LITMIR.BIZ

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needed to work for the same reason he did, for the fulfillment of it—except, she could feel all that, the fulfillment of just being with him. He was sure of it because it was how he felt, being with her, and what in hell was he doing, heading for the office after only a handful of days alone with his Gabriella?

      “I have,” he said, “a brilliant idea.”

      She gave a soft laugh. “Such modesty.”

      “We’ll tell Mrs. Janiseck we’ll hire Stacy—”

      “Stacia.”

      “We’ll ask Stacia if she’d like to be Daniel’s nanny. I’m sure we can work out a schedule flexible enough to suit her.”

      “Yes, but—”

      “But,” he said solemnly, “you can’t afford it.”

      She flushed. “No. I can’t.”

      “Well, you won’t have to. See, I’ll employ her, not you.”

      “I cannot impose on you this way, Dante.”

      “I need the tax break,” he said, lying with aplomb. Who even knew if a nanny’s wages were deductible? More to the point, who gave a damn?

      “So many tax breaks,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “The fazenda, a nanny—”

      His mouth captured hers. His hand delved deeper, cupping her bottom, seeking her sweet heat. She caught her breath, rose to him, wrapped her arms around his neck.

      “Dante,” she whispered, her lips an inch from his, “we have to talk.”

      He answered by scooping her into his arms, saying to hell with the office and carrying her back to bed.

      An hour later he phoned his AP, told her he wouldn’t be in for the week.

      “Still out of town,” she said, because he was using his cell and one of the best things about cells was that they didn’t give away your location. “Want to give me an alternate phone number or stay with your mobile?”

      “The mobile,” he said casually.

      It wasn’t as if he were avoiding telling her he was home. Or telling his brothers. It was just that he didn’t feel like explaining things just yet to them or, God forbid, his sisters and his mother. The situation—that word again—was still complicated. While he worked things out, it was probably best to keep the news about Gabriella and the baby to himself.

      A man was entitled to privacy, wasn’t he? Besides, he hadn’t taken any time off in months.

      He asked Mrs. Janiseck to invite her niece over for an interview. Stacia showed up late morning. She was charming; she had great references and when she took Daniel from Gabriella’s arms, he gave her a solemn look and said, “Ba-ba-ba-ba!”

      “Oh, he’s babbling,” Gabriella said happily. “Right on time!”

      Dante felt like asking why babbling was such a big deal. He did it all the time—but he had a feeling the three women would have given him the kind of look a man did not want women to give, so he nodded wisely.

      “Such a big, beautiful boy,” Stacia cooed.

      He could actually see the tension ease from Gabriella’s shoulders.

      “Okay, sweetheart,” he said softly. “How about we go out for lunch?”

      “Do, please,” Stacia said. “That will give Daniel and me time to get acquainted.”

      Gabriella and Stacia talked about diapers. About formula. About a zillion things until, finally, Mrs. Janiseck clucked her tongue and shooed Dante and Gabriella gently out the door.

      “Just go,” she said softly. “Enjoy being together.” And to Dante’s amazement, she rose as high as she could in her sturdy black orthopedic shoes, grabbed his face, hauled it down to hers and planted a kiss on his cheek.

      It was the kind of perfect fall day that made New Yorkers forget the hot, sticky summers and the bone-chilling winters when the snow turned into gray slush. Arms around each other, Dante and Gabriella strolled through Central Park.

      She commented happily on everything. Babies. Runners. An elderly couple holding hands. People walking, and being walked by, their dogs. There was no need to ask his Gaby if she liked dogs. By the time she’d stopped to pet at least a hundred of them—okay, a slight exaggeration but not by much—by then, even he could tell that she didn’t like dogs, she loved them.

      When she got to her feet after a conversation with a miniature schnauzer, Dante asked the obvious question.

      “Did you have a lot of dogs when you were a kid?”

      She looked at him in surprise. “Oh, I never had a dog.”

      It was his turn to look surprised. “No dogs? On that big ranch?”

      She gave a little shrug. “My father did not like dogs.”

      “Why not?”

      Another little shrug. And, perhaps, a tiny hesitation. And then, “He just did not like them.”

      Something was up. Her English was taking on that just-learned-it nuance. Dante took her hand, decided to take the conversation in a new direction.

      “I wanted a dog like crazy when I was growing up.”

      She smiled at him. “But your mother said no, no dogs in an apartment.”

      Had he never told her he’d grown up in a house? There was an awful lot they didn’t know about each other, he thought, lacing their fingers together.

      “I grew up in a house. A pretty big one, in the Village.”

      “But still, no dog?”

      He shrugged. “Mama was convinced dogs would give us germs.”

      “Mama,” Gabriella said, smiling.

      “We’re Sicilian.” Dante grinned. “Calling her anything else might have won me a smack.”

      “And your father is Papa?”

      His smile disappeared. “I never call him Papa, or Dad, or anything but Father.”

      “Hey. I’m sorry I—”

      “No.” He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the palm. “You have a right to ask. The thing is, he’s…he’s—”

      “Old-fashioned?”

      “Old-country.” A deep breath. She would surely know some of this from having read it in the papers; she’d even tossed that famiglia insult at him, but talking about it—that was something he never did. “Remember that Marlon Brando movie? My old man’s kind of like that. The head of what he likes to refer to as a big company but in reality—”

      “Dante.” Gabriella stepped in front of him, laid a hand on his chest. “I don’t care what he is,” she said softly. “I am simply grateful that he gave you life.”

      Could you really feel your heart lift? The answer seemed to be yes, and right there, under the arch in the Ramble, he took Gabriella in his arms and kissed her.

      Where else to take her for lunch on such a glorious day but The Boathouse?

      It was early autumn but the temperature was in the low 70s, the sun was bright. Perfect for dining on the outdoor terrace beside the Central Park boat lake.

      There were no tables available—but, yes, of course, there was a table for Mr. Orsini. Gabriella sat back, watching the turtles sunning themselves on a rocky outcropping. He ordered for both of them. Tuna Niçoise for her—he remembered she loved it—and a burger, well-done, for him.

      “And a bottle of Pinot Grigio,” he added, remembering she loved that, too, but she shook her head, glanced at the waiter, blushed and told Dante, in a

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