Italian Stallions (2 page)

He had a yearning all right, but he realized it wasn’t for those sleek, high-end, world-class bodies. No, he was in the mood for a good old-fashioned home-cooked girl. The kind of woman who had some meat on her bones and, more than that, a genuine smile and a zest for the same pleasures he craved. Good food, good wine, and some lusty, twisting-the-sheets-till-they-were-ringing-wet sex.

Blood surged to his dick. And this time Gabe fought back. With the heel of his hand, he pushed down firmly against his hard-on. He closed his eyes and groaned.
Not helping
. “Son of a bitch!” he growled. He fought the urge to take the matter into his own hands but somehow couldn’t justify it on company time. Instead, he rearranged himself and willed his hard-on to go away.

G
ianna lay in bed for several long moments. She squinted as the glare of the morning sun blinded her. It was supposed to rain. Instead sunshine greeted her. She rolled over and stuck her head under the pillow, not wanting to open the restaurant. She let out a long relieved sigh when she remembered she told the employees she was going to close today. She needed time before she could pretend to the world her heart was not broken. What surprised her most about her decision was the fact that she was, for the first time, doing something for herself and not thinking of others first.

Gianna flung the covers from her body and sat up in bed. She looked down at the thin beige flannel nightgown she’d worn for the last two years with sudden contempt. Such was her life. Colorless, but safe and warm. Her shoulders slumped forward. It wasn’t so bad.

She lay still for a long time and realization dawned. She was taking the time off because it wasn’t what
she
wanted, she was being forced to by her family! She sprang up straight in the bed as a shot of rebellion surged inside. Was she destined to do what was deemed best for her by others? Her entire life she’d gone with the flow. If Papa said it were to be, it was to be. Zia Cece was an indomitable force, and well, Gianna had always done the right thing. It never occured to her to rebel. Why should she?

She slumped back into the pillows and reasoned, in the end it was good for her. So be it.

With no one needing her at the moment, and nothing better to do, Gianna snuggled deep beneath the covers and slept.

A distant thud woke her from a fitful slumber. She’d dreamt her mother came for her with Papa, and together the three of them welcomed family and friends to Ciao Bella, like they used to in the old times. Gianna could still remember sitting on the stool while her nona flicked gnocchi with her thumb from the potato dough she’d rolled out. As hard as Gianna tried, she could never perfect her grandmother’s technique. It died with her several years ago.

The thudding increased in velocity and repetition. Gianna popped up in bed, her long hair covering her face. She swiped the heavy mass from her eyes to more clearly see the shadowed room.

More pounding. Like a hammer. From downstairs. She glanced at the clock and gasped. One o’clock it the afternoon! Gianna grabbed her robe and tied it securely around her waist, then hurried from the apartment down the back stairway to the back of the restaurant, then to the kitchen door where the incessant pounding came from.

She flung open the door and nearly screamed.

Two men, the same two who had walked with Mr. Tucci back to his limo at the cemetery, stood big, mean, and foreboding in her doorway. They pushed her back inside and shut the door behind them. Gianna shivered in her bare feet, her toes curling against the chill of the tile floor. “Wha-what do you want?” she meekly asked.

The bigger of the two, the one who looked like his face had single-handedly stopped a truck, grinned. His toothy smile reminded her of a jack-o’-lantern. “Don Tucci wanted us to give you a little reminder about tonight. He expects you at eight o’clock sharp. He’ll send a car. Be ready by seven-thirty.”

Gianna forced her shaking limbs to still. She raised her chin and pursed her lips. Setting her hands on her hips, and grateful for the long robe and long nightgown, she said, “I told Mr. Tucci yesterday I was unable to do that. He is welcome here to discuss business.”

The smaller guy—not that his three-hundred-pound frame would ever constitute small, but in comparison to his three-hundred-fifty-pound, six-foot-six friend, he was smaller—stepped forward. His nose had obviously had a few run-ins with doors but was not nearly as damaged as his friend’s, and he said, “Don Tucci don’t make social calls.”

Gianna’s sudden burst of defiance evaporated when the big one stepped closer and reached out a ham-sized fist to her. She flinched and stepped back. He grabbed her by the front of her robe and lifted her clear off the floor. “If we gotta take you kicking and screaming, we will.” He let go of her, and Gianna sprawled onto the floor. Her robe and nightgown hiked up to her thighs. Hastily she pushed the fabric down, then looked up at the two thugs. Their black eyes brightened. Gianna moved back. The smaller one moved toward her. The big guy grabbed his arm. “Mario, you gonna pay for that piece with your dick on the block?”

