All Tucked In…

Despite how tired she felt this morning, Carla smiled and took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scents of her childhood. A hundred percent pure Italian coffee, she thought. There was, quite simply, nothing like it. Almost every morning of her life, she’d breathed the heady scent that had always been the DiDolches’ lifeblood. Waving at Vince Gato, who was seated near the front windows with Sylvia Rossetti and Salvatore Domico, Carla beelined for Jenna, saying, “Is mine ready?”

“Coming right up, boss,” returned the other woman cheerfully. A moment later, Jenna turned. She was dressed in black, and when she grinned, the silver loop in her eyebrow flashed every bit as much as the smile. She set a heavy white cup and saucer on the counter. “This is that new Kenyan blend you wanted to try.”

“Kenya?” Mary DiDolche said into the phone. “Did I hear Jenna say Kenyan blend? You know we’ve never used that. Your father gets his shipments from Jack Liotta in the Strip District.”

“Mama,” Carla cut in, gripping the phone more tightly and trying her best not to lose her temper as she lifted the glass lids of the cake plates on the counter and carefully scrutinized cookies and pastries. In about fifteen minutes, the morning rush was going to begin. “I know how you and Pop feel about expanding our repertoire, but Starbucks is killing us. Besides, the Kenyan beans did come from Mr. Liotta.”

Her mother made a shocked sound. “Jack Liotta has quit selling Italian products?”

“Of course not. But he knows that we have to expand our menu. Just as he has to expand his. To keep up with the times.”

“We have our faithful customers,” her mother said defensively.

“I know, Ma, but…” Sighing, Carla decided not to point out that her parents’ friends weren’t going to be around forever. “We need to bring in new customers. The Marcottis retired to Florida around the time you did. And the Tuccis are trying to sell their place.”

“Vince Gato is still loyal to us,” claimed her mother.

“True,” Carla said, shooting Vince a quick grin. “He’s having his espresso right now, but we need more than one customer, now, don’t we?” Actually, there were seven in the shop. Not bad for this time of the morning, but if her parents would let her offer breakfast cereals, she could pull in some of the college kids. Lifting the lid of a cake dish, she took one of the decadent, sugar-loaded morning pastries that DiDolche’s had been serving the public, along with its turbo coffee, since 1888. “I take it Louie got here,” she said to Jenna as she took a bite, tucking the phone beneath her chin, “but where’s the tiramisu?”

On the phone, her mother inhaled audibly. “Did you just say there’s no tiramisu?”

“Calm down, Ma,” Carla said as she chewed. “If Louie didn’t bring all the cakes, he’ll be back, okay?”

“He’d better.”

Carla laughed softly. “If he doesn’t, I’ll call cousin Carmine, okay?” Carmine, who owned a locksmith business, was generally acknowledged as the toughest of all the DiDolche relatives.

“Carmine knows how to handle things,” agreed her mother.

Carla was still busy doing her usual morning once-over. The plate glass windows were gleaming, and she felt a surge of pride as she took in the green, gold-tipped lettering on the glass that read DiDolche’s Since 1888.

It was a wonderful café. Above, was the original tin ceiling; below, black-and-white marble floor tiles deeply veined with green. Curved-glass cases were chock-full of the rich, homemade Italian deserts Louie delivered every morning, and fresh daisies in vases graced marble-topped tables on iron stands laden with scrollwork. Carla frowned as her eyes settled on the green bench outside. “Mrs. Domico’s poodle is by our bench again,” Carla reported.

“That woman!” exclaimed her mother, outraged. “She never picks up after that awful animal.”

Through the plate glass, Carla caught Mrs. Domico’s eye and mouthed the words, Pick up. To her mother, she said, “Don’t worry. I just told her.”

“Good!” said her mother. Before Carla could start arguing once more about the changes she needed to make to keep their business in the black, her mother continued, “It’s nearly eight. Why are you just now getting downstairs? It’s those dreams again, isn’t it, Carla? You didn’t sleep last night, did you?”

“I’m fine,” promised Carla.

“No, you’re not. And if you can’t sleep, you can’t run a business. DiDolche’s has been around since 1888.”

