Nikos found her lips with his for a quick kiss. "Well, I say you're Greek material. Now get to work, and if you need a break before lunch, take one. You look like you've been up all night."

Automatically, her eyes strayed elsewhere before she rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. "Don't be silly, Antonakas. I need at least eight to deal with a slave driver like you. Ten if I hope to be quick of wit."

Another quick nip of her luscious lips and Nikos said, "I gotta go do payroll. Meet me for lunch in the back?"

She grinned, making his stomach do something he was sure only girls' stomachs did. "It's a date."

Nikos left her chopping carrots and green peppers with a satisfied smile. Today, life was good. Not that she would have prevented him from pursuing Frankie, but his mother wasn't going to harp on him about Frankie's less than Greek-ness. Topping that off, Voula was going to talk Barnabas into retiring-something long overdue but much needed.

And Frankie was here.

Opa.

"My Nikos, he likes you."

Frankie gave Voula a look of caution she was unable to hide while she nibbled a cracker and stirred her chicken soup in the back office.

Voula gave her a shoulder-to-shoulder nudge. "You like him, too, eh, Frankie?"

"He's . . . he's . . . uh, very nice."

"S'okay. You don't have to hide the feelings with Mama. Then we all walk on eggs. Eggs are no good on your feet."

"Eggsh.e.l.ls." Frankie gulped. Despite the fact that Nikos had given her the green light, she'd seen Voula in action when one of her cubs had a mere scratch.

"Yes. The eggsh.e.l.ls," she said on a wide smile. "I know Nikos, and I see how he looks at you when he don't think I'm looking. It makes my heart glad. But he has bad thing happen. I don't want that to happen again, Frankie."

You've been warned, Bennett.

Wiping her hands on her ap.r.o.n, Frankie approached the topic with caution. "I can only promise to do my best not to leave any carnage."

Voula frowned. "What is this carnage?"

"Wreckage. I mean, I promise to try not to hurt Nikos."

Voula rubbed a flour-covered thumb over Frankie's cheek. "It's not you I worry about. You know about the bad because you were married to the bad. But you're a smart girl. You learn from your mistakes. It's Nikos. He has the stupid disease. He doesn't always pay attention before he say something stupid. He is the most like my Barnabas. Green with the monster."

Frankie laughed, sliding back in her chair to scratch Kiki's head. "You mean the green-eyed monster? Like jealousy?"

"That's it. He is jealous and he does the stupid."

"Because of Anita . . ."

Voula winked, slipping Kiki one of the treats she carried around in her ap.r.o.n pocket at all times. "She had no business with my son when she really loved somebody else. She don't look at my Nikos the way you do. Eh, but what can I do when I see disaster? Nikos is a man. He does not listen to his mama anymore, even when I try and warn him. But he did not listen, and look what happened. Mama is always right. So you be patient, okay? If he opens his big mouth?"

"I promise to try."

"You're a good girl. Does not matter that you are not Greek. You're still a nice girl."

"Well, this very nice, not-Greek girl thanks you for the kind words." The warmth of acceptance made her cheeks glow and her heart shift.

Voula laughed, winking conspiratorially at Frankie when Nikos and Barnabas entered the office.

Nikos pulled up a chair next to Frankie, pulling Kiki into his lap and settling her under his chin while Barnabas flipped on the widescreen television Nikos had installed just for him.

Barnabas settled into the chair, patting Voula's hand when she let it rest on his shoulder.

Frankie smiled at the people she'd come to treasure, sipping at her soup and fighting back a bad case of the sleepies. She felt only a little guilty about not telling Nikos she'd been at Mitch's all night. Later. She'd tell him later when she was better equipped to have a possible argument she hoped to avoid.

The voice of the newscaster on the TV droned on, familiar to Frankie's ears, but vague and buzzing due to sleep deprivation. "In our 'Actual or Nonfactual' spotlight-celebrity chef, Mitch Bennett."

Frankie instantly cringed, shrinking down into her seat. G.o.d. Mitch was like a bad case of herpes-always with her.