Mario stopped and snorted. “I’m patient. I’ll take the Don’s sloppy seconds any day.”

Both men turned from Gianna as she scrambled to her feet, pushing past Theresa who was just coming through the door, but not before each of them gave her an appreciative leer.

Theresa gave them the international sign of peace minus one finger, then hurried to her cousin. “What the hell, Gia?”

Gianna smoothed her robe with shaky hands. “I’m okay. Those guys came by to remind me that Mr. Tucci was expecting me tonight and that they’d be by with a ride.”

Theresa steered Gianna to a nearby chair and pushed her down into it. Hands on hips, she announced, “I’m going with you.”

Vehemently, Gia shook her head. “I’m not going!”

“What are you going to do when they come looking for you? Do you think Tucci gives a flying fuck that you don’t want to meet him? He wants something from you, Gianna, and the sooner you know what he wants, the sooner we can take action.”

Gianna smiled. She’d always loved Tressie’s moxie. As girls, her cousin, although a few years younger, was always the adventurous one. Gianna had taken the heat more than a few times for Tressie’s ill-fated antics.

“He scares me,” Gianna muttered.

“He should. That guy thinks he’s Casanova twice over. He gives me the creeps.” Tressie looked down at her cousin. “But that aside, take the Italian slime ball by the horns and let’s see what he wants.”

Gianna nodded, wondering what hole she could hide in until Tucci forgot about her.

“I’m glad I came by to check on you and the restaurant. Who knows what those goombahs would have done.”

Gianna stood and tightened her belt. Then smiled at her perky cousin. She was so jealous of Tressie. She was gorgeous and dressed like she had stepped out of
Vogue
, but what Gianna admired most was her cousin’s adventurous spirit. Never in a million years would Gianna have picked up and taken off for New York City like her cousin had a few years ago. It had caused a huge rift between Tressie and her father.

No, Gianna didn’t have a wild bone in her body. Always the good girl, she did what was expected of her. And never thinking of the grass being greener on the other side, she was content. But now? She thought about how she felt. She wasn’t sure what it was, but she knew something had ignited last night as she sat curled up in her father’s chair. Anger, resentment, and a deep yearning to explore the world. “I’m looking forward to you working here with me,” Gianna said.

Theresa smiled and hugged Gianna, then said, “I appreciate the offer. I need to keep busy and my mind off other things.” She looked around the spotless kitchen. “So show me around. I didn’t have much of a chance last night with the entire city here!”

Later that afternoon, after Tressie had left, Gianna took a long hot bath, then a nap she didn’t really need. When she awoke, an odd restlessness she couldn’t put her finger on engulfed her. She dressed and puttered around the apartment, still feeling at odds with herself. Once again her solitude was interrupted by a loud knock on the door. But this came from the apartment door. Whoever it was had a key to the restaurant.

Gianna opened the door and blinked. “Tressie? What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to stage an intervention,” Tressie said, moving past her and into the living room where she plopped what looked like an oversized tackle box and a duffel bag onto the coffee table.

Gianna closed the door, confused. “Intervention? I’m not hooked on drugs.”

Tressie whirled around and stared down her cousin. “I’m talking a beauty intervention, Gia. If you’re going to meet up with Tucci, we need to do some…polishing.”

“Polishing? That man is a letch. If you polish me, he’ll…he’ll, well, he’ll want something else!”

Tressie didn’t seem to care about
that
minor detail. “Look, Gia, I know how sad you are about Uncle Berto, and I know how much you miss him. But if you want to find out what the hell that creep Tucci has up his sleeve, you have to drop the Madonna-in-tears thing and show Tucci you have your act together.”

Gianna threw her shoulders back and stepped toward her cousin. “I
have
my act together. I’m an accomplished businesswoman. Who do you think has been running Ciao Bella for the last ten years? Dressing up like Zia Lola will only get me laughed at.”

Theresa didn’t back down. Nope, Gianna watched her four-inch heels dig into the carpet.

“The way you look now, Don Juan thinks he can walk all over you.”

Gianna headed toward her bedroom, Tressie hot on her heels. “I’m not doing it, Tress,” she said over her shoulder. “
If
I go, I go as I am. I can’t act like…well, I just can’t be someone I’m not.”

“I’m not talking about you walking in there with the girls hanging out Gia, you know I love you, but the way you dress…”

Abruptly, Gianna turned around, narrowed her eyes, and asked, “What girls?” Then looked down at her black ankle-length wool skirt. “And for your information, I bought this at Macy’s! It’s respectable. Like me.”

