“She didn’t like how it sounded. Neither did I. So I tried to get hold of D’Aquila to see what he could tell me about Rossi.”
“And?”
“And, I couldn’t reach him. And something didn’t smell right. And,” Dante said, his voice becoming flat, “I decided to do some checking. I used that guy, the private investigator who’s done some work for Orsini Brothers Investments in the past.”
“And?” Falco said, through his teeth.
“D’Aquila’s real name is Matteo Rossi. He’s the man Izzy’s gone away with. He lied to her, told her he’s a caretaker, told her God only knows what other lies, and now she’s in the middle of nowhere with him.”
Silence wrapped around the office again. This time, it was ugly.
Isabella, sweetly innocent Isabella, the girl who worried over each flower she grew, who picked up half-dead plants left for the trash collector on the curb so she could nurse them back to life—she, the baby they all adored, had been seduced by a man reputed to be a heartless bastard, a man who had lied to her, who was pretending to be someone he wasn’t—
“Why?” Draco said.
They were all bewildered. Was it a cruel joke? A vicious prank? They talked. And postulated. And came up with only one obvious point of agreement.
Their Izzy needed them.
“They’re not in the middle of nowhere,” Anna said in a low voice. “They’re on Mustique.”
An hour later, the Orsinis’ private jet was in the air.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A LITTLE before eight, Isabella shooed her lover from the bedroom.
They had showered. Together, of course, which took a little longer—a lot longer—than if each had showered alone.
Matteo was shaved and dressed. Chino trousers. Dark brown moccasins with no socks. A black T-shirt that clung to his wide shoulders and hard body in a way that made her want to drag him down into the rumpled sheets, but he’d made dinner reservations at what he said was “just a restaurant” and said it in a way that made her suspect it was much more than that.
She knew he was spending far too much money and she’d tried to come up with a way to split costs. But she came from a family of strong, proud and, yes, occasionally arrogant brothers. Matteo had those same qualities and she’d decided it was best to let him spoil her, at least for a little while.
Besides, the selfish truth was that it felt lovely to be spoiled by a man like him.
So she let him bend her back over his arm for a dramatic kiss that made her laugh, and then she banished him to the patio.
“Give me fifteen minutes.”
Her gorgeous, sexy, amazing lover rolled his eyes. “A likely story.”
She grinned, he grinned back, stole one last quick kiss and went out the glass doors to the patio.
Isabella shut the doors. She wanted to look perfect for him, and to make her entrance a surprise.
How many other women had made him wait while they dressed? A legion, she thought as she dropped the bath towel she’d wrapped around her on the bed.
Matteo probably had to beat the women off with a stick—or with a kind word, because she couldn’t imagine him not being less than honorable in his dealings with anyone.
She had only to think of how honorable, how honest he’d been with her, telling her things about himself most men would try to keep buried. On top of that, he was gorgeous. Generous. Kind. Sexy as a man could be.
He was a modern Prince Charming—and he was hers. For tonight, for the next few days …
Don’t think too far ahead, Isabella.
No. She wouldn’t. But there was always a chance. What good were fairy tales, if one didn’t occasionally come true?
The clothes he’d bought her were laid out on a love seat in the corner of the bedroom.
They were beautiful. And he’d thought of everything. Well, almost. No comb and brush, but she had used his. No makeup but she rarely wore makeup anyway. Besides, lovemaking had left her eyes and skin glowing, and her lover’s kisses had left her lips rosy pink and delicately swollen.
The rest? Well, yes, he’d remembered to get panties.
But no bra.
Her heart did a little stutter step.
She’d just have to wear this bit of silk, this dress that reminded her of gossamer-winged lavender and blue butterflies, without one.
Her breasts would be bare behind the thin fabric. When
Matteo spoke to her in a low, husky voice, when he took her in his arms, he’d be able to see the effect he had on her.
Isabella let out a shaky breath.
Amazing. She was turning herself on just by thinking about him, and who’d ever imagined that?
The dress fit as if it had been made for her. So did the sandals of soft gold leather with delightfully wicked heels. She fluffed her hair, sent up a silent thank-you to whichever of the Fates it was who’d decreed that her long, dark curls would not, for once in her life, turn to frizz.
There could not be a woman on the entire planet even half as happy as she was tonight.
Fifteen minutes, Isabella had said.
Rio knew what a woman’s fifteen minutes meant, that the actual time could run to an hour or more. But a quarter hour later, he heard the doors slide open. He turned around—
And there she was.
My God, he thought, in English and Portuguese and Italian and half a dozen other languages he’d picked up doing business around the world, My God, how beautiful she is!
Her hair, black and lustrous, fell in sexy curls over her shoulders. Her eyes were wide, glittering as if they were filled with starlight. And the dress …
Dio, the dress.
Over the years, he had spent thousands on couturier designs for his mistresses. This dress had cost him an almost pitiful fraction of that, but he was certain that Vogue or any fashion magazine would have fought for the privilege of taking a photo of it now.
Except, he thought, as he drank in the sight, except it wasn’t the dress that was special. It was his gorgeous, sweet, sexy Isabella.
Her smile turned questioning.
