âHeâs dead.â
Her stomach in knots, Gia Sorabella stared in disbelief at the stoney-faced paramedic. âYouâre sure?â
âPretty sure.â
Considering the siren-blaring, light-flashing truck heâd arrived in, plus the crew and equipment heâd brought in, she was fully aware her question was stupid.
But she fed people for a living. Deceased diners werenât her forte.
âHow?â she asked.
The paramedic shrugged. âCanât say.â
âA heart attack.â
âCould be. I called it in.â
âCalled it in to who?â
âThe NYPD.â
Giaâs pulse spiked. âFor a heart attack?â
The paramedic shrugged again as he turned away.
Pressing her fingertips to her pounding temples, Giaâs thoughts raced over what to do next. Her 8th Avenue restaurant was full of customers whoâd been first startled by the choking gasps from a fellow diner, then understandably alarmed by the medicsâ abrupt entrance. Adding the cops wasnât going to boost her weekend reservations.
At least her staff had handled the whole thing with their usual professionalism. Theyâd calmly assured the customers that the guy had had a bad reaction to a pine nut, even as her bus boys moved an accordion-style panel to block the corner booth where the diner had keeled over into his pesto capellini.
All this for a man who isâor wasâa complete ass.
Not that sheâd wanted Elliot Craig, influential restaurant critic and legend-in-his-own-mind, dead. His reviews of Sorabellaâs were okay, if not exactly glowing. She supposed she should feel fortunate, since the man ravaged almost everybody.
As a man had just died in her restaurant, however, it wasnât her blessings on her mind.
âDonât let anybody leave,â the medic ordered over his shoulder.
Franco, her maître dâ and assistant manager, squeezed her hand as he said, âFree wine?â
Not trusting her voice to be steady, she nodded.
âSurely itâs a heart attack,â Franco whispered before he headed toward the cellar door.
Surely. Elliot hadnât exactly been the picture of health. He was short, wide and aggressive, and Gia doubted he spent his days at the Manhattan Fitness Club, even though his nights were filled with indulgences in rich food.
âGia? Is everything all right?â
Glancing in the direction of the calm, strong and familiar voice, Gia had the crazy urge to throw herself into Nathan Pearceâs capable embrace. âYes, thank you.â She worked up a smile for her good friend and one of her best customers. âFinish your dinner. Francoâs bringing around some wine.â
Behind his glasses, Nathanâs dove-gray eyes turned skeptical. âThe man in the booth across from me collapsed.â
Damn his attention to detail. She supposed, being an architect, precision was a necessary trait for his job. Just now, though, with a restaurant full of customers, that quality was going to be a problem. âHeâs being taken care of.â
âGood to know.â Nathan slid his arm around her. âI donât need wine. But you look like you could use a drink.â
Before she could gather her wits to protest, heâd led her to his booth. He smelled great, a warm, woody-leather scent reminiscent of her grandfather, yet with a spice that was sensually enticing. Her head buzzing, she acknowledged the familiar sensation of heat that washed over her whenever they touched. Which was exactly why she avoided further intimacy with her friend. Sheâd never get to the top of the restaurant scene with him distracting her.
âSit,â he said gently but firmly. âIâll be right back.â
Gia did as he directed, figuring she had to be in shock to take his demand without question. She was supposed to be the one in charge.
Gathering her wits, she absorbed her surroundings, so familiar, so treasured. As typical in Manhattan, space was at a premium. Beyond the front door and hostess stand were a few booths. The bar was in the back, where the restaurant hooked to the left, leading to a dining room of twelve tables. The modern decor contrasted with her traditional Italian menu. While the walls were dark, mirrors reflected ceiling and floor lights. The tables were antique mahogany, and the candles resting in the center were surrounded by amber glass, casting a soft, golden glow on the diners.
Named for her family, opened on a loan from her grandfather and featuring her Tuscan grandmotherâs recipes, Sorabellaâs was her babyâher life, really. She had an obligation to be a success, to carry on the dreams of her immigrant heritage.
The image of Elliotâs florid face, his limp body splayed on the table, flashed before her. She closed her eyes, only to have the vision intensify. Fresh pesto sauce splattered across the white tablecloth. An overturned wineglass, deep red liquid dribbling across his fleshy hand.
The next thing she knew, Nathan was sliding into the booth next to her and pressing a heavy crystal glass into her hand. âDrink it.â