Overexposed

Nick’s jaw fell open. But the sexy brunette wasn’t finished. “By the way, that number you wanted? Here it is, you might want to write it down…1-800-nevergonnahappen.”

And without another word, she shoved at his chest, pushing him out of the way, then strode out the door. Leaving Nick standing there, staring after her in complete shock.

“I’d say that didn’t go well.” Mark stood right behind him, watching—as was Nick—as the brunette marched off down the street like she’d just kicked somebody’s ass.

Well, she had. Namely his. He just didn’t know why.

“No kidding.”

“I see you haven’t lost your touch with women.”

“Shut up.” Shaking his head in bemusement, he lifted a hand and rubbed his jaw. “I don’t know how I blew that so badly.”

“But you sure managed to do it.”

Hearing his twin chuckle, Nick glared. “At least I’m not wearing a ring. I can still try to pick up a hot stranger.”

Mark just laughed harder. Which made Nick consider punching him. Only, Mama was standing behind the counter, glancing curiously at them as she waited on the customers. If Nick went after his twin, she’d come around and whack them both in the heads with a soup ladle.

“Hot stranger…oh, man, you are going to hate yourself when you figure out what you just did.”

His eyes narrowing, Nick waited for his twin to continue.

“You really didn’t recognize her, did you?”

Oh, hell. He should have recognized her? He knew her?

“Still not getting it?”

“Tell me how much trouble I’m in,” he muttered, praying he hadn’t just come on to a cousin he hadn’t seen in years. If they were related—and he couldn’t have her—that would be a crime worthy of a military tribunal. So he prayed even harder that she’d been some girl he’d known in high school.

“Pretty big trouble.”

He waited, knowing Mark was enjoying watching him sweat.

“She is family, you know.”

Damn. All the blood in his body fell to his feet out of embarrassment… and disappointment. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

“You shot out of the booth like your ass was on fire.”

Rubbing a hand over his eyes and shaking his head, Nick mumbled, “Who is she? Mama’s side or Pop’s? Please tell me she’s not one of Great Uncle Vincenza’s thirty granddaughters. Otherwise I just might have to re-up and hide from him and his mafia buddies for the next decade.”

Mark’s eyes glittered in amusement. The guy was enjoying this. “Not Great Uncle Vincenza. Think closer.”

Closer. Christ. “There’s no way she’s a first cousin….”

“Not a cousin.”

Oh, thank heaven. “So who?”

“I’ll give you a hint. Did you happen to notice the icing and flour all over her apron?”

Had he ever. He didn’t know if he’d ever smelled anything as good as all that messy, sugary stuff combined with the brunette’s earthy essence. “Yeah. So?”

“You’re not usually this dense.”

“You’re not usually this close to death.”

“Think…the bakery….”

“Natale’s? Gloria’s folks?” And suddenly it hit him. “No.”

“Oh, yes.”

No. Impossible. It was out of the question. “Not Gloria’s baby sister. Tell me that wasn’t chubby little Cookie.”

“She ain’t chubby and I think if you called her Cookie to her face she’d slug you.” Mark threw a consoling arm across Nick’s shoulders, his chest shaking with laughter. “To answer your question, yes, my brother, that was Isabella Natale.”

Nick couldn’t speak. He was too stunned, thinking of how she’d changed. It had been at least nine—ten years, perhaps—since he’d seen her. She’d still been in high school and he’d run into her at a Christmas party at Gloria and Tony’s when he was home on leave. She’d still blushed and stammered around him. And she’d still been girlishly round—pretty but with such a baby-face he’d never taken her crush on him seriously.

Oh, he knew about the crush. Everybody knew about the crush. His brother Tony had threatened to break his legs if he so much as looked at her the wrong way at the wedding.

Huh. He hadn’t looked at her the wrong way. He’d just landed on top of her in a pile of cookies. And had been unable to get up because she’d wrapped her limbs around him like she was drowning and he was a lifeguard trying to save her.

He started to smile. “Izzie.”

“Izzie. Formerly chubby sister of our sister-in-law, turned sexy-as-hell woman, now back in town working at the bakery.”

“Her parents’ bakery up the block?”

“That’s the one.”

