Nobody's Angel by Kallypso Masters

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    Why did he have to be Italian? Wasn’t Adonis supposed to be a Greek god?
    At least she had a bargaining chip to entice him into helping her. She’d yet to meet an Italian-American man who would turn down home cooking from the Old Country. If he’d help her out tonight, she’d offer to prepare a special meal for him as his reward.
    The other man, whose face she couldn’t see yet, wore a plaid flannel shirt, also with his sleeves rolled up. When his profile came into view, she saw he was younger than the Italian. Clean-cut. Chiseled features. He could have been a model. His tanned arm was sprinkled with gold-flecked hair, kissed by the sun. His long fingers were wrapped around a brown bottle of Bud Lite.
    Damn . Gold band on ring finger. Well, that pretty much ruled him out, even if all she planned to do was flirt and hang out. She did have her standards. She’d definitely have to win the Italian over to her cause.
    When she arrived at the table, two pairs of sexy eyes looked up at her in unison. Oh, man. Her heart thudded against her chest. Way out of her league. Yes, she’d definitely have to offer them that gourmet meal. When they smiled at her, a frisson of electricity jolted from her wildly beating heart to her clit, surprising her. These men had just turned her burner on with just their smiles.
    What happened to the no-more-men rule, Angie?
    The Italian had short, wavy black hair. His moss-green eyes narrowed as if he were trying to place her, then he smiled in the most disconcerting way. She knew she’d never seen him before, but he seemed oddly familiar. He was the spitting image of Raoul Bova, from Under the Tuscan Sun . She’d seen the movie many times with Mama. That must be it.
    His gaze devoured her, sweeping her length, virtually removing her dress. She shivered at the intensity of his gaze. Her nipples rose like a soufflé on steroids. Judging by the smoking-hot look he gave her as he smiled, he’d noticed her girls’ response, too.
    Definitely not a safe man. And why did her clit throb at that thought? She croaked a husky “Hi,” then cleared her throat, remembering her mission. “Rico tells me you’re SAR and I really need rescuing tonight.”
    Mio Dio. Did she really say that? How many times had women used that line on them? Well, desperate times and all.
    The Italian broadened his smile. Her fingers twitched with the urge to stroke the five-o’clock shadow darkening his jaw. Unlike the clean-cut man, this man’s kisses would leave abrasions on her skin. Her nipples tightened even further at the thought.
    Angelina’s face flushed. She took a gulp of wine hoping to cool down, but the liquid went down her windpipe instead. As she sputtered for air, both men jumped up and stood beside her.
    “Cough, cara ,” the Italian ordered. The other man placed his arm across her midriff to support her as he patted her back.
    Cara ? A distant memory flitted across her mind. That and her close proximity with the two virile men caused her to go into a fit of coughing.
    “Good girl.” The Italian’s hand stroked her back, skin on skin through the keyhole. Her fantasy angel-wolf-man had said that, too.
    Snap out of it, Angie. He doesn’t exist .
    Heat radiated from both men’s bodies, making her feel even hotter. She held a shaky hand to her throat and placed her glass on the table before she spilled or dropped it.
    “Can you talk?” the non-Italian asked. She noticed a woodsy scent about him.
    As the coughing spell ended, she croaked out, “I’m fine.”
    “How did we do, cara ?”
    Mamma mia . Northern Italian. Just like her dream lover.
    Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!
    The corner of his mouth twitched, breaking into a dazzling smile. She blinked a couple of times, stunned at his beautiful face, then grinned back. God, so much like the man in her recurrent dream, only ten times better.
    Then she realized they thought their rescue work was done.
    “Um, that wasn’t the rescuing I had in