And he knew Val.
She licked her lips. Val might not be in serious island casual, but the flowing silk shirt and relaxed pants were a far cry from the stuffy shirt and tie she’d seen him in from day one. He’d even managed to skip a shave, and damn if that wasn’t sexy as all get-out.
“Bring that over here.” Mrs. Masini waved her to a table laden with food.
Meg placed the platter of barbecued ribs and chicken onto the center of the table.
“Perfetto. Gabi, tell Luna to bring the fruit and we can eat.”
“Yes, Mama.” Gabi winked at Meg and disappeared into the private villa.
The far north side of the island held Val Masini’s private space. Meg couldn’t help but wonder if the vast ocean in front of his home was where clothing-optional swimming took place.
Only a handful of guests milled about the tropical, lush garden where the invitation-only lunch was taking place. The space could have taken on a hundred guests without feeling crowded.
“It’s beautiful, yes?” Mrs. Masini asked.
“I haven’t seen a space on this island that isn’t,” Meg told her.
The older woman smiled. “Valentino works hard to make that magic.”
Meg found her gaze moving to Val, he caught her eyes for a nanosecond before she turned away. “Does he ever take a break?”
Mrs. Masini shrugged. “This is his break. He cooks a meal instead of depending on his chef once a week.”
Meg noticed a table full of side dishes and carbonated beverages and a few bottles of wine chilling in a bucket. “Something tells me Val didn’t make all this.”
Val’s mom laughed. “He grills.” She dipped her finger into the side of the ribs, licked it off. “A master at the grill, my boy.”
“Bragging on your son?” Jim moved beside Meg and placed an instant smile on her face.
“I’m just expressing his culinary skills.” Mrs. Masini met Meg’s eyes and held them. “Do you cook?”
Meg thought of the microwave at home, the freezer full of instant meals. “Depends on what you consider cooking.”
Jim laughed and Val joined them.
“Any wife of mine doesn’t need to cook,” Jim offered.
Mrs. Masini frowned.
Jim laughed.
Meg felt her cheeks fill with heat and Val said, “Maybe if you found a wife that cooked, you’d still be married to one of them.”
Jim slapped a meaty palm to Val’s back. “I might have to try that.”
“What’s all this talk of wives? Is there another Mrs. Lewis close at hand?” Mrs. Masini asked.
Meg’s personal icon draped a hand over her shoulders and pulled her close. “You didn’t hear? Meg loves me, and she sings. It’s meant to be.”
The man flirted with style; Meg had to give him that.
“Is that right?” Mrs. Masini had an actual twinkle at the corner of her eye. “What is Meg’s last name?”
Jim glanced at the sky, leaned in close. “What’s your last name?”
“Rosenthal.”
Jim retreated with a playful smile. “Jewish? That might not work.”
“Said the black kettle to the Jewish pot.”
Jim pulled her against him again. “We can piss off all kinds of people with the union.” The man was joking, but damn if it wasn’t fun to be a part of a joke with Jim freaking Lewis.
“My mother is Catholic.”
That had Jim pulling away only to laugh. “Our children would be so messed up.”
“You’re too old to give her children,” Val said with a frown.
“I’m told that a healthy man can have sperm produce children until death.” Meg found Val’s eyes and held them.
Gabi made her way back to the party and asked, “What’s this about children and death?”
“Nothing, tesoro. Jim is just a shameless flirt and found an audience with poor Miss Rosenthal,” Mrs. Masini said.
“Call me Meg.”
Mrs. Masini patted her hand and Meg noticed Val frown.
“Did he call you his future wife?” Gabi asked.
“He did.”
Gabi rolled her eyes. “You need a new line.”
Val pulled away and encouraged all his guests to eat.
Meg found herself sitting beside Gabi and Mrs. Masini.
Jim and Val spoke with several guests, their laughter carrying over the courtyard.
“You really don’t cook?” Mrs. Masini asked halfway through their meal.
“Is a microwave considered cooking?”
Gabi winced. “You didn’t just say that.”
Mrs. Masini dropped her fork. “How will you find a husband if you don’t cook?”
Meg thought of her database full of prospective husbands. “Well . . .”
“You must know how to cook something.”
“Spaghetti.”
Mrs. Masini’s face lit up.
“As in jar sauce and boiled bag pasta.”
Mrs. Masini’s face fell.
Gabi groaned. “Let me say this now . . . run, Meg.”
“Pasta isn’t something that comes from a bag.” Mrs. Masini’s voice took on the quality of a Mom-Demon. Her low voice wasn’t something a mere mortal could ignore.
“In my house—”
“Jewish father, Catholic mother . . . I heard.” Mrs. Masini waved a hand in the air. “To find the right man, you must know how to cook at least one meal properly.”
“I’m really not looking for the right—”
“Enough!”
Some people might say they felt the weight of the world coming down, but never had Meg felt it before. The determination in Mrs. Masini’s voice, her words, and the sheer distress hovering over Gabi’s face made Meg squirm.