The words put the fear of God into Carla. “I can run a business just fine.” At moments like this, it was hard to believe her parents had retired and lived in another state. If they decided to reclaim the business, Carla would be crushed. As far back as she could remember, she’d wanted to run this place. “I have a business degree, Ma. And you’re not coming here to go over the books.” If her father saw that she’d introduced three new kinds of coffee, she’d be in deep moose caca.

“I knew it when I called and you were still upstairs in the apartment,” said her mother, ignoring her. “It’s those dreams.”

“I’m fine,” Carla assured her just as her eyes landed on the Pittsburgh Post Gazette. The headline read Pittsburgh Preservation Society May Take Over Sloane Mansion. Her heart lurching, she edged closer and began reading. What on earth had happened? Was Tobias going to lose his clinic? That place was his life! Her cheeks warmed as she thought of how happy he’d been when he’d gotten the lease ten years ago—they’d had dinner at Tessaro’s to celebrate—then she mentally flashed on their wedding and how she’d run back down the aisle.

And then Carla firmly reminded herself that Tobias had married Sandy Craig, who was definitely everything Carla wasn’t: tall, thin, blond and Protestant.

She forced herself to finish reading the article. Of course, through Vince Gato who was a member of the Preservation Society, she’d known that Tobias had discovered Cornelius Sloane’s hidden porn collection, but she’d not known that he could lose his lease. Wouldn’t the university give him more funding, for another space he could turn into a clinic?

If not, what would he do? A dream researcher of his caliber would probably have to relocate to work. He’d even been written up in Newsweek. Somehow, she simply couldn’t stand the idea of him leaving the Burgh. This was his home. Even though they barely spoke anymore, she and Tobias had begun dating in high school, and he was the only man she’d ever slept with. Even though they weren’t in love, he was…

Hers.

It didn’t matter that she’d caught him trying to avoid her when they’d bumped into each other in a grocery store last month. Deep down, she knew that if she ever really needed something, she could call on him.

“Are you listening, Carla?” demanded her mother.

“I was reading an article about Tobias,” she admitted.

“See!” her mother exclaimed as if she’d just won a long-standing argument. “You still think about him! You can’t get over him! He never leaves your mind!”

“He’s in the paper, Ma,” she said defensively. “It sounds like the clinic might close.”

Her mother offered another of her trademark, theatrical gasps. “Well, this means you’d better make an appointment and see if he can cure you, Carla.”

“Ma,” she managed as two customers came in, signaling the beginning of the rush hour, “I’ve really got to go. I need to look at the air conditioner.” It had gone on the blink for an hour yesterday. Not good, in the middle of August. Carla glanced longingly at a strip of unused ground beside the building. It would be the perfect place to build a patio and serve drinks—if only her parents would allow her to make the change.

Carla suddenly looked at Jenna and squinted. “Why are you here? Didn’t you have a doctor’s appointment?”

Jenna’s eyes widened. “Uh…nope.”

Her mother heaved a sigh. “It’s those dreams again.”

And it was, as much as Carla didn’t want to admit it. Months had passed in nocturnal bliss, but then suddenly, last night, Carla had tossed and turned. She’d awakened with damp sheets twisted around her body. Right now, she could absolutely swear she and Jenna had had a conversation about her taking the day off.

Yes. The memory was razor-sharp, as clear as this hot, scorching day promised to be. Jenna was standing near the counter, wearing a black sundress.

And yet it was only a dream.

The nightmare had returned, too. Carla could recall hazy visions of mazes and secret passageways. Stairs that led to nowhere. A dark, enclosed, musty-smelling cramped room where a man seated at a desk slowly lifted a pair of golden underwear. Golden underwear! What a crazy notion! So crazy that the dream shouldn’t have been scary, and yet it was. Carla had never been able to make sense of it. Now she shuddered. Because, for a second, she could almost hear his voice at her ear, saying, “If you marry, you will die.”

“Carla?” her mother was saying. “Carla?”

She snapped back to attention. “Huh?”

“This settles it,” she said. “Your father and I are coming to Pittsburgh next week. No ifs, ands or buts. I want to know what you’re doing at the café. The DiDolches have had this business—”

“Since 1888. I know, Ma. If you and Pop would start having some faith in me—”

Once more, her mother gasped. “We have faith in you!” she defended quickly. “You’re our daughter! You’re a DiDolche! We love you!”

Despite how drained she felt from the lack of sleep, Carla finally smiled. “I know you do.”