“What do you think?” she said. “Do I look—”
Rio swept her into his arms, angled his mouth over hers and kissed her. She made one of those little sounds that drove him half-crazy; her arms went around his neck and she returned his kiss with such passion, such honesty that he could have sworn he felt the earth tilt.
He kissed her again but it wasn’t enough. Not even taking her to bed again would have been enough because—
Because he loved her.
He had known it on the plane. Now, the realization swam in his blood.
He loved her.
Deeply. With everything he was, everything he had ever been or would ever be. He loved her, and it was time he told her the truth.
“Sweetheart,” he said softly, “Isabella mia …”
“I want to look beautiful for you tonight,” she whispered.
“You are more than beautiful, sweetheart.”
“You think?”
He smiled. “I know.”
And he knew, too, that all the things he had to tell her could wait. She deserved this night, a perfect night. Lovers going out for dinner, sharing a bottle of wine, holding each other close on a tiny dance floor.
Then he’d bring her home, and embark on a voyage that would make that long-ago trip in the forecastle of a rusting freighter seem simple.
He would bare his soul and his heart to the woman he adored, and pray she’d forgive him for his lies.
Isabella was almost dizzy with joy.
An ivory moon had risen majestically from a turquoise sea after the sun had made a spectacular exit over the horizon. The air was warm and scented with flowers.
Matteo drove them to a tiny restaurant that seemed to hang over a sea that rolled in on a whisper of sound that spoke of ancient mysteries.
The night and the setting were wonderful but wonderful was not sufficient to describe the man who
was her lover.
He was all a woman could dream of or want.
Not just the way he looked, though she had to admit to a moment of foolish pride when they’d been shown to their table in this casual but elegant little place and all the women in it had given him looks of longing.
I agree, Isabella thought, he’s spectacular—and he’s all mine.
Maybe it made more sense to say, she was all his.
And oh, if only he wanted to be hers …
Thinking like that was dangerous. She knew that it was. They were in a sexual relationship and she wasn’t naive, she understood that, too. But—
But maybe, just maybe, Matteo felt more for her than desire. He had to, otherwise how could he make her feel as if she were the center of his universe?
When the captain took them to their table and started to pull out her chair, Matteo politely demurred, moved forward and pulled it out himself.
His hands brushed over her shoulders; he moved her chair in and, as he did, he stroked his thumb lightly over the hollow in her throat.
Her breath caught.
His touch sent a rush of desire through her body. He knew it; she felt her nipples peak and his gaze dropped to her breasts and when he looked up at her again, his eyes burned with flame.
“I’m going to have a lot of trouble keeping my hands off you tonight,” he said in a rough whisper.
Just that—his words, his glance—and Isabella felt herself go hot and wet.
“Good,” she whispered back, and the flames in his eyes narrowed to pinpoints of light.
He ordered for them both.
“Is that all right, cara?”
She, the woman who bristled when one of her own brothers was foolish enough to think he could decide if she wanted a burger or a hot dog at a Fourth of July barbecue, she smiled and said that would be fine.
His choices were eclectic and wonderful. A drink that tasted deliciously of coconut and rum arrived in a tall glass garnished with gorgeous flowers. A cold fruit soup dotted with freshly ground black pepper, a combination that seemed incongruous until she tasted it, was next. And then white wine that was cool and crisp, crab cakes hot with spices, pan-blackened grouper, bananas sautéed in butter and cinnamon and nutmeg and who knew what else.
The meal was decadently delicious.
The service was wonderful.
But being with Matteo …
No words could do that justice.
They ate. They talked. They laughed. And, in between, Matteo led her onto a miniscule dance floor where he wrapped his arms around her, gathered her close against him, and they swayed in rhythm to soft music.
Isabella sighed as he drew her to him, as she felt his hard body against the softness of hers, his muscled thighs against the length of hers.
She put her arms around his neck. He put one hand in her hair, the other at the base of her spine.
She buried her face against him, inhaling him, feeling him harden against her, feeling the power of knowing she could make him want her just by being in his arms.
It happened over and over. Dancing, or pretending to dance. The teasing of him against her, her against him, until they were both half out of their minds.
Isabella moaned.
“Matteo,” she whispered, “take me to bed.”
Rio had done a lot of tough things in his life but nothing compared to getting off that dance floor without lifting her in his arms, taking her down to the beach and making love to her right there.
Somehow, he managed to hang on to what little sanity he had left. He clasped her hand, never broke stride as he dug a handful of bills from his pocket and dropped them on the table.
He drove home fast, his hand under her skirt, her hand on him, taking the narrow, curving roads at speeds his brain warned were dangerous, even when he wasn’t almost blind with desire, but all that mattered was getting home.
When they reached the villa, he drew her from the car before she had time to get her door open.
“Isabella,” he said, just that, because her name was infused with everything a man could need or want.
She went into his arms.
He held her to him, kissed her mouth and throat. And fought to hang on to his control.
“Isabella.” He drew back, framed her face with his hands. “Sweetheart, we have to talk.”
“Not now,” she said in a broken whisper, and when she went up on her toes, dug her hands into his hair and kissed him, her mouth open and hot and greedy against his, Rio forget everything except his need for her.
