Friday mornings at the Daily Grind on the Upper West Side were a non-stop marathon. Students from nearby Columbia University, attracted by its urban cool vibe, drifted in like sleepy, rumpled sheep, sprawling across the leather sofas with their java, while the slick-suited urban warriors who lived in the area dashed in on the way to the office, desperate for a fix before that dreaded early meeting.

Today, however, had tested the limits of even cool-headed barista Chiara Ferrante’s even-keeled disposition. It might have been the expensive suit who’d just rolled up to the counter, a set of Porsche keys dangling from his fingertips, a cell phone glued to his ear and ordered a grande, half-caff, soy latte at exactly 120 degrees, no more, no less, on the heelsof half-a-dozen such ridiculous orders.

You need this job, Chiara. Now, more than ever. Suck it up and just do it.

She took a deep, zen-inducing breath and clearedthe line-up with ruthless efficiency, dispatching the walking Gucci billboard with a 121-degree latte—a minor act of rebellion she couldn’t resist. A brief lull ensuing, she turned to take inventory of the coffee bar on the back wall before the next wave hit.

“You okay?” Kat, her fellow barista and roommate asked, as she replenished the stack of takeout cups. “You seem off today.”

Chiara gathered up the empty carafes and set them in the sink. “The bank turned down my father’s request for a loan. It hasn’t been a good morning.”

Kat’s face fell. “Oh god. I’m sorry. I know it’s been hard for him to make a go of it lately. Are there any other banks he can try?”

“That was the last.” Chiara bit her lip. “Maybe Todd can give me some more shifts.”

“And turn you into the walking dead? You’ve been working double shifts for months, Chiara. You’re going to fall flat on your face.” Kat leaned a hip against the bar. “What you need,” she said decisively, waving a hand at her, “is a rich man. It would solve all your problems. They’re constantly propositioning you and yet you never take them up on their offers.”

Because the one time she had, he’d shattered her heart into pieces.

“I’m not interested in a rich man,” she said flatly. “They come in here in their beautiful suits, drunk on their power, thinking their money gives them license to do anything they like. It’s all a big game to them the way they play with women.”

Kat flashed her an amused look. “That’s an awfully big generalization don’t you think?”

Chiara folded her arms over her chest. “Bonnie, Sivi and Tara went out the other night to Tempesta Di Fuoco, Stefan Bianco’s place in Chelsea. They’re sitting at the bar when this group of investment bankers starts chatting them up. Bonnie’s thrilled when Philasks her out for dinner at Lido. She goes home early because she’s opening here in the morning. Sivi and Tara stay.” She lifted a brow. “What does Phildo? He asks Sivi out to lunch.”

“Pig,” Kat agreed, making a face. “But you can’t paint all men with the same brush.”

“Not all men. Them. The suit,” Chiara declared scathingly, “may change, but the man inside it doesn’t.”

“I’m afraid I have to disagree,” a deep, lightly-accented voice intoned, rippling a reactionary path down her spine. “It would be a shame for Philto give us all a bad name.”

Chiara froze.Turned around slowly, her hands gripping the marble. Absorbed the tall, dark male leaning indolently against the counter near the silver bell she wished fervently he’d rung. Clad in a silver Tom Ford suit that set off his swarthy skin to perfection, Lazzero Di Fiore was beautiful in a predatorial, hawk-like way—oozing an overt sex appeal that short-circuited the synapses in her brain.

The deadpan expression on his striking face indicated he’d heard every last word of her ill-advised speech. “I—” she croaked, utterly unsure of what to say, “—you should have rung the bell.”

“And missed your fascinatingly candid appraisal of Manhattan’s finest?” His sensual mouth twisted. “Not for the world. Although I do wonder if I could have an espresso to fuel my overinflated ego? I have a report I need to review for a big, hot-shot meeting in exactly fifty minutes.”

Kat made a sound at the back of her throat. Chiara’s cheeks flamed. “Of course,” she mumbled. “It’s on the house.”

On the house. Oh my God. Chiara unlocked her frozen knees as Lazzero strode off to find a table near the window. Moving to the espresso machine, she spooned coffee into the tamper. Chit-chatting with Lazzero when he came in in the mornings was par for the course. Insulting the regulars and losing her job was not.

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