Are You Lonesome Tonight?. Wendy Etherington

eh? Quite a triumph.”

      Smiling, Francesca shook her head. “I can’t imagine who could have managed to arrange such a thing.”

      Joe winked. “Somebody powerful, I’ll bet.”

      “Handsome, too,” Tony added.

      Joe laughed. “Don’t forget charming.”

      “And with an irresistibly sexy nephew.”

      Francesca rolled her eyes. “Good grief.”

      “So, bella, what do you have planned to knock off Mr. von Shalburg’s shoes?”

      “That’s socks, sir,” Tony said. Joe was forever getting American expressions mixed up.

      “Socks?” he asked with a confused frown.

      “You step into someone’s shoes, and knock someone’s socks off.”

      Joe waved his hand. “Sì. So, where’s the menu?”

      Francesca handed a paper to him, and he took a few moments to examine the dishes. “Excellent, though you may want to add an exotic or expensive ingredient or two—maybe caviar or truffles with the salad course. That Shalburg fellow is something of a snoot-head.”

      Francesca frowned. Tony laughed.

      “I got that one wrong, too, eh? Hmm, I meant aristocratic, high and mighty—”

      Tony stopped laughing long enough to say, “No, you got it right, Uncle Joe. Snooty is, in fact, exactly the right description for good ole von Shalburg.”

      Francesca planted her hands on her hips. “You’re not helping, Joe.”

      “What did I say?”

      Tony laid his arm across his uncle’s shoulders. “She’s just a little uptight about von Snoothead’s visit.”

      “I didn’t get much sleep last night either,” she added before thinking, then glanced at Tony. Her face flushed to the roots of her hair.

      Tony couldn’t help remembering the image of her stretched out on the bed, one silky, perfect breast exposed, her curvy body and olive-toned skin enticingly set off by her pink satin camisole. Desire slammed into him with the force of a stormy wind off Long Island Sound. He swallowed. “Yeah. There’s a lot of that going around.”

      “Let’s go over by the pool and see how the pouring is coming along.” Not looking at Tony, she stepped out of her heeled sandals and into a pair of rubber boots that looked as if they’d just fallen from the pages of the L.L. Bean catalog. Tony glanced down at his Italian leather loafers and winced.

      “Where are your work boots?” Joe asked.

      “What would I want a pair of work boots for?” He pointed at Francesca’s feet. “Especially ones as ugly as that.”

      Francesca and Joe exchanged an exasperated look.

      Tony just shrugged, then rolled up his black pants. He balanced himself on the wooden frame for the sidewalk and used it like a tightrope to walk to the pool.

      He, Joe and Francesca introduced themselves to the site foreman, but as the others discussed the mix ratio of concrete to stone, Tony gazed at the still-empty pool. Francesca would look great stretched out by the pool, wearing nothing but a bikini, sunglasses and a smile. What color would her bikini be? He recalled a red one from last summer when he and a bunch of their friends had rented a house on Martha’s Vineyard.

      Or maybe pink, like the now-infamous nightie.

      She’d smile and turn toward him, sliding her hand up his bare thigh.

      No, she’d probably just glare at him. No that’s what she’s doing now, you idiot.

      He rubbed his hands together, as if he’d be glad to volunteer to spread the concrete himself—if only he was properly dressed. “Well, it looks great to me.”

      Francesca promptly turned back to the concrete conversation, and he fought against the provocative images of her and her bikini. He stared—hard—at her white turtleneck.

      Nope. That didn’t help. He knew what was under there. He’d touched and sampled what was under there. If only he could get under there again…

      “Ms. D’Arcy!” someone called from a distance.

      They all turned toward the veranda.

      The housekeeping manager, Mabel, waved, but she wasn’t smiling. “It’s Chef Carlos.”

      Now that man would put just about anybody off their pleasant thoughts.

      FRANCESCA had barely cleared the kitchen door when the resort’s prized, can’t-run-the-place-without-him chef jabbed his knife into the chopping block.

      “I will not work with that, that imbecile, that klutz, that…food masochist!”

      Chef Carlos was half Cuban and half Puerto Rican, so to describe him as passionate was an extreme understatement. He was also highly respected, a perfectionist, well-traveled, sophisticated, and a Ricky Martin lookalike.

      Since Francesca had known him only by reputation before interviewing him last month, his appearance had been something of a shock, but that was nothing compared to actually dealing with him and his…problem on a daily basis. In public, “fans” followed him around, they screamed, they tore at his clothes. Explaining he was not the internationally known entertainer was useless.

      Even in the privacy of the resort, the problems continued. Francesca had gone through endless interviews with housekeeping managers before she’d found practical, sixty-something Mabel, who didn’t want to jump him, just mother him. And Carlos himself didn’t help much. Personality-wise he had little in common with the butt-shaking performer—he was a grouch, and his perfectionist nature had everyone jumpy and irritable.

      “My art requires at least a minute bit of assisted skill. As much as I’m able to juggle, I cannot withstand the pressure entirely alone.”

      “Of course, Chef,” she said, though she didn’t agree with his assessment of Kerry, whom she thought was a talented, even-tempered sous chef.

      Chef Carlos heaved a deep sigh. “What do I expect with such a child?”

      “Kerry is twenty-three, Chef. He’s an adult.” Carlos hadn’t had such a prestigious job at that age. Maybe there was a bit of jealousy here as well.

      “I want him out.”

      But she couldn’t get rid of Kerry. He had the secret stash of Hawaiian gourmet chocolate to make her favorite midnight snack—chocolate-covered marshmallows. He refused to reveal his source, and she couldn’t make it through the night without those marshmallows. “No,” she said simply.

      “No? Did you say no? No one tells the great—”

      “Oh, come on, Chef.” Francesca tapped her foot. “What did he do—specifically, without histrionics?”

      Francesca figured very few people ever argued with the talented chef, but if she didn’t let him know early on that she wouldn’t be bullied, she’d be dealing with scenes like this every week, hell, maybe every day. With von Shalburg’s visit as well as their opening round of guests just a few days away, she had to establish leadership and strength now or she wouldn’t ever be able to. Still, her heart pounded with the idea that Chef Carlos might pack up his knives and go home.

      “He…he cut the carrots for the pasta primavera a quarter-inch too short.”

      “He—” Francesca leaned against the counter for support. Life had really been okay at the Hilton. She’d had a perfectly nice job, a perfectly nice paycheck…distance from an unreasonable attraction to her best friend.

      This is your dream, angel. Make it work.

      She could all but hear her father whisper encouragement in her ear.

      “Where