"As seen here on Live! with Regis and Kelly, the wandering-of-eye and playboy food fanatic of the once popular Mitch in the Kitchen was all smiles when he revealed a hint to the morning cohosts that he has some rather exciting plans for the future, involving, of all things, meatloaf. But that's not the real question you should be asking yourselves, fine fans of the preserved like well-aged wine prince of palette pleasure-the real question is, will Mitch Bennett and his one-time wife and candidate for best impression of a psych-ward escapee revisit their recipe for love? Check out this footage, taken just last night, from Hollywood Scoop's intrepid reporter Dan Winter, and judge for yourself if it's actual or nonfactual."

Frankie's eyes were wide open now, her hands clenching the bowl of soup.

As scenes from last night flitted across the screen, all forty-two inches of screen, Frankie didn't have enough breath left in her lungs to even gasp.

And there they were. Displayed in plasma, Mitch's hands on her a.s.s, her lips near his ear.

The video of her supposed tryst with Mitch undoubtedly had been edited to make it look as though she and Mitch were in some kind of pa.s.sionate lover's embrace, and they'd conveniently left the words "meatloaf" and "recipes" in while cutting out her protests.

Yes. Today was all kinds of awesome.

Barnabas clicked the television off, letting the remote slide to the pocket on the side of his chair, wordless. Voula's horrified face, the shape of her mouth in that O of disbelief, was matched only by her m.u.f.fled sob and escape out through the doors of the office.

Frankie cleared her throat, praying the raw, cracked feel of it wouldn't lend to a squeaky, disjointed explanation. She laid a hand on Nikos's arm, but he yanked it away, making her jump. She fought for calm. "Listen to me-"

Nikos's lips thinned, his jaw tight and unforgiving. The muscles of his free forearm clenched, flexing with tension. "You were with Mitch all night last night, weren't you?"

Frankie scooted forward in her chair, imploring him to look at her. Her pulse crashed in her ears and her stomach heaved. "Yes, but it's not what you think. They're making it look like something it wasn't, Nikos!" If Mitch wasn't dying, he would be when she got her hands on him. He'd never looked more youthful and glowing than he had in that clip from Regis and Kelly.

The idea that she'd been had made her want to yark.

"Don't insult me by lying, for Christ's sake!" he roared, making even a deaf Kiki jump. "You did just see what we all saw, didn't you, Frankie! G.o.d d.a.m.n it, they have video of you and Mitch at his house with the clothes you had on last night. You sure as h.e.l.l didn't look like you were reluctant to have his hands all over you."

No, no, no. She would not let this slip away. Not when she was so close. Her eyes remained pleading, but her resolve was unshakable. "Whoa, hold on there, knuckle-dragger! Do you have any idea the way the tabloids twist things to make it look like something it isn't? That video's been edited to h.e.l.l and back!"

Nikos sc.r.a.ped his chair back, his body rigid with his palpable anger. His black eyes grew hard like two onyx stones, but his voice, Jesus, his voice was eerily together and ominous. "I might not be Cordon Bleueducated like Mitch, but I'm not an idiot, Frankie. It doesn't change the fact that his hands were all over you. I saw it with my own eyes, and you didn't look unhappy about it."

"Right, but the part of our conversation you didn't see was the part where I told him if he didn't take his hands off my a.s.s, I'd remind him how stealthy I am with a wooden spoon! You're jumping to conclusions again, Nikos-you're sentencing me without giving me a fair trial!" she shouted, jumping up and sloshing her soup to the floor with trembling hands.

But he was in a zone Frankie knew all too well. It was painfully obvious in his stance and by the tightening of his jaw he couldn't hear her anymore. "I knew it," Nikos said with so much disgust in his voice, it left the marrow in her bones aching. He dragged a hand through his hair. "I knew something was going on, but I swore to myself I'd trust you. You can't deny what I just saw, Frankie, so don't you throw Anita at me. Don't. I ignored that little voice in my head that said you wouldn't ever go back to a piece of s.h.i.t like him-"

"Nikos Antonakas!" Barnabas shouted, popping up from his chair to stand in front of his son. "You do not use this language with our Frankie no matter what. You will be a gentleman!" he commanded in a tone of force Frankie would never have guessed he possessed.

Frankie's heart raced when Nikos's eyes scanned her in distaste. "Don't worry, Papa. It won't ever happen again. Get the h.e.l.l out, Frankie."

Voula's cry from outside the door preempted any further explanation, leaving everyone a.s.sholes and elbows to see what was going on.

