Flirting with Fire. Wendy Etherington

next thing she knew, Nathan was sliding into the booth next to her and pressing a heavy crystal glass into her hand. “Drink it.”

      In a daze, she did. After a sip, she coughed. “What the hell?” she asked, her throat burning.

      “Whiskey. Feel better?”

      She whipped her head toward him. “No, I—” Her gaze collided with those lovely gray eyes of his, turning her instantly into a marshmallow. “Thanks.”

      “My pleasure.”

      Over the past few months they’d shifted from restauranteur and customer to good friends, confidantes in the hectic world of dating in the city. With his golden blond hair, tailored suits and impeccable manners, he was attractive and nice, but not her usual type. Not that her tendency to try to rehabilitate bad boys was working out, either.

      At first, she’d tried to treat Nathan with strict professionalism, even though he’d eaten in her restaurant at least three times a week since he’d moved to the city four months ago. But eventually she’d found herself in deep conversations with him late at night, after restaurant traffic dwindled. He was smart and insightful, caring and generous. Far from the boyfriend mistakes of her past.

      But she’d been turning to him for advice and hanging out with him when she should have been doing inventory or planning marketing strategies and menus. She had to make a success of Sorabella’s—both for her bank account and her family’s pride. Nathan Pearce was a temptation she couldn’t afford. She cleared her throat, which still sizzled from the whiskey. “Mr. Craig appears to have suffered an allergic reaction.”

      “But the paramedics aren’t working on him,” Nathan pointed out. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

      “No, of course—” Gia stopped mid-lie. Nathan deserved better. “Yes.”

      “I suspected so,” he said, his shoulders sagging. “I rushed over to help, but when I got there, Jason and Dale were already giving the guy CPR.”

      Despite the gravity of the situation, she wanted to laugh at the idea that Nathan knew not only the waiter’s name, but the busboy’s as well.

      Elliot Craig had never taken the time to notice anybody.

      Ridiculously, she wondered if the critic had liked the pesto. Maybe he’d at least died happy.

      “My brother’s a firefighter in Cincinnati,” Nathan added. “I used to volunteer. I’ve witnessed a bad scene or two.”

      “Right. You’re from Ohio.” And she definitely wasn’t. A lifetime New Yorker. Brooklyn, until last year when an Italian movie icon had declared her marinara sauce the best in the city, allowing her to barely afford a move to the high-rise island of Manhattan. “I appreciate your help, as always.” Impulsively, she laid her hand over his. “The police are going to question you.”

      His thumb slid across her knuckles, and the promise of something much more carnal than a consoling friend would offer moved through his eyes. “I don’t mind.”

      She pulled her hand back. “I doubt you’ll say that an hour from now.”

      As she scooted out of the booth and stood, he followed her. “Bet I will.”

      Gia indulged in his smile briefly, then her hostess appeared beside her. “The police are here.”