There would be plenty of time, later.
He carried her through the dark house to the bedroom where they tore at each other’s clothes.
When they were naked, she moved against him.
“Now,” she said, and the urgency in her voice all but finished him.
They fell to the bed in each other’s arms and made love, again and again and again, while the moon sailed across the heavens and the earth spun through the mantle of the night …
And, fell asleep, at last, wrapped in each other’s arms.
Isabella came awake abruptly from a deep, dreamless sleep. The moon had set. The night had turned black and impenetrable.
Something had awakened her—
A sound. A noise. Something growling just beneath the hiss of the waves rolling in from the sea.
She recognized it now. What she heard was a car, coming up the narrow road to the villa—and where was Matteo? She was alone in the big bed.
Fear turned her skin icy.
She sat up quickly, grabbed the first thing at hand—a cotton throw from the foot of the bed—and wrapped it around herself.
“Matteo?” she whispered as she padded out of the bedroom. “Matteo? Where—”
A hand closed around her wrist.
“Easy, sweetheart. I’m right here.”
Her heart felt as if it were going to burst from her chest. Her lover had all but materialized from the shadows in the hallway; her eyes had adjusted to the dark and she saw that he’d pulled on a pair of jeans and nothing else.
Shivering, Isabella moved closer to him.
“It’s a car, isn’t it? Who—”
“I don’t know,” Rio said, and, damnit, he didn’t.
Who would come to the villa in the middle of the night? Crime was practically nonexistent on the island but things happened, no matter how safe and tucked away a place seemed.
“Matteo. I’m frightened.”
He was, too. Not for himself. For her. A dozen ugly headlines, splashed across newspapers everywhere, shot through his mind.
“Don’t be,” he said. “It’s probably nothing. Kids out, having fun. Or somebody tipsy who made the wrong turn.” He put his hand against her cheek. “Isabella. I want you to go into the bedroom and lock the—”
“No! I’m not leaving you.”
The sound of the engine died and the night filled with silence. A car door slammed, and then another.
“Isabella,” Rio said urgently, “get inside that room and lock yourself in.”
“I am not leaving you, Matteo. Whatever happens, I want to be with you.”
Rio’s heart swelled with love.
“Ah, Izzy,” he said softly, “Izzy, sweetheart—”
A fist hammered against the door. “Open up!”
A heavy wooden statue stood on a table near the door. It wasn’t a hell of a good weapon, but it was all there was. Rio grabbed it.
“Isabella,” he hissed, “go into the bedroom and—”
Bam! “You open this effing door or—” Bam! “—you effing son of a bitch, or so help me God—” Bam! “—I’ll break it down!”
Isabella stiffened. No. It couldn’t be—
“D’Aquila, you no good, sleazy, bastard! I’ve come for my sister. If I have to take this place apart to get to her, I will!”
Isabella stared at her lover.
“That’s—that’s my brother,” she said. “But what’s he doing here?�
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“D’Aquila!”
The door shuddered under Dante Orsini’s fist.
“He thinks—” She shook her head. “He thinks you’re Rio D’Aquila.”
“Isabella,” Rio said in a low voice, “Isabella, you must listen to me.”
“My God, what a mess!” Isabella gave an unsteady laugh. “My brother, come to rescue his little sister from the clutches of big, bad Rio D’Aquila … I’m so sorry, Matteo!” She moved past him, reached for the lock on the door. “I’m horrified. Humiliated. I don’t know how this could have happ—”
“Isabella!” Rio caught her by the shoulder. She could feel each finger digging into her flesh. “Don’t open that door.”
“What do you mean, don’t open it? I know this is awful but he’s got things all wrong. I most certainly don’t need rescuing. He had no right to come here. And you most certainly are not—”
“But I am,” Rio said. “I am Rio D’Aquila.”
Isabella stared at him. He saw the color drain from her face. Her lips formed a word—No—but it was soundless.
Rio cursed violently. He dropped the wooden statue and reached for her but she stumbled back. Cristo, he was running out of time! The pounding at the door had stopped, but he wasn’t foolish enough to think Dante Orsini had gone away.
He knew he had only minutes to explain everything. How what had started as a farce had become all that mattered, all that ever would matter for the rest of his life.
“It’s true,” he said in a low voice. “I am Rio.”
Isabella shook her head. Her eyes were wide with disbelief.
“No. You’re not. You’re not! You’re his caretaker. His property manager. His pilot. You’re Matteo Rossi.”
“Si. Sim. I am him, as well. Matteo Rossi is my real name. Hell, not my real name. It’s the name I was given. I took the name Rio D’Aquila years ago.” Desperate, he ran his hands through his hair. “Isabella mia. Sweetheart, it’s all so damned complicated—”
Tears ran down her face.
“Why?” she whispered. Her voice broke. “Why did you lie to me? Why did you let me think—”
Glass shattered in the bedroom. Rio knew it meant that Dante Orsini had broken open the patio doors, that he had only seconds left.
“Why?” she said. Her voice rose to a sobbing cry. “Why?”
The Real Rio D'Aquila Page 13