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“So how was it?” Alessandra said.

“Mmm,” Bianca said, tilting her head back as Alessandra worked the comb through her hair. “How was what?”

“The ride on the Harley.”

“Are we back to that? It was all right.”

“Mamma mia! Your first ride on a motorcycle, on a Harley, was just all right?”

“What do you want me to say? It was okay. Kind of loud. And not very comfortable.”

“That’s it? Loud? And uncomfortable?”

“What else could it have been?”

“I don’t know. Fun. Exciting. Romantic.”

Bianca pushed the comb away. “Okay. Enough. The sooner we get back to the table and order dinner, the sooner I can say goodbye to the lieutenant and to this inane conversation.” She smoothed her hair, yanked it back to the nape of her neck, then groaned. “Mannaggia. What am I going to use to hold it back?”

“I guess you’re just going to have to wear it loose,” Alessandra said. She frowned as Bianca dug into her purse. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for another hair band. I almost always carry a spare… Aha! I have one.”

“Where?”

“Right he—Alessandra! Why did you do that?”

“Why did I do what?” Alessandra said innocently, as if she hadn’t just snatched the band from her sister’s hand and tossed it into the trash.

“But I needed that!”

“What you need, B, is to learn how to deal with your emotions.”

Bianca turned towards her sister, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed.

“Are you crazy? I’m a psychologist. What do you think that means? I deal with emotions every day.”

“Other people’s. Not yours. Or maybe I should say you don’t deal very well with yours.”

“All this because I didn’t give you the answer you wanted about how it was to ride that motorcycle?”

“All this because your answer wasn’t honest.”

“Ridiculous!”

“I don’t think so. There had to be more to it than noise and—what did you call it? Discomfort.”

“The word I used was uncomfortable. And it was. The throb of the engine. The wind in my face. And the—the intimacy of it, sitting behind a man who’s practically a stranger, your arms wrapped arou

nd him, your body leaning into his, your thighs spread to accommodate his hips…”

The bathroom door swung open. The sound of soft rock from the three-piece band that, it turned out, was a part of what drew patrons to Piccola Italia drifted into the room along with three giggling teenage girls.

Bianca stared at her sister, who was staring back her, wide-eyed.

Dio. She had said too much. Alessandra had a way of poking and prodding. She’d done it even when they were children.

It drove her crazy.