The place he'd chosen was a small, smoky caf`e that smelled of garlic and toasting bread. There were cigarette burns in the checkered tablecloths and hacks in the wooden booth that would have played hell with panty hose.
A stubby candle stuck out of the mouth of the obligatory Chianti bottle. Finn shoved it to the side as they slid into a booth. "Trust me. It's better than it looks."
"It looks fine." The place looked comforting. A woman didn't have to be on her guard in a restaurant that looked like someone's family kitchen.
He could see her relaxing, degree by degree. Perhaps that was why he'd brought her here, he thought. To a place where there was no hovering ma@itre do', no leather-bound wine list.
"Lambrusco okay with you?" he asked as a T-shirt-clad waitress approached their booth.
"That's fine."
"Bring us a bottle, Janey, and some antipasto." "Sure thing, Finn."
Amused, Deanna rested her chin on her cupped hand. "Come here often?"
"About once a week when I'm in town. Their lasagna's almost as good as mine."
"You cook?"
"When you get tired of eating in restaurants, you learn to cook." His lips curved just a little as he reached across the table to play with her fingers. "I thought about cooking for you tonight, but I didn't think you'd go for it."
"Oh, why?" She moved her hands out of reach. "Because cooking for a woman, if you do it right, is a surefire seduction, and it's clear you like to take things one cautious, careful step at a time." He tilted his head when the waitress returned with the bottle, filled their glasses. "Am I right?"
"I suppose you are."
He leaned forward, lifting his glass. "So, here's to the first step."
"I'm not sure what I'm drinking to." Watching her, his eyes dark and focused, he reached out, rubbed his thumb over her cheekbone. "Yes, you do."
Her heart stuttered. Annoyed at herself, she exhaled slowly. "Finn, I should make it clear that I'm not interested in getting involved, with anyone. I have to put all my energies, all my emotions into making the show work."
"You look like a woman with enough emotion to go around to me." He sipped, studying her over the rim. "Why don't we just see what develops?"
The waitress slid the platter of antipasto on the table. "Ready to order?"
"I'm ready." Finn smiled again. "How about you?"
Flustered, Deanna picked up the plastic-coated menu. Odd, she thought, she couldn't seem to comprehend a thing written there. It might as well have been in Greek. "I'll go for the spaghetti."
"Make it two."
"Gotcha." The waitress winked at Finn. "White Sox are up by two in the third."
"White Sox?" Deanna arched a brow as the waitress toddled off. "You're a White Sox fan?"
"Yeah. You into baseball?"
"I played first base in Little League, batted three thirty-nine my best season."
"No shit." Impressed, and pleased, he tapped a thumb to his chest. "Shortstop. Went all-state in high school. Three-
fifty my top season."
With deliberate care, she chose an olive. "And you like the Sox. Too bad."
"Why?"
"Seeing as we're in the same profession, I'll overlook it. But if we go out again, I'm wearing my Cubs hat."
"Cubs." He shut his eyes and groaned. "And I was nearly in love. Deanna, I thought you were a practical woman."
"Their day's coming."
"Yeah, right. In the next millennium. Tell you what. When I get back in town, we'll take in a game."
Her eyes narrowed. "At Comiskey or Wrigley?"
"We'll flip for it."
"You're on." She nibbled on a pepperoncini, enjoying the bite. "I'm still ticked about them putting lights in at Wrigley."
"They should have done it years ago." "It was tradition."
"It was sentiment," he corrected. "And you put sentiment up against ticket sales, sales win every time."
"Cynic." Her smile froze suddenly. "Maybe I could get baseball wives on the show. Cubs and Sox. You'd have viewer interest right off, people taking sides. God knows all you have to do is mention sports or politics in this town to get people going. And we could talk about being married to someone who's on the road weeks at a time during the season. How they deal with slumps, injuries, Baseball Annies."
"Hey." Finn snapped his fingers in front of her face and made her blink.
"Oh, sorry."
"No problem. It's an education to watch you think." It was also, to his surprise, arousing. It made a man wonder–
hope — that she would concentrate as fiercely on sex. "And it's a good idea."
Her smile spread inch by inch until her face glowed with it. "It'd be a hell of a kickoff, wouldn't it?"
"Yeah, but you're mixing your sports metaphors."
"I'm going to love this." With her wine in one hand, she settled back against the booth. "I'm really going to love this. The whole process is so fascinating."
"And news wasn't?"
"It was, but this is more — I don't know. Personal and exciting. It's an adventure. Is that how you feel about flying off to one country after another?"
"Most of the time. Different place, different people, different stories. It's hard to get into a rut."
"I can't imagine you worrying about that." "It happens. You get cozy, lose the edge."
Cozy? In war zones, disaster areas, international summits? She didn't see how. "Is that why you didn't stay in London?"
"Part of it. When I stop feeling like a foreigner, I know it's time to come home. Have you ever been to London?"
"No. What's it like?"
It was easy to tell her, easy for her to listen. They talked over pasta and red wine, over cappuccino and cannoli until the candle in the bottle beside them began to gutter, and the juke fell silent. It was the lack of noise that made Deanna glance around. The restaurant was almost empty.
"It's late," she said, surprised when she glanced at her watch. "You have a plane to catch in less than eight hours."
"I'll manage." But he slid out of the booth as she did.
"You were right about the food. It was fabulous." But her smile faded when he reached out and cupped the nape of her neck in his hand. He held her there, his eyes on hers as he closed the distance between them.
The kiss was slow, deliberate and devastating. She'd expected more of a one-two punch from a man whose eyes could bore a hole in the brain. Perhaps that was why the soft, lazy romance of the kiss disarmed her so completely.
She lifted a hand to his shoulder, but rather than easing him away, as she had intended, her fingers dug in. Held on. Her heart took a long, seamless somersault before it thudded against her ribs.
When her mouth yielded under his, he deepened the kiss. Slowly still, teasing a response from her until her hand slid from his shoulder to cling at his waist.
Dozens of thoughts struggled to form in her head, then skittered away. For here was heat, and pleasure and the undeniable promise, or threat, of much more.
More was what he wanted. Much more desperately than he had anticipated. However simple he'd intended the kiss to be, he was almost undone by it. He eased her away. The small, baffled sound she made as her eyes blinked open had him gritting his teeth against a quick, vicious ache.
It was important to keep steady — though at the moment she couldn't have said why. Instinct alone had her stepping back an inch.
"What was that for?"
"Other than obvious reasons?" He should be amused by the question. "I figured if we got that done here, you wouldn't project what could, should or might happen when I took you home."
"I see." She realized her purse had dropped to the floor, and bent to retrieve it. "I don't plan every aspect of my life out like a feature story."