by Mary Campisi
Angie made her way toward him, sucked in a deep breath, and willed her voice to remain even. “Roman Ventori?” The man turned and stared, six-foot plus of muscle and annoyance zeroing in on her with eyes darker than ink. Those eyes widened when he recognized her, the mouth flattened, the brackets on either side became a deep slash.
“You.” He ran a hand through his hair, blew out a sigh. “I should have known.”
She matched his sigh, tilted her head to look up at him. Dang, but he was a tall one. “Should have known what?”
“That my old man would pull this. How much did he pay you?”
“What are you talking about?” The tabloids should get this charmer on tape. It would mark the end of Mr. Beautiful’s lovely persona. Angie guessed the man hadn’t wanted to play chaperone to his father’s business associate. Too bad. She needed pictures and if the only way to get them was after closing in the company of Sal’s son, then that’s what she’d do, even if the son was the man from the inside of Chicago’s Nightlife Magazine. Roman Ventori ignored her and fitted the key in the lock of Sal’s Market. “Why would your dad pay me?” she asked, determined to get an answer. But the man said nothing, merely opened the door and flicked on the lights, leaving Angie to follow, camera slung on her shoulder.
When they reached the customer service area, Roman Ventori turned to her, his massiveness dwarfing her breathing space, and said, “My father paid you to get in my line of vision, didn’t he?”
“Line of vision?” Angie scrunched up her nose. “For what?”
He scowled, narrowed his gaze on her. “You know damn well for what. He just had a heart attack and now he’s gotten it into his head that he wants to see me settled before he dies.”
“Settled.” Settled? As in married, with a family? No. No.
“Yeah, that’s what he said, and then he started dropping hints about this nice little Italian girl he’d met who’d come to town to make a miniature rendition of his store, said I should escort you around and see what I could see. Whatever that means.” He flipped on more lights, let out another sigh that sounded like pure disgust, and continued. “Ignore whatever he told you. I am not looking for a girlfriend and I’m sure as hell not looking for a wife.”
“What?” Had he just said wife? Angie moved toward him, hands on hips, and a bucket of attitude in her voice. “Mister, I am not looking for a boyfriend or a husband. I don’t even want a dog. You got that?” The nerve of some people. “I came to this town to do a job so I can get paid, period. Whatever issues you and your father have are not my issues and you better damn well not make them mine. You got that?”
Those eyes narrowed, the jaw twitched, and dang if the mouth didn’t flip into a smile seconds before he said, “Got it.”
Angie crossed her arms over her chest, tipped her chin up to see his face and held her ground. “Do not confuse me with a groupie gold digger again.”
The smile spread. “Groupie gold digger?”
“Right.” She hid a smile. Now was not the time to let him see he could barrel through her anger and make her smile.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He thrust out his hand. “Roman Ventori, collector of groupie gold diggers.”
She laughed, offered a firm handshake, and pulled away before she could register the warmth of his skin against hers or the fact that she enjoyed it. “Angie Sorrento, partner at Dream Houses by Kate, custom-built miniatures. Now, can we check out the store? I’ve got a lot of prep work to do.”
The next hour was an educational seminar on small-town grocery stores and the importance of good customer relations as a way to keep them from closing. “The people will forgive you for not having five brands of flour, but do not forget who graduated high school and took off for college or the military unless you want to be blackballed. Or that Tommy only eats peanut butter sandwiches, no jelly for him, and his mother orders three jars at a time.”
Angie snapped a picture of the produce area, complete with a stack of bananas and six bins of apples. She wanted to get the feel of the place so she could capture it on a sketchpad and later, in a wooden structure. Sal’s son provided interesting tidbits about the store and its customers: how several brought his father homemade cookies and cakes, trays of manicotti and meatballs, baked bread, and bottles of wine at the holidays, and how his mother rationed them so he didn’t overindulge and end up with heartburn, a bellyache, or a hangover. When he talked about the old days, she didn’t miss the hint of sadness there, but there was something else, too…longing? If Angie didn’t look at him, she could almost imagine him as an ordinary guy, not a tabloid-worthy, handsome jetsetter whose shoes cost more than her car payment.