“Is she here for good?” he asked, already wondering how things could have turned out this perfectly.

“I don’t know. She’s been home for a couple of months, since Gloria’s father had a stroke. With the new baby, Gloria couldn’t help much, and the middle sister’s a lawyer.”

“So the youngest one came home to take over.” Not surprising. The Natales were much like the Santoris—family meant everything.

It almost seemed too good to be true. He’d finally come across someone who not only made his nerves spark and his jeans grow a size too tight, but who also came with a pre-made stamp of approval from the neighborhood. She was gorgeous. She was feisty. Her smile nearly stopped his heart. She’d had a crush on him forever—and was obviously still affected by him, judging by the way she’d taken off in a huff.

And she was not a faceless stripper behind a mask.

Enough of that. The Crimson Rose was every other man’s fantasy. At this point in his life, Nick wanted reality. He was ready for what his brothers and sister had. And he had just stumbled across a real woman who he sensed could both drive him absolutely wild with want and be someone he could truly like.

“I think I’m feeling a need for some fresh cannoli,” he murmured, smiling as he looked out the window at the sky, streaked orange by the setting sun. Izzie was no longer in sight…she obviously wasn’t too desperate for pizza.

Maybe he’d deliver it to her.

“Judging by the way she bolted, you’d better think again.”

Nick shrugged. He wasn’t worried. After all, Izzie had had a thing for him once upon a time…she had practically chased him down. He just needed to remind her of that.

And to let her know he was ready to let her catch him.

“I SWEAR, BRIDGET, you should have seen his expression. It was as if it was the first time in his life a woman has ever turned him down,” Izzie didn’t even look at her cousin as she spoke. She was too busy punching into a huge ball of dough, picturing Nick Santori’s face while she did it.

Though it had been nearly twenty-four hours since she’d run into him, she hadn’t stopped thinking about him. Drat the man for invading her brain again, when she’d managed to forget him over the past several years. Ever since she skipped out of Chicago to follow her dancing dreams, she’d been convincing herself her crush on him had been a silly, girlish thing.

Seeing him had reminded her of the truth: she’d wanted Nick before she’d even understood what it was she wanted. Now that she knew what the tingle between her legs and the heaviness in her breasts meant, the want was almost painful.

“Didn’t Nana always say the secret to a flaky crust was not to overwork it?” her cousin said, sounding quietly amused.

Izzie shot her cousin—who sat on the other side of the bakery kitchen—a glare. “You want to do this?”

Bridget, who was pretty and soft-looking, slid a strand of long, light-brown hair behind her ear. “You’re the baker. I’m the bookkeeper.” She sipped from her huge coffee mug. “So why did you walk away? You’ve wanted him forever.”

“Maybe. But I don’t want forever in general,” she reminded her cousin as she floured the countertop and began to work the dough with a rolling pin. “You know I don’t want this for any longer than I’m forced to have it.” She glanced around the kitchen, where she was working alone to finish up the dessert orders for their restaurant clients. Including Santori’s.

Not that she’d be the one delivering their order…no way. Her delivery guy would be in to take on that task shortly.

“I know. You’ll be gone again once Uncle Gus is well enough to come back to work.” Bridget didn’t sound too happy about that, which Izzie understood. Her sweet, gentle-natured cousin was an only child, and she’d practically been adopted by Izzie and her own sisters. They’d been very close growing up.

Izzie missed her too. But not enough to stay here. As soon as her father recovered, and her mother no longer had to nurse him at home full time, Izzie would be out of here for good. Whether she’d go back to New York and try to reclaim some kind of dancing career she didn’t yet know. But her future did not include a long-term stint as the Flour Girl of Taylor Street.

It also didn’t include becoming the lover of any guy who her parents would see as the perfect reason for Izzie to stick around and pop out babies. Even a lover as tempting as Nick.

“So how’s your life going?” she asked her cousin, wanting the subject changed. “How’s the job?”

Bridget leaned forward, dropping her elbows onto the counter. “I guess I’m not very good. My boss obviously doesn’t trust me, there are some files he won’t even let me look at.”

“Weren’t you hired to keep the books at that place?”

