by Day Leclaire
Too bad she only knew the dog paddle.
She let out a small sound of disgust. Honestly. That sort of attitude wouldn’t get her beans in this business. Keeping the company viable was important to her. She had something to prove. She wanted to prove to her father she could succeed in a man’s world, despite his feelings to the contrary, and despite the fact he’d never witness her success. And she wanted to prove to herself she could keep Constantine’s, Nick’s baby, afloat.
She faced the stack of bills, determination taking hold. “I won’t let you down, Dad,” she vowed in a resolute voice. “Somehow I’ll figure a way out.” Taking a deep breath, she reached for the first invoice.
“Andrea? Cara?”
She glanced up and smiled warmly, the bill fluttering onto the stack. Joe Milano. Just what she needed—a long, cool drink of tall, dark, and handsome, with a sexy Italian accent to top it off. “Joe! How nice to see you. Come in and sit.”
“I like to see you, too. You look good. Very good.” He stepped into the room and gazed around with a touch of bewilderment. “But, ah, where do I sit? You do redecorating, yes? It is . . . different. Very nice.”
With a start, she realized the innumerable files, invoices, and reams of paper, which had taken up permanent residence in her life, also covered every available surface in her office. A hint of color warmed her cheeks. Leave it to Joe to call her particular brand of mass confusion redecorating. Inbred gallantry came as naturally to him as breathing.
“Maybe here,” she suggested, striving to lift a stack of order forms from one of the chairs.
“No, no!” Joe exclaimed, easing the burden from her arms with a disapproving frown. “I move them, no problem.” He staggered beneath the load, glancing around for a vacant spot to place it. His handsome face mirrored his growing alarm. “Er, cara,” he began. “You like these someplace special, yes? You tell me where, please.”
She hid a smile. “How about that corner over there?” she suggested, pointing to the least cluttered spot.
“Ah, fine,” he murmured in relief. He crossed the room in a few swift strides and dumped the pile onto the floor. Turning, he slapped the dust from his hands and beamed at her. “I am good help. Maybe I move another something, okay?”
She stared at the mess on the floor in secret amusement and shook her head. “You’ve done more than enough. Thanks.”
With a grin, he swept her into a bear hug, thick dark curls tumbling across his brow. “So how you been, huh?” He gave her a lingering kiss on each cheek, his mustache tickling her face. “I miss you. You miss me?”
She laughed, returning his hug. “Always. And I’m not redecorating. This is the stuff from Dad’s office, on top of my own. I’m still sorting through it . . .” Her throat closed over and she broke off helplessly.
Joe slid his hands to her shoulders and studied her, his dark eyes gleaming with instant sympathy. “Poor Andrea. And here I bother you with more troubles. Maybe I come tomorrow, yes?”
“No, no. You’re always welcome. Please have a seat.” Besides, she already knew what Joe planned to discuss—the poor quality of Constantine’s produce. More troubles, indeed. She struggled to recover her equilibrium and forced out a smile. “How’s Caesar?” she asked, preferring to put off the inevitable.
He relaxed into the chair, running a finger down the sharp crease of his trousers. “My poppa is fine, thank you so much. He asks for you all the time. You not visit for many weeks.”
Guilt swept through her. Caesar Milano’s arrival in the U.S. twenty-two years ago had coincided with her mother’s death. He and her father had struck up an immediate friendship. Since then, she’d practically lived at the Milano house, the adored honorary daughter of a household overrun by males, a household that, until recently, hadn’t included Joe. As the eldest son he’d remained in Italy to care for his aging grandparents, not joining his father until a few years ago. To her delight, Joe had accepted her just as readily as all the other Milanos, becoming like another big brother.
“I’m sorry I haven’t come by. Business. You know how it goes,” she offered.
His gaze held reproof. “This is not good, Andrea. Your business, it is too much. I worry about you. Poppa, he worries about you. My brothers, well . . .” He gestured in dismissal. “They not worry, but they are too stupid to know better.”
