Val watched her fan moment and realized he was seeing the real Margaret Rosenthal. This woman, the one with the unfiltered tongue and wide eyes, was the woman determined to make her way onto his island.
This woman Val wanted to know . . . thoroughly.
“You’re too young to know about Fantasy Island.”
“My parents had tapes. I keep looking for the Mini-Masini, but he’s not here.”
Jim tapped his chest and roared with laughter. “That hurt. I’m so old.”
Meg giggled . . . looked around and lost part of her grin. “Sorry. Of all people, I should know not to jump on a celeb.”
“Of all people?”
It was Val’s turn to step in. “Margaret is here with Michael Wolfe.”
“The actor?”
“Yeah,” she offered. “Wow . . . I’ve listened to you since . . . forever.”
Val noticed that Jim hadn’t let go of Meg’s hand. His back teeth ground together.
“You’re a blues fan?”
“I grew up with all kinds of music. Blues stuck. Soulful, music with purpose . . . worthy of singing.”
Val found himself pushing between them, felt a smile when Jim let loose Meg’s hand.
“You’re a singer?”
“Yes. No . . .” Meg glanced at Val, quickly looked away. “I work in an office.”
Jim tilted his head. “But you sing.”
“Not like you.”
Jim smiled.
Something popped, and all three of them looked at the grill. “Mini-me isn’t here, Masini . . . you might want to get that.”
Jim shoved him, laughed.
Val pulled the meat from the grill in record time to save their lunch.
“Cooking skills?” Meg asked.
Val shoveled lunch on a ready platter. “And I’m not wearing a tie.”
Meg lifted the plate full of food and grinned. “When you’re in shorts and barefoot, we’ll talk.”
Jim let loose a laugh. “This one has your number, Val.”
“Jim freaking Lewis,” Meg mumbled as she walked away. “What are the odds?”
Meg got it . . . really got what it was to have crazy fans meet their icons. Jim Lewis had been a part of her life since she played the first notes on the piano. Sure, he was shorter, rounder, and a whole lot grittier than she’d pictured him to be, but it was Jim Lewis.
And he knew Val.
She licked her lips. Val might not be in serious island casual, but the flowing silk shirt and relaxed pants were a far cry from the stuffy shirt and tie she’d seen him in from day one. He’d even managed to skip a shave, and damn if that wasn’t sexy as all get-out.
“Bring that over here.” Mrs. Masini waved her to a table laden with food.
Meg placed the platter of barbecued ribs and chicken onto the center of the table.
“Perfetto. Gabi, tell Luna to bring the fruit and we can eat.”
“Yes, Mama.” Gabi winked at Meg and disappeared into the private villa.
The far north side of the island held Val Masini’s private space. Meg couldn’t help but wonder if the vast ocean in front of his home was where clothing-optional swimming took place.
Only a handful of guests milled about the tropical, lush garden where the invitation-only lunch was taking place. The space could have taken on a hundred guests without feeling crowded.
“It’s beautiful, yes?” Mrs. Masini asked.
“I haven’t seen a space on this island that isn’t,” Meg told her.
The older woman smiled. “Valentino works hard to make that magic.”
Meg found her gaze moving to Val, he caught her eyes for a nanosecond before she turned away. “Does he ever take a break?”
Mrs. Masini shrugged. “This is his break. He cooks a meal instead of depending on his chef once a week.”
Meg noticed a table full of side dishes and carbonated beverages and a few bottles of wine chilling in a bucket. “Something tells me Val didn’t make all this.”
Val’s mom laughed. “He grills.” She dipped her finger into the side of the ribs, licked it off. “A master at the grill, my boy.”
“Bragging on your son?” Jim moved beside Meg and placed an instant smile on her face.
“I’m just expressing his culinary skills.” Mrs. Masini met Meg’s eyes and held them. “Do you cook?”
Meg thought of the microwave at home, the freezer full of instant meals. “Depends on what you consider cooking.”
Jim laughed and Val joined them.
“Any wife of mine doesn’t need to cook,” Jim offered.
Mrs. Masini frowned.
Jim laughed.
Meg felt her cheeks fill with heat and Val said, “Maybe if you found a wife that cooked, you’d still be married to one of them.”
Jim slapped a meaty palm to Val’s back. “I might have to try that.”
“What’s all this talk of wives? Is there another Mrs. Lewis close at hand?” Mrs. Masini asked.
Meg’s personal icon draped a hand over her shoulders and pulled her close. “You didn’t hear? Meg loves me, and she sings. It’s meant to be.”
The man flirted with style; Meg had to give him that.
“Is that right?” Mrs. Masini had an actual twinkle at the corner of her eye. “What is Meg’s last name?”
Jim glanced at the sky, leaned in close. “What’s your last name?”
“Rosenthal.”