Smart man, she thought. No wonder he’d become rich.

He drove sedately out of town. Too sedately, actually. To her surprise, he kept to the speed limit even outside the city limits. For some reason, some feather-brained bureaucrat somewhere had declared a speed limit of thirty-five miles an hour within a ten-mile radius of town. No one in town was crazy enough to respect the speed limit, except Mr. Nick Ames. He was driving the powerful car as if he were carrying a carload of eggs over bumpy terrain.

He braked to a complete stop at the intersection between Somerset and Fifth, where on a clear day you could see into Canada. No one stopped at that intersection unless a car was coming, which you could see from miles out in every direction. Parker’s Ridgers simply slowed down a tad, but they never stopped.

Nick Ames stopped while the light was yellow and waited patiently for it to cycle through yellow, red, then green.

It was nice being in a car with a careful driver, but Charity found herself pressing her right foot to the floor, wishing he’d do it, too, silently urging him to go just a little bit faster. There was a thin line between safe driving and poky driving and he crossed it several times. Poky driving in Parker’s Ridge, where you had to work really hard to get into a fender bender, was overkill.

Getting to Da Emilio’s wasn’t easy. There were several turnoffs and very little signage. The locals got there easily enough, but it was hard for out-of-towners. Nick Ames didn’t seem to have any problems, though. He drove straight there.

The parking space outside the restaurant was nearly empty. It would fill up later, but for now the only patrons were those here for a pre-dinner drink. He drove into the first empty slot and killed the engine.

She smiled at him as he turned into the parking lot. “You have either a good sense of direction, an excellent memory, or both.”

He turned to her, big hand draped over the steering wheel. “Both, actually. I think they’re the same part of the brain. I also have a really good memory for faces. I don’t often get lost.” He looked down at her bare hands. “You might want to put your gloves back on, it’s really cold outside.”

“Yes, Mom,” Charity said with a roll of her eyes, but it was wasted. He’d already rounded the car and was opening her door, helping her out.

The little kiss had somehow changed the chemistry of the evening. From being a nice thank-you gesture, the invitation to dinner had turned into a real date. Sex was in the air—pleasantly so. Nothing overdone, just little sparks flying about in the crystal-clear air.

Charity drew in a long, delighted breath. The air was pristine, smelling of a hundred miles of pine trees and the delights wafting from the air vents of Emilio’s kitchen. The smell of a wonderful evening.

Her life lately had been a little gray. Not gray, really, just a little…unchanging. Routine. She didn’t like to admit to herself just how much of her time and energy was taken up with Aunt Vera and Uncle Franklin. By the time Friday rolled around, after she’d put in five full days’ work at the library, checking in on her aunt and uncle two, three times a week, doing whatever was necessary for their comfort and safety, she only had enough energy to do household chores over the weekend.

Slowly, without noticing it, she started going out less and less, going to fewer movies and concerts. The one thing she made an exception for was Vassily. When he called, she always had the time and the energy.

Nick opened the door for her and ushered her in with a hand to her back. A woman could get used to those old-fashioned manners.

Da Emilio’s was, as always, warm and welcoming, with a huge roaring fire in each room. A cozy bar area beckoned off to the right and Nick steered her toward it. The portly maître d’ came up to them. Nick stopped and murmured, “Reservation in the name of Ames,” to him, but the maître d’ didn’t pay any attention to Nick at all. He just barreled on toward her.

Charity sighed and braced herself.

“Signorina Chaaariteee!” She was enveloped in an embrace of big hard arms and a big hard belly. A hug fragrant with Versace and garlic.

“Sergio.” Charity smiled at him when he finally released her. Emilio’s brother-in-law was a much more outgoing personality than Emilio himself. He made a very good maître d’.

“Welcome, my dear. Where have you been? Why have you not been eating here?” He held her at arm’s length and looked her up and down critically. “You’re looking magra. Too thin. Have you been eating enough?” He frowned and shook his head. “What am I saying? Of course not. Emilio!” he called while taking her coat and—clearly as an afterthought—Nick’s. “Vieni qui subito!”

Some customers walked into the door but Sergio ignored them. “Emilio!” he bellowed.

Charity winced, glancing up at Nick. He looked amused, totally relaxed.

“Emilio’s going to be delighted to see you, Miss Charity. Why, just the other day he mentioned you. Anna came home for the weekend and—”

“Charity!” Emilio came out from the kitchen, a tall, lean, handsome man. His food was so good, Charity couldn’t understand how on earth he managed to keep so trim. Probably because he worked so hard. He’d landed outside Parker’s Ridge over twenty years ago, a good-looking young Italian student from Bologna, hitchhiking his way through the States after college, eventually bringing his fiancée and his sister and her husband over from Bologna.

God knew why he’d elected northern Vermont to settle down in, but Parson’s Ridgers were grateful he had. It was the most successful—and best—restaurant in this part of the state.

Emilio folded her in his embrace, then held her at arm’s length, looking at her critically, just as Sergio had done. “You haven’t been—”

“Eating enough,” Charity said on a sigh. “I know, Sergio already told me. But I am, you know. We’re not all fortunate enough to have Silvia’s figure.”

At the mention of his beloved wife, who handled the accounts and ran their family ruthlessly and well, leaving him time to create, Emilio smiled. Silvia weighed thirty pounds more than Charity did and every ounce was composed of drop-dead curves that were magnets for male eyes.

“This is true,” he said proudly. “Still, you should be eating more.”

Charity refrained from rolling her eyes. It was time to change the subject. Emilio was perfectly capable of keeping this up forever if she let him.

“But enough!” Emilio held up an imperious hand and the waiter Charity would swear had been across the room materialized in a second by his side. Without turning around, Emilio said, “Dario, two glasses of our finest Prosecco and some hot antipasti.” In the blink of an eye, the waiter disappeared again.

“Come, sit down.” Emilio led them to the nicest part of the bar area—comfy armchairs upholstered in brilliant red brocade ranged around an antique door that served as a coffee table, just to the side of the huge roaring fire.

Emilio sat with them, as if he had all the time in the world, though it was coming up to dinnertime and the restaurant was starting to fill up.

“How’s—” Charity began, but Emilio ignored her. He swiveled and stared at Nick, a frown between his heavy black eyebrows.

“So,” he said, showing acres of white teeth in what was not quite a smile. “You’re dining with Miss Charity. Are you a colleague?”

Nick was sitting back, relaxed. “No, not at all. An acquaintance. Charity did me a favor and I asked her out to dinner to thank her.”

“Have you known each other long?”

Nick didn’t even blink at the personal nature of the question. “No. We just met today.”

Emilio narrowed his eyes. “So, do you live in this area or are you just passing through?”

Charity gasped. Emilio was grilling Nick, exactly as if she were his daughter and Nick an unwanted suitor. She opened her mouth to protest when she caught Nick’s smiling gaze. He winked, subtly, and shook his head. The message was clear. Don’t interfere. It’s okay.