The scar above Virginia's right eye was still ugly but not nearly as angry looking as it had been. At least it ran close to the top of her eyebrow and would eventually pale to the point where it would be hard to see. Her cast had been removed, but her left arm remained in a sling, minimizing movement to help fully mend the broken collarbone.

She was in the kitchen getting a head start on dinner when the doorbell rang.

"Coming," she yelled, grateful for the break.

Upon opening the front door, a giant teddy bear greeted her, blocking the identity of the person holding it. "Hello, Teddy." She glanced over at the driveway, spotting the red Ferrari that looked ridiculously out of place in her average middle-class neighborhood. Her eyes shot back to the bear. Her stomach took the long way around, taking its time to calm.

Spinelli lowered the bear and smiled over its head.

Her stomach provided no help in playing it cool, producing another one of those thrill-induced rushes.

"I wanted to stop by and see how you two are doing. The bear is from Louis." His brow wrinkled. "I think he likes stuffed animals way too much."

Virginia backed up a few steps to give him room. "Come in. Janine went to a friend's house after school but she should be home soon."

He struggled to get the bear through the doorway, making both of them laugh. Shifting sideways, he squeezed past her, then walked into the living room and plunked it down on the couch.

She stared down at the furry creature taking up more than its fair share of the surface and had to laugh. "You better tell Louis my house is not very big," she said, turning to smile at him.

But he was preoccupied, the humor lost on him as he glared down at her sling.

"It comes off in another week," she offered, wanting to ease the tension on his face, managing to draw his eyes back up to hers. "No permanent damage, except maybe a little stiffness when it rains." She tried to sound carefree, but thinking about that day made the fear creep back into her voice.

He must have heard it too, changing the subject by sweeping his eyes around her twenty-by-thirty living/dining room combo. "Nice place."

Picturing his house, she imagined hers was the size of his bathroom. "Well, I'd give you the tour, but you pretty much just took it. All but the kitchen—it's in the back." Virginia waved her hand for him to follow as she headed in that direction. "I'm trying to cook some lasagna and doing a pretty poor job." She pointed at her sling to place the blame on it.

"Stay for dinner?" she offered. "If you dare." She threw a challenging smile over her shoulder, noticing his eyes widen in response. She turned away, afraid the thrill of discovering his admiring stare was splattered all over her face.

"I came just in time." There was a hint of mirth to his tone. "I happen to be an expert with Italian food."

She blushed. Spinelli knew exactly how he affected her.

A pile of dirty dishes sat on the counter, waiting to be dunked in the sink full of water. Before she realized what he was up to, he had rolled up his sleeves, grabbed plates, and placed them under the suds.

"You don't need to do my dishes."

"Why not?" He shrugged with his arms up to their elbows in soap. "It must be a bitch to do them with one hand."

"It is a little time consuming. I've been meaning to have someone come in and take a look at the dishwasher."

Virginia eyed his back, those wide shoulders that tapered down to tight hips, trying to get over the fact that Mark Spinelli was in her kitchen . . . doing her dishes of all things. Not knowing what else to say, she forced herself to look away and focus on the lasagna. They worked in silence until she drummed up the nerve to broach the subject that had been on her mind over the last few months.

"I heard what you did to Peter Mason . . ."

He visibly stiffened. "He deserved it."

"You took quite a chance doing that in front of witnesses, in a police station of all places." She had been wondering why he would take such a risk.

"The police—" He paused and glanced over again. "You guys aren't out to get me on some minor assault charges."

He was right, of course. When they went after Mark Spinelli, it would have to be on something big, some huge evidence they had come across that would put him away for good.

"Besides," he continued, "there wasn't one cop in that station who wasn't wishing they could do the very same thing to that asshole." He lifted the last pot onto the drainer, grabbed the towel to dry his hands, and turned to face her.

"Well, it worked and I have you to thank," she said, taking a break from the pasta. "Without Mason's testimony, Tom may very well have paid his way to freedom. Thank you. Thank you for . . . everything." She reached out and touched his forearm, still wet and sudsy from the dishes.

They both laughed as he finished drying and passed her the towel.

