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her cheeks. “No. No pizza sauce,” she said, and reached for her mug of root beer.
    â€œDon’t you like your pizza, Dr. Bennett?” Summer asked.
    Amanda’s gaze swiveled to the child seated to Michael’s left. “Why, yes. It’s delicious.”
    â€œThen I guess pepperoni’s just not your favorite.”
    â€œPepperoni’s fine.” Amanda glanced down the table at the other children busily devouring the huge pans of pizza. She furrowed her brows. “Why would you think it wasn’t?”
    â€œBecause you’re still nibbling on your first slice,” Michael answered as he reached for another piece.
    â€œGuess I’m just a slow eater.” Amanda picked up her half-eaten slice of pizza. She bit into the thick crust and tore off a chunk with her teeth, capturing the threads of gooey cheese with her tongue.
    Summer reached for another slice. “I bet it would taste even better with anchovies.”
    Michael grimaced. “Not everybody has your cast-iron stomach, Shortstuff.”
    Amanda laughed and, for the first time in a long while, she relaxed.
    When the pizza was finished and they moved to the seats in front of the puppet stage, she didn’t object when Michael insisted she sit next to him.
    And later, when the marionettes enthralled the children with their antics on the stage, she didn’t pull away when Michael caught her hand, entwining her fingers with his own.
    Cutting a glance to her right, she studied the hard line of his jaw, the deeply tanned skin exposed by the open neck of his shirt.
    She’d heard the stories that had circulated among the teachers and school staff. He wasn’t a man who let things or people stand in the way of what he wanted. “Ruthless” some had said. It was rumored that with little more than sheer determination, he’d wrestled the ownership of a small, troubled construction company from the grasp of a much bigger and wealthier competitor. And in record time, he’d turned the failing concern into one of the most successful businesses in the city.
    Remembering the determined gleam in his eyes when he had told her that he went after what he wanted, Amanda could believe the stories were true. Her breath quickened.
    And he wanted her.
    Suddenly the sound of applause registered, breaking her reverie. Amanda shifted her attention to the stage just as the curtain came down. Releasing her hand, Michael clapped loudly, occasionlly piercing the air with one of those long shrill whistles that only men seemed to know how to do.
    Once the applause subsided, one of the clowns employed by the Pizza Palace handed Michael a stack of small envelopes.
    After thanking him, Michael turned to the chattering youngsters. “Okay, who wants to play video games?”
    A chorus of “Me’s” rang out as the children jumped up and down excitedly, holding out their small hands.
    â€œWant to help?” he asked Amanda.
    â€œSure.” She took half of the envelopes and began distributing one packet of tokens per child. When she’d finished, she held out the two remaining envelopes to Michael. “Looks like you have a few extras.”
    â€œWrong. These are for us. Come on.” He took her arm and led her toward the aisle of video and pinball machines where Summer and her friends were playing with great enthusiasm. The air hummed with a steady flow of electronic zips, zaps and pings, followed by a series of squeals or groans, depending on the success of the game.
    â€œLooks like we don’t have a lot of choices,” Michael said leading her to the only open spot on the row—a pinball machine. Standing on four chrome legs, the flat surface base stretched out before them in an intricate maze of numbers and yellow bumper lights. A thin alley holding five fist-size chrome balls sat waiting at the base of the maze, a pull lever resting against the first one. The scoreboard towered above