"How do I look?" I asked Marco, turning for him. For his mother's Sat.u.r.day dinner, I'd put on a black pencil skirt and powder blue shawl-neck sweater with black pumps, hoping to impress Mrs. Salvare with my sensible yet stylish outfit.

"You always look beautiful, Abby."

That lie right there was reason enough to tear up my list.

Marco held out my coat so I could slip into it. "We'd better go. Mama will be pulling that pan of lasagna out of the oven in ten minutes. Don't want to keep her waiting."

My stomach tensed at the thought of facing Francesca Salvare. I knew she'd quiz us about our engagement plans, except we still didn't have any. Marco and I had wanted to have our discussion last night, but by the time he'd spent several hours on his PI case, it was so late when he arrived at my apartment, all we could do was tumble into bed. Together. A hot, sweaty, l.u.s.ty, rousing tumble! After which we fell into an exhausted but thoroughly satiated sleep.

We awoke to Marco's cell phone chirping-a call from his mom wondering why he wasn't home. Had he been on surveillance all night? At which point Marco had drawn me against his warm, hard body and a.s.sured her he had indeed been undercover.

Because we'd slept in, and it was my Sat.u.r.day to work, I had to scramble to get to Bloomers before nine o'clock. On the plus side, however, since I no longer had to fear being kidnapped, I got to drive my Vette all by myself. I smiled at Marco as he helped me into my coat. Life was good again.

Except . . .

It was time to face the music. Fish or cut bait. No more waffling. We'd delayed long enough, and I felt certain his mom was going to ask when this engagement was going to happen-she'd certainly hinted enough-and not let us off the hook until we gave her an answer.

"What are we going to say when your mom asks about our engagement?" I asked as Marco opened the car door for me.

"What do you want to say?"

"What do I want to say or what does she want to hear?"

"Whichever."

"Whichever what?"

"Whichever you want to answer."

This was getting us nowhere fast. "What would you answer?"

He pursed his lips, thinking. "We should have discussed this last night."

"But we didn't."

He glanced at me. "Are you sorry?"

"About last night? Are you serious?"

He reached over to squeeze my hand. "Happy?"

"Of course, silly, and madly in love with you. How about you?"

He lifted an eyebrow. That little gesture was enough to make my pulse race, especially after last night. "Same here, Fireball."

So why were we both dancing around the idea of commitment?

When we pulled up in front of the white two-story that housed Marco's apartment, I noticed my parents' specially equipped van parked at the curb. "Marco, what are my parents doing here? I talked to my mom on the phone this morning. She didn't mention anything about coming over."

"They must be planning another ambush."

"Maybe we shouldn't show up."

Marco gave me a look that said, You have to be kidding.

"My Prius is gone," Marco noted as he walked me to the front porch. "That means Rafe isn't back yet. He said he had to drop something off at his girlfriend's place, but he promised to be here in time for dinner."

"Is this the girl from Hooters? The one he wanted to impress with my Vette last night?"

"That's the one."

"He's not going to leave her to come back here for dinner, you know."

"I agree."

Great. No Rafe to distract Marco's mom. It was just us and the parents. I nibbled my lower lip as we climbed the steps to the second floor and stepped into his living room. It was a decidedly masculine s.p.a.ce with lots of big furniture and a huge, flat-panel TV. My mom was seated on the sofa, my dad was in his wheelchair, and both had gla.s.ses of wine. Dad's crutches, I noticed, were near the staircase. He'd had to use them to get up the stairs.

"You didn't tell me you were coming tonight," I said to them, as Marco took my coat.

"Your mom just informed me two hours ago," Dad said.

Mom merely smiled.

At that moment, Marco's mother bustled into the room, a younger but not quite as pretty version of Sophia Loren, luxurious dark hair, wide smile, gorgeous curves and all. She wore a black dress with a colorful ap.r.o.n tied around her waist and had a wooden spoon in her hand.

"Bella Abby!" she cried, enveloping me in a warm hug. "I'm so happy to see you." She turned to Marco. "Why are you standing there? Get her a gla.s.s of wine and one for yourself. Dinner is ready and where is your brother? Well, no matter. He'll be here soon. Everyone, come eat!"

We arranged ourselves around Marco's table, where Mrs. Salvare lifted her winegla.s.s and waited for us to follow suit. "Now, then, I believe we have someone who wants to make an announcement."

I gripped Marco's fingers under the table. Yikes!

My mom cleared her throat. "I am happy to announce that my dissension group is going to meet with Mr. Raand and members of the local media at Uniworld next Wednesday evening to discuss the new dairy operation."

Whew! That was close. "Raand agreed to that?" I asked.

Dad sent me a look that said, Let your mom finish.

"We are going to demand that no bovine hormones, or any other kind of hormones, be used on their cows," Mom continued. "Instead, we are going to ask them to implement a method that dairy farmers around the world have been using for centuries, namely, that they will talk to their cows, provide calming music for them, and name them."

"Brava, Maureen," Mrs. Salvare said, applauding.

I clapped, too, although I kept picturing Nils Raand's stupefied expression when he heard their demands. "That's a great plan, Mom, but do you think you have a chance of getting Uniworld to cooperate?"

