Flirting with Fire. Wendy Etherington

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       Chapter One

      “He’s dead.”

      Her stomach in knots, Gia Sorabella stared in disbelief at the stoney-faced paramedic. “You’re sure?”

      “Pretty sure.”

      Considering the siren-blaring, light-flashing truck he’d arrived in, plus the crew and equipment he’d brought in, she was fully aware her question was stupid.

      But she fed people for a living. Deceased diners weren’t her forte.

      “How?” she asked.

      The paramedic shrugged. “Can’t say.”

      “A heart attack.”

      “Could be. I called it in.”

      “Called it in to who?”

      “The NYPD.”

      Gia’s pulse spiked. “For a heart attack?”

      The paramedic shrugged again as he turned away.

      Pressing her fingertips to her pounding temples, Gia’s thoughts raced over what to do next. Her 8th Avenue restaurant was full of customers who’d been first startled by the choking gasps from a fellow diner, then understandably alarmed by the medics’ abrupt entrance. Adding the cops wasn’t going to boost her weekend reservations.

      At least her staff had handled the whole thing with their usual professionalism. They’d calmly assured the customers that the guy had had a bad reaction to a pine nut, even as her bus boys moved an accordion-style panel to block the corner booth where the diner had keeled over into his pesto capellini.

      All this for a man who is—or was—a complete ass.

      Not that she’d wanted Elliot Craig, influential restaurant critic and legend-in-his-own-mind, dead. His reviews of Sorabella’s were okay, if not exactly glowing. She supposed she should feel fortunate, since the man ravaged almost everybody.

      As a man had just died in her restaurant, however, it wasn’t her blessings on her mind.

      “Don’t let anybody leave,” the medic ordered over his shoulder.

      Franco, her maître d’ and assistant manager, squeezed her hand as he said, “Free wine?”

      Not trusting her voice to be steady, she nodded.

      “Surely it’s a heart attack,” Franco whispered before he headed toward the cellar door.

      Surely. Elliot hadn’t exactly been the picture of health. He was short, wide and aggressive, and Gia doubted he spent his days at the Manhattan Fitness Club, even though his nights were filled with indulgences in rich food.

      “Gia? Is everything all right?”

      Glancing in the direction of the calm, strong and familiar voice, Gia had the crazy urge to throw herself into Nathan Pearce’s capable embrace. “Yes, thank you.” She worked up a smile for her good friend and one of her best customers. “Finish your dinner. Franco’s bringing around some wine.”

      Behind his glasses, Nathan’s dove-gray eyes turned skeptical. “The man in the booth across from me collapsed.”

      Damn his attention to detail. She supposed, being an architect, precision was a necessary trait for his job. Just now, though, with a restaurant full of customers, that quality was going to be a problem. “He’s being taken care of.”

      “Good to know.” Nathan slid his arm around her. “I don’t need wine. But you look like you could use a drink.”

      Before she could gather her wits to protest, he’d led her to his booth. He smelled great, a warm, woody-leather scent reminiscent of her grandfather, yet with a spice that was sensually enticing. Her head buzzing, she acknowledged the familiar sensation of heat that washed over her whenever they touched. Which was exactly why she avoided further intimacy with her friend. She’d never get to the top of the restaurant scene with him distracting her.

      “Sit,” he said gently but firmly. “I’ll be right back.”

      Gia did as he directed, figuring she had to be in shock to take his demand without question. She was supposed to be the one in charge.

      Gathering her wits, she absorbed her surroundings, so familiar, so treasured. As typical in Manhattan, space was at a premium. Beyond the front door and hostess stand were a few booths. The bar was in the back, where the restaurant hooked to the left, leading to a dining room of twelve tables. The modern decor contrasted with her traditional Italian menu. While the walls were dark, mirrors reflected ceiling and floor lights. The tables were antique mahogany, and the candles resting in the center were surrounded by amber glass, casting a soft, golden glow on the diners.

      Named for her family, opened on a loan from her grandfather and featuring her Tuscan grandmother’s recipes, Sorabella’s was her baby—her life, really. She had an obligation to be a success, to carry on the dreams of her immigrant heritage.