Mr Destiny (4 page)

“Whatever!” Alex said, but she groaned loudly after she said it.

I'd better get in there before Alex goes postal,
Kate thought, and marched down the hallway and into the living room. She didn't see the object propped up in the middle of
her sofa until Eve and Alex both turned around to look at her.

“Alex!” Kate scolded. “I told you when you insisted on buying that painting to leave it at your office. I
don't
want it here.”

Alex looked over at Eve. “Is that any way for a bride to talk about an expensive wedding present from a best friend?”

The expression in Eve's big blue eyes told Kate she wasn't sure what she was supposed to say, but that she definitely didn't
want to take sides.

But that was Eve's personality in general. Passive. Easily confused. Almost mousy, except for her pretty face and a halo of
shiny auburn curls befitting one of those cute angelic cherubs.
Cherubesque,
in fact, best described everything about Eve. Her tiny, barely five-foot frame. Her perfect cherry red bow lips. Even the
pleasingly plump curves that made any man's mouth water.

“You have to admit, it is a beautiful painting, Kate,” Eve finally said, when Alex kept glaring at her.

Kate looked from one to the other. “Great friends the two of you turned out to be. One's a traitor. The other one's a big
bully.”

She placed the take-out sacks on the coffee table, picked up the oil painting of the Madonna and Child, and marched back to
the front hallway closet. Kate even slammed the closet door for effect.

She didn't want the Virgin Mary staring out at her from some painting, watching her every move. She didn't want to think about
the Italian on the stallion, either. Or the fact that he most definitely had that
Italian
thing going for him that was sexy as all hell and then some.

What she wanted to do was eat her Moo Goo Gai Pan before it got cold. She wanted to relax and watch whatever movie the girls
had decided on for the evening—as long as there was
no
hot Italian actor in the starring role.
And,
she wanted to go to bed early and get a restful good night's sleep.

Then, she'd be able to drag herself out of bed at the crack of dawn the next morning. Harold wouldn't be upset, because she
wouldn't be running late as usual. And they could make their weekly trip to Bridgehampton to spend the rest of the weekend
with Margaret.

Kate let out a sigh, thinking how know-it-all Alex also couldn't resist pointing out how devoted-son Harold had been using
the need-to-spend-the-weekend-with-Mother excuse from the moment Kate had met him. Rather, of course, Alex insisted, than
risk Kate spending the weekend alone with him at the penthouse, where getting-more-sexually-frustrated-by-the-minute Kate
could have possibly challenged Harold to demonstrate exactly how well those therapy sessions were really helping with his
penile dysfunction disorder.

Penile dysfunction disorder.

Did it get any sadder than that?

Stop it!

She had to stop obsessing over Harold's penis.

Or the lack thereof, as the case might be.

Harold adored her.

He was also perfect husband material.

Her grandmother certainly thought so. And no one's opinion mattered more to Kate than that of Grace Anderson.

Sad story.

No!

She wasn't going to let Alex's accusation creep into her mind where her grandmother was concerned.

Of course, her widowed grandmother had been devastated when her only child—the son who had won notable acclaim for his photography—suddenly
ran off with the promising young artist Grace had personally taken under her wing. Her grandmother had been betrayed by both
of Kate's parents when they declared themselves antiestablishment and headed off to California, wandering aimlessly from one
commune to another in search of the true meaning of life.

Kate hadn't even met her grandmother until she was twelve years old. She probably wouldn't have met Grace then had her parents
not decided to live in the not-exactly-safe jungles of South America for a year so her father could photograph the quickly
disappearing rain forests for
National Geographic.

Grace had agreed to take her in, and once she'd arrived in New York City and had a taste of a conventional lifestyle, Kate
had known living with her grandmother was where she wanted to stay. It was the one time in her life that having free-spirit
parents actually paid off. Her parents both agreed it was her decision to make. They allowed her to stay with Grace when they
returned from South America.

Alex claimed she'd been trying to fill the void her father had left in Grace's life all these years, and maybe she had. But
she had done so out of love, certainly not out of
pity
for her grandmother. That notion was as silly as Alex's claim that marrying Harold was just another way of proving she was
nothing at all like her bohemian parents.

Alex and her damn executive opinions.

But still thinking about her beautiful and always gracious grandmother, she did wonder what Grace was doing at that very moment
in gay Paree. Last year, Grace never would have taken a buying trip to Paris and left her in charge of the gallery for a whole
month.

Even Alex can't argue with that fact.

Last year, she'd been doing what most twentysome-things in New York City were still doing every night of the week. She'd been
cruising the night spots with her friends. Living it up. Holding on to that last bit of youth before life dictated that thirty
had arrived and it was time to straighten up, fly right, and act like a reasonably responsible adult.

She'd turned thirty in January, right after she'd met Harold. The fact that Harold was older (he'd be thirty-eight in November)
had made it much easier to settle down than she'd ever imagined.

So, forget Alex.

Whether Alex believed it or not, she was perfectly satisfied being a responsible thirty-year-old who was now settled down.
She was extremely fond of feeling blissfully comfortable with Harold, instead of being stuck on a bad-date merry-go-round
playing the same sad song.
And
she was going to be wonderfully happy and delightfully content being married to comfortable, settled, organized Harold—who
adored her completely.

Amen.

“Kate,” Alex yelled out. “Stop analyzing your entire life and come eat. Your food's getting cold.”