“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely, hastening to add, “Not about your brothers. I mean about not visiting more often.”
He studied her for a minute, his brow furrowed in concern. “Er, cara, I wonder if maybe you not come because of our little problem?”
“No! Of course it isn’t,” she denied, the lie bringing stinging warmth to her cheeks.
He shot her an apologetic glance. “It is embarrassing. I understand,” he quickly soothed. “Your poppa make contract with my poppa. This is fine. Okay. We know Nicky, he do the right thing by us.” Joe gave an expressive wave of his hand. “Now Nicky is dead. Poppa, his heart is broken. He not like to talk business with his little Andrea. You understand?”
All too well. It was the story of her life. Men dealt with that aspect of life and the women stayed clear, at least in traditional Greek and Italian households. This conversation wouldn’t be happening if she had a brother or a husband. Most of her business problems were a result of that very fact.
“I’m sorry the produce went bad so fast,” she said, deciding to cut to the chase. She eyed Joe hesitantly, wondering if he’d mentioned such an awkward, troublesome, wrath-inducing problem to Thor Thorsen. With any luck he hadn’t. And with a bit more luck he wouldn’t. She cleared her throat. “You, ah, don’t need to bother Thor about this. I’ll refund you for the produce myself.”
Joe drew himself up in apparent insult. “You think I come here with the hand out? No! I come to see how you do. I should not like to say it, cara, but you don’t look so hot. All this work, it is gonna kill you.”
“What do you suggest I do? Joe, I’m a woman.”
He grinned, his gaze roaming over her in admiration. “Well, yes. I have noticed this.”
She threw him a fierce frown. “That’s not what I meant! I mean the prevailing male attitude that a woman shouldn’t be in the produce business. It’s ridiculous. I’m twenty-seven. I know what I’m doing.” Well, she admitted with painful honesty, she sort of knew what she was doing. “Stop treating me like I have cotton candy between my ears and let’s get down to brass tacks.”
He stared at her in confusion. “Cotton candy and tacks? What do you want with these?”
She smiled. “Business, Joe. Let’s get down to business. We need to reach an understanding about our contract.”
A long moment of silence stretched between them. Andrea could see him debating how to proceed. To go against a lifetime of conditioning must be difficult, she acknowledged. He might be only in his early thirties, but generations of Milanos continued to believe certain topics were the province of men alone. Clearly, this was one of them.
“It is very hard. You understand?” he said at last.
“Yes, I do understand. My father felt the same way. He didn’t like women in business, either.” She spoke firmly, willing her voice not to falter. “But he’s gone now and I’m the only one left. Talk to me, Joe.”
He shrugged fatalistically. “Okay. We talk.” His dark eyes were very serious, almost bleak, the usual humor and mischief missing. “This contract your father signed, it is good for everybody. We get food fast, we pay only a little more, and we order any time, and Thor, he delivers. This you cannot do for us. So, we are happy. Who gives us the produce is not important, so long as it is good produce.”
Andrea stared at him in concern. “And it hasn’t been. I realize that. I’m having trouble with my suppliers.”
“This trouble, it is over soon?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’m doing my
best.” She swallowed, struggling to push the truth past her pride. “But I guess my best isn’t all that good.”
His gaze slid away from hers. “Cara,” he murmured. “We have problem. The bad produce, it hurts the restaurants. People expect only the very best at Milano’s. They start to complain. We hold out many months, but soon, Milano’s go pfft.” He gestured downward with his thumbs. “Down the tub.”
“Tube.”
“That, too.” He stared at her glumly. “Our goose, it is cooked?”
“I didn’t know. Let me think.”
On every front she faced a brick wall—uncooperative suppliers, poor quality, fierce competition, bad prices, angry buyers, and worst of all, that huge loan with those staggering payments. For her father’s sake, for all he’d sacrificed for Constantine’s, she’d desperately try to save the business. But without a door in those brick walls, she didn’t know how to do it.
