Rachel Palladia was up to her elbows in dough. Unfortunately, none of it was green—the kind she really needed. Specifically, one hundred dollar bills, and lots of them.
Damn it all. No, damn him. Rachel let the curse word fly as she thought of her thirty six year old fiancé, Marco Alessandro. Make that ex fiancé. A woman simply did not marry a man to whom faithfulness meant he could sample the sous chef whenever his libido demanded it.
"I'm Italian," Marco had proclaimed when she'd caught him and the nubile sous chef buck naked and bopping like rabbits in Rachel's bed. "Italian men take mistresses. You will always have my heart. You will be my wife."
Rachel had uttered a few choice expletives, tossed his diamond ring at him, told him to get out of her life and her apartment—and promptly donated her bed and linens to Goodwill. She was sleeping on one of those inflatable single mattresses until she could afford something else, but at least the ...
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