"I certainly do, and here's what I intend to read aloud," Mom said, pulling a sheet of paper from her purse. "According to an article in USA Today, in a study conducted by scientists at Newcastle University in Newcastle upon Tyne, it was discovered that more affectionate treatment of cattle, including giving cows names, can increase milk production by more than sixty-eight gallons annually."

Mom looked up at us. "The reason for that is chemical. When a cow is treated cruelly, the stress causes the release of cortisol, a hormone that inhibits milk production. By using bovine hormones and creating oversized, painful udders, Uniworld would actually decrease milk production. And anyone drinking that milk would not only get a dose of bovine hormones, but cortisol as well.

"We'll hold a press conference immediately after the meeting. And if that doesn't get Uniworld's attention, the threat of having a teachers' union after them should."

Who knew my mom was so wily?

"The local newspaper promised to print a series of articles about the dangers of bovine hormones," Dad said. "They're already calling your mom the Cow Whisperer."

Dear G.o.d.

"Maureen, you are brilliant," Mrs. Salvare said.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Knight," Marco said, and lifted his gla.s.s to her. We toasted her and drank the wine.

"Now," Mrs. Salvare said, "how about a toast to our young couple, eh? Such a bright future before them. Am I right, Marco?"

I glanced nervously at Marco. Here it came.

Suddenly, a door opened somewhere and we heard footsteps pounding up the stairs.

Marco said in relief, "Rafe is here."

"Then we'll wait," Mrs. Salvare said, glancing at my parents with a shrug. "The bambinos, they give us gray hair, eh?"

"Hear, hear," Mom said.

I could've said the same about parents.

Rafe strode into the kitchen wearing his parka, his cheeks red from the cold. He was out of breath and a bit giddy. "Sorry I'm late. I brought someone for you to meet." He waved the unseen person toward him.

A young woman came around the corner, smiling shyly. I guessed her age at maybe twenty years old. She had neon orange-red hair that touched her shoulders on the sides, then angled up sharply to the nape of her neck in back. "Hi," she said, giving us a little wave.

I smiled at her.

"Raphael, are you going to introduce your guest?" Mrs. Salvare said, rising from her chair.

"Sure," he said, helping her remove her long, black coat. "Everyone, this is Cinnamon."

Everyone stared. Everyone couldn't speak because everyone couldn't stop gaping at Cinnamon's chest, which was mostly bared to everyone's gaze. In fact, her wraparound dress was pulled so tight and cut so low, it was clear she had nothing on underneath.

Everyone was appalled.

"Okay," Rafe said to Cinnamon, and began pointing. "That's my brother Marco, his girlfriend, Abby, my mom, and Abby's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Knight."

Mrs. Salvare pulled herself together to say kindly, "Cinnamon, you'll join us, won't you? We have delicious lasagna and crusty bread and-are you old enough to drink wine?"

Cinnamon giggled. "Why not?"

Marco pulled up an extra chair and Cinnamon settled into it. Everyone tried not to watch as she bent to lay her purse on the floor.

Setting an extra plate on the table, Mrs. Salvare said to Rafe, "Tell me how you met your, er, Cinnamon."

"We work together," Cinnamon volunteered.

Uh-oh. Time for the big reveal.

"Would this be at your bar, Marco?" his mom asked.

"Oh, no," Cinnamon said happily. "At Hooters. I'm a waitress there."

I could tell by Rafe's expression that he hadn't clued Cinnamon in on the need for secrecy. My dad put his hand to his mouth and coughed. I knew he was hiding a smile. My mom smoothed her napkin on her lap. Marco rolled the winegla.s.s in his hand.

"Hooters bar," Mrs. Salvare said, trying to hold her smile in place, "is where you work now, Raphael?"

Cinnamon rubbed Rafe's shoulder. "He's the cutest, smartest guy there."

Rafe gazed at her like a besotted puppy. Marco studied the wine in his gla.s.s. Everyone else watched Francesca's face.

"Well, then," Marco's mom said, raising her gla.s.s once again. "To new . . . jobs . . . and new relationships." She smiled at me. "To our happy couple, who I hope will share their plans now."

I squeezed Marco's hand again and he squeezed back. My stomach knotted. Now or never, Abby!

Rafe jumped to his feet. "Okay. Why not?" He smiled at Cinnamon, then glanced around at the rest of us. "We're engaged!"

Everyone was too stunned to react. Except me. After all, I had told him to surprise his family. I raised my gla.s.s and said a hearty "Congratulations."

"Can you believe Rafe is engaged?" I said to Marco, as he walked me out to my car later that evening. "Cinnamon can't be twenty-one yet, if that's her real name."

I couldn't help chortling a little. "I thought your mother was going to faint when Cinnamon took off her coat. But I give your mom a lot of credit. She was very gracious, even after Rafe dropped the bomb."

"Wait until Mama has Rafe alone, Abby. Then there'll be fireworks."

"Seriously, who could blame her for being upset? Rafe dated that girl exactly once. He met her only a week ago. And you call me impetuous?"

"I don't know what Rafe is thinking. He can't support himself, let alone a wife."

"At least his announcement took the heat off us."

"It did that."

"So we're off the hook?"

"Yep."

"Good." I took a deep breath. "Then I have to confess something."

Marco cast me a dubious glance. "Okay."

"I was keeping a list of your good and bad qualities."

"You were?" His dark eyes searched mine. "Why?"