When they reached the dairy aisle, Roman stopped, picked up a block of cheese, and said, “Mozzarella. That’s as fancy as he’s ever going to get.” He shook his head, placed the block next to the others, and straightened. “Of course he has Pecorino Romano and parmesan, but no Fontina, no chèvre, no brie. Just plain old American, cheddar, Swiss, and mozzarella.” He rubbed his jaw, scanned the case. “Oh, that’s right. He added Colby-Jack and Muenster a few years ago.”
Angie glanced at the cheese case. “There’s comfort in the familiar.”
“Yeah, that’s called thinking like a dinosaur.” He moved down the case, picked up a jar of pickles. “We have kosher dill, but what about people who don’t like pickles? What can we offer them?” He pointed a finger at the top case. “What about hummus, even plain old regular hummus?”
“Not everyone wants so many choices.” Spoken from someone who still drank regular milk. “Give me one kind of orange juice, not low pulp, no pulp, or fortified with calcium.” She blew out her disgust. “When that happens, I skip all of it and pick up a lemonade.”
He laughed. “You’d never make it in Chicago. There’s a choice for every occasion and appetite; floor after floor of food and drink to persuade your palate and convince you to pick up a pound of that new coffee or the spice that’s been declared unsinkable.”
She scrunched up her nose. “Sounds like taste overload. I was thinking I’d showcase a few aisles, scale down the produce, dairy, and meat sections. The miniature will be larger than the houses I’m doing, but it’s going to be a challenge to get the feel of the place.”
Roman considered this, pointed to the front of the store. “Let’s take a look at the registers and the entrances. You don’t want to miss the bagging sections or the old-school register my father has near the office.” He shot her a grin. “I learned to cashier on that old thing. Last I knew it still worked.”
That’s what people would want to see, and Angie guessed that’s exactly what the New York eccentric would love. Everything in today’s world was calculated, automated, and electronic, and that made the old register unique. A conversation starter for sure. When they reached the register, Angie ran her fingers over the black cast-iron case, traced the number tabs. No built-in subtraction or produce codes. If you didn’t have basic math skills in your head, you were out of luck, and probably out of a job. “Does your dad still use this?” She pictured Sal Ventori pecking away on the yellow tabs, the register ringing each time he entered an amount.
“I guess.” Pause. “I really don’t know.”
The uncomfortable expression on Roman Ventori’s face said there was a whole lot he didn’t know, starting with what his father had been doing these past several years. Angie could spit out her father’s routine as well as his likes and dislikes faster than he could: Sunday afternoon meals of pasta and meatballs or homemade stuffed shells, not manicotti; milk chocolate over dark; red wine instead of white; fried chicken, not baked. Cotton socks instead of wool, work boots over sneakers. And the Sunday newspaper trumped everything. But the look on Roman’s face said he didn’t know his father’s habits or his likes and dislikes.
It was none of her business, absolutely none at all. When Kate used to try and nose around someone’s past or present, hadn’t Angie snuffed the idea with a “mind your own busin
ess” look?
“So, now you’ve seen the whole place. It holds a lot of memories and I think it’s one of the only things that hasn’t changed in the last fourteen years.”
Angie nodded, rested a hand on the ancient register. “I can see the appeal.”
He coughed, cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, I’m sure you’d do a great job with the replication, but the fact is, you’re not going to do one.”
“What are you talking about?” Of course she was doing a replication; she and Sal had already agreed on it.
Those dark eyes met hers, a mix of apology and determination sparking in them. “There isn’t going to be a replication of Sal’s Market. My father just suffered a heart attack and I’m helping my parents with the business until he’s on his feet again. There’s a lot going on and we just don’t have time to oversee some eccentric’s pet project.” His voice softened. “It’s not good business.”
She bit her lip, said, “Your father agreed. He signed papers…”
Roman Ventori’s voice lost its softness, turned hard and unforgiving. “My father’s ill. Are you telling me you’ll hold him to his word, knowing a sick man made the commitment?”
No, she couldn’t do that, but damn if she wanted to tell him that. “Your father’s excited about this project. He wants me to do it.”
