“Yeah, Brando, you’ve been telling me that ever since I got back. Oh, by the way, Miranda, this is my younger brother.”

She raised a brow. She’d never met Gavin’s family.

Their brief affair hadn’t afforded her the status of being introduced to family members. After all, sex was kept in the bedroom.

She ignored the cut of pain and nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

Some of the sulkiness left his face and he smiled.

“Hey, I think your column is pretty cool, and I have a tip for you. My girlfriend Tracey works at this pizza place in the Village, and she says they make the best Sicilian. It’s called Sammy’s Slice. I bet I can get you a discount.”

“Thanks, Brando. I’ll take it under advisement.”

The older man stuck his head in between them and put out his hand. “I’m Antonio, signorina, and I am the chef at Mia Casa. I can promise you today’s lunch will be the best you’ve ever had.”

He beamed. “My wife is not having an affair.”

“Oh.” A puzzled frown creased her brow as she shook his hand. “Well, I’m very glad for you, Antonio.”

“Yes, this is a very good thing.”

Gavin turned to the two men.

“Now that the introductions are made, if you gentlemen will leave us, I’ll see you back at the restaurant.”

With a quick good-bye, they left. Miranda looked down at the elegant silver tray, complete with linen napkins, serving utensils, and a long stemmed red rose. She sighed. “Why are you doing this?”

He draped one napkin over his arm and filled her plate. “Maybe I wanted to finish our conversation.

Maybe I thought you were hungry.”

“Maybe you should have called.”

“This is more personal.

Besides, I bet you haven’t eaten yet.”

Her stomach growled on cue, but he kept his face neutral.

His knit shirt stretched across broad muscles. He stood hands on hips, legs braced apart, and his actual aura vibrated with unconscious arrogance. Miranda shook her head in amazement.

The man served her lunch and he exuded a casual elegance, reminding her of royalty.

“You’re still bossy,” she grumbled. “Just because I’m eating this doesn’t mean I’m giving in. I hate to waste food.”

“Point taken.” He handed her the plate and grabbed one of the computer chairs, settling himself down.

“What are you working on?”

She swallowed a perfect bite of eggplant Parmesan and tried to mask her surprise. “We’re expanding the Miranda Eats column.

My editor wants to start printing some of the common questions people write in about.”

“Like who pays for your meals when you go on reviews?”

“Exactly.”

Miranda wondered how Antonio had achieved such a wonderful combination of firmness and texture to the eggplant. Too many times the vegetable came out limp and soggy. She took another bite. “It’s amazing how many readers assume I pay for myself and write the review out of the kindness of my heart.

People think I’m an aspiring author who’s desperate to be published in anything.”

“Are you an aspiring author?”

he asked curiously.

She laughed. “No, but I have a skill for the written word. Always did.”

“What happened to the culinary? I assumed you’d be set up in some four-star kitchen, perhaps running your own cooking show on the Food Network. You always had such a passion for food.”

“I still do. I spent the first year learning the basics, but I wasn’t happy. I lacked the skill and passion to cook professionally, but inherited the rare gift of palette. I dropped out when I realized my favorite part was tasting the food, and I despised the rest of the steps. The idea of being trapped in the kitchen made me shudder.”

He smiled. “You always did have a free spirit.”

“Yeah, that’s not how Chef Riley described me.”

She winced at the memory. “Anyway, I know good food and bad food. I can also pinpoint and explain in basic language to the layperson. It took me a while with different papers before scoring an opportunity with The Herald. I started slow, with guest appearances, then built to a weekly column.

But everything exploded when a friend of mine who works for Foodie magazine did a feature on me.

Suddenly, I got offered the HotSpot feature. I dated a few chefs, was written up in the gossip pages, and found I had officially arrived.” She crinkled her nose. “It’s embarrassing. I always thought food critics were unknown entities who can hide their identity and sneak into famous restaurants. Instead, I’m invited to openings and courted around the city.

Kind of hard to sneak in and do a review undercover now. Pretty amazing stuff for someone with no classical culinary training.”

“Your parents never cooked?”

The dark memory stole across her joy for a moment. With effort, she pushed it back. “No, they weren’t around.”

He focused on her face and stripped away the barrier. “You never did speak about your past or upbringing,” he said softly.

“Either way, I think you’re damn amazing.”

Pleasure surged but she reminded herself he was a man on a mission. “I’ve come a long way since my first column.”

“I remember. You wrote about the lure of the cheeseburger and gained a whole new audience.”

She looked up. “How did you know about that?”

“I read your work while I was away.”

