit the button that reversed the doors’ direction. They opened, and he saw the blonde.
Not my type, was his first thought.
He gave her a polite smile. “Sorry. I didn’t see you coming.”
She gave him a long look. Her expression was one of suspicion.
“This is a private elevator,” she said.
Gianni’s smile tilted. “Indeed it is.”
“It only goes to the penthouse.”
“How convenient,” he said dryly. “That happens to be where I’m going.”
“Did the doorman—”
“Perhaps you’d like to see my driver’s license, passport and birth certificate,” he said, his smile fading. “Or perhaps I should ask to see yours.”
That, at least, had put a stain of color across the arcs of her high cheekbones.
“I’m going to the Lucchesi party.”
“So am I. Or, at least, I will once you step inside and the doors shut.”
She entered the elevator and stood beside him, eyes straight ahead. Okay. He’d decided to give it another try.
“Are you a friend of Fallon’s?”
“No,” she said, without looking at him.
“Stefano’s?”
“No.”
“Then are you with—”
“I don’t see that it’s any of your affair,” she said, still staring straight ahead. Then she turned toward him, her eyes cold as ice. “Besides, I’m not interested.”
It was his turn to be the one whose face stung with heat.
“I assure you,” he said, “I’m not—”
The elevator stopped, the doors opened. Gianni stepped out first without waiting for the woman to precede him. It was a good thing the car opened directly into Stefano’s foyer. He wasn’t sure what he’d have done if they’d ended up in front of an apartment door and he’d had to decide whether to ring the bell or tell her she could go straight to hell.
Pathetic, he knew. Even more pathetic that she’d reduced him to such childish musings. He’d almost told her what he was thinking but he’d spotted Stefano coming toward him and he’d smiled, only to have the blonde sweep past him, give a little squeal of delight and run straight into Stefano’s arms.
“Stefano,” she’d cried happily, and Gianni, mouth thinning in disgust, had let himself blend into the crowd.
Apparently the Ice Princess reserved her smile solely for a favored few.
Now, watching her, he saw her flash that smile for Stefano’s wife and baby daughter as she took the child from Fallon’s arms. He saw her lips purse as if she were cooing. The baby kicked its legs and the blonde not only smiled again, but she threw back her head and laughed.
It was quite a laugh. Husky. Throaty. Under the right circumstances, he suspected that laugh would be sexy as hell.
Gianni narrowed his eyes.
He could see he’d made some errors about the woman. They were unimportant, given the circumstances, but he was a man who liked to get the details straight. Her hair wasn’t blond, it was half a dozen shades of palest gold. And she wasn’t skinny. Slender, yes, but with rounded hips and a nicely defined backside.
And when, still laughing, she hoisted the baby high in the air, her breasts lifted and only a blind man wouldn’t have noticed that they were round and full…
And not confined by a bra.
The pale green silk dress clung to her body just enough so he could see the outline of her nipples.
What were they like? Small? Large? What color would they be? Rosebud-pink, he imagined, like her mouth. Soft to the
