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      MILLS & BOON

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      To the blonde who owns Joe’s heart: thank you for offering to share him with so many other women!

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER ONE

      THE women whose hearts had been broken by Joseph Romano, and the ones who yearned for the same fate, agreed that he was a black-haired, blue-eyed, sexy-as-hell, untamable, gorgeous hunk.

      The old-line financial wizards who watched as Joe amassed millions on the San Francisco stock market said he was a cold-blooded, hot-tempered upstart. And they called him things a lot more graphic and less polite than “hunk.”

      Joe’s grandmother, who’d adored him for the entirety of his thirty-two years, told anyone who would listen that her Joseph was handsome as a god, sweet-natured as an angel, and as smart as the you-know-what. Nonna had just enough of the Old Country left in her so that she wouldn’t say the devil’s name out loud any more than she’d say any of these things to Joe’s face.

      What she did tell him, as often as she could, was that he needed to eat his vegetables, get to bed on time, find a good Italian girl to marry and give her, Nonna, lots of beautiful, bright bambinos.

      Joe loved his grandmother with all his heart. She and his brother, Matthew, were all the family he had left. And he tried to please her. He ate almost all his vegetables, except the ones no real man would ever eat. He went to bed on time, though his interest in being there had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with the succession of beautiful women who passed through his busy life.

      But marriage…well, a man didn’t put his neck in that noose until he was ready.

      Fortunately, Joe had never felt that ready. He didn’t expect to, not for a long, long time.

      An intelligent man, Joe never mentioned that to Nonna during the last-Friday-of-the-month suppers they both enjoyed whenever he was in town. Supper with her, and a bachelor party for one of the guys he played racquetball with, was why he’d flown back to San Francisco on a warm Friday in late May.

      He’d been in New Orleans, checking out a small start-up company whose stock looked interesting. When the stacked redhead who’d been walking him through the firm’s data leaned in close and said, in a sexy whisper, that she hoped he’d let her give him a more intimate tour of the French Quarter over the weekend, Joe had grinned and started to say he’d surely love that.

      Then he’d remembered the bachelor party. More than that, he’d remembered that this was the last Friday of the month. Nonna had made a special point of reminding him that she expected to see him for dinner.

      That was unusual. She never had to remind him because Joe never forgot. If anything, Nonna was always telling him that she didn’t want him to feel locked into their once-a-month Fridays.

      “You have other things you want to do, Joey,” she’d say, “you do them.”

      Joe had hugged her and told her that he’d sooner break a date with the queen than miss a Friday with her.

      It was true. Sometimes he figured his grandmother was the only reason he’d made it through childhood in one piece.

      She’d taken him in a zillion times when he was a kid and his old man was looking to beat the crap out of him for some numbskull antic. She’d been a rock for him and Matt when their mother died. She’d never given up on him, even after he’d pretty much given up on himself. And, when he’d finally straightened himself out, joined the Navy and then the SEALs, been honorably discharged and completed his college education, Nonna had simply said she always knew he’d make something of himself.

      So Joe had flown back to San Francisco that May night, climbed into his cherry-red Ferrari, stopped to buy a bouquet of spring flowers and the smooth-as-silk Chianti he and his grandmother liked. Then he drove to her clapboard house in North Beach. She’d lived in it as long as he could remember, despite the efforts of both Joe and Matt to convince her to leave it.

      Nonna greeted him on the back porch.

      “Joseph,” she said, “mio ragazzo.” She gave him a big hug. “Come inside, sweetheart, and mangia.”

      The hug and the smile were normal. The Italian was not.

      His nonna had come to the States as a bride of sixteen. She spoke English with an accent but English was what

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