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Gino said, chuckling again. “You got yourself a date.”
    “Promise?”
    “I’ll be there.”
    Lucky clicked off her phone with a smile on her face. Gino, Gino, Gino . There were times she really missed him. They had to get together more often. He was getting older every day; who knew how long he’d be around?
    She started thinking about the time—way back—when he’d married her off to boring Craven, Senator Richmond’s son, right after her sixteenth birthday. Oh yes, she’d been a wild one, and Gino had thought that was the only way to control her. How wrong was that ? She’d been a baby, a teenager he’d delivered to a political family for his own gain. But she’d showed everyone a few years later when she’d gotten a divorce and taken over Gino’s business while he was out of the country on a tax evasion deal.
    Screw getting trapped in a dull marriage. She was a true Santangelo, exactly like Gino. She’d seized her future and run with it.
    It was all light-years away, so why was she thinking about it now?
    Because she couldn’t help herself. Memories—even the bad ones—kept her strong, kept her going.
    Oh Gino. You were a tough father, but you made me the woman I am today. And I love you so much.
    Danny was waiting outside, sitting patiently in the back of a dark blue town car.
    “We’re off,” Lucky said, jumping in next to him. “L.A., here we come.”

 
    CHAPTER SEVEN
    “Hello,” the woman in the red dress murmured in a low, husky voice. “Would it bother you if I sat with you for a moment?”
    Bobby glanced up. He was in no mood to be polite and make small talk. However, the young woman standing by his table was the Latina Michelle Pfeiffer clone he’d noticed earlier, so what was he supposed to do?
    “Uh … hi,” he responded.
    The woman didn’t hesitate. Without waiting for Bobby to invite her, she slid into the booth next to him.
    He took a quick look around, searching for M.J., who was nowhere in sight. Then he spotted his partner on the dance floor making out with a girl in tight pink jeans and a backless top. M.J. was obviously busy. No help there.
    “Is there something I can do for you?” he inquired, uncomfortable, yet at the same time intrigued. What man wouldn’t be?
    “I’m sorry to say that it’s my cousin,” she said, her accented voice soft and alluring. “He is a very controlling man, always telling me what I can and cannot do.”
    “That doesn’t mean you have to listen, does it?” Bobby said, perplexed.
    “I am his cousin. He is a man,” she said with a helpless shrug of her bare shoulders. “There is nothing I can do.”
    “What exactly is he telling you?”
    “He warned me that I should not marry my fianc é —the man I love. He insists that I should break up with him.”
    Bobby frowned. How the fuck had he gotten involved in this conversation? The woman might be a beauty, but he wasn’t interested in her story. He had Denver, and as work-obsessed and annoying as his girlfriend could be, he still loved her, and he certainly had no plans to be unfaithful—even though after almost two weeks apart, he was horny as hell. Not that this delectable creature seemed to be coming on to him. She was engaged, and she’d just told him that she was in love too. Someone had probably pointed him out as one of the owners of the club, so she’d figured he was safe to talk to.
    “Okay, so how can I help?” he asked.
    “Nobody can help me,” she said with another small, hopeless gesture. “I must learn to stand up for myself, although I know that is not easy.” Her soft brown eyes filled with tears. “I am Nadia,” she added.
    “Bobby,” he said, inhaling her musky scent, which he had to admit was intoxicating.
    “I know,” she said, big brown eyes fixed on his.
    “How do you know?”
    “Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos. Our waiter told us that you own this club.”
    “That’s right,” he said, reminding himself to write a stern memo to all staff