“Mr. Wolfe . . . tell us, what new film are you working on?”
“I’m in between projects right now or I wouldn’t be here. And please, call me Michael.”
Mrs. Masini beamed. “I liked that car movie.”
Michael laughed. “So did I. Nothing quite like driving someone else’s expensive cars fast.”
“You do your own stunts?” Gabi asked.
“Some.”
“Mr. Masini loved to drive fast, rest his soul. It would kill him to be here on an island with only golf carts.”
“Papa would have found a way to make the cart do ninety.”
“You’re right about that, cara,” Valentino told his sister. His occasional words in Italian made Meg’s belly warm.
“Do you like fast cars, too, Mrs. Masini?” Meg asked, doing her level best to ignore the tingle spreading through her limbs.
“I do.”
The waiter arrived and presented Valentino with a bottle of wine.
With a nod from Valentino, the waiter proceeded to open it.
“You’re welcome to order whatever you like,” Gabi told them, “but Alonzo owns Grotto di Picano. His wines are wonderful.”
Michael sat forward, his interest focused. “This is your label?” he asked.
“It is.”
The waiter poured Michael a small amount of wine and stood back. With a swirl, sniff, and sip, he swallowed and nodded. “Your winery is in the Umbria region?”
Gabi smiled and Alonzo blinked. “It’s in Campania, actually.”
Michael took another sip and shrugged. “It’s good.”
“Thank you.”
“You know wine, Michael?”
Meg preferred a shot of whiskey or a nice cold beer over wine. She’d learned to drink wine, knew what went with what, and didn’t mind some of the heavier reds, but knowing what region a wine grape came from . . . no, not her thing.
“A little.”
Meg shook her head. “Michael’s wine cellar is full.”
Michael bumped her knee under the table.
“You’ll have to add Alonzo’s to your collection.”
Alonzo shifted in his seat and tapped Gabi’s hand on the table.
“I might do that,” Michael said.
Wine was served and the chef’s specials were presented.
“What is it you do for a living, Miss Rosenthal?”
The question was common, the answer always vague. “Acquisitions and client relations,” she said, pushing her salad plate aside.
Alonzo seemed disinterested, where Mrs. Masini narrowed her eyes. “Is that in the movie business?”
“No.”
“What exactly do you acquire?” It was the first direct question Valentino had asked.
“You don’t know? Seems you make it your business to learn every possible thing about your guests before they arrive on the island.”
Michael leaned in. “Meg is a little sore on the subject, Valentino. Seems your delay in approving our stay left a bad taste in her mouth.”
It was Meg’s turn to hit Michael under the table.
“Is that right?”
The nerve of the man. He knew damn well she wasn’t happy with his snail-paced delivery of their approval.
She found him staring at her, his steely-eyed expression and lack of a smile unreadable.
Why couldn’t he be bald and unappealing? Why did her pulse beat like a drum on the African plain anytime she looked at the man?
“Women dislike being told no, Val. How many times must I tell you that?” Gabi, bless the woman, offered a valid argument.
“I grew up in a home with three sisters. I can verify that statement.” Michael went on to talk about his family, directing the conversation far away from Alliance and its true service. It would never be public knowledge just who Meg, Sam, and anyone who worked with Alliance set up.
While Michael engaged the others, Val leaned close. “I couldn’t help but notice that you avoided my question.”
“Question about what?” she asked, even though she knew what Val was asking.
“What the company you work for acquires.”
She picked up her wine, took her time tasting it. Over the rim she said, “Rejection bites, doesn’t it?”
He chuckled, then mumbled under his breath. “Touché.”
When their meal arrived, Meg took her first bite of the sea bass and moaned.
“That good?” Michael asked with a teasing grin.
Instead of answering him, she broke off a piece with the edge of her fork and fed him a bite.
“Oh my God.”
“Right?” she said between mouthwatering bites.
“My chef will be delighted you’re pleased.” Val sat back and watched her as she swallowed her fish.
After blotting her lips, she managed, “It’s amazing.” Considering some of the places and people she’d managed to dine with since landing the job with Alliance—a Duchess, fake dating a Hollywood icon, and otherwise schmoozing with the überrich—the fish was damn good. The company didn’t suck either.
She dug into another piece, waved the fish in the air. “There’s a place in San Diego . . . Market Fish, or something like that—”
“On the wharf?” Michael asked.
“Yes. They come close, but this is so much better.”
Gabi leaned across the table. “My brother prides himself on the fresh selections.”