Her mind rushed over the events of the last couple of months. Mason had testified against Tom, proving that a death threat from the Chilvati family was not something to be ignored. And Tom had been quick to accept the plea deal, avoiding a long drawn out court case. She suspected the man in front of her had a hand in that too, but she wasn't going to ask. Both Tom and his hired goon were in jail where they belonged, away from her and Janine, and that's all that mattered.

Needless to say, Tom's public image had been ruined. Isabelle had left him and, according to the gossip columns, found another man within a few weeks. Virginia had felt a small tinge of satisfaction with the news, but she didn't bask in it, deciding to move on in her life with the intention of forgetting that Tom Robins was ever part of it.

"Are you back at work?" he asked, drawing her from her thoughts.

"Yes, I've been on office duty for a while, going out here and there, but I do a little more each day. Pretty soon I'll be back on my regular schedule. I can't wait to start my daily workouts again. Never thought I'd miss those as much as I do."

"I'm glad your life is getting back to normal, Ginny."

Her breath caught. So she hadn't imagined it—he had called her that in the hospital when she was half out of it. "Why do you call me that?"

He got busy rolling down his sleeves, looking uncomfortable, catching her by surprise. A man like Spinelli was not often embarrassed—if ever. "I don't know. It just suits you. It's cute."

Then he frowned, looking anxious. "Do you not like it?"

Are you kidding? It sounded like a term of endearment, and she had to fight the urge to hug herself every time she thought about it. "No, I do like it . . . it's"—be careful—"cute."

His smile was wide and breathtaking.

She laughed and threw the towel, which he caught in-flight.

Still looking ill at ease, he turned his attention to the lasagna. "Did you put any red wine in there?"

"No," she answered, pulled into the ploy, wanting his evaluation. "Should I?" She had never made a pretense of being a great cook, getting by day-to-day with simple recipes. That wasn't to say she couldn't whip up something nice, if she had the time.

"Got any?"

"Sure, in the dining room . . . in the wine rack."

He walked around her, on a mission.

Seconds later he was back, wine bottle in hand. "Corkscrew?"

Virginia pointed to the top drawer before remembering how messy it was. "Wait." She shot forward. Too late.

Utensils clanked around until he found what he was digging for. Muscles in his forearm flexed while he worked the cork. It was hard not to stare.

He walked to the stove and stood beside her. "Let's see," he murmured as he surveyed the already-built lasagna. "I prefer to mix the wine in with the meat, but this may do." He poured a little around the edges, the burgundy liquid making gulping sounds as it flowed out of the bottle and disappeared down the sides of the dish.

When he was done, their eyes met. They were standing so close, she had to step back to reinstate the comfort level.

"It had better be good, Spinelli," she joked.

Annnd her stomach was at it again—swooning as light creases formed by those deep blue pools when he smiled.

Leaning down, Spinelli opened the oven door and placed the lasagna on the middle rack. Virginia poured two glasses from the now-open bottle and handed one to him once he had finished. Their fingers touched, sending shivers down her arm. He cleared his throat, and she wondered if he was having the same reaction. Doubtful, Virginia. You're the only immature one here so get a grip.

Spinelli lifted his in the air. "To a one-hundred-percent recovery." He moved his glass closer to hers and waited.

"To good friends," she said, using an ironical lilt to accentuate their unlikely relationship. She closed the distance with a clink.

His eyes didn't budge from hers while he took a sip. Then he voiced his own version. "Yes . . . friends," he said, stretching the word out with a tongue-in-cheek tone as if they had some unspoken secret between them.

This time it was her heart that flipped—literally skipped a beat—she was certain of it, and when that vital organ fired up again, it was working twice as hard, the pounding in her chest reverberating in her ears like a car stereo with the bass turned way up. All that rushing blood must have washed away her common sense because she took a step closer to him.

Spinelli's face grew serious, and she didn't even realize he'd taken the glass from her hand until he twisted at the waist to place both of them on the counter. Then he straightened and they locked eyes, but he didn't make a move, leaving it all up to her. He looked pretty sure of himself, though, his gaze a heavy, beckoning, daring invitation. Damn the man's arrogance.

The little voice in her head had regained some footing, yet it was still a meek, half-hearted don't that attempted to stop her. She ignored it. There had to be a million reasons why this was a bad idea, but for the life of her, she couldn't think of one as she leaned toward the man standing in front of her.

END OF CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

So close and yet so far. I'm a tease, I know. If you like where it's heading, please consider voting!