Page 97 of Dante

I press my lips against that sweet spot I love, right where his shoulder curves up to meet his neck.

I can feel his pulse against my mouth, steady and strong. His stubble scratches my forehead a little as he shifts position.

He snuggles me instinctively, and then, as if he’s forgotten himself, he sits up and reaches for his phone. “What time is it?”

“Early,” I say, dismayed as he flips through his messages.

“Are you hungry?” I ask hopefully.

Instead of responding, he clicks on a message to read it more closely.

I fight a sigh. Once he gets hold of a message, once he returns a call, there’s no coming back.

“Please, Dante, let’s spend the whole night together.”

He looks at me, seeming slightly amused. “What do you mean the whole night?”

“You said something about wanting to spend more time with me. You said I was beautiful.” I count off on my fingers all the incredible things he said about me earlier tonight, and even some things he didn’t.

“What do you want to do?” he asks.

“We’re living in New York. We could do anything we want. Go to a Broadway play. Maybe even crash a gala. Nothing is beyond Dante Ricci.”

Then I smile at him. “Remember what Lorenzo said the other day?”

“Lorenzo says a lot of things,” Dante says. “What are you talking about?”

“He said you should take me to Little Italy.”

“And his reason?” he asks.

I throw a pillow at him. “So I can see genuine Italian pizza chefs at work. I’m meeting with my professor tomorrow, and I want to show him a genuine Italian face. Besides, I’m starving. Can we go?”

“Why not? Pizza sounds good right now.”

“Goody,” I say, bouncing on the bed like a little kid.

In less than half an hour, we’re in the limousine with Thomas driving.

“Your secretary was able to arrange a VIP tour of several good restaurants at short notice,” Thomas reports from the driver’s seat. “You’ll get VIP treatment tonight. No worries about that, Mr. Ricci.”

“That’s the least of my worries, Thomas,” Dante says with a secret look at me.

I stifle a giggle. “Do the chefs know I’m going to be sketching them?”

“It’s all been taken care of, Mrs. R.,” Thomas says.

Since we can’t eat five pizza dinners, the plan is for Thomas to double park outside each restaurant. He’ll remain there just long enough for me to get a sketch of the chef owner.

Dante puts a possessive arm around me as he leads me up the concrete stairs of the first restaurant on the list.

Once he opens the door, the place is pretty much what I expected. An overheated large space with an Italian flag and tables of happy-looking people.

“Mr. Ricci,” says the hostess. She’s attractive in an old-fashioned, Italian way, pleasingly plump, glossy black hair, big red lips. “We’ve been expecting you. Let me take you to your table.”

The woman escorts us to a table with a red-and-white checked cloth and paper napkins.

“We understand you’re on a tight schedule, so we’ve arranged to have some small dishes brought out to you,” she says. “And we’ll send special wine from our cellar.”