Rocco kept a firm grip on his fiancée’s hand. “Olivia is enough to inspire any man to poetry.” He couldn’t mask the sarcasm in his voice. “I’m sure you can see how that is.”
Stefan’s green eyes danced. “I certainly can. Maybe you should read the poem at the wedding. I’m sure we’ll all be wiping the tears away.”
Rocco gave his friend a dangerous look. He was saved by the arrival of the sommelier, who presented the wine to Stefan. The Sicilian glanced at the label, nodded and indicated for it to be served.
“So when and where is this star-studded marriage expected to happen?” he asked. “Are you giving yourselves some time to enjoy your newfound compatibility, or should we expect an invitation?”
Olivia tucked in closer to Rocco’s side and returned her hand to his thigh. “We haven’t set a date. It’s going to be an extremely busy year for both of us. Maybe the summer of next year.”
Stefan nodded. “Nothing wrong with restraint. Bambini can come later.”
Rocco almost choked on his mouthful of water. “I haven’t totally gone off the deep end, Bianco. There’s been no talk of bambini yet.”
Olivia’s fingers settled in a red-light zone between his thighs. His erection throbbed in his pants, begging for more. “Oh, but we don’t plan to wait too long, do we, cara? I am twenty-six. These eggs of mine aren’t getting any younger.”
Rocco gave her a meaningful smile laced with warning. “They’ve plenty of life left in them, bella. You are only twenty-six. And believe me, I do want you to myself for a while.”
Tonight. To strangle her. To find out what had happened to the nerve-racked woman he’d arrived in New York with.
Olivia stared innocently back at him, using her big doe eyes to full effect. “Oh, I want that, too. I know what we’ve agreed upon, sweetheart... It’s just that when I think of little Roccos with dark curly hair and big brown eyes, I find it hard to resist.”
“Who could?” Stefan drawled facetiously. “If we populated the world with millions of little Roccos, it would be a better place.”
“And the hands...” Olivia picked one of his up and showed it off. “Rocco has great hands, but they’ll be chubby little amazing ones to begin with.”
Stefan nodded. “No doubt about it. Mondelli has great hands. Many a woman would attest to that, but now that he’s taken, too bad for them, hmm?”
Rocco bit down on the inside of his mouth. Counted to three. “I am famished,” he asserted in a blatant change of subject. “Should we look at the menu?”
“The chef has prepared a special celebratory meal.” Stefan eliminated that distraction with a wave of his hand and a glimmer of laughter in his dark eyes. “Sit back and enjoy.”
Rocco attempted to. The vibe in Stefan’s new restaurant was high energy, the food as they tasted their appetizers superb, the easy familiarity of the conversation with his longtime friend enjoyable. It was Olivia who was the problem. If she’d been sitting any closer to him she’d be in his lap. Her spicy perfume, which he found he enjoyed a bit too much, kept invading his thinking processes. And her hands were everywhere... Caressing his fingers on the table, massaging his thigh. And now she’d slipped her shoe off and was—what did the Americans call it? Playing footsie with him!
Santo Cielo.
He frowned and focused intently on the idea Stefan was proposing for a Knights of Columbia charity basketball game fund-raiser. “I think it fits perfectly with our mission statement,” he agreed. “And if you can get the players, we’re golden. When were you thinking?”
Stefan lifted a brow. “I just told you—late September so we can play outside.”
He closed his eyes briefly as Olivia’s inquisitive fingers investigated the contents of his pocket, then slid back out again. “Right. Sorry.”
“Can I help?” Olivia leaned forward, all halo-endowed innocence. “I’m in my element at a fund-raiser. I can cheer you on.”
Rocco watched his friend keep his eyes above her plunging neckline. Just. “By all means,” Stefan said wryly. “Half the men in New York would show up to see you.” He passed his palm over the heavy stubble on his chin. “Would you consider doing a promotional poster for us?”
“No, she wouldn’t,” Rocco inserted. “My fiancée is not a pinup model.”
“She was.”
“It’s true,” Olivia offered. “I don’t mind. Those were fun shoots.”
“No.” The word exploded out of his mouth as Olivia slid her finger up the zipper of his pants and traced the rigid length of him. He was on fire. Literally on fire. He reached down, picked up her hand and slapped it down on her thigh, then rose from the table.