Dances with Monsters(12)

She glanced up when Bunz re-entered the kitchen, biting at her lower lip, looking as though she wanted to smile, but didn't.

"What?" Drew asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Bunz cleared her throat and went back to mixing her cannoli filling. "Just a customer out there. Asking for you. Wants a latte."

"Oh," Drew muttered. She quickly unscrewed the mini air canister and picking up the other full canister of the caramel whipped cream, she headed out into the café, slipping behind the counter. She leaned over to put the canisters in the fridge.

"What'll you have?" she called.

"Latte, please," a deep male voice replied, low and rich.

The voice made her freeze for a second, its familiarity clutching at her. Slowly, she straightened up, and found herself looking into a pair of earnest blue eyes. She swallowed.

Heath Riley was sitting at her counter.





Chapter Four


Heath couldn't remember the last time he'd been in Little Italy. It was one of those neighborhoods he knew existed, but rarely had a reason to venture to. Actually, never had a reason to venture to was more like it.

He couldn't help appreciating the overall ambiance of the mostly-friendly family neighborhood of Pittsburgh. Restaurants, shops and stores boasted signs all in Italian. The streets were filled with locals going about their daily activities. He was Irish, and his pale skin and light eyes made him feel like he stuck out like a sore thumb. He pulled the hood of the sweatshirt he wore under his leather jacket over his head and trudged down the street until he saw the inconspicuous storefront of Café Carnevale. He pushed through the door, the little bell over his head tinkling gently, marking his entry.

The first thing he noticed was that the café was totally empty. The second thing he noticed was that it was filled with a sweet, delicate scent that boasted of delicious pastries, mingling with the rich, heavier scent of roasted espresso. They were pleasant scents, to be sure, and he couldn't help taking a deep breath.

The café was small, but cozy, with wooden tables and chairs dotted around the room. To his left was a long, exquisite mahogany bar with stools. Behind the bar was a long counter with espresso machines and a wide variety of syrups and flavors for coffee beverages, canisters of coffee and espresso, blenders, and the like. As he headed toward the bar, he glanced at the wall, seeing several framed pictures to his right. The one at the top was of a middle-aged, smiling, dark-haired couple. The frame was engraved with "Mama and Papa Carnevale, Owners". The one just below was of the exact person he'd come to see; a pretty brunette with olive skin and dark eyes smiled shyly into the camera. The engraving below was "Drew Carnevale, General Manager". Below that, a picture of a funky African-American girl with short hair, red-framed glasses and big earrings, who was grinning slyly, bore the inscription "Bunz Williams, Pastry Artist Extraordinaire".

Drew, he mused silently, moving to the bar and pulling out a stool. At least she'd used her real name, if the spelling had been adjusted slightly to appear more masculine.

A young woman came out from what he presumed to be the kitchen and stepped behind the bar. Her eyes lit on his face and he saw recognition bloom in them, although her face gave away nothing. He knew he was looking at none other than Bunz.

"Hey," he said in a low voice, nodding slightly in greeting.

She gave him a polite smile in return. "Hey," she said. "What can I help you with?"

He cleared his throat, feeling uncomfortable and suddenly wondering what the hell he was doing there.

"Uh, Drew around?"

Bunz's full lips pulled into a smirk and she nodded. "She sure is. Do you want a drink or something?"

"Uh, sure," Heath said hesitantly.

Bunz turned and headed for the back. He heard her voice speaking quietly but couldn't make out the words. A moment later, a small figure came out of the doorway, holding several canisters in her arms. She didn't even glance his way as she bent down, disappearing behind the counter. He heard the sound of what he assumed was a storage door or maybe a refrigerator door being opened and the sound of metal against metal.

"What'll you have?" she called from below.

He glanced up at the beverage menu chalked on the board behind the bar. "Latte," he replied. Latte? he thought, annoyed with himself. Since when do you drink lattes?

There was a long pause, and he sat quietly as he watched a hand appear to grip the edge of the counter. A small hand, the neat, short nails not extending past the fingertips and professionally lacquered a deep, shiny shade of dark plum. A moment later, a tousled dark head appeared, followed by a pair of large, warm brown eyes, narrowed in suspicion. He stared back at her impassively, studying her face. She definitely looked better than the last time he'd seen her; that deep-rooted, panic-laced fear gone from her eyes. That they were now replaced with skepticism and suspicion wasn't much better, but then again he'd take that over the primal terror that had been in them before. Her shiny, dark espresso-colored hair was piled loosely on top of her head in a knot, and she wore a hint of makeup, her eyes smudged slightly with dark liner that made them appear even larger and more expressive. He remembered how her face was softly rounded, not an angular feature in sight—a pert, small and slightly up-turned nose, high, rounded cheekbones, and impossibly full, soft-looking pale pink lips that were currently pursed as she appraised him. Her face was a soft heart-shape, and as her mouth stretched slightly into a tight line, two dimples magically sprang deeply into her cheeks.