I didn’t particularly care for Kelly either. She was, after all, a reporter and thus the enemy, but I waved at her and smiled. Erica might think that she was the baddest bitch in the room, but she had nothing on me. I was Fiona Fine, for crying out loud. I’d been playing the society game in Bigtime before she’d even thought about having fat stuffed in her lips or silicone in her breasts.

“Well, that was interesting.” Johnny leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I take it she’s not a friend of yours.”

“I can’t stand that woman. Something about her just rubs me the wrong way.” Actually, it was everything about her.

“Well, I’m glad you got rid of her. You’re the one I asked to dinner, not her.”

Johnny’s eyes met mine. My heart fluttered. Our food arrived, and we spent the next half hour eating, talking, and laughing. Johnny Bulluci had a teasing, devilish sense of humor I found refreshing after all the posing, H o t M a m a

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pretentious playboys that populated the Bigtime society scene. He was frank, honest, and not above telling humiliating stories about himself. I particularly enjoyed the one about him stealing his father’s car when he was thirteen and taking Bella to ride on the carousel in Paradise Park. And he had the most fantastic laugh, warm and throaty and deep. It made me smile, something I hadn’t done much of in a very long time.

The only problem was that I polished off my grilled chicken, vegetables, a side salad, and half a bottle of wine before Johnny was even halfway done with his steak, baked potato, and cheddar cheese soup. And he didn’t seem too interested in his food. He’d put his fork down ten minutes ago and was listening intently to everything I said. Now, I didn’t really mind that, as it was always nice to be the center of attention, especially when that attention was coming from a handsome man. But ignoring a black pepper–seasoned steak from Quicke’s? That was just criminal.

“So, are you going to eat that?” I asked, eyeing his halffinished steak. Johnny stared at the meat, then at me. My stomach chose that moment to let out an ominous rumble. Mount St. Helens needed some fuel. I cringed. My enormous appetite and related bodily functions were the only things that ever really embarrassed me.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t have any lunch today.” Lame, but it was the only excuse I could think of. Johnny laughed and pushed his plate over to me. “I don’t mind. I like a woman with a healthy appetite.”

Healthy appetite? Please. If he only knew. I polished off Johnny’s steak, a basket of sourdough rolls, and an enormous chocolate soufflé.

“Didn’t have lunch, eh?” Johnny asked, amused by the stacks of plates, glasses, and silverware littering the table. 74

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