That's Amore! - Janelle Denison [67]
"I'm sorry, we're closed," Rachel said, stiffening as she tried to stare the guy down. "Cassie's gone. You missed her."
Turn around. Turn around and walk out so I don't have to knee you in the groin because you accidentally touched me one too many times.
But he didn't. Instead, to her complete dismay, he came all the way into the store, shutting the door—which Ginny had obviously forgotten to lock—behind him. "Well, that's too bad," he said, licking those thick sausage-link lips that matched his thick sausage-link fingers. "But maybe you and I can have a nice chat, anyway."
A nice chat. The last time this guy had tried to have a nice chat, he'd asked her to help him make sure he was ready to be faithful to one woman for the rest of his life. He'd had the perfect suggestion on how to do it.
By having Rachel strip naked for him to see just how long he could resist her.
"I don't think so," she said, her jaw as stiff as her shoulders. "Now I'm going to count to ten, and if you're still here, I'm going to pick up the phone, call your fiancée and tell her what a jerk she's marrying."
The threat didn't appear to phase him. Neither did the numbers she whispered as he stepped ever closer in the shadowy confines of the store. She began to count aloud. "Three, four…"
"Don't be coy," he said, his steady steps never faltering.
For the first time, Rachel felt a twinge of concern. It was past closing time so she couldn't expect anyone to wander in. She had no after-hours appointments scheduled. And the semi-darkened interior, lit only by the lights in the back room, would make it difficult for anyone passing by to see a thing going on inside. "Eight, nine."
"You don't want to do that," he said, his confidence nauseating. "You don't have to play hard to get with me."
Hard to get? As if she'd let this man get her?
Not in this lifetime, mister.
Moving her hands behind her back, she felt around on the counter for the phone. Or a weapon. She found nothing. No scissors, no wickedly sharp, metal letter opener—if they really made those things anywhere but in old black-and-white film noir movies. Finally, though, her fingers closed around the hard base of a plastic bride-and-groom cake topper.
Better than nothing.
But just in case, she also lifted her leg slightly to warm up her knee for action. Then she gave him one final warning glare.
"Ten."
I'M GETTING MARRIED.
Hitched. Tying the knot. Settling down. Goin' to the chapel.
Putting his head in the noose.
He shook off the thought and tried to focus on the truth. I, Lucas Santori, am getting married.
He still couldn't believe it. In less than three weeks he would be a married man. Nineteen days until a wedding. A ring. Two ecstatic families. A Knights of Columbus Hall decorated in white, green and red to honor the flag. Tureens of Italian wedding soup and platters of homemade raviolis and red gravy. His two grandmothers arguing over which of them made the best brachiole. Tables overflowing with Italian cookies and confetti—candy coated almonds. A bride carrying a borsa, the white silk bag stuffed to overflowing with cash-filled envelopes. Anisette toasts and cream cake and Rudy Martinelli crying and red-faced as he danced with Maria to the sweet-enough-to-make-you-puke song "Daddy's Little Girl."
Then the crowning moment when the deejay would have them turn to the crowd and would say, "Ladies and gentlemen, meet Mr. and Mrs. Lucas Santori."
Ball and chain, here's my friggin' leg.
Walking down
Taylor Avenue
on this warm and sunny May afternoon, it seemed impossible that it had really come to this.
Why in God's name had he proposed to Maria Martinelli? When the hell had he fallen in love with her? More importantly, had he fallen in love with her? The last couple of months had gone in such a blur, he really couldn't say. He'd fallen all right, but not necessarily in love. Just into an engagement he never would have predicted six months ago.
It had started as a blind date with a neighborhood girl, the daughter of one of his father's boyhood friends. She'd seemed a