“So, we’re coming next week. And while we’re there, you’re going to take a few days off and go to that dream clinic, huh? What do you say, Carla?”

She slid her eyes to the newspaper article again, and her heart did that awful telltale flip-flop. Oh, she’d never forgive him for marrying Sandy Craig, but she guessed when it came to hurting each other, they were now even. And yes, he’d definitely hurt her. Deeply. Not that it made any more sense than her dreams, since it was she—not he—who had run out on the wedding. Still…just thinking about seeing him made her whole system start going off kilter. His name alone could give her sweating palms, a racing pulse, a melting core. You name it.

“Carla,” her mother was saying, “as soon as we hang up this phone, you get right back on it, call the clinic and get yourself an appointment.”

Carla hedged. “Ma…”

“If you don’t, your father and I might have to come back home and help with the café….”

Carla’s lips parted. “You know you’re matchmaking, don’t you?” Before her mother could answer, she added, “It really is over between me and Tobias, Mama.” Their near-marriage was seven years ago, past history. She still wasn’t completely sure why she’d run. Was it really because of some stupid dream? Was she that haunted by phantoms of her own imagination? By things that weren’t even real?

“I’m not matchmaking!” her mother was saying. “I’m worried about your health. And if you don’t make an appointment with Tobias, I’m afraid you’ll be too tired to run the café. The DiDolches have been in business—”

“Since 1888. I know, Ma.” If she’d heard it once, she’d heard it a thousand times. Lifting her mug from the counter, Carla decided to ignore her mother’s veiled threats about reclaiming the café she took a deep draught of coffee. The new Kenyan blend was going to be a keeper, she realized instantly. “You know what happened at the church, Ma,” she finally said. “I can’t make an appointment with Tobias.”

“You can’t,” her mother rejoined decisively. “But you will.” Another audible breath sounded. “Or else I really will come back and run the café myself.”

“You’re not serious,” Carla muttered. But then, when it came to the manipulations of Mary DiDolche, one never knew. Carla hesitated, then she thought of last night, which had been pure hell. Then she had an image of her parents coming back to town and working in the café again. “Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll call the clinic. I promise.”

“If any man can turn a woman’s nightmares into dreams,” declared her mother on a relieved sigh, “it’s probably Tobias Free.”

And how, thought Carla. Mothers might know best, but they usually didn’t know the half of it.

2

“CARLA,” TOBIAS SAID, extending his hand. “I saw your name on the roster. This is a surprise.”

An unpleasant one? It was hard to tell by his tone. “Hello, Tobias.” As she said his name, Carla’s heart missed a beat. Just eyeing the big strong hand that, in the past, had slowly, dexterously caressed every inch of her sent prickles dancing across her skin. When she slid her palm to his, her breath stilled completely. The handshake was quick, firm and businesslike, and yet not quick enough, since Carla instantly registered the smooth feel of his fingers. Her belly fluttered as they ghosted over hers. The muscles of her lower body tightened as they withdrew. Tingles made the tips of her breasts constrict, and she could only hope he hadn’t noticed.

Yeah, she reflected, that hand was just as she remembered: warm, dry to the touch and intriguingly alive. She tried not to take the thoughts any further…to how that hand had felt sliding up the creamy skin of her shuddering inner thighs. He could caress her for hours, bringing her to satisfaction over and over. He was the kind of man who loved every second of a woman’s pleasure….

Heat suffused her cheeks. The room was air-conditioned, but suddenly every interior inch of her felt as if it had hit triple-digit temperatures in August. Maybe even the depths of Hades. Right about now, she’d kill for an ice cube. A bead of sweat snaked between her breasts and she exhaled shakily. No, she never should have let her mother bully her into coming here.

“Have a seat,” he suggested in a voice that could have been whispering sweet naughty nothings into her ears for the past seven years.

Vaguely, she realized she was staring at his mouth as if mesmerized. What had she been thinking? Lord, Carla, she thought now. You could have married this luscious hunk.

No, Carla hadn’t forgotten the voice any more than the feel of his hands. Deep and rich, it had seemed to rumble in his chest like thunder before a storm, then pour out like sweet, succulent honey. “Seat?” she echoed, her mind ceasing to function as her eyes dropped over his body—the wide, broad shoulders, the hard chest, the jeans that were just tight enough to gracefully trace his masculinity. But why was Tobias wearing a sport coat and tie? If he was still the man Carla had known, his employers were lucky to get him to wear a shirt. Or anything at all. Yes…the Tobias Free she’d known had been very anti-clothes.