“You know? The girls,” Theresa said, cupping her own full breasts for emphasis; then she cocked a brow and gave a walleyed look at the skirt. “As for that skirt, it’s straight out of Nona’s wardrobe, is what it is. I don’t care where you bought it.” Tressie held up the tackle box and duffel bag. “I promise not to dress you like a slut. I just want to make you a little less Nona and a little more Zia Lola.”

Gianna sighed heavily and plopped on the edge of her bed. She stared at the ceiling, knowing her cousin was not a patient woman and, more frustrating, knowing Tressie was right. If she presented herself to Tucci as a woman in control, not one hiding behind wool and flannel, maybe she could maneuver him. She chewed her bottom lip. But maneuver him from what? What did he want?

“Fine!” Gianna said unbuttoning the pearl buttons at her throat and wrists. Pulling the lace and linen shirt off, she handed it to Tressie. “
This
was Nona’s.”

“I told you!
Santa madre di dio
, Gia. You dress like you’re headed for the convent.”

“I might as well be.”

Theresa cocked a brow. “What do you mean by that?”

Gianna’s face tightened as she caught her cousin’s eyes in the mirror. “Tress, I’ve never…” Heat flushed her cheeks. She couldn’t quite say it.

“Never what?”

“Never,
anything,”
she whispered. And it was true.

Tressie’s big eyes widened.

“C’mon, Gia, you’ve never had sex?”

Gianna shook her head, suddenly feeling like a freak.

“Really? Not even when you were dating Tommy Verrastro after you graduated from high school?”

Gianna snorted. “Dating? You call going to Friday night Mass dating? Papa made sure the boys sniffed elsewhere.” A sudden flash of anger erupted. “In fact, Papa made darn sure the only thing the boys left with was a cannoli.” Gianna turned and faced Tressie. “What’s it like?”

She watched her cousin’s eyes darken, then look away.

“I’m not exactly rolling in experience here, Gia. Remember, your father and mine came from very similar schools of thought when it came to raising their daughters. Keep them cloistered and virginal until they walk down the aisle.”

“No kidding. Alberto Cipriani wrote the book on that topic.” And with that, Gianna made a decision. She moved over to her dressing table and sat down. She smiled into the mirror, catching Tressie’s deep dark eyes, which were so much like her own. “I’m really glad you came.”

Tressie smiled back. “Me too.”

Gianna looked away, her original question still burning hard. Her cheeks flushed hotter. “Papa told me boys were nothing better than rutting pigs, and once they got what they wanted from me, they would move on to the next girl. But that never squashed my curiosity. I always wanted to know what it
feels
like.”

Theresa looked away and shrugged. “Sad thing is, Uncle Berto was probably right. As far as how it feels? My only experience was with Mark, and judging from that, you aren’t missing much.”

Sensing Mark was probably one of the reasons Tressie jumped at the offer to come help out, Gianna didn’t push. But she still wanted to
know
.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out, Tress. But Mark’s loss is my gain!” Gianna turned back to the mirror and took a deep breath. “Okay, from this moment on, Madonna is dead, and the real Gianna Cipriani is coming out!” She grinned, looking up at Tressie. “Do your worst, cousin. When I’m done with Tucci, he won’t know what hit him.” Gianna swallowed thickly and wondered who the heck she was kidding.

The shadow across Theresa’s face vanished as she rubbed her hands together in anticipation. She cupped Gianna’s jaw, tilting her face this way and that, frowning and making little “hmms” to herself.

“Am I salvageable?”

Tressie nodded. “You’ve got the Cipriani cheekbones, sculpted, exotic, very Sophia Loren.”

“Am I too fat? Guys like those stick girls. I am
so
not a stick. More like a log.”

“I prefer to use the word
lush
to describe the Saccamano ass.” Theresa grinned and swung her own curvy rear seductively. “You’re the exact same size as me. You just have to learn how to work it.” She ran her hands through Gianna’s hair, stretching it out to its full length. “And your hair is amazing, but we’re vertically challenged, so this much hair can be overwhelming. How about I give you a trim?”

Gianna nodded.

Theresa went to her tackle box of stuff and rustled around for a moment, emerging with a pair of shears. She sliced the air in pretend menace. “Come here, my pretty.”

Gianna nodded again, knowing she was safe in her worldly cousin’s hands. “I’m in your hands, Tress. I’m going to close my eyes, and when I open them, I want to be the Italian version of Cinderella.” Gianna closed her eyes, then opened one. “And that includes the glass slippers and Prince Charming.”