She peered over her glasses, suspicious, but only met a naked hunger in those blue depths that rattled her to the core. She nervously dabbed the napkin at the corner of her lips and looked away. Time to change the subject.

“Does your family enjoy having you home?”

“Sometimes.”

“Explain.”

He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “The biggest statistic for restaurant failure is money. I have plenty, so when Pop called me, I knew I’d be able to renovate the place and pour funds into marketing and advertising. Of course, my father doesn’t agree.

He says the success of Mia Casa depends on heart.”

“I like your dad already.”

“Try working with him.

My whole family is the poster image of Italian stubbornness. I tore up half the place to put in a new lounge and update the bar. They hate it. They drove out a celebrity chef and fight me on every change I institute.

Sometimes I feel like I need to coax a rabbit from the damn Mad Hatter to win an argument.”

“Have you seen a difference from your investment yet?”

“New clientele are coming in. But not as much as I anticipated.

Now, with a great review…”

“Keep dreaming.”

“Right.

Well, maybe Gordon Ramsey will bail me out of the mess.”

She arched a brow. “You contacted Ramsey?”

Gavin shrugged. “Worth a try. I pulled in all my contacts and put in a request to get us featured on Kitchen Nightmares.”

“What in the world made you decide on that option?”

“A bottle of Johnny Walker.”

A laugh sputtered from her lips. She hated his wit and humor.

“Does Andy work with you?” he asked.

“He writes the lifestyle column. Exercise, health and diet are his main focus.”

“But he goes with you on reviews?”

“Yep.”

Gavin remained silent.

His fishing expedition was obvious, but damned if she’d tell him straight out Andy and her were platonic. Let him stew.

“You’re close friends?”

“Yep.”

The chair squeaked as he shifted his weight. “And he has a kid.”

“Actually, he has two.

Stephen and Laura. Laura was in dance class at the time.”

He tapped his shoe absently against the metal rung. “I see. You went to the opera together, which means you must be very close friends.”

“I said that already.”

“Right.”

The tapping grew more insistent.

Miranda put down her fork and tried the small portion of linguini. A moan rose to her lips.

Perfect. Al-dente, with just enough oil and garlic to make her taste buds sing.

Fresh Roma tomatoes, basil…and was that thyme or rosemary? A mixture? Tarragon would be absolutely impossible, right? “Miranda?”

“Oh, sorry, I wasn’t listening.”

“Are you sleeping with him?”

She choked and grabbed her napkin to keep the linguini from spilling out of her mouth. “What kind of question is that? It’s none of your business.”

He seemed to think it over. “Maybe not. You’ve already told me you think it’s too late for us, but I think you should know he’s one of the reasons I didn’t approach you sooner.”

“What do you mean?”

He ran a hand through his hair, mussing the burnished strands.

“I followed you a couple of times. I thought if we sat down and talked, I’d get a chance to tell you my side of the story. But you were with Andy, and you both seemed familiar. I decided to keep my distance.”

“You followed me?”

He nodded. “I knew I didn’t have the right to interfere if you were involved. God knows I wanted to, but I figured you’d kick me to the curb.”

“You would’ve been right.” She twirled her linguini around the fork.

The idea that Gavin tracked her down made strange feelings stir to life.

An inner voice warned her not to go down that yellow brick road, because it would never lead to the wizard. Ah, hell. “Andy is married.”

“Oh.” He paused. “Are you sleeping with him?”

Miranda gasped. “No! I’d never sleep with a married man. I’m good friends with Andy’s wife, Elaine.

I babysit, and borrow Andy for reviews. I hate eating alone and can’t bring a date to a business meal.”

She pushed her glasses firmly back up her nose.

“Not that it’s any of your business.”

He grinned and his shoulders relaxed. “I know.

I just wanted to make you mad. Your eyes flash and your cheeks get that flushed look to them. As if we were making—”

“Don’t say it.”

“Sorry.”

He gestured toward the food. “Good?”

“It’s okay.” She avoided his knowing stare and concentrated on twirling.

“Tell me why you’re back in New York working at the restaurant.”

“Mia Casa has been in the family for a very long time. It was passed on from my great- grandparents.

I was trained since a toddler how to work in a restaurant, and everyone assumed that as the eldest son, I’d take over.”

“But you had different plans?”

He gazed off into the distance, as if fighting memories. “I wanted to travel and see new places.

We had this customer who used to come in, and he’d always be jetting off to these exotic locations on business. When I told Pop about it he just laughed.

Told me real values were based on family, children, and home. I imagined myself his age, doing the same thing day after day, and freaked out. That’s when I made the decision to do everything possible not to give my father what he wanted.”