His lips were curling into the slow, sexy smile she remembered—and with that smile, the whole of their history threatened to overwhelm her. “Seat,” he said, chuckling and pointing to a velvet upholstered love seat. “That thing you put your rear end on.”

Hmm. So he still had a sense of humor. “Just wanted to make sure,” she quipped. “I’d hate to wind up being a centerpiece for your table.”

“Or hanging from a chandelier.”

“You have that much fun around here, huh?”

“You’d be amazed where sleepwalkers wind up.”

“Not really,” she returned, thinking of her own nocturnal habits. Relaxing a little as she sat, she glanced around the fancy, old-fashioned parlor, taking in the red carpet and dark wood-paneled walls. “The place hasn’t changed a bit,” she added, then wished she hadn’t said the words since they were another reminder that she’d been here with him before.

“Yeah,” he agreed simply, taking a clipboard from under his arm as he turned away to seat himself on a settee opposite her. “It’s right out of a Stephen King novel. If you ask me, this mansion looks haunted.”

“Good for a dream clinic,” she offered.

“Only if you’re having nightmares.”

“Which I still am.”

“I can see that from your intake form.”

She could barely believe they were talking like two normal, rational people. No doubt it wouldn’t last long. Their only real conversation after she’d run from the altar had quickly degenerated into a screaming match. She wasn’t interested in having a replay. Neither was he. Ever since, on the rare occasions they’d spoken, the conversations had been brief and polite. They were adults, after all.

As he scanned down the form she’d filled out when she’d arrived, she took another look around the room, mulling over the details—a mosaic fireplace, crown ceiling moldings and ancient oil paintings. Original beaded lamps from the nineteenth century were perched on end tables, and the hammered bronze candelabra on the mantle looked like something Dracula might carry up a flight of stairs. Tobias was right. The mansion, which had been leased with most of its original furnishings, did look a little spooky, like something out of a horror story. “It’s not really scary,” she decided aloud.

“No,” he agreed. “Just old.”

She shifted her gaze to Tobias, sucking in a breath when pure lust blindsided her again. Past memories of their lovemaking came, as visceral and unwanted as the dreams that so often seemed real to her. She found herself recalling the strength in his legs as they’d glided along her thighs, and how the short silken strands of his chest hair could feel, teasing the sensitive skin between her fingers.

He’d changed in the past seven years. Oh, he was still the same heartthrob who’d stolen her attention in high school, when he was a track star and she was a member of the pep club. He had the same straight, hay-blond hair that he wore too long and that occasionally dipped into melting brown eyes. The same sexy light-brown dot of a mole beside lips that could kiss like the devil. The same burning, penetrating concentration that he brought to every task, including lovemaking. But a few lines had appeared around his eyes, and the skin over his high cheekbones seemed more taut, making him look more mature. Yes, any trace of the boy had definitely left Tobias Free. He’d grown up completely, into a man.

He glanced up from the intake form. “Is this everything?”

Suddenly, she wished he wasn’t being quite so businesslike, and that she was outfitted in something other than khaki pants and a T-shirt. Recently, she’d bought an emerald-green sundress, but she’d decided against wearing it, not wanting Tobias to think she’d dressed for him, if she saw him. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d sit down and read her intake form. She fought the urge to reach and smooth her hair, the wild curly strands of which were frizzing in the heat. “Yes,” she said. “I really can’t think of anything else.”

“Before I show you to your room, I’d like to ask a couple more questions, if you don’t mind.”

He was showing her to her room? “Are you sure?” she managed, feeling more nervous by the minute. When she’d made the appointment, she’d convinced herself that she might not even see Tobias. “I mean…” She didn’t know quite how to say it. “I didn’t expect you to be involved in the…”

“Nitty-gritty? You know me better than that.”

“So, that’s how you think of me?” she couldn’t help but tease. “As the nitty-gritty?”

His eyes captured hers. “Hands-on, if you prefer.”

