Chapter 13

“It’s good, just a bit heavy this late in the evening.”

“Take it home with you then.” He looked around, spotted our waiter, and signaled him to come over. “A box for the dessert, please.”

“Sì, signore.” He was back in a matter of moments, and with deft movements put my dessert in an elegant little box with the Raphael logo across the top.

“Grazie,” I murmured, just to show Mann that he wasn’t the only multilingual person at this table, although most of my knowledge of Italian was more suitable to the gutter.

His eyes were hot. Was he turned on by foreign languages? I sat back in my seat, sipped my espresso, and watched as Quinn resumed consuming his dessert with single-mindedness.

At least, I thought that single-mindedness was aimed at the tiramisu until I suddenly felt a sock-clad foot caressing my crotch.

“Mann.” Minute tremors ran through me, and I was having trouble breathing again.