“I'm not analyzing my entire life,” Kate yelled back, aware that Alex and Eve both knew she was lying through her teeth.

She'd always been a master analyzer.

The problem was, the more she analyzed the situation, the more confused she usually became—paralysis by analysis, her friends
called it.

Like her relationship with Harold, for instance. She'd given up on love long before she'd even met Harold. Not because she
hadn't had her fair share of random boyfriends, because she had. She'd just never felt that zoom, bam, bop, knock-you-right-out
connection Alex was always talking about.

Not with any man.

Ever.

Maybe Harold
had
more or less steamrolled right over her from the very beginning. Maybe there had also been plenty of red flags waving in
the back of her mind over the fact that there was no real physical attraction between them. The simple fact was, she and Harold
were both ready for marriage. They were compatible. And they'd talked at length about what it really took for a marriage to
be successful.

Commitment.

Respect.

Devotion.

Physical attraction would be nice, but…

“Kate!”

“I'm coming,” Kate yelled back.

Frack.

Sometimes best friends could be a real pain in the ass.

Yet, Kate couldn't imagine her life without Alex and Eve in it.

Besides, this time Alex was right.

There was a carton of yummy Moo Goo waiting in the living room with her name on it. She could hear the music gearing up on
the television, indicating the feature presentation was getting ready to start. And though she sometimes felt like strangling
Eve—and she
always
felt like strangling Alex—spending Friday nights staying in with takeout and her two best friends had definitely become the
highlight of her week.

Any further life-analyzing moments could be saved for later. Later, when she'd most likely be lying in her bed all alone staring
at her bedroom ceiling. Trying
not
to fantasize about a certain superhunky cop who claimed that
he,
not Harold, was supposed to be her freaking destiny.

Tony waited until stomachs were full, and the conversation around the large family table at the back of his parents' restaurant
had died down to a dull roar. Then he tapped his knife against his wineglass, signaling that he had an important announcement
to make.

On Friday nights the restaurant employees attended to the customers so Mama and Papa Petrocelli could enjoy quality family
time with their sizable brood. Tony looked around the table at the people waiting to hear whatever he had to say.

Papa was sitting at the opposite end of the table in the place of authority—Mama in her usual seat to his right. Papa was
still handsome, silver sprinkled throughout his dark hair, his bushy eyebrows, and his thick mustache. Mama was still beautiful,
no gray showing in her thick, ink black hair. But her body was round and full now, thanks to bringing six children into the
world. Also thanks to the rich Italian dishes she not only loved to cook but loved to eat—the same dishes that had made the
family restaurant so popular.

His five sisters were there, all of them young and pretty. They were seated down both sides of the long table with their husbands,
all of whom Tony liked. His nieces and nephews, eight of them ranging in ages from three to ten, were running freely around
their grandparents' restaurant. No one seemed concerned that the kids might be terrorizing customers who had been brave enough
to come to Mama Gina's on a family Friday night.

In other words, everything was normal—chaos as usual.

With the exception that one very important family member was missing.

His grandmother lived in New Jersey with her oldest son, his uncle Vinny. Nonna's absence was the main reason Tony had decided
to make his announcement about meeting Kate Anderson to the family tonight. Whether he believed in his grandmother's ability
to predict the future or not, he would never do anything to insult her or hurt her feelings.

“Well?” Papa boomed from the head of the table. “Were you pounding on your wineglass because you wanted more Chianti? Or do
you have something important you wanted to say?”

Everyone laughed.

Tony took a deep breath and forced himself to say, “Today I met the blonde with green eyes in Central Park. She was even standing
beside an oil painting of the Madonna and Child.”

No one said a word.

Then everyone started talking at once.

His mother even had her hands clasped over her full-figured bosom, her eyes cast upward to the ceiling as she said a prayer
of thanks.

Shit.

Tony banged against his glass again.

When everyone settled back down, he said, “Don't get so excited. I'm afraid meeting the blonde is as far as Nonna's prediction
goes.”

A stream of questions came at him from every direction, again all at once.

“Yes,” Tony said, answering his sister Theresa who was sitting closest to him. “Like a complete fool, I did stop and talk
to her. I even told her all about Nonna's prediction. And it took her less than two seconds to inform me that she's already
engaged and her wedding is only two months away.”

“What?” His mother's expression was wide-eyed with concern. “But your destiny with this woman is written in the stars, Anthony!
Did you not explain this to her?”

Tony groaned inwardly. “Mama. What was there to explain?
I
told her about Nonna's prediction.
She
told me I had the wrong blonde. There was nothing more to say.”

“Nothing more to say?” Mama's usually smiling face was now screwed up in a worried frown—not a good sign. “Don't be ridiculous,
Anthony. You must go see her again and tell her to postpone her wedding. Make her understand
you
are the man she was meant to marry.”

Tony was dumbfounded.

When two of his sisters actually nodded in agreement, Tony threw his hands up in the air.

“Oh, come on, Mama. I thought
you
would be pleased that this woman is already engaged. If I remember right, you cried for days after my sixteenth birthday.
I thought it had always been your dream that your only son would marry a nice
Italian
girl. Not some green-eyed blonde.”

His mother waved away his comment. “That was then. This is now. Times have changed, and so have I.” She looked around the
table. “Not one of your sisters married an Italian man. Does it matter? No. Family is family. This is the new mill-en-i-dome,”
she said, sounding out the word carefully. “A smart boy like you should know that.”