Are You Lonesome Tonight?. Wendy Etherington

have.

      “Is this what we’re reduced to?” she asked suddenly, turning to stare at him over her shoulder. “Avoiding each other? At a loss for words?”

      Tony forced a smile and continued the last several feet to the wicker chair where Francesca sat. “I’m not avoiding you,” he said firmly, setting the tray on the table in front of her.

      “You were just standing there trying to figure out how to tell me we’re out of Irish breakfast tea?”

      He sat, then poured her a cup, using the delicate china he’d brought her from London two years ago. “I was wondering how to approach you. You look like you’re wearing armour this morning.”

      She took the cup and saucer, adding milk and sweetener, then she glanced down at herself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      “You’re wearing a turtleneck, Ches.”

      She sipped her tea, not meeting his gaze. “It’s cold.”

      “In Alaska.” He leaned back in his chair. “Here, on Long Island, in late May, it’s due to be a balmy seventy-five by noon.”

      “So at noon, I’ll change.”

      Even in a white turtleneck, jeans and a navy blazer, she was lovely. Fresh and sexy. And—

      Off-limits.

      The clothes and her stiff posture made it plain what her attitude about last night was—I don’t want to talk about it.

      Fine by him. He wanted to forget the whole thing, too.

      “How does the menu for von Nose-in-the-Air look?” he asked.

      She narrowed her eyes. “It’s von Shalburg, and you’d better start practicing it, since you’re going to be following him around saying, ‘Yes, Mr. von Shalburg.’ ‘Whatever you say, Mr. von Shalburg.’”

      “Surely, I don’t have to—”

      “Oh, yes. You do.”

      Tony sighed. When did he get to compliment and dance with the ladies? When did he get to have cocktail parties in the owners’ suite? When did he get to sip wine on the veranda?”

      “Work first; fun later,” she said, as if she’d read his thoughts.

      “Much later,” he grumbled.

      “Now, what do you think of the menu?” She pushed a sheet of paper across the table. “I need some help with wine pairings.”

      He studied the suggestions. At least wine he understood. “I’ll okay it with the sommelier, but personally, I think the ’96 chardonnay was excellent with the fettuccine and scallops last night, so that’s a definite yes. Adding shrimp, mussels and basil is a nice touch.”

      “I’m thinking we’ll use that dish for the cooking classes, too.”

      “Mmm. Good idea. The grilled teriyaki salmon and asparagus could also take a chardonnay. Maybe a younger one—the ’99, I think.

      “Of course, the Italian trio of spaghetti, baked ziti and lasagna has to go with the Chianti—really any year. We haven’t made an unremarkable one yet.”

      Finished, he glanced at Francesca and found her smiling at him.

      “I couldn’t do this without you, you know.”

      “Without my money, you mean.”

      She blinked in surprise. Tony longed to call his bitter words back. He didn’t resent his family money. He knew he was immensely blessed, and it was selfish and childish to think otherwise. He just wished he’d made some kind of contribution to his by-birth windfall.

      Francesca slid her hand over his. “Without you.”

      He gripped her hand. “You know I don’t mean to complain. I’m just—Commitment isn’t my strong suit.”

      Her blue eyes went soft, and maybe a bit regretful, as if she realized they weren’t just talking about the resort anymore. “I know.”

      He’d vowed just minutes ago to forget all about her and that pink silky thing, and he would, just as soon as he made sure they were on the same page in this. “Last night was an honest mistake, right? We’ve both been working a lot, keeping late nights and stuff.”

      She looked relieved. “Exactly.”

      “Your faith in me and your friendship mean everything. I’m not going to do anything to risk that.”

      “Me either.”

      Whew. He should have known he didn’t have to worry about practical Francesca getting all caught up in the emotion of last night—as he had.

      But not anymore. He reminded himself if he hadn’t bailed out on working last night, everything would have turned out very differently. “I’m determined to help this resort succeed. We’re going to make this work.”

      “Of course we are.” She let go of his hand, then directed her attention to the legal pad in her lap. “You have to last at least through the summer, so I can win the pool from Sonny Compton.”

      “Ha, ha.”

      She stood, tucking her pad under her arm. “Let’s take a walk outside. The concrete people are pouring the swimming pool deck this morning, and I want to see how it’s going.”

      He rose as well. “That’s my kind of pool. I’ll even volunteer to be the first one to take a dip.”

      She linked arms with him, and her old, easy smile returned. “Let’s wait a couple of days until the deck dries, okay?”

      “Since I don’t want to be a permanent fixture at the pool, I think I’ll take that advice.”

      They strolled across the lobby, through the French doors to the veranda. In the last week, the landscaping company had added huge terra-cotta urns filled with ferns, ivy and bright geraniums. The scent of rosebushes and fruit trees filled the air. Their perfume washed over him, reminding him of the delicate fruity fragrance that always clung to Francesca.

      Oh, no, you don’t. If you have to think of a woman, think of Barbie, her broken engagement, her big blue eyes, the sway of her jeans-clad backside as she wandered over to one of the roses and inhaled the—

      No, no. Francesca had blue eyes; Barbie had—

      Actually he had no idea what color Barbie’s eyes were. He’d find out. Yes. Absolutely.

      And Francesca’s curvy backside was off-limits. Strictly.

      He forced his gaze from Francesca and focused on the truck churning out mushy cement near the still-empty pool. Men in work boots and shovels spread the mixture of cement and smooth stones in between wooden rails that laid out the path of the deck, then the sidewalk that would wind through the flower and herb garden.

      Off to the side stood a familiar figure wearing worn overalls, his silver hair glinting in the sun. Uncle Joe.

      Pride filled Tony at the realization that he was going to earn his uncle’s respect and help fulfill his long-held dream to reach even more people with the Galini family hospitality. Tony knew he’d inherited his ease with people and his love of socializing from Joe. He respected his uncle as he did no one else and yearned for Joe’s admiration in return.

      During the resort’s construction, Joe had arranged to incorporate the new venture into the advertising campaign he’d recently launched with Matt and Jillian Davidson to promote the Galini-label wines along with their century-old Tribiletto label worldwide. Throughout it all, Joe had never stopped running the winery and gift shop in the old farmhouse on the vineyards’ west side.

      His energy was boundless, a quality Tony knew he should take note of and remember the next time he had the urge to complain about his own schedule.

      “Oh, there’s Joe,”