"The only name that matters here is Robert Bertini," Isa went on. "You already seem to know what he's involved in, so I shouldn't have to spell out how hazardous it would be to your health if you continue to mess around with him."
Chance laughed. "You'd be amazed at all the things my health can handle, darling. Your little Robbery doesn't scare me, and as I told you last night, I'm here to help you. It's not a matter of money, so you can keep your bank account as it is. It's a matter of honor."
"Honor?" Isa couldn't stifle her snort. She had enough to handle without anyone meddling in this. "Right. Do me a favor. Go away before you make things worse."
It would be so much easier if she knew what he was, Chance mused. Still, it wasn't his place to enlighten. Not yet, anyway. Maybe there was a reason for Greta's secrecy. Perhaps Isabella was one of those humans who couldn't handle the knowledge. She didn't strike Chance that way, but then again, this was only his second time talking to her.
Chance smiled. "Thanks for the wine recommendation," he said, and walked away.
Isa watched him go, gripped with the uneasy feeling that she hadn't seen the last of him.
*
At nine o'clock sharp, Isa's premonition was confirmed when a familiar dark-haired man slid into table twelve at her restaurant. She almost groaned out loud in frustration. Talk about not taking a hint!
Chance even had the nerve to wink at her as he took his seat. What was it with men lately? Didn't the phrase "No means no" translate to them anymore?
She didn't even wait for the waitress to approach his table before she marched over.
"Whatever you want, we're out of it," Isa announced crisply.
Chance pushed his menu aside with a lazy grin. "Doesn't matter. I'm only here for you, darling."
Isa clenched her fists. She may not be able to throw Robert out on his ass—yet—but that didn't mean every male around could ignore her wishes in favor of their own!
"Get out, and by the way—calling a woman 'darling' when you don't even know her is sexist and demeaning. Got that, sugar lips?"
She stressed the endearment as a taunt, but it didn't have that effect. A light appeared in Chance's eyes. If Isa didn't know better, she would swear they seemed to be turning green.
"Sugar lips… mmm. I confess I'd like to find out."
The way he was looking at her mouth made Isa want to wipe it, but not in disgust. To see if it had suddenly turned into dessert, since that was the only way she could justify the intensity of Chance's stare. For someone who said he wasn't here for food, Chance looked very, very hungry.
"You have to leave. Now."
Isa said it with none of the internal tremble that had taken up inside her. The last thing she needed was another complication in her life, and a stubborn, sexy-as-hell private eye would definitely complicate things.
Then again, so would Robert's two goons Ritchie and Paul, and they just swaggered in the door.
"Oh, hell, it's Smelly and Bowling Ball," Isa muttered.
Chance began to laugh. "Is that what you call them? How appropriate."
She gave him a fraught look. "Are you trying to get killed? Leave! Before they see you!"
But it was too late. Paul glanced their way… and stopped so abruptly, one of her waiters crashed right into him. Spaghetti alla nona decorated the front of him, but he didn't even seem to notice.
"You!" Paul exclaimed in a voice much higher than usual.
Chance inclined his head. "I see you're wearing your favorite meal. Now if you can only bash into someone carrying meatballs, your ensemble would be complete."
Isa's eyes closed. Good God, he was a dead man.
Ritchie, oddly enough, didn't fly into his usual hair-trigger temper.
"You can't be here," he almost squeaked. "We—"
"You what?" Chance interrupted. "Shot me? Put me in a trunk, drove me to an old warehouse, wrapped me in plastic, and buried me around the back?" Chance let his words sink in, and then he smiled, perfectly cordial. "How preposterous. If that's what you did, then I wouldn't be sitting here, would I?"
Everyone in the restaurant had stopped eating to watch this exchange. Isa was torn between the ingrained urge to keep her business running smoothly—and the new, unhinged desire she had to bash plates over Paul's, Ritchie's, and even Chance's head.
Her business sense won. Isa laughed like a joke had been told and then approached Paul and Ritchie with a fake, warm smile.
"Let's get you guys to your favorite table. Lauren, bring something to help clean Paul up. And Ritchie, you look like you could use a drink."
She politely dragged them across the room under her effusive hostess pretense. Both of them went like they were dazed while still staring at Chance. Isa didn't know what he'd meant by his bizarre little imagining of what Ritchie had been about to say, but damn it, this was her restaurant! Not some criminal macho showboating ring.
Paul stiffened. "Uh… we gotta go, Isa," he said. "Gotta check something out."
"You think Kevlar?" Ritchie whispered with a glance in Chance's direction.
"Must've been," Paul muttered.
Isa didn't care what they were babbling about as long as they didn't cause any more disruption.