Heaven and Hell (Heaven and Hell #1)(8)

Then he clapped his hands, fluttered them in the air for a second and turned toward Sampson Cooper. I caught his wink at Cooper, something else I thought was weird, then he scurried away.

I turned my attention directly to the menu.

Then I did what I’d been doing the last two weeks in Italy and that was calling up my very limited (but increasingly less so) experience of looking at menus in Italian restaurants. Cooter was not one to take his wife on the town and when he did, it was for pizza and not in the kind of pizza joints that printed their options in Italian.

Mozzarella, I knew but I didn’t see that anywhere on the menu (alas). I saw something that ended with di funghi which I was pretty certain meant mushrooms because other stuff I’d ordered with those words in it also had mushrooms. I hoped it was a mushroom omelet because that sounded really good and I had hope since the word before it was “omelette” and I figured an omelette was an omelet the world over.

I’d made this decision when a cafetière was plonked on my table with a small elegant pitcher of cream and matching sugar bowl and another Italian man, my waiter, started talking to me. He didn’t talk long but he did clap when he was done and move away without taking my order.

I watched him go and, as best I could without looking like a freak, I turned my attention to the lake without my eyes once hitting Sampson Cooper.

Then it struck me I needed coffee and I needed it STAT.

So, as casually as I could muster, I turned my attention to the cafetière, did the press thing, upended the coffee cup at my place setting and prepared my coffee.

Then, sipping carefully so as not to burn my tongue or choke, I turned my attention back to the lake.

Seriously, it was pretty. I’d never seen anything like it. It kind of sucked that Cooter and Vanessa wanting me dead was the reason why I had this gift but… whatever. It was a gift. I’d lived through hell, now it was my turn in heaven and Lake Como not only looked but felt just like what heaven had to be.

The waiter came back, shot some Italian at me and I made a stab in the dark and decided he was asking for my order. I didn’t bother speaking just did a lot of smiling and pointed to what I wanted on the menu. He nodded, snatched the menu out of my hand, did a dramatic flourish with it in the air that took slightly less space than the maitre d’s flourish but, even more compact, it was no less theatrical, before tucking it smartly under his armpit and he hurried away.

I was looking after him in preparation for the taxing effort of once again turning my head and not acknowledging Sampson Cooper’s presence when I heard a deep, low, masculine chuckle and it was so attractive, without my permission, my eyes went to him.

Then my heart stopped beating. Total stall. It would take paddles to get it pumping again.

He was no longer chuckling but he was smiling.

At me.

“Do you speak English?” he asked and I blinked.

Holy cow! He was talking to me!

“Yes,” my mouth, fortunately, answered for me.

“These guys got it goin’ on,” he informed me and I blinked again.

“What guys?” my mouth, luckily, kept speaking.

He tipped his head in the direction of where my waiter was last seen and my heart started beating again, hard and fast. I could feel it in my neck, my wrists, even at my temples.

“You think they train them in that shit?” he asked and I blinked again.

Sampson Cooper just used a curse word in a swanky Italian hotel on Lake Como!

Why did I think that was so… freaking… cool?

“What…” I hesitated then cautiously went on, “shit?”

He smiled again.

My heart stopped beating again.

Then he answered, “The menus.” He shook his head then immediately proceeded to blaspheme in a swanky Italian hotel on Lake Como. “Jesus. The first time the head guy did it, thought he was gonna clock me.”

“That would have been unfortunate,” I observed and then I sucked in a sharp breath when he threw his beautiful head back and burst into deep, rough-like-velvet laughter.

I’d never heard him laugh. I’d never even seen him laugh. Smiles, lots. Chuckles, sure. Grins, more than occasionally.

Full on laughter.

Never.

He was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen in my life. By far. And that was before I saw him in real life and in real life he was more beautiful than ever.

But that deep, rough-like-velvet laughter glided right across every inch of my skin, leaving beauty in its wake that soaked through and, I swear to God, it felt like it settled into my soul.

He sobered but his dark brown eyes were still dancing when he focused on me and agreed, “Yeah, that would have been unfortunate.”

It was at this point I jumped at least six inches because the maitre d’ was suddenly there, talking fast, gesturing broadly, his head going back and forth between Sampson Cooper and me.

Then my waiter was there.

I had no idea what was going on and, further, had no hope of finding out because he not once used the words mozzarella, ciao, grazie, capisce or pizza and if he did, that probably wouldn’t have explained what was happening.

But before I could form any conclusions or, say, react at all, my entire body went rigid when I watched in sheer, unadulterated terror as the waiter moved my cafetière, creamer, sugar bowl and coffee cup to Sampson Cooper’s table.