He threw her a look that said she was so far off base she was in a different country. “My father isn’t interested in your replications.” He paused, enunciated his next words. “He’s interested in you.” Another pause. “For me.”
She didn’t know if the laughter that burst from her was nervousness or reaction to the absurdity of his statement. Maybe a bit of both. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Yeah, I know.” He blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Tell me about it.”
He didn’t have to sound so disgusted. It’s not like she’d ever consider somebody like him, not unless she wanted a world of heartache. Roman Ventori was that kind of guy, from the handsome face to the smooth words and killer smile, the man was a player. “Listen, you’re not interested in me and I’m not interested in you.” She crossed her arms over her chest, planted her feet. “I am, however, very interested in my livelihood and that means I have a job to do, one that includes Sal’s Market. I gave my word I’d do it, and when I give my word, I keep it.”
“I’ll pay you whatever you were getting paid for the grocery store.”
Was he serious? “Did you not hear me? I said I gave my word. This isn’t just about money.”
His jaw twitched. “I can see where this is going. My father asked me to show you the store. Tomorrow he’ll want me to look at your sketches, maybe during lunch. Then it will be talking about the plans over dinner, and before we know it, he’ll have us setting the wedding date.” He ran a hand over his face. “You don’t know my father. Trust me, you do not want to do this. It will be a nightmare.”
“I talked to your father this afternoon and I did not get that impression at all.” What an exaggerator. “How about you let me handle it, okay?” She forced a smile. “I promise, you will not have to marry me.”
He scowled. “Funny.”
“No, there’s nothing funny about being married to me. Trust me on that one.” Roman Ventori really did look distressed about the possibility of being paired up with her. Honestly, the man had to relax so they could figure this out. Distraction was the key. “What do you do in Chicago?”
He stared at her. “What do you mean?”
Angie rolled her eyes. “It’s not a trick question. What kind of job do you have? I’m guessing business.” Of course, she already knew exactly what kind of job he had thanks to the gossip magazines. Mr. Beautiful Beautifies Chicago. Hadn’t that been the headline of a newspaper article lauding his real estate brilliance? Yup, she was pretty sure she hadn’t made that one up.
“Real estate,” he ground out.
“Ah. Single dwelling? Commercial?”
“Commercial.”
Wow, and the magazines called him a brilliant entrepreneur? He sounded more like a dud. Think, think, think. How could she get him talking so he’d relax and she could convince him not to interfere with the replication? “Have you ever heard of Rourke Flannigan?” Roman Ventori seemed like the type to know Mr. Perfect. They were both businessmen, lived in Chicago, had lots of money. Oh, yes, lots and lots of money; she could tell by those fancy loafers the guy wore.
“Rourke Flannigan?” He stared at her as though she’d asked if he knew the president. “I’ve never met the man, but I know of him. I think we cosponsored a charity event two years ago.” He shrugged, his full lips pulling into a grimace. “I don’t know. My assistant handles that and tells me when to show up and where.”
Angie couldn’t resist. “I’m sure. Does she tell you what to say, too? You know, make the small talk easier to get through? Hand out cue cards? Because you are totally blowing this conversation.”
The grimace deepened, marking the brackets on either side of his mouth. “I’m a very skilled conversationalist.”
“Of course you are. I can tell.”
It was his turn to change the subject. “So, how do you know about Rourke Flannigan?”
She lifted a shoulder, shoved her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, and considered his question. “Anybody who reads an entertainment magazine has seen that face.” Angie paused, waited a few extra seconds before she zinged him with “And he’s married to my best friend.”
“What?” His gaze slipped from her chin to the T-shirt and washed-out jeans, landed on the high-topped sneakers, and bounced back to her face.
His expression said he seriously doubted her claim. Yeah, no doubt. “Why are you staring at me like that? You don’t think I know someone Rourke Flannigan would fall in love with and marry?”
“Actually…” his voice drifted. “No.” Two seconds after he spoke, he turned beet-red. “That’s not what I meant.” Beet-red shifted to maroon. “What I meant was that it’s hard to believe you would know someone who lives in Chicago.”
