JENNIFER LABRECQUE - Nobody Does It Better

“How’s your Italian?” He didn’t think she’d understood a word he’d said earlier.

“Dismal.” She smiled and it literally transformed her face to something quite lovely. “I can ask where the bathroom is, but there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to follow directions unless the person I talk to points.”

“Which is why you were very wise to hire a guide. I’ll give the desk my mobile phone number. They can ring through if your case arrives.”

Gage approached the small counter nestled in an alcove to the right of the front door. The same older woman with slightly graying hair who had shown him to his room yesterday evening sat folding a mountain of washroom linens.

He exchanged greetings with her and explained Ms. Smith was waiting on an important package to be delivered. He then relayed his mobile number as a contact.

The entire time he could feel the Gorgon behind him. He sensed her gaze roaming over him as surely as if she were touching him.

“Everything taken care of?” the Gorgon asked.

“They’ll call if your case shows up.”

And if a note or any other package was delivered instead, he’d know. He had the Gorgon under control.

“HOW’S YOUR COFFEE, Ms. Smith?”

A shiver slid down her spine. The timbre of his voice and that accent was a heady combination to her. Honestly, she could just prop her chin in her hand and listen to him talk, but then she’d look like a total idiot.

“The coffee’s excellent.” She raised the cup and blew a cooling breath over the surface. She’d surreptitiously examined the china and found it clean and spot-free. She sipped again at the rich, full-bodied brew. It was stronger, more intense, than the coffee she normally drank, but if she’d wanted what she was used to, she would’ve stayed home. “I’m feeling much more human. Amazing what a little caffeine can do for a person. And it’s Holly. Ms. Smith makes you sound like one of my students.”

And Holly was almost certain she couldn’t teach this man anything he didn’t already know. He wore an air of experience and sangfroid as casually as he wore his black slacks and dark brown shirt. She found him one part intimidating, one part intriguing.

“Very well, Holly.” The way her name rolled off his tongue shot a small thrill through her. “And I’m Gage. Never underestimate the power of caffeine and food.”

Yeah. And panties that weren’t clammy against her skin would also go a long way toward making her feel human again. But she wasn’t sharing that with a guide who scored an eleven on the one-to-ten hot meter. “There is that. How’s yours?”

She’d been torn between the sfogliatelli , a ricotta-and-fruit-filled pastry, or a simple brioche. Mr. Carswell—um, Gage—had ordered the brioche and she’d opted for the sfogliatelli . She’d lost twelve pounds before the trip, thanks to Weight Watchers, but she’d be damned if she’d count points in Venice. At least the cheese was a protein and there was some fruit in there. Besides, dinner last night had consisted of a hastily scarfed-down granola bar. One bite of the sfogliatelli and she’d thought she was in heaven. But then nothing had ever smelled quite as good as the aromas that had assaulted them when they’d walked through the door of the cozy shop with its glass counter of fresh pastries and strong coffee perfuming the air.

“Excellent. The food and drink is outstanding in Venice.”

Well, this was some scintillating conversation between. What was next? The weather. She took another bite of sfogliatelli and a silence settled between them. Around them, the other patrons chatted in a mix of languages. She heard a snippet or two of English.

When they came in, Holly had snagged a table at the picture window overlooking the narrow stone-paved street.

Holly people-watched through the glass now, a part of her scanning the face of every female passerby on the off chance it might be Julia. That was crazy. Maybe the whole trip was crazy. Doubts crowded her. All the money, the time, the plane trip to find a woman who most likely didn’t want to be found. She shook the doubt off. Coming here, finding her mother, meant Holly was taking charge, setting the course of this relationship.

And Holly had been three the last time she’d seen Julia. How likely was she to recognize a woman she hadn’t seen since? How likely was it that her mother would stroll by the very café Holly was sitting at on her first full day in Venice? Not likely at all, but she couldn’t seem to stop searching the faces for her, all the same.

It was even less likely that her mother would walk into this place, but she still took note of every woman coming in. And if she was honest, it also helped her ignore the heavy thumping of her heart brought on by her substitute tour guide.

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