The answer suddenly came to her. She hated it as an alternative, but she was fast running out of options. If she couldn’t save Constantine’s, she could at least help the Milanos. A man could succeed where she failed. A man familiar with the business would have a chance of turning things around.
Jack Maxwell ran a small wholesale produce business specializing in restaurant accounts. He was also interested in expanding. He called on a regular basis offering to buy Constantine’s. At a ridiculously low price, true, but it offered a possible solution. There’d only been one hitch to his proposition.
She glanced at Joe, requiring more facts before proceeding. “Our contract hasn’t changed, has it? It’s still between the Milanos and Constantine’s, right?”
“Correct,” he agreed.
“If . . . if I sold Constantine’s, the deal would continue with the new owner, not with the Thorsens?”
Joe appeared bewildered. “Yes. We have contract with you. You have contract with Thorsen. This means we stay with you, er, the new owner. Why do you ask?”
So, Maxwell’s one condition—that Constantine’s would retain the Milano account—could be met. It also meant the Thorsens would be left out of the deal because Jack wanted to supply the Milanos directly. Thor, forgive me, she thought unhappily before speaking. “It’s simple, Joe. If there’s no other way—” and she’d begun to believe there wasn’t “—I’ll sell Constantine’s.”
Silence reigned.
Then Joe leapt to his feet, launching into speech. “No! This is no good. It is a family business. How you sell family business? No, no. I not ask such a thing. Poppa, he not ask such a thing. My brothers—” He snorted. “They probably ask, but I smack them upside the head for being stupid.”
Andrea couldn’t help it. She laughed. For a minute, Joe stared at her, uncertain whether or not to take insult at her amusement. A frown creased his brow. Then his lips twitched and he grinned.
“You think that is funny, huh? I defend your honor to my brothers and you laugh at me?” He crossed to her desk and edged his hip onto one corner. The huge pile of bills wobbled precariously before toppling to the side. Invoices spewed in a white and pink flood across the desk and onto the floor.
“The way things are right now, it’s either that or cry. And I’m fresh out of tears.” She reached for his hand. “It isn’t because of Milano’s alone that I might sell. There are other factors. Factors I can’t control.” Like her supply problems and the loan from the bank.
“You maybe discuss these factors?”
“No, I maybe don’t discuss these factors.”
He leaned closer. “What you say to a little bribe? Some of my cannoli, perhaps?”
“That’s not fair!” She shot him a wounded look. “You know how much I love cannoli.”
“Of course you love my pastry. This is because Italians make good chefs. I,” he announced without modesty, “make great chef.” His admiring gaze drifted to her hair and he reached out to snag a soft curl. “This is very good. You love pastry. Me, I love blondes.”
“And brunettes and redheads,” Andrea said dryly.
“Well, yes,” he admitted with a broad grin, not a bit abashed. “But blondes!” He covered his heart with his hand and sighed. “These are my favorites.”
“Every last one of them,” she agreed.
“Ah, cara,” he reproached. “Finding the good woman is much hard work. You marry me and I don’t look no more. What you say, huh? We marry and fix all this trouble with your business somehow. No problem. I make you very happy.”
To her amazement, she was tempted to accept, which gave a clue to how desperate she felt. She adored Joe, but not in that way. Gently she set about dissuading him. “I don’t think so,” she said, then lied without compunction, “You see, I don’t like children.”
For a minute he simply sat and stared. “What you mean you don’t like children?”
She shrugged. “Just that. I don’t like them.”
“Not one?” he demanded, horrified. “Not even little ones? How can this be? You pull on my leg, yes?”
“No, I haven’t touched your leg.” She smiled in mock innocence. “You see why it won’t work.”