Bridget, who’d gone to work three months ago for a local used car dealership right here in the neighborhood, nodded. “They’re a mess. But every time I ask him for access to older records, he practically pats me on the head and sends me back to my desk like a good little girl.”

Izzie assumed her cousin meant her boss figuratively patted her on the head. Because, though Bridget was in no way a fireball like Izzie and her two sisters—she wasn’t a pushover, either. It might take her awhile to get her steam up, but Izzie had seen glimpses of temper in her sweet-as-sugar Irish-Italian cousin. That boss of hers obviously hadn’t gotten to know the real Bridget yet. Because she was about the most quietly stubborn person Izzie had ever met…as anyone who’d ever tried to beat her in a game of Monopoly could attest.

“Why don’t you quit?”

Her cousin lifted her mug, leaning her head over it so that her long bangs fell over her pretty amber eyes. She looked as if she had something to hide. And if Izzie wasn’t mistaken, that was a blush rising in her cheeks.

A blush. Cripes, Izzie didn’t even know if she remembered how to blush. The last time her cheeks had been pinkened by anything other than makeup was when she’d burned herself while lying out too long on the deck of a cruise ship a year ago.

Trying to hide a smile, she murmured, “Who is he?”

Her cousin almost dropped the mug. “Huh?”

“Oh, come on, I know there’s a guy.”

“Um…well…”

“For heaven’s sake, you’re looking at a woman who used to schedule two dates a night, just come out with it.”

Chuckling, her cousin did. “There’s this new salesman.”

“A used car salesman?” Izzie asked skeptically.

Frowning, Bridget asked, “Do you want to hear this or not?”

Izzie made a “lips-zipped” motion over her mouth.

“His name’s Dean,” Bridget continued. “Dean Willis. And Marty hired him about a month ago. He’s got cute, shaggy blond hair and big blue eyes—well, I assume they’re big. They could look bigger because of the thick glasses he wears.”

She watched Izzie, as if waiting for a comment. Izzie somehow managed to refrain from making one.

“He’s sold more cars than anyone else because he’s just so…quiet. Easy to talk to. Unassuming.” Sighing a little, Bridget added, “And he has the nicest smile.”

Izzie had never heard her cousin go on like this about a man. Must be serious. “So, have you gone out with him?”

Bridget shook her head and sighed again—only, much louder. “He’s never even noticed I’m alive.”

Snorting, Izzie replied, “I doubt that. You’re adorable.”

Bridget’s bottom lip came out in a tiny pout. “Fluffy teddy bears are adorable. I want to be…something else.”

Sexy. It was obviously what Bridget had in mind. Izzie eyed her cousin, considering making her over. Bridget had the basics—she just needed to bring them out a little. But she didn’t think Bridget needed much. She was so quietly pretty, so gentle and feminine…any guy would be an idiot to want to change her.

Then again, she’d known a ton of guys, few of whom were Einstein material. “So ask him out. Make him notice you.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Just for a cup of coffee.”

Her cousin snagged her lip between her teeth.

“What?”

“Well, he did ask me to go for coffee once, but I was so flustered and nervous, I told him I didn’t drink it.”

Raising a brow and staring pointedly at the industrial-sized mug in front of her cousin’s face, Izzie grunted.

“But it wasn’t a date,” Bridget added. “At least, I don’t think so.” Sounding frustrated, she added, “Maybe I should get a collagen injection. I’ve heard men like big lips.”

Ridiculous. Bridget’s beauty was the natural kind that needed no false crap like the stuff Izzie had seen other dancers do to themselves. But before she could say that—or threaten to lob a handful of ricotta cheesecake filling at Bridget if she did something so dumb—she heard the bell over the front door.

Glancing at the clock, she bit back a curse. It was nearly five—an hour after closing time. She must have forgotten to lock the door after her part-time lunch workers had left for the day and some customer had wandered in for a snack.

She doubted there was much left to serve. Mornings were their busiest time, with regulars and passers-by coming in for pastries and muffins. During the lunch hour, when Natale’s served light sandwiches and salads along with decadent deserts, they were busy, too. Since Izzie had come up with the idea to offer free wireless Internet access to anyone with a laptop, some customers parked themselves at one of the small, café tables and remained there until closing time. They drank a lot of coffee…and ate a lot of sweets. By 4:00 p. m., Natale’s display counter was generally wiped out, as this late customer would soon discover.