Nikos was first to her side, Kiki still tucked under his arm, blissfully unaware of the newest commotion. "Mama? What's wrong?"

Her round face held disbelief. "My recipe for the meatloaf. It's-it's-gone!"

Cosmos bolted through the doors of the kitchen and took hold of Voula's shoulders. "Did I just hear you right?"

Tears streamed from Voula's always cheerful face. "It's gone, Cosmos! I know where I put. Every night I put it away because I need the next day. My memory is so bad. I must look always to be sure I make it right. It's not there," she sobbed.

The few remaining lunch customers in the diner sat in stunned silence just as Simon burst through the diner doors with Jasmine literally flying behind him. The clickety-clack of his cane led him to where they all stood. From where Frankie was positioned, she noted Simon looked deeply troubled. "Nikos? We need to talk, champ. Now."

"Not now, Simon," Nikos said with clipped words.

Voula leaned against Cosmos, her eyes reddening by the second. "We must find the recipe! I cannot make meatloaf for the customers."

"I'll help," Frankie finally chimed in, her chest tight. "C'mon, Voula. Let's double-check."

Simon blocked her from moving toward Voula. "I wouldn't do that, Frankie."

Her heart began a hard rhythm in her chest. "What?"

"I said, don't bother. I know who took Voula's recipe."

Oh, thank Jesus and all twelve, Frankie thought. She sighed her relief, ignoring Jasmine and the wave of her hands from behind Simon. She was doing the girlfriend thing again, but Frankie was too tired to figure out what she could possibly be warning her about.

"I think it was Frankie."

Note to self: When your girlfriend sends you the girlfriend signal, no joke-at all costs, heed.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

From the journal of the "right back where she started from" still ex-trophy wife Frankie Bennett: All I want to know is this-why is it that when Mitch dumped me, I slept like a newborn in my coc.o.o.nlike cave of despair, but when Nikos Antonakas did it, I couldn't catch some shut eye if the Sandman and every last one of his merry band of Sandettes combined hurled all the sand from the Jersey Sh.o.r.e at me? Thoughts? Bueller?

"What the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing, Simon? Who the f.u.c.k do you think you are?" Jasmine demanded as they pushed their way out of the diner and headed for the parking lot. During her lunch break at Fluffy's, she and Simon had both been witness to the TV footage of Mitch and Frankie. Jasmine had seen and Simon had heard that stuffy, snarky b.i.t.c.h of a reporter take pleasure in exploiting Frankie.

Instantly, Simon had put his idea of two and two irrational thoughts together, formulated Frankie's alleged deceit, and sentenced her.

It had taken Simon all of two seconds to demand Win drive him to the diner to share his thoughts with Nikos. Jasmine had followed behind in her car, alternating between worried for her friend, sick that she'd momentarily considered Frankie would have anything to do with Mitch's stealing the meatloaf recipe, and furious that Simon wouldn't listen to a single word she spoke in defense of Frankie.

The h.e.l.l she'd let Simon accuse her friend before she had the chance to defend herself.

Simon's face was pained in the harsh light of the midafternoon sun. "You didn't really think I wasn't going to tell Nikos what I heard, did you? Not on my watch. I know she's your friend, if that's how friends roll these days, but Nikos is mine, and I'll look out for him whether you like it or not."

She rounded on him, almost wishing he could actually see the fire she knew flamed in her eyes. "That son of a f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h stole the recipe for Mama Voula's meatloaf, Simon. I don't know how, but he did it. You heard what that gossip show said just like I did. Mitch suddenly has some secret that involves meatloaf? Meatloaf? What kind of G.o.dd.a.m.ned chef brags about meatloaf? I know it was him. I know it in my bones. I don't know what he's planning to do with it, but it can't be good."

"How do you suppose Mitch got ahold of it to begin with, Jas? Who else would give it to him? Who else works that closely with both Mitch and Mama V? Look, I just laid it out there. They can do with it what they will." He cracked his jaw, wincing against the harsh wind that stung them both with icy whips of air.

s.h.i.t. There was that. s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t. Yet, Jasmine refused to believe otherwise. Refused. Oh, Christ on a cracker. She couldn't be wrong. "Chloe-maybe it was Chloe!"

