Read Online My Front Page Scandal by Carrie Alexander - Free Book Online Page A

days in Italy.”
    Fortunately, her father’s desire to instill his daughters with discipline had been softened by her mother’s unsinkable sense of joie de vivre, else Brooke might have taken longer than thirty years to shirk the idea that indulging in a luxury now and then wouldn’t send her on a downward spiral into decadence.
    “I’d like to go someday.”
    “You must. I loved it—the food, the architecture, the ambiance. Venice, especially, is incredible. I’ve always imagined I’d go there on my hon—” Her teeth clicked. She threw a wild glance at the cases as the bakery worker slid in another tray of pastries. “Yum, they have fresh lobster tails.”
    “La sfoglatella.” David sent her a sidelong grin. “And luna del miele, I guess.
    I’m not sure.”
    She blinked. “I speak Danish and a smidgen of French.”
    “Danish? Do you mean the pastry?”
    Brooke chuckled. “No, I had a semester abroad in Copenhagen.”
    “Sfoglatella is the lobster tail.” They stared at the layers of buttery pastry, interlocked like the segments of the tail of a crustacean and filled with cream or custard.
    She was familiar with the pastry. Actually, she felt like one, all soft and oozy. “And the other?”
    “Honeymoon, roughly translated because I’m not sure what they call them in Italy. Isn’t that a strictly American word?”
    “I have no idea.” Grief, she was blushing. Why should she care if he knew that she fantasized about a Venetian honeymoon? “That’s just, you know, a girl thing.
    Dreaming about your wedding and honeymoon—all that mushy stuff.”
    “So you’re a romantic.”
    “I suppose I am. Inside.” She gave him a saucy wink, trying to live up to the stylish boots and designer dress that advertised a much more daring woman. She splayed a hand over the sparkly metallic fabric. “What, you don’t believe me?”
    It was actually her inner rock chick that rarely saw the light of day. During her teenage years, she’d spent a lot of time dancing alone in her bedroom. The one time she’d managed tickets, to a Nirvana concert when she’d been sixteen or so, her father had caught her sneaking upstairs in the wee hours and put her on a month’s probation.
    Playing the sexy rebel role with David the other night had been a tantalizing treat. She’d tried to keep it up tonight, but couldn’t seem to stop slipping into the old, familiar ways whenever their conversation turned meaningful.
    “I’m not sure what to think,” he admitted. “I can’t figure you out.”
    She tried on a mysterious smile. “You don’t need to know. Let me remain an enigma.” For probably the first time in my life. There was no mystery in being good, proper and reliable.
    He took her hand again. “We’d better order.”
    She scanned the cases, too riveted by his touch to concentrate on picking out a goodie. “You promised to speak pastry to me.”
    He looked at the clerk, a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair and purplish lipstick, and asked for an espresso macchiato. Brooke ordered a latte. Smiling, the woman turned away to work the levers of an immense machine with so many levers and chrome doodads that if it’d had wheels David might have driven it down the street.
    He crisscrossed his arms over Brook’s body to hold her in a loose embrace.
    “Boconne,” he murmured into her ear, swaying her with each word. “Biscotti.”
    The visceral experience of his velvet voice, the smells of coffee and vanilla, sugar and rising yeast, combined into a warm syrup that slipped through her veins. She floated. She might have been alone with David, snuggled in a gondola that skimmed the canals as sunrise gilded the stone palazzos.
    “Tarali, pasticiotti, torrone.”
    A humming sigh rose out of her and the espresso machine whirred as if in counterpoint. Its steam fogged the windows, shutting out the outside world.
    “I’m not really Italian,” he whispered, “but thanks to the Carerras, I can fake it.”
    His voice had