I was a different woman when I fell for Luca Tangorello. At twenty-one--and anyone who thinks that twenty-five is pretty damn close to twenty-one is out to lunch--my focus wasn't on finding a guy to sweep me off my feet. I wasn't completely opposed to it, but mostly I was out to prove that I was a badass. I wore black leather and my fringe bristled. Clearly, my idea of a badass gal at the time had Queen Daenerys thrown in, because I also bleached my naturally blond hair to a platinum shine to be extra.

Apart from wasting time on the dye jobs, my ambitions eventually landed me in an interrogation room with two bright-eyed, bushy-tailed detectives.

They circled, smelling blood, because my last name was Nazarevich. My baby-brother hadn't blipped on their radar yet, so pinching me was a big deal. They were trying to nail me for possession of an unregistered firearm.

The only way to deal was to clam up like we were still fighting WW2 with enemies behind every bush. This strategy landed us with tense silence, interrupted only by a halogen lamp's buzz. It imparted an unhealthy pallor onto the elder detective. The tubes didn't give out any heat, yet perspiration dotted his thick neck. The second cop was black and he seemed fine to me.

I pushed the chair back to re-cross my ankles for the fourth time. Then I drummed Les Toreadors from Carmen Suite on my knee. Any moment the door to this boring little room should open, admitting one of Papa's lawyers. Surely, he would have dispatched them by now.

The detectives knew that too, so the black cop tried a patronizing smile on me. "Ma'am, we'd like to help you, but it's hard to do, if you are not talking to us."

The door opened. Finally! I wouldn't have to bite back my cutting remarks for much longer. To be completely honest, when my defender showed himself, I lost my ability to speak for a minute or two, a first for me.

Papa employed plenty of lawyers (and still does). Most of them kept themselves well, men or women, but they normally pushed forty. By that age, they developed a certain suburban aura about them. It made me imagine a 'good woman' at home with kids and stuff. If they were younger, they had their eyes set on this blissful life. The small percentage who weren't like that, had their faces stamped by overindulgences. It compensated for the intensity of the profession, similarly to the killers-for-hire.

However, the man who McGuire, Kuchinskii, Drummond and Associates sent to my rescue didn't fit either mold. He was young. If there was any fairness in the world, he shouldn't be already encumbered by family or vice. My heart wouldn't be able to take it. He had to be single.

I straightened in the stiff chair, drinking his features in.

He looked fresh-faced and sharp. His tapered waist, pleasing height and shoulder width could have inspired the creation of the tuxedo. Men like him made me regret our age's preference of comfort over form-fitting attire. His suit wasn't bad as far as modern menswear was concerned. Bella figure aside, his profile would sell romance novels by the million. My womanly intuition suggested that he possessed abs for the job too.

"Luca Tangorello," the man introduced himself. "I'm the counsel for Miss Nazarevich."

Luca What-now?

All three of us--the two cops and I--stared at the young associate of McGuire, Kuchinskii etc. Or, rather, we tried to hide our surprise, because we all secretly praised ourselves on our poker faces. It was hard to do though. Tangorello wasn't a common name in L.A., and it didn't go with the practice of law.

Rather, it went with the egregious breaking of the law, on a mass scale, all the time.

The corner's of Luca's mouth lifted in a tiny smirk as he absorbed our reaction. This probably wasn't the first time his name produced a bit of a stir among the L.A.'s finest. I think he actually enjoyed it.

Whatever the case, he allowed the smile to stay on for a millisecond before turning his gaze on me exclusively. It felt like a beam of searchlight found my face. "Miss Nazarevich, I presume?"

"Yes, Mr. Tangorello. I'm her." I bit my tongue before crying out ta-da! and sweeping my hands up in a dramatic reveal.

He didn't leer, but I was suddenly cognizant that:

1. I wore enough black leather to clothe the cast of the three Matrix movies; and

2. By some miracle, I wasn't chewing gum.

"Glad to make our acquaintance, though I wish it was under better circumstances." Luca pulled up a twin to my chair, sat down and he went to work.

No, Miss Nazarevich has no knowledge of a suspected break-in.

No, Miss Nazarevich didn't purchase the illegal weapon. That's conjecture and harassment. Travesty, really, if you consider that Miss Nazarevich is a fragile girl in a dangerous city who has to attend classes late at night. (Papa insisted I must obtain a degree in something, so I was inching towards a cyber security diploma).

Are the detectives aware that two years ago, teenage Miss Nazarevich was violently assaulted? She has only been saved by the timely arrival of a police officer on the scene. (The cops did come in handy to scrape the guy I was working over from the pavement).

Miss Nazarevich's concerned relatives provided a gun for self-defense and only for self-defense. Poor thing probably forgot that she had it.

Then he lowered his beautiful head to express just how sorry he was that the paperwork was messed up. For this, the Nazarevich family was deeply, sincerely remorseful. The oversight was being straightened, of course, and the bail was arranged.

Luca talked fast, he talked a lot, and he talked well, but it was the final bit that made my heart race: Mr. Luca Tangorello was authorized to take me, the traumatized girl, home to her loving Papa.

Yes, please! I nearly exclaimed and off we went, a lawyer and his client.

That afternoon, drizzle fell on the shabby steps of the police station. Luca had forgotten his umbrella. He apologized for being dumb--which he wasn't. I loved how he whipped his jacket and lifted it over our heads. I loved how crisp his white shirt was underneath, and how it crimped on his upper arms.

"I don't even own an umbrella," I confessed, pressing against him to better fit under the makeshift tent. "When it rains, I like being wet."

"I'm of the same opinion." And he dropped the jacket over my shoulders. After we finished laughing, my chest filled near bursting with the L.A.'s warm, moist air. I asked Luca if I could buy him coffee to thank him for the outstanding work he'd done. We could afford to buy each-other a Porsche, so might as well do Starbucks.

He begged for a rain check, as rain fell into his brown eyes. I nodded wordlessly, mesmerized by how the raindrops didn't have the clarity or the shine of his eyes. I wished that we had the degree of intimacy that would have permitted me to lift on my tiptoes and drink the rain off his eyelashes.

Luca didn't call for three days.

I didn't care who talked to whom among the L.A.'s crime hierarchies while I waited. Or if the negotiations had started before Luca even set foot into the police station. He was so fine, and I was so young! All that mattered to me was that the invitation for lunch came, followed by a courtship.

Naturally, I dated before I met Luca, but I had never been courted, particularly in an old-fashioned, Italian way. I fell for him with every ounce of my heart.

I have to admit, he hadn't changed a single bit since the day it rained over the L.A. courthouse. If I stayed the same as well, the girl of twenty-one with a chip on her shoulder, I would have remained blind to anything but his glossy exterior and charming manners, but I had grown up in these last four years. I understood that I would hurt before I healed, and I still wanted to heal. If getting over Luca wasn't possible, I wanted to at least be apart from him. I couldn't stand being duped any longer.