Simon's shoulders lifted. "Maybe, but I didn't hear Chloe on the phone with Mitch. I heard Frankie. Whether it has something to do with what just went down or not, I don't know."

"I just can't believe Frankie would ever do something so awful, Simon. She adores the diner. She adores Mama Voula. She's nuts about Nikos. Why would she ever do something like that?"

Simon c.o.c.ked his head in the direction of Jasmine's voice, his words tight between his clenched teeth. "Why does anyone do anything? Maybe she was just pretending to adore them until she could get her hands on that recipe and skip off to Mitch for some cash. She's not the first person to want that recipe."

"What proof do you have she's responsible for this?"

Simon gripped his cane, his gloved hand tense and tight on it. "I just told you. I heard her talking to Mitch on the phone. The day she moved into her place."

Jasmine slowed, but only a little. "And what did the great Simon hear with his finely honed hearing skills?"

"When we went to her apartment the other day for her housewarming, I heard her tell Mitch she'd have it for him. It's not hard to add the two together, Jasmine."

Jasmine poked his chest with an accusatory finger. "Yeah, well dumb jock that you are, I'd bet you sucked in math. She could have meant a million different things, Simon. So your theory's officially just been shot to h.e.l.l. Now shut up, and let's go back in and help Frankie sort it out."

He remained in the middle of the parking lot, unmoving. "The h.e.l.l I will. I'm just looking out for Nikos and the people who love me like I'm their own, and after her phone call with Mitch, that Hollywood Scoop bulls.h.i.t, and some pretty incriminating video of her and her ex-husband, I laid it out there."

Jasmine's eyes narrowed. "How do you feel about blind, deaf, and mute, quarterback? Mitch did something s.h.i.tty to Frankie, no way would she help him do something s.h.i.ttier, and she wouldn't go back to Mitch for all the Betsey Johnson in the free world."

"You've only been friends for a few months. Can you seriously claim to know her? Think of all the money she'd regain if she got her hooks back into Mitch . . ."

Fury sizzled along her spine, racing toward her mouth. One she wasn't afraid to lambaste him with. "I don't think I need to know Frankie longer to know she'd never do something like that to another human being after the way she was hurt, and she doesn't want to get back together with Mitch. I just want you to look at this with the possibility she's innocent."

"I'm just bouncing the idea that Frankie's seen some hard times lately. Some cash wouldn't make her cry."

"Way to bounce," Jasmine torpedoed the words at him. Suddenly, she was doubt-free, and angry about Frankie's juryless trial. The trouble was, her anger wasn't just about her friend's dilemma.

"You're angry." Simon said it as though he was surprised she'd be angry he was accusing her one and only friend of not just stealing, but sleeping with a bottom-of-the-barrel licker.

Jasmine sc.r.a.ped her heel on the pavement in disgust, but it wasn't just on Frankie's behalf. Part of her disgust stemmed from the notion that her fears about Simon were justified. "You're a real Mensa candidate. I am angry. I really was beginning to think you were different. I don't know why all men with two dimes to rub together and a couple of annuities are a.s.sholes, but I was this close to believing you were different. You see all women as opportunistic gold diggers, don't you, Simon? There's no way you'll even allow that maybe some distortion of the truth is happening here. Maybe what you heard and what Hollywood Scoop reports is just a little skewed toward the nasty gossip end of the spectrum. You know what those story-loving wh.o.r.es are like firsthand. Jesus, I thought I was jaded. I think we're done, Simon."

When Simon approached her, his nostrils flared. He knew exactly how to locate her because she was wearing the perfume he claimed to love. Standing before her, his face held myriad emotions she didn't bother to decipher, even if she had the luxury of doing so without ever having to meet his condescending eyes. "Any excuse'll do, right, Jasmine?"

"Excuse? You're accusing my friend of being a backstabbing, money-grubbing b.i.t.c.h without giving her a chance to explain."

"But Frankie's the perfect excuse to get rid of me so you don't have to face the fact that you're falling just a little in love with me."

"Simon!" a female voice called from over his shoulder, thwarting Jasmine's response. A slender, sharply dressed woman approached them, microphone in hand and a cameraman just an inch shy of her a.s.s, scrambling to keep up with the heavy equipment.

The trouble with that attractive woman was this: she was only the leader of a pack of attractive women, and men, h.e.l.l-bent on getting to Simon.