Page 3 of Stealing Jia

“I’ve been on a lot of dates, but no one has ever wanted to know my blood type,” I hedged.

Giovanni’s wormy eyebrows drew together in a fierce frown. “Answer me.”

“Type O,” I responded timidly. Where he was going with this line of questioning?

“Excellent. Excellent.” Giovanni snapped his fingers at the waiter. “The wine. Now.”

The waiter hurried over with a bottle and two elegant wine glasses. “It’s been chilled to the proper temperature, signore.”

“I brought this from my own wine cellar. It has a nice fruity flavor.”

Yeah, to hide the drugs he had put in it. I placed a hand over my wine glass. “The medication I take prevents me from drinking alcohol. I’ll just have water.”

Giovanni stared at me for a long moment, then bared in teeth in the semblance of a smile. “No matter. I’ve ordered oysters for dinner.” He leered at me. “They will increase our sexual pleasure.”

“I’m allergic to seafood too.” I fought back a grin at the irate expression on Giovanni’s face.

“Would madam care for a salad?” The waiter asked.

“That would be lovely.”

The waiter hurried off.

“What type of genetic research do you do?”

“My research is complicated, and too difficult for the female mind to comprehend,” Giovanni answered and placed his hand on my knee.

I removed it. “Are you manipulating the genome using molecular engineering techniques or somatic genetic modifications?”

His eyes narrowed. “I have no desire to talk about my research. Tell me about yourself.”

“I love to dance and take long walks on the beach,” I said glibly.

“You were raised by the nuns at Saint Michael’s. Are you still a virgin?”

My mouth tightened. Not only had the ass checked me out, he was sadly lacking in manners. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

“I must insist on the absolute truth between us,” Giovanni countered.

Trying not to display my annoyance, I replied, “I’m looking for a dance partner, not a husband.”

The waiter rushed up and placed our food on the table.

“Grazie,” I said.

He turned his gaze to Giovanni. “Anything else, signore?”

“No. Leave us.”

The waiter gave a slight bow and left.

A dozen slimy gray oysters on half shells crowded Giovanni’s plate. My eyes widened as he slurped them down in quick succession. The man was a pig and, quite possibly, a murderer.

Giovanni smacked his lips. “Did you know Casanova ate fifty raw oysters a day?”

“No, I didn’t.” Did Giovanni think he was Casanova? Because he had the sex appeal of a dead slug.

“I also eat fifty oysters a day.”

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