Heat slid through her veins again. He’d been hands-on in more ways than one. “I know how involved you are in your work,” she answered, wondering if he’d actually just flirted with her. It was impossible to tell from his tone. “I’ll be glad to answer anything I can, of course,” she quickly added.

“How often do you suffer insomnia?”

She shrugged. “Not often anymore.”

“Then why are you here?”

She’d forgotten that, too. He’d always gotten straight to the point. He was the same way in bed. He’d go straight for erogenous zones that sent her soaring. Suddenly, she wished she’d slept with some other man, if only once. That way, Tobias might not have such a hold over her fantasy life. “The dreams, when I do have them,” she forced herself to say, “seem more—” she searched for a word “—intense.”

“Intense?”

Like your melting brown eyes. “Yes.”

“And they still seem real?”

She thought of the other morning, when she’d been so sure that Jenna had planned to take the day off work. “Very. Sometimes, I find myself assuming things happened that really didn’t. For instance…” Furrowing her dark brows, she thought a moment. “The other day, when I saw Mrs. Domico walking her poodle, I was shocked because I’d thought Missy—that’s her name—had been dyed green.”

He laughed softly, and the sound warmed her blood. “Dyed green?”

She couldn’t help but smile as she nodded. “I know it sounds crazy. Who would dye a dog green, but—”

“Mrs. Domico,” Tobias interjected, thrusting the splayed fingers of a hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes. “From what I remember, she was just the type.”

Carla laughed appreciatively, but the sound died abruptly on her lips. Tobias remembered everything, even Mrs. Domico. Was he as plagued by memories of their passion? “Well, the dog hadn’t really been dyed green, of course. But as I passed Mrs. Domico on the street, I asked why she’d dyed Missy white again, instead of some other color. I said I thought she’d told me she was thinking about dying the dog blue, but…”

He quirked an eyebrow. “You actually had this conversation with Mrs. Domico?”

“Fortunately, people in the neighborhood are used to this quirk of mine,” she reminded him. As her eyes drifted over Tobias, she couldn’t help but suddenly frown.

He frowned back. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, then changed her mind and shrugged, eyeing his clothes, “I guess I’m just shocked by how respectable you’ve gotten.”

“Sounds like resistance.”

“Resistance?”

“Yeah.” His lips turned upward, looking kissable. “Freud’s concept. As soon as we start to analyze your dreams, he predicted you’d shift the subject.”

She definitely wouldn’t want Tobias to analyze the dreams she could so easily have about him. His gaze caught hers, locked and held. “About the outfit,” he added. “Don’t let a sport coat and tie fool you, Carla.”

It wasn’t really fooling her so much as making her salivate. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in one.”

It was the wrong thing to say. She could have kicked herself instantly. All at once, the air felt bristly, as if someone had come along with a syringe and injected it with pure, one-hundred-percent porcupine needles. Because, of course, he had worn a tie before. A tux, too. On their wedding day. To make up for the faux pas, she said, “It looks good.”

Clearly fighting not to roll his eyes, he stared back down at the paper on the clipboard and resumed his businesslike tone. “Are the dreams the same?”

She nodded. “Yep. Ma insisted I try to get some help. I haven’t had the…uh, underwear dream for awhile, but it’s bothered me for the past few nights in a row.”

“Your mother told you to come?”

Was it her imagination? Or, for the briefest instant, had he looked disappointed? Had he hoped this was an excuse to see him again? She hesitated. “Yes.”

“How is your mom?”

“Fine.” For a moment, she caught him up on her family, then asked about his, especially his mother, Laura, whom she missed. As he began reading her form again, she said, “According to the paper, you might lose the clinic. Is that really true?”

Looking vaguely annoyed, he lifted his chin once more, and somehow, she was glad to see the expression of his eyes soften when he registered her genuine concern. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. He glanced over his shoulder toward a long entry hall. “Actually, that’s the reason for the tie,” he confessed. Before explaining, he continued. “I’m still so clueless when it comes to wearing them that Elsie had to knot the thing.”

An image of Sandy Craig crowded into her mind. “Elsie?” she couldn’t help but ask, trying to sound casual. Who was Elsie?

“Oh.” His eyes widened slightly in surprise as if he’d expected her to know. “Elsie’s my assistant.”

She hoped she hadn’t sounded jealous. Obviously, she had no right to the feeling. Her lips parted. “Cassandra’s gone?”