residents at the hospital were beginning to look good.
A blast of air-conditioning and the aroma of garlic and oregano greeted her when she opened the door of the restaurant. She blinked in the dim light. She could just make out a wall lined with wine bottles and a leather upholstered bar to her left. Candles flickered in raffia-covered Chianti bottles on tables draped in red linen.
Her stomach gave a nervous shimmy. She’d chosen this place because it was near her apartment and she liked Italian food, but she hadn’t remembered it being so…romantic. What she had in mind was more of a business transaction, not romance.
She hoped her date was already here. What was his name again? Brian?
“May I help you?” The maître d’ materialized out of some dark corner and looked down his nose, straight at her cleavage.
She resisted the urge to tug at her dress. “Um, I’m supposed to meet someone here.” She tried to see past him, into the dining room.
He moved over to block her view. “Perhaps if you describe this person, I can tell you if they’re present or not.”
She frowned. Well, of course she couldn’t describe him. What had Marcelle said? “He’s, uh, he has dark hair and dark eyes. Not too tall. Average.”
The maître d’ raised one eyebrow. She realized she’d just described half the population of San Antonio. She stared right back. She had even less patience with rude people than she did with daredevils. Not to mention that five years of dealing with medical residents had taught her how to handle men who thought they were superior.
The maître d’ turned away. “I’ll see if there’s anyone here who fits that description.”
As soon as he was gone, she moved to the doorway and peered into the dining room. The romantic theme continued here, with grapevines twined around wooden beams and candlelit tables for two. One end of the room had been left empty for a dance floor, a crystal chandelier suspended overhead.
At this early hour, the place was only half full, and it was easy to spot the only person by himself. A dark-haired, broad-shouldered man in a western-cut sports coat sat at a table on the left side of the room. He looked up from the wine list and she sucked in a deep breath. The men in Marcelle’s family must be something else if Marcelle thought this one was ordinary.
He had a strong face, with dark eyes and thick brows, a square jaw and Roman nose. His skin was the weathered bronze of a man who spent a lot of time outdoors. Fine lines radiated from the corners of his eyes and a small scar to the right of his mouth kept him from being too pretty. He had nice lips—the kind that looked as if they knew how to kiss a woman.
She blinked. Where had that come from? This was a blind date. Who said anything about kissing? She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. She had one goal tonight: to convince this man to accompany her to a family barbecue and pose as her boyfriend.
If it took kissing to do that…well, a girl had to make some sacrifices, didn’t she?
CARTER SULLIVAN stared into his glass of wine and listened to the Italian folk songs emanating from the speakers overhead. What was the expression? Wine, women and song. He sighed. Maybe two out of three wasn’t bad…. No, it was bad. Because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a date. His job didn’t leave a lot of time to meet eligible women.
Or, if he was honest, he could admit he hadn’t made the effort lately to get off his ass and find Ms. Right. Busting auto thieves and chasing down muggers was less daunting to him than playing the dating game. If the rejection didn’t get you, the emotional roller-coaster ride would. Most of the time it was easier to stay on the sidelines and hope that fate would send someone his way.
Which meant a lot of evenings like this one, where a craving for manicotti like Mama Calabria made had brought him to Trattoria Fabrizio. He poured another glass of Chianti and raised it in a silent toast. To Ms. Right. Wherever you are.
He blinked at the image of a woman that appeared in the glass in his hand. The kind of woman fantasies are made of. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and wondered if it was time to switch to water.
When he looked again, he saw that the image was a reflection of a real woman, who was walking toward him. She looked even better in real life than she had in his glass, with long strawberry-blond hair, legs a Las Vegas showgirl would envy and a figure that made every man in the room put down his fork to watch her walk by.
Carter rose when she stopped at his table. “Hello. I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” she said. She pulled out the chair across from him and sat. “I didn’t think I was running this late.”
“That’s quite all right.” He sat also, unable to stop staring at her. If the fates really had sent this woman to him, they couldn’t have done a better job. Up close, she had skin like porcelain, delicate features, and large blue eyes framed by thick lashes. Bedroom eyes. He let his vision move lower, to the generous breasts swelling at the neckline of her little blue dress, and the belt cinching her trim waist. Yes, this was his fantasy woman all right.
Any minute now, he’d wake up and reality would come crashing down around him, but while the fantasy lasted, he intended to enjoy himself. “Would you like some wine?” he asked.
“Yes, that would be nice.”
He signaled the waiter for a glass and poured for her, then topped up his own glass. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” he said.
She smiled. “Didn’t Marcelle tell you? It’s Joni. Joni Montgomery.”
He nodded. “Pleased to meet you, Joni. I’m Carter. Carter Sullivan.”
She froze with the wineglass halfway to her lips. “I thought your name was Brian.”
Ahh. So she was someone else’s fantasy after all. Well, whoever this Brian character was, he was going to have to wait his turn. “No, it’s Carter.”
“I must have misunderstood.” She sipped the wine. “To tell you the truth, I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.” She glanced at him. “I don’t know how much Marcelle told you about my situation.”
“Marcelle didn’t tell me anything.” Which was, of course, absolutely true.
The waiter arrived with two gold-tasseled menus. Carter pretended to read his while studying her. No rings on her fingers. Tasteful but expensive gold earrings. Neatly trimmed nails and a plain gold watch. Classy, not flashy. Exactly the kind of woman he favored.
The way she was staring, he wasn’t sure he’d made such a great impression on her. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
She flushed, a rosy glow like candlelight against ivory. “It’s just…your hair. It’s not thin at all!”
He put one hand to his head. When he was younger, he’d complained because his hair was thick and hard to style, but now he was at the age where he was grateful it was all there. He grinned at her. “No, it’s not. Guess I’m lucky that way.” He sat up a little straighter. So she liked his hair. That was a start.
The waiter arrived to take their order. She had the chicken piccata while he went with the manicotti. “You said something about your situation?” he prompted when they were alone again.
“Oh
