An Angel Healed by Annalisa Russo

Author:Annalisa Russo [Russo, Annalisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Family Life/Oriented
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
Published: 2014-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

Hah! Hope reveled in the hitch of Rafe’s breath when she opened the porch door. His eyes swept up, then down. She made sure she crossed her legs and let her skirt hike up just enough when she sat in the front seat of the Bearcat. Rafe looked over several times, and then cleared his throat.

“I figured you’d want the top on.” He glanced at her hairdo.

The evening had turned chilly—all the better for her long-sleeved outfit and shawl and the top on the Bearcat. “Yes.” She opened her clutch and took out a compact, powdered her nose, then snapped it shut, giving him a wide smile. “Isn’t it a glorious night, though? Crisp cool air. October colors starting to turn, even this early in the season, the scent of burning leaves. Heaven.” She ran her arm along the back of the seat and angled her body toward him. “Don’t you think?”

“Ah…what? Ah, yes. Maybe.” He swallowed hard, and Hope tried not to laugh.

“Where are we going?” She hoped she was dressed correctly for the occasion.

“Luciano’s.”

“How in the world did you get a reservation?” Clara, The Spectator’s food editor, told her that a person would need an act of God to get into the popular Italian restaurant. “Even on a weekday…”

“Connections. In Cavelli terms, a call from my brother.” His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “The owner, Pasquale Luciano, was a friend of my father’s from the old country. We grew up with his five sons. So not so mysterious.”

“No daughters?”

“Well, none I care to mention, being a gentleman and all.”

The waiter’s name was Giovanni, and he wore a crisp white shirt and black bow tie. His black trousers had knife-edged creases. A narrow black mustache grew along his top lip, and he spoke with an accent. With a grand flourish, he pulled out a chair for her and set a large cloth napkin in her lap. “Would the gentleman and his lady like a beverage? Of course, I can’t offer wine, but we have a flavorful tea the lady might enjoy.” He winked at Rafe.

Rafe ordered dinner for both of them and sipped tea that tasted suspiciously like a spiced punch.

“Whiskey?’ she asked.

“Limoncello…if I’m not mistaken.” He reached over the table and took her hand, and threaded his fingers through hers, making her grateful Emily had insisted on giving her a manicure.

She let him play with her fingers. “Why are we here, Rafe?” She wondered if he would tell her the truth. They’d yet to discuss Della’s predicament, and her confession of murder. Was it possible he didn’t condemn her for trying to help a child—a Negro child—from being sold into prostitution? In the eyes of the law, it wouldn’t matter.

“I wanted to be alone with you. Is that so hard to believe?”

Her heart gave a tiny leap. “Yes. You’re…who you are…and I’m…me.”

“Well, I guess that explains everything. Thanks for clearing that up.” He gestured for a waiter, who appeared out of nowhere.

“Yes, sir.” Giovanni bowed at the waist and waited for instructions.

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