He closed his eyes, a martyred expression on his face. “Okay, fine, cara . I make very big sacrifice. For other woman, no way. But for you, I wait three whole months. You learn to like just the little boys and I marry you. What you say?”
What could she say? Andrea ground her teeth, laboring to find the words to vent her outrage. Then she saw his mustache quiver slightly and a rakish gleam dance in his dark eyes, and knew she’d been had. They both burst out laughing.
He yanked her from the chair and into his arms. “Your face!” he exclaimed. “It is very funny, your face.”
“You’re lucky you have a face left,” she retorted. “‘You learn to like just the little boys.’ Get real.”
“You should not tell a lie. You do it very bad,” Joe reprimanded.
She wrinkled her nose. “Why don’t you teach me how to do it good?”
“I teach you anything you like.” He lifted a brow. “What you say, huh? We start first lesson right now. I teach you how to—”
“I realize it’s a cliché, but it does seem fitting,” a deep authoritative voice cut in. “Am I interrupting something?”
Chapter 2
“ T hor!” Andrea gasped. She struggled to pull free of Joe’s embrace, something that proved unexpectedly difficult to accomplish. “I— You— We—”
“Why, Thor Thorsen. Nice to see you again,” Joe said, and grinned, his arm locking around Andrea’s waist. “You like something?”
“Yes. I’d like something.” In two strides he crossed the room. In two seconds he parted Andrea from Joe. And within two heartbeats he ushered a vehemently protesting Joe from the office. Then he turned and faced Andrea.
She stood before him, aware of feelings she thought long dead coming slowly, painfully to life. It had been one full year since she’d last seen her former fiancé. Three hundred and seventy-five days, to be precise. He looked exactly the same, still the Norwegian thunder god and still thunderous.
How could she have forgotten so many of the little details about his appearance? Or had she forgotten? Perhaps she’d buried the memories, afraid to confront all she’d spurned.
His hair was a rich gold, the stubborn waves burnished with a hint of auburn. He measured several inches over six feet, his shoulders and chest straining against his business suit. When he stood as he did now, his feet firmly planted and his arms folded across his chest, everything about him spoke of power and control, especially of control.
She met his intense blue eyes with trepidation, her gaze sweeping over his sharply angled face. His broad intelligent brow gave way to high cheekbones and a strong determined chin, his wide mouth set in taut lines. But the most fascinating and incongruous feature of all was the small gold hammer earring he wore in his
left ear. The mark of Thor. A mark she’d always associated with crushing strength and power.
All in all, a dangerous animal, she remembered with a touch of apprehension, his fierceness barely held in check by a superficial sophistication.
He stood motionless before Andrea’s scrutiny, giving her time to look her fill, and she knew why. The more she saw, the more dismayed she became. Without saying a word, he’d put her squarely on the defensive.
“A suspicious man might read something into your little embrace with Milano,” he commented, a slight smile edging his mouth.
Andrea returned his smile. She wouldn’t be intimidated by this man. She wouldn’t. At least, not much. “And are you a suspicious man?”
“Very.” His smile grew, turning predatory. “Have I reason to be?”
A heavy pounding from the office door interrupted them. Before Andrea could move, Thor responded, swinging it open. His broad shoulders filled the narrow aperture, barring entrance. “What?” he barked.
“Er, cara.” Joe’s muffled voice came from the far side of the human wall. “Everything, it is all right? No problem?”
She debated her response for all of five seconds. Why borrow trouble? No point in risking Joe’s near-perfect features for momentary satisfaction, not when the momentary satisfaction would undoubtedly go to Thor. “No problem, Joe.”
Brown eyes bobbed up and down over Thor’s restraining arm. “I see you later, okay? We discuss more our, er, discussion.”
“Fine.”
“Ciao.”
“Yeah, right,” Thor muttered, and closed the door.
Andrea frowned. “You have a very strange way of treating your customers. Milano’s Restaurants is still your customer, isn’t it?”
“Last time I checked,” he confirmed.
