Johnny grinned. “They seem to know you pretty well here, Fiona.”

I shrugged. “My store’s a couple of blocks over. I eat here a lot. I was rather surprised you decided to bring me here for dinner. I expected Chezanne’s or one of the other fancy French places.”

“Why’s that?”

I stared at his expensive attire, then at the rough brick walls and simple bar that made up the restaurant. “This place seems a little tame for you.”

It was his turn to shrug. “I like good food. And Quicke’s has the best in town from what I remember.”

H o t M a m a

69

“From what you remember?”

Johnny nodded. “I’ve spent the past few years mostly overseas looking after our European interests, but I grew up in Bigtime and went to college here.”

From what I’d read and heard on the society circuit, Bulluci Industries was a massive corporation. The Bullucis had immigrated from the Mediterranean region a couple of generations ago, and they’d achieved the American dream of owning their own business and becoming fabulously wealthy. Besides Bella’s fashion empire, the Bullucis had several oil wells, mining interests, olive oil plants, and even a couple of automotive and motorcycle factories.

“You went to Bigtime U? I don’t remember you.” And I certainly would have. My eyes traced over his firm body. Oh yeah. I would have remembered. And done everything in my power to make sure he remembered me too.

“I think it was a little before your time. I’m seven years older than Bella. You were probably still in high school when I was at Bigtime U.”

Actually, I was probably still in Ireland at the time. We hadn’t come to America until my mother died after a long battle with breast cancer. Seven years older than Bella? Let’s see. That would make him about thirty-six, thirty-seven. Not too old. That was another mark in his favor, along with his surprisingly good choice of restaurant. I opened my mouth to ask Johnny another question, when a soft, breathy voice cut in.

“Well, if it isn’t Fiona Fine, designer to the rich and famous.”

My eyes narrowed. I knew that voice, and I didn’t like the person it belonged to one bit. I looked up to find Erica Songe hovering over us. Erica was a news reporter for SNN, the Superhero News Network. She was one of SNN’s rising 70

J e n n i f e r E s t e p

stars, having gone from being the substitute late-night weather girl on the weekends to an evening news on-air personality in a matter of months. Now, I don’t like reporters in general. They’re always getting in the way when I’m trying to roast some ubervillains, shoving a camera in my face afterward, or attempting to uncover my real identity, just like Carmen had done. Why did they have to be so nosy and demanding all the time? I couldn’t understand why reporters just didn’t stay away and let me do my kick-ass thing. It would work out better for everyone. At least the photographers and videographers knew enough to steer clear of me. Or at least stay a couple hundred feet away. Ruin a few five-thousand-dollar cameras and people aren’t so eager to take your picture anymore. But Erica Songe was the worst of the worst. Just because she was on television, she thought that made her special. Erica had come into my store when she’d first gotten into town and ordered several pricey suits for her on-air appearances. The clothes she wanted were on back order, along with everything else. The reporter had hit the roof when I told her that she’d have to wait just like everyone else. She thought she deserved special treatment just because she was a member of the media. Please.