“Actually, I live in Manhattan, but I’m thinking of relocating and have been scouting out areas. I’m also looking to make some investments. I retired a couple of months ago from my job in a big brokerage firm and cashed in on the bull market before it turned south. I’d like to set up my own little boutique brokerage firm, but I haven’t decided where yet. All I know is that I wouldn’t mind eventually getting out of Manhattan. So my life is pretty much up in the air at the moment.”

How clever of him, Charity thought. He managed to convey very neatly that he was single, well off, unencumbered, and willing to settle down here in a few short sentences. She had no idea if what Nick said was true or not, but it definitely got Emilio off his back.

Emilio’s face relaxed. “Well, enjoy your evening. It was nice meeting you, Mr….,” he paused delicately.

“Ames. Nicholas Ames. And the pleasure is mine.”

Emilio stood as the waiter arrived with a bottle of Prosecco, two tall crystal flutes, and a platter full of delicacies with mouthwatering scents that he placed on the coffee table.

Looked like Nick had passed some kind of test. And not just with Emilio.

Charity popped a hot oliva ascolana, a stuffed, breaded, and lightly fried olive, in her mouth and barely kept from moaning. “Try one of these,” she urged. “They’re—”

“Olive ascolane,” Nick said and she looked at him, surprised. He smiled. “I’ve got my own Emilio, back in Manhattan. Off Bleecker. Only his name is Mario and he comes from Ancona. Makes fabulous olive ascolane, and the best Bolognese sauce in the world.” He chewed thoughtfully. “These olives beat Mario’s, though. Hands down. That’s got to be our secret.” He winked again. “I don’t dare tell Mario. He’d ban me forever.”

A log in the huge hearth broke apart, falling into fiery pieces in a shower of sparks. Heat blossomed in the room, painting her skin with its glow.

It wasn’t just the fire warming her up. The fire was a convenient excuse for the heat, which had surged up inside her at Nick’s wink. Incandescent, almost shocking in its power.

She could feel the heat from his body, more intense even than the heat from the fire. Or at least it felt that way.

She wasn’t naive. Nick was flirting with her. It was mild, but unmistakable—the old man-woman game she’d once played so well and so lightly and had almost forgotten. How long had it been since she’d gone out to dinner with someone attractive and flirted? Way too long, to judge by her intense reaction.

Had he noticed? Those deep blue eyes seemed so observant. It was very likely she’d flushed. Her skin was like a beacon advertising every emotion flitting through her.

This wouldn’t do. Charity forced herself to sit back, still her nerves, and smile blandly into Nick’s eyes, when—shockingly—what she really wanted to do was climb into his lap, nuzzle her face up against that square jaw, find out with her hands whether he was as hard underneath that elegant suit as she suspected. Place her lips precisely against his throat, where she could see the fine line where his whiskers stopped. Feel his heartbeat against her mouth. Lick that smooth, tan skin.

Whoa. Think of something else.

By the time they’d made their happy way through the fried mozzarella balls, tiny calamari, and huge fried Pantelleria capers, their table was ready.

Dario appeared as if by magic and escorted them to their table with a maximum of fuss. It was the best table in the restaurant and it took him a full ten minutes to get them settled. He seated Charity like an empress, whisked away a water glass with a spot on it as if it had been full of cockroaches, and guided them through their orders. He suggested that they let him take care of the wine. “Something special for you, Miss Charity.”

He came back with a bottle of Barolo from their special reserve, uncorked it deftly, and poured a finger into Nick’s glass. But even though Nick nodded his pleasure, it wasn’t until Charity had sipped and smiled that Dario relaxed.

He needn’t have worried. It was like drinking bottled sunshine.

“Wonderful,” Charity murmured. Dario beamed and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Well.” Nick sat back in his chair. He hadn’t taken his eyes from her face through the entire wine pouring. “I didn’t realize I’d invited royalty out to dinner. Why didn’t you tell me you were the queen of Parker’s Ridge?”

She smiled. “It was a little over the top, wasn’t it?”

“Absolutely.” He looked over his shoulder at Emilio chatting with some guests, then back at her. “Are you guys secretly related?”

“No, of course not.” Though at times, belonging to the big, boisterous Luraghi family sounded wonderful. She was an only child and her parents were dead. Her only family was her frail and ailing aunt and uncle. “I, um, helped Emilio’s daughter last year when she came to the library to do some research.”

“From what I’ve seen, they’re grateful for something a little more serious than explaining the Dewey decimal system to a student.”

She sipped some more of that wonderful wine. “We use the Library of Congress classification system.”

“Charity…”

She sighed and told a prettier version of the truth. “Emilio’s family is great. It’s a big one and they are all very close. Sometimes, though, that closeness can get a little…intense. His youngest daughter, Anna, felt hemmed in and used to come in a lot to the library for research projects. We became friends. She’d been having problems in school, but after a while she got back on track.”

It had been much more serious than that. Anna Luraghi had been cutting classes, dabbling in drugs, and moving arrow-straight toward the hard stuff. She’d fancied herself in love with a nasty little weasel Charity suspected of being a pusher.

Anna had been on the road to self-destruction, so desperately unhappy that Charity’s heart had gone out to her. She’d spent hours and hours talking with Anna, who clearly needed an adult she could respect outside the family to talk to. Emilio was a wonderful father, caring and involved, but his idea of dealing with a problem was to yell at it until it went away.

Anna was now at MIT, doing fabulously well, dating the cutest computer nerd on the Eastern Seaboard. Ever since, Emilio and his family treated Charity like she could walk on water.

Nick had listened to her with a slight smile on his lips, eyes narrowed, intent. His eyes were just magnificent. Dark, cobalt blue framed by black lush eyelashes any woman would kill for. They were beautiful, yet somehow managed to fit his purely male face.

“There’s more to it than that, but you’re clearly not talking, so we’ll skip over to another topic of conversation. What should it be? The weather? Books? Movies? I’d like to rule out politics and religion on principle. Other than that, I’m fine with anything you choose.”

This was startling. Charity wasn’t used to men who actually paid attention to what she said. Who let the woman get the conversational ball rolling.

Most dates listened with half an ear until the conversation bumped around to their main topic of interest—themselves. They’d make exceptions for their jobs, cars, and, lately, plasma TVs, but that was about it.

So Nick Ames was not only the sexiest man she’d ever met, he was also highly intelligent and perceptive. It meant that the gentle irony she sometimes used, and that always zinged right over her date’s head, had to be curbed.

She smiled. “Well, books are always good.”

“I should imagine so, seeing as how you’re a librarian.”

“No Marian the Librarian cracks,” Charity warned, alarmed. She’d heard them all.

His eyes were so very blue. He held up a large hand, index and middle fingers raised. His mouth tightly repressed a smile. “Not a one, Scout’s honor.”

“Were you a Boy Scout?”