YOU COULD TELL when Marco Alessandro was in the building. Six foot two, charismatic, he had movie-star looks that made women swoon. He arrived promptly at four, greeted his staff and then made certain everything was ready for the dinner rush, which began when the restaurant opened at five. By six, there would be an hour’s wait for a table, because unless you knew one of the Alessandro family personally or were a favored regular, Alessandro’s didn’t take reservations. Even celebrities had to wait at the bar.

      “Ah, Rachel.” Marco approached as Rachel was pulling the last of tomorrow’s cakes out of the oven. Her shift would end at seven. Several heads swiveled in their direction. The sous chef was long gone, having tendered her resignation the day after Rachel had interrupted the affair. Marco leaned forward and kissed Rachel lightly on the cheek. She kept her gaze focused on the far wall, noticing that, like always, he smelled of spicy aftershave and minty breath. “You are a sight for sore eyes. I’ve missed you. Let’s go talk in my office.”

      Rachel set the cake pans down on the cooling rack and followed him as requested, noting he was impeccably dressed in a custom black Armani suit—his standard work attire.

      His presence would dominate both the dining area and the kitchen. He would supervise everything, greet patrons at each table, and raise toasts to special events. He’d made Alessandro’s one of New York’s dining destinations. His brother Anthony preferred to stay behind the scenes and kept office hours, managing the operational things like payroll. Marco shut the door behind him and gestured for Rachel to sit. Unlike many restaurant offices, this one could easily suit any law firm or Fortune 100 company. The space was not as huge as his brother Anthony’s office, but the mahogany furniture gave off that air of old-money wealth and privilege, although Marco came from neither. He took his rightful place behind his desk, leaned back in his leather chair and stared at her. “Have you calmed down yet?” he asked bluntly.

      She cocked her head and her brow wrinkled. “Calmed down?” she repeated, incredulous, her blood pressure rising at his insinuation that their rift was her fault.

      “Yes. I assumed my week away would allow you some time to put that unfortunate incident behind you. I, too, have done some thinking, and perhaps my words were not as clear as I’d meant them to be.”

      She bristled. “Not clear? What’s not clear? You were having sex with the sous chef in our bed—my bed—and then telling me that all Italian men have affairs.”

      Marco adjusted his red power tie. “Yes, well, maybe that was a little inconsiderate of me.”

      “You think?” Rachel retorted.

      He didn’t seem too perturbed. “I forget that you have Italian blood. It’s what makes you so fiery. I dallied. I was wrong. From here forward, I will be committed. I don’t want this relationship to end.”

      “Perhaps you should have thought about that before you bopped a bimbo,” Rachel snapped, her anger boiling. “Marriage is sacred. My parents were married for thirty-two years before my father’s heart attack. My grandparents’ marriage lasted over fifty. Until death do us part. Monogamy. Faithfulness. Those things are important to me. I trusted you.”

      “And you can again,” Marco said, as if doing so was just that easy. “We’re well suited. My mother likes you. My brother raves about your pastries and how you’ve helped our restaurant become so in demand. My sister has never tolerated a woman in my life and yet she befriended you. We fit, Rachel. I don’t want to lose you. Please forgive me.”

      She noticed he hadn’t mentioned anything about love. She was twenty-nine, but that didn’t mean she was afraid of the big three-oh when her birthday arrived in mid-April. Somehow she’d fallen for the smart image that he’d created in his attempt to rise above his middle-class Brooklyn upbringing. That was probably the true extent of his appeal. The revelation smarted. “I think the bloom is already off the rose,” she told him.

      “I don’t understand,” Marco said. He reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a small black box. “Here’s your ring. I had it cleaned. I want you back by my side, where you belong.”

      Rachel twisted her hands into her chef’s apron. When she’d first met Marco, he’d charmed the socks off her. He’d brought flowers, wined and dined her, giving her little pieces of Tiffany jewelry just because. He’d never skimped on his extravagance.

      He was older than her by seven years; he’d just turned thirty-six. She’d found him worldly and wise. On his arm she’d felt like a princess and that New York City was her kingdom. He’d taken her to glamorous parties and theater premieres, shown her a world that was such a far cry from Morrisville, Indiana, where the most exciting thing was either cosmic bowling, bingo night at the Knights of Columbus hall or a dance at the country club.

      She’d found Morrisville claustrophobic, but her parents and grandparents had loved the town. Her mother and grandmother still did and were exceedingly content. At this point in her life, Rachel was not. She’d thought that perhaps marrying Marco would change that. How wrong she’d been. Instead, he’d made her unhappiness worse.

      She took off her cap and undid her ponytail, letting the dark, straight locks fall around her shoulders. She was one-quarter Italian, although she considered herself first and foremost simply an American. Heritage wasn’t really that important, except perhaps to the man sitting across from her.

      “Marco, do you love me?” she asked.

      He blinked. “What kind of question is that?” His tone bordered on indignant. “Of course I do. I asked you to marry me. Do you think I didn’t have an array of women to pick from? I wouldn’t have chosen you had you not been special. I love you.”

      Rachel sat there, arms folded across her chest. Marco was smart enough not to approach her. Normally after a fight, he’d hug her, run his fingers through her hair and whisper words that made everything better. If he tried any of those now, she’d slug him. No, how Marco really felt was clear. She’d be a big fool if she thought Marco was marrying her for anything but to protect his bottom line and his profits.

      “I can’t marry you,” she told him.

      Surprised, he frowned. “What? Your ring is right here. Just slide it back on and we’ll call the priest and let him know we still need our date. Anything you’ve canceled can easily be restarted. I’ll spare no expense.”

      The offer was pointless. As much as zebras couldn’t change their stripes,