“Hello?” a voice called.

Grabbing a towel, Izzie wiped her hands on it and tossed it over her shoulder. “Be right back,” she told her cousin as she walked down the short hallway to the café. “Sorry, we’re closed for the….” The words died on her lips when she saw who stood on the other side of the glass display case, looking so hot she almost shielded her eyes from the glory of him.

“I know.” He shrugged slightly. “But the door was unlocked, so I thought I’d take a chance and see if you were here.”

Nick stood inside the shadowy café, illuminated by the late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the front window. The light reflected in his dark eyes, lending them a golden glow that seemed to radiate warmth. She felt it from here.

“You found me,” she murmured.

“You didn’t exactly need to leave a trail of crumbs, Cookie…this place has been here forever.”

“Don’t call me Cookie,” she snapped.

He held up his hands, palms out. “Sorry.”

Ordering her heart to continue beating normally, Izzie tossed the towel onto the counter, then crossed her arms over her chest to stare at him. “Are you trying to tell me you knew I’d be here because you knew who I was? Try again.”

Nick cleared his throat, averting his gaze. Wincing in a cutely sheepish way, he said, “No, I didn’t know you at first.”

So, he’d recognized her after she had left?

“Mark told me who you were.”

The jerk.

“I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. It’s been a long time.”

Not long enough to erase him from her mind, that was for sure. She’d recognize Nick Santori if she bumped into him blindfolded during a blackout. Because his scent was imprinted in her brain. And her body reacted in one instinctive way whenever he was near—a way it didn’t react with anyone else, even men with whom she’d been intimate.

He made her shaky and achy and weak and ravenous all at the same time. Always had, for some unknown reason.

“Yeah. A long time,” she mumbled, walking over to wash her hands in the small sink behind the counter.

Damn, she hated that he flustered her. She had known more handsome men. She’d been to bed with more handsome men. Maybe none who were as rugged and masculine, or so sensual. But she had dated drop-dead gorgeous actors and millionaires who wanted to notch their bedposts with a professional dancer who could kick her leg straight up above her head. None of them had ever affected her the way this one—who she’d never even kissed—did.

“I have to run, Izzie,” a voice said. “I don’t want to be…in the way.”

Izzie had almost forgotten Bridget was in the kitchen. Seeing the grin on her cousin’s face, she blew out a deep, frustrated breath. She’d intended to use Bridget as an excuse—or at the very least as a five-foot-five chastity belt, to keep Izzie from doing something stupid. Like smearing rich cheesecake filling all over Nick’s body, then slowly licking it off.

But her cousin was bailing on her, already heading toward the exit. “Nice to see you, Nick,” she said.

“How’s your family?”

They fell into a brief, easy conversation, like most people who’d grown up in the neighborhood usually did. Except Izzie—who hadn’t yet rediscovered that easy camaraderie with all the people she’d grown up with. While the two of them chatted, Izzie tried to regain her cool, forcing herself to look at this guy like she looked at every other guy. As nothing special.

Fat chance. She couldn’t do it. He was special.

It had to be because he was the first man she’d ever wanted. Never having had him made the intensity of her attraction build. With no culmination—no explosion when she finally had him and got him out of her system—she’d remained on a slow, roiling boil of want for Nick for years.

So take him and get it out of your system.

Oh, the thought was tempting. Very tempting. Part of her desperately wanted to ask him to go with her to the nearest hotel and do her until she couldn’t even bring her legs together. If she thought he would, and that he’d then forget about it, never expecting a repeat and never—ever—breathing a word about it to anyone, she’d seriously consider it.

But he wouldn’t. Not in a million years. She knew that just as surely as she knew he’d never have even kissed her when she was underage, not even if she’d leapt on him and held him captive. Which, to be fair, she had…at the wedding.

He was a Santori. With everything that went with the name. His upbringing, his family, his own moral code meant he would never have a meaningless sexual encounter with his sister-in-law’s younger sister. The daughter of his father’s friend. The girl up the block. No way in hell.