Angie shook her head, put her hands on her hips. “I know what you meant.” Men were such idiots. They thought big boobs, fancy clothes, and stilettos made the woman. Right. What did she care what Roman Ventori thought about her? She didn’t think much of him either with his fancy clothes and two hundred dollar haircut. He could go suck a lemon and maybe practice a few manners while he was at it.
“Look, that didn’t come out right.” The maroon had downshifted to pink.
She narrowed her gaze on him. “Oh, I think it came out exactly right. But just so you know, Kate’s not a powder puff, but a real woman. One with curves, and a real smile, and even stretch marks, and you know what? Rourke Flannigan loves his wife and the daughter he adopted.” Angie scowled and spat out, “You look like the kind of guy who has no idea what that means.” She didn’t wait for him to stumble over another apology but grabbed her bag and made her way to the door. “I’ll see you in the morning. Your father’s house. Nine o’clock sharp. I like my coffee black and strong.”
***
Witch. The woman harbored gallon-sized bitchiness in a pint-sized body. He only half believed her story about knowing Rourke Flannigan’s wife. And a kid? The man he’d heard about hadn’t been in the market for a wife, that was for damn sure, not with the glamor girls linked to his name. But according to Angie Sorrento, Flannigan found himself a wife and a kid. Worse, he was actually happy about it. That was a hard one to swallow. She was playing him because she’d gotten ticked about his comment implying she wouldn’t know someone like Rourke Flannigan. He’d been out of line and whether he thought it true or not, he never should have said it. But a woman like her wasn’t going to let him forget it. She seemed the type to make him pay for his thoughtlessness, pecking at him like a bird after a worm.
He needed to talk to the old man and make sure his father understood he had to stop this “replication of the grocery store�
�� business. His father needed rest, not an aggravation that would land in Roman’s lap if his mother had her way. Rest, relaxation, and reduction of stress, that’s what Doc Needstrom said. Roman would do his part starting with a conversation that ended this ridiculous “miniature” talk.
The next morning he went for a run on the outskirts of town. There was nothing like a run along a country road, and he knew this one well, had spent hours on it, improving his lung capacity, his endurance, the muscles in his legs. Cars and trucks cruised by as though not in any particular hurry…as though they didn’t care if they arrived at their destination ten minutes or ten hours later. Small-town driving was nothing like the steady, head-pounding maneuvering of Chicago’s busy roads. In Magdalena, there were winding roads, open lanes, and row after row of trees that brought him back to the hours he and his mother spent as he learned to drive. His father had been too busy at the store to teach him, so the task had landed on Lorraine Ventori’s shoulders, a job she’d both dreaded and welcomed. You have no idea what goes through a parent’s head the first time a child pulls out of the driveway alone.
She was right. He had no idea. There were a lot of child-related emotions he couldn’t understand, and he’d been okay with that at first. Why would he want to think about the gray-haired worry or the pit-in-his-stomach illness he’d experience with children? One or five, he heard the worry was just as great. He’d figured there’d be time enough to accept the inevitable responsibility of parenting and the worry attached to it. But he never guessed the opportunity would elude him. Jess had known, though, had probably known from the very beginning; he’d been the one who hadn’t known.
He jogged up the driveway of the small house that had fostered his dreams as a child, kept him safe, and later served as a reminder of how families could hurt one another. He dragged the towel from around his neck, wiped the sweat from his face. A shower would feel great, and then he’d tackle the Angie Sorrento conversation with his father.
Roman bounded up the back steps, flung open the screen door, and stepped inside the tiny kitchen. Cracked linoleum, white appliances, faded “zinnia” wallpaper. They’d refused his offer to update with stainless steel, granite, and tile. They weren’t interested in a garbage disposal or a dishwasher either. Who didn’t have those in today’s society? Salvatore and Lorraine Ventori, that’s who. The only item they permitted Roman to gift them was a high-end coffee maker that ground fresh beans. That was it. His parents loved their coffee and on special occasions, like Christmas and birthdays, they accepted fancy coffees from him. Other than that, the Ventoris drank whatever Sal’s Market carried; in other words, no flavors, no special grinds, no high-end stuff.
