Michael sat forward, his interest focused. “This is your label?” he asked.

“It is.”

The waiter poured Michael a small amount of wine and stood back. With a swirl, sniff, and sip, he swallowed and nodded. “Your winery is in the Umbria region?”

Gabi smiled and Alonzo blinked. “It’s in Campania, actually.”

Michael took another sip and shrugged. “It’s good.”

“Thank you.”

“You know wine, Michael?”

Meg preferred a shot of whiskey or a nice cold beer over wine. She’d learned to drink wine, knew what went with what, and didn’t mind some of the heavier reds, but knowing what region a wine grape came from . . . no, not her thing.

“A little.”

Meg shook her head. “Michael’s wine cellar is full.”

Michael bumped her knee under the table.

“You’ll have to add Alonzo’s to your collection.”

Alonzo shifted in his seat and tapped Gabi’s hand on the table.

“I might do that,” Michael said.

Wine was served and the chef’s specials were presented.

“What is it you do for a living, Miss Rosenthal?”

The question was common, the answer always vague. “Acquisitions and client relations,” she said, pushing her salad plate aside.

Alonzo seemed disinterested, where Mrs. Masini narrowed her eyes. “Is that in the movie business?”

“No.”

“What exactly do you acquire?” It was the first direct question Valentino had asked.

“You don’t know? Seems you make it your business to learn every possible thing about your guests before they arrive on the island.”

Michael leaned in. “Meg is a little sore on the subject, Valentino. Seems your delay in approving our stay left a bad taste in her mouth.”

It was Meg’s turn to hit Michael under the table.

“Is that right?”

The nerve of the man. He knew damn well she wasn’t happy with his snail-paced delivery of their approval.

She found him staring at her, his steely-eyed expression and lack of a smile unreadable.

Why couldn’t he be bald and unappealing? Why did her pulse beat like a drum on the African plain anytime she looked at the man?

“Women dislike being told no, Val. How many times must I tell you that?” Gabi, bless the woman, offered a valid argument.

“I grew up in a home with three sisters. I can verify that statement.” Michael went on to talk about his family, directing the conversation far away from Alliance and its true service. It would never be public knowledge just who Meg, Sam, and anyone who worked with Alliance set up.

While Michael engaged the others, Val leaned close. “I couldn’t help but notice that you avoided my question.”

“Question about what?” she asked, even though she knew what Val was asking.

“What the company you work for acquires.”

She picked up her wine, took her time tasting it. Over the rim she said, “Rejection bites, doesn’t it?”

He chuckled, then mumbled under his breath. “Touché.”

When their meal arrived, Meg took her first bite of the sea bass and moaned.

“That good?” Michael asked with a teasing grin.

Instead of answering him, she broke off a piece with the edge of her fork and fed him a bite.

“Oh my God.”

“Right?” she said between mouthwatering bites.

“My chef will be delighted you’re pleased.” Val sat back and watched her as she swallowed her fish.

After blotting her lips, she managed, “It’s amazing.” Considering some of the places and people she’d managed to dine with since landing the job with Alliance—a Duchess, fake dating a Hollywood icon, and otherwise schmoozing with the überrich—the fish was damn good. The company didn’t suck either.

She dug into another piece, waved the fish in the air. “There’s a place in San Diego . . . Market Fish, or something like that—”

“On the wharf?” Michael asked.

“Yes. They come close, but this is so much better.”

Gabi leaned across the table. “My brother prides himself on the fresh selections.”

Meg managed a peek from the corner of her eye. Val still had yet to bite into his food. “Do you cook?”

“I don’t have time to cook.”

Which didn’t answer her question.

“I suppose you never have a need to cook with all this at your disposal.”

“I’ve taught both my children to cook. Not that they practice their skills often.” Mrs. Masini nibbled the chicken on her plate.

“Do all of you live on the island?” Michael asked.

Mrs. Masini shrugged. “If I want to see my children, this is where I must be.”

“Paradise is at your feet,” Michael told her. “Never-ending sunshine.”

“I like the rain.”

“We’re tropical, Mama, it rains every day,” Gabi said with a smile.

“Not the same.”

Maybe it was the wine, or the amazing food, but Meg found herself relaxing even with the reserved man beside her.

They’d been on the island just shy of twenty-four hours. Michael ran in from the warm ocean, water splattering in his wake. He pushed into the lounge chair beside Meg, and grabbed the ice water at her side.

She looked up from the book in her hand. “I think you were a fish in a former life.”

“I can’t get over how quiet it is out there.”

“You make it sound like I’m talking your ear off.”