He was the kind of guy who would have to date a woman he slept with. Dating—neighborhood style—as in hand-holding and miniature golf and pizza at his family’s place and cannolis at her family’s place. The whole deal. Gag.

Not that he’d actually asked her on a date. If he did? Well… that might have thrilled her once—years ago when she had actually thought the bakery and her family and Little Italy were all the world she’d ever need. Now, however, it just made her sad, because as she’d already realized, dating Nick equaled strings. Strings could very well choke her.

“Well, see you tomorrow,” Bridget said as she walked out.

Izzie hadn’t even noticed Bridget and Nick were finished talking. Cursing her cousin for bailing on her, Izzie cleared her throat, about to tell him she had to get back to work.

He spoke first. “So, do you forgive me?”

“Yeah, sure, no big deal,” she replied, forcing a shrug.

A tiny smile tugged at those amazing lips of his and the dark eyes glowed. “No big deal? You seemed pretty mad.”

Damn. He’d noticed.

“I wasn’t mad. More…amused.”

“Sure. That’s why my chest is bruised where you shoved me.”

Her jaw dropped and she immediately began sputtering denials. Then she saw his wide grin. “You’re an ass.”

“And a shithead,” he replied, his grin fading though the twinkle remained in his eye. “I really mean it, Iz, I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.” Stepping around the counter to see her better, he cast a slow, leisurely look at her. From bottom to top. Then down again. “But you have to give me a little bit of a break. You don’t look much like you did.”

“I’m not addicted to Twinkies anymore,” she snapped.

“You weren’t chubby.”

“I was the Michelin Man in pink tights.”

He shook his head. “You were just baby-faced the last time I saw you. A kid. Now you’re…not.”

“Damn right.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, still watching her as he leaned against the counter. The pose tugged his gray T-shirt tight against his shoulders and chest, emphasizing the man’s size. Lord, he was broad. But still so trim at the waist and lean at the hips. It was the hips that caught her attention—the way his faded, unbelted jeans hung low on them, the soft fabric hugging the angles and planes of his body.

It really wasn’t fair for a man to be so perfect.

“So…about our conversation last night.”

When staring at him—overwhelmed by his heat—she could barely remember her own name. Much less any conversation. “Huh?”

“What do you say? Will you give me your number?”

Oh, what she wouldn’t have given to hear those words from him ten years ago. Or hell, even two months ago—if she’d happened to run into him in Times Square and he’d proposed a sexy one-night-stand for old time’s sake. One nobody in Chicago would ever have to know about. She would have leapt on the offer like a gambler on a free lottery ticket.

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on, you know you can trust me. I’m not some stranger stalking you. We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

Well, he’d known her since she was a kid. From the time she’d met him, Izzie had only ever seen the glorious, hot, sexy man. Even if he had been no more than fourteen.

“Just a night out for old time’s sake?”

He was so tempting. Because the only old times she recalled were the heated ones of her fantasies. And the incident at the wedding. He’d ended up between her legs during both. “Well….”

He moved again, coming closer, as if realizing she was wavering. Dropping his hand onto the counter near hers, he murmured, “No pressure. We could just go grab a pizza.”

She stiffened, any potential wavering done with. The last thing she would consider doing is having a public meal with Nick Santori at his own family’s restaurant. Not when her sister would hear about it and tell their parents, who’d then get their hopes up about Izzie remaining safely in the nest, as they’d so desperately wanted her to do when she was eighteen.

Leaving home after high school had been a struggle. She’d been an adult, legally free, but she’d still had to practically run away in order to pursue her dream of dancing professionally. Especially because she was the only one of the Natale daughters who’d inherited their father’s gift in the kitchen.

Probably because she loved food so much. As evidenced by every one of her porky-faced school pictures from kindergarten through tenth grade.

Her father had been crushed that she didn’t want to work with him. But she had known she had to escape—had to take her shot while she could or risk regretting it the rest of her life.

So she’d gone. She’d hopped a train, determined to stay away until she’d given her dream of being a professional dancer everything she had to give.

Making it at Radio City hadn’t eased her parents fears of her being “out there all alone.” It had actually increased them once they’d realized she was unlikely now to ever come back.