Free Behind the Shadows by Patricia; Potter Page B

Especially for a reporter.”
    â€œWhy your interest in the Westerfield family?” he asked suddenly, ignoring her observation about that damned eligible bachelor nonsense. He wanted to break the sexual intensity growing between them. He knew from her flushed cheeks that she felt it as well.
    Her hesitation told him he was right to believe she had more than a passing interest in the family he represented.
    She finally shrugged. “I often get interested in different aspects of stories I write. One thing leads to another. The reporter’s curiosity.”
    Not entirely true. She was a good liar but not good enough. He had faced too many of them not to recognize the flicker in her eyes. What else could there be? He decided to change the subject. For the moment. He would find a way back to it.
    â€œHow long have you been with the Observer ?” He knew the answer but wanted to hear from her. He liked hearing her voice. It was soft, even when probing, with just a hint of a Southern accent. Melodious.
    He liked the softness mixed with determination. And strength. He didn’t doubt the latter at all.
    â€œTen years,” she said. “Eleven if you count the summer I interned before graduation. It earned me a ticket back when I graduated, even if it was the obituary desk.”
    â€œAnd college?”
    She gave him that searching look again. “I suspect you know all this.”
    The direct confrontation surprised him. “Yes,” he said, and couldn’t help giving her a rueful grin. “But not the whys and hows …”
    Pavarotti’s voice suddenly went from soft to booming with “Nessun Dorma,” and severed his words. As the song finished, the owner—Lucchesi—came over to them. “ Perdono ,” he said, “but this was my favorite song.”
    Lucchesi left and soon returned, carrying a carafe. He lit the candle on the table, then refilled their wineglasses. “On the house,” he said. “The signorina is a special patron.”
    â€œBecause I shamelessly love your food,” she said with a smile he’d been waiting to see. “And eat too much of it.”
    Lucchesi beamed. “I keep telling my daughter to watch you, see how much you like to read. I tell her she’ll be a reporter like you if she does.”
    â€œOr a rocket scientist,” Kira said.
    â€œOr an attorney,” Max inserted.
    She groaned, and he realized she held attorneys in about the same esteem as he held reporters.
    Lucchesi bestowed an approving look on both of them and retreated.
    Max raised an eyebrow. “ Perdono?”
    â€œI don’t think he’s ever been to Italy,” she said with a conspiratorial grin. “He was born in Brooklyn. But he enjoys the words.”
    â€œHow long have you been coming here?”
    â€œSince my mother got sick. Even before going into the hospital, she came to a clinic around the corner for dialysis. I would usually grab something to eat. And they have takeout. Spaghetti was one of the few foods that sparked her appetite.”
    He grinned. “I pick good, don’t I?”
    â€œYou pick very good.”
    When Lucchesi returned for their order, Max followed her lead in ordering spaghetti. Then he sat back and looked at her. The light had dimmed where they sat, and the candle cast a red glow through her hair. She looked tired, but more relaxed than before.
    So, surprisingly, was he.
    The Chianti was working. Or was it Kira Douglas and her smile?
    The Chianti was working …
    The air was getting warmer. She didn’t think it was on her part only. He leaned closer. His hand brushed hers, and a lightning bolt of heat rippled through her.
    She took a sip of rapidly disappearing wine. Now the refill was half gone.
    Emotions ran through her. Anxiety. Indecision. Guilt.
    Maybe a combination of them all.
    Max Payton was just too damned attractive. And disarming. Who would have thought a corporate