Blood Orchid (Holly Barker 3)

“Thank you, I’ll sit at the bar.” She offered him a smile of her own.

He led her to the bar, which was half full, and pulled out a seat at the less populated end. He snapped his fingers for the bartender, who came quickly. “Perhaps you’d be my guest for a drink while you’re looking at the menu,” he said.

“Thank you, I’d love one. A bourbon on the rocks?”

“Any special brand?”

“Do you have Knob Creek?”

“Of course.” He nodded at the bartender, who went to pour the drink, then he handed Holly a menu. “Would you like me to recommend something?”

“Why don’t you order for me?” Holly said, handing back the menu.

The man beamed. “Of course. How hungry are you?”

“Very.”

“In that case I will start you with our famous antipasti and continue with our specialty, the osso buco.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“May I introduce myself? I’m Pio Pellegrino.”

“I’m Helen Benson,” she said. “You’re the owner, then?”

“It’s a family business,” he replied. “My father, over there, is still the owner, but we run it together.” He nodded at an elderly man sitting near the kitchen door, eating pasta. “He likes to sit there because it’s near the waiters’ station, and he wants to be sure they don’t steal the cutlery.”

Holly laughed. “A smart businessman.”

“You don’t know the half of it. Excuse me, I’ll order your dinner.”

Holly sipped her bourbon and looked around the place. It was handsomely designed, fairly large, and filling up fast—obviously a popular place.

Her antipasti arrived, and she had a bit of everything. Delicious. Then came the osso buco, and Pio, with half a bottle of red.

“I hope you’ll drink some wine,” he said. “With my personal compliments.”

“Thank you, yes.”

He poured the wine, a very good Chianti Classico, and she made appreciative noises. He left to seat other customers.

Holly loved the osso buco, and when Pio returned, she had finished it. “Thank you so much for ordering for me, and for the wine,” she said. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Not in my own restaurant,” he said, “but I’d be delighted to have one with you.” He spoke to the bartender in Italian, and two glasses of a golden liquid appeared.

“What is it?”

He settled on a stool next to her. “Strega, an Italian apperitif.”

She liked it and told him so.

“So, are you from Miami?”

“No, from out of town.”

“How did you choose my restaurant?”

“Pure luck; I was driving past and saw the sign, and I was in the mood for Italian.”