by Kyle, Regina
“You don’t know Nonna. She loves that thing. I’m not even allowed to touch it, and I’m her favorite grandson.”
“Only if you’re her only grandson.”
“I’ll have you know women of all ages find me charming. Present company excluded, of course.”
She rolled her eyes, and he frowned, drawing his brows together and giving him that broody, sexy look Jason Momoa perfected in Game of Thrones.
“Is it that hard to believe I could be likable?”
Yes. No. Maybe. She wasn’t touching that question.
“I don’t know what your deal with your grandmother is, but she gave me full use of any and all vehicles. It’s spelled out in the rental agreement. Today’s Tuesday, right?” She’d lost track of what day it was with the time change. “I thought I’d check out that farmers’ market you mentioned. Or maybe take a drive, see the countryside, get lost.”
Her father always said getting lost was the best way to find yourself. Although at fifty-five, he was still looking. So it was possible his theory was flawed.
Dante tilted his head, studying her. “In that?”
She folded her arms across her chest, obscuring the Fries in Fries Before Guys. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no. Unlike some people in this kitchen, I’m not an exhibitionist.”
“Pity.”
A hot flush crept up her neck at the implication he’d like to see more skin than she was already showing in her tank top and shorts. She ignored it, opting to give his buttons one last push before heading to her bedroom for a wardrobe change. “And before I get back, can you do me a favor?”
“Another?” he drawled in that damn panty-melting accent. She hoped he was a man of few words. Otherwise this month would be pure torture. “What now?”
“Put some damn clothes on.”
…
Zoe wasn’t a woman to be messed with. And not one to be scared off easily.
Dante was going to have to up his game if he wanted some peace and quiet any time soon.
He put his mug in the dishwasher, took a sponge from the sink, and wiped up the remains of Zoe’s crushed biscotti. If there was one thing Nonna insisted on in the kitchen, it was that cooks clean up after themselves. She’d drilled it into him so thoroughly it had become an almost unconscious habit, even without her looking over his shoulder.
When the counter was restored to its original, Nonna-approved, clean-enough-for-the-Pope-to-eat-off state, he tossed the sponge back into the sink and slumped against the counter. Now that Zoe was gone, at least temporarily, he could drop his guard, let his mask of indifference slip.
Maybe even put on some damn clothes.
The memory of her words curved his lips into a smile. As much as he hated to admit it, she amused him. She was a worthy opponent. And there was nothing more satisfying than beating someone at their best.
Make no mistake, he intended to come out on top in their battle of wills. He just wasn’t sure how. He thought parading around in his Jockeys would send her packing, but he’d been wrong. If anything, it made her dig her heels in even more.
But when Dante wanted something, he usually found a way to get it. He’d charmed his way into Oxford despite his less than remarkable academic record. Romanced more women than he could count into his bed. Convinced his grandmother to hand over her family recipes so he and his brother could capitalize on her celebrity and open their first restaurant.
This was no different.
He needed a plan. To study his enemy, learn her weaknesses, then exploit them. It worked for Sun Tsu. It would work for him, too. It had to.
And he knew the man to help him brainstorm. He pushed off the counter and headed upstairs to search for his cell phone. He spotted it on his nightstand, opened his list of recent calls, and scrolled down until he found the name he was looking for.
Miguel Suarez answered on the first ring. “Buenos dias, my friend. Unless you’re calling to cancel our poker game, then I’m hanging up on you.”
“I’m not canceling the game.”
Their rotating monthly poker game was a sacred rite. On the last Friday of the month, no matter how busy their schedules were, he, Miguel, and Xander Castellanos locked themselves away for a weekend of cards, carbs, and Cuban cigars.
The Mediterranean Musketeers, their Oxford classmates had dubbed them. They might have more distance between them now, with Dante’s business based in Rome, Miguel the head of Valencia’s largest venture capital firm, and Xander running his family’s shipping business in Athens, but their bond was as strong as when they were reckless undergraduates, more interested in girls and gambling than grades.
“Good,” Miguel said. “It’s your turn to host.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be back in Rome by then.”
“Back? Where are you now?”
Dante stretched out on his bed, crossing his feet at the ankles. “Positano.”
“Slacking off at the villa, eh?”
“Trying to.” Only his family knew the real reason for his trip to the coast. “Which is why I called. I need your help.”
“Sounds serious. Let me guess. It’s a woman.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“About time you got back in the saddle. Don’t worry, you’ve come to the right place. You Italians think you have the market cornered on love. But no one knows more about the subtle art of romancing a woman than the Spanish.”
That was debatable. But Dante didn’t have the time—or the inclination—to argue the point now. Not when there was something far more pressing at stake. Like his sanity. “I’m not trying to romance a woman. I’m trying to get rid of one.”
“Wouldn’t Xander be better at that? He’s been scaring off women with his surly, bad-boy act since grade school.”
Dante sat up, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. “Are you going to help me or not?”
“What’s the problem? She too clingy? Too controlling? Sex no good?”
No, no, and wouldn’t I like to find out?
“It’s not like that. I barely know her.”
“Why not do what you did with the rest of them?” Miguel asked. “Give them a peck on the cheek, a nice parting gift for their time and trouble, and walk away.”
“That might be difficult.”
“Why?”
Dante blew out a long, heavy breath. “This one’s living with me.”
There was a moment of stunned silence before Miguel spoke. “We must have a bad connection. It sounded like you said this woman is living with you.”
“You heard right.” Dante scraped a hand across his jaw, rough with morning stubble since he hadn’t bothered to shower or shave. “My grandmother rented Bella Vista to her for the whole month.”
“Without telling you?”
“Si.”
Miguel let out a low whistle. “That does complicate matters.”
“You don’t have to tell me.” Dante stood and paced the room. He wasn’t one to stay still for long. Inactivity made him nervous, edgy. And he thought more clearly when he was in motion.
“Why not move out? It’s not like you have nowhere else to go. Your penthouse in Rome. The cabin in the Alps. The estate on Lake Como.”
“It’s a matter of principle.” Bella Vista had always been Nicole’s favorite of the Sabbatini homes. She’d loved reading on the terrace, swimming in the Mediterranean, haggling with the vendors at the farmers’ market. That was why he’d proposed to her there, on a moonlit night with the gentle surf of the Mediterranean as their soundtrack. It was only right he remember her there. “This is my family’s home. The one who should be leaving is Zoe.”
“Ah, she has a name.”
Dante could almost hear his friend’s self-satisfied sneer.
“Of course she has a name,” he snapped. “Everyone
has a name.”
“A lovely name. Does she have a lovely face to match?”
Yes. A lovely face and a lovely figure with a round, ripe bottom and a pair of breasts that seem to defy gravity.
Dante stopped pacing and fought to focus his one-track mind. “Lovely or not, she’s still here. And she’s refusing to leave.”
“Offer to put her up somewhere else. With your money, you could rent out an entire five-star hotel and not put a dent in your pocketbook.”
“I tried. She won’t bite, and neither will my grandmother. She says Zoe is free to stay as long as she wants.”
“There’s your answer. Make her not want to stay.”
“I tried that, but nothing I do seems to faze her. Behaving like an ass. Walking around in my underwear.”
“Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?” Miguel scoffed. “I doubt that’s much of a deterrent. Unless your house guest has an aversion to attractive Italian millionaires.”
Dante ignored the backhanded compliment. “Do you have any better ideas? I need her gone. The sooner the better.”
“Well, if you’re that opposed to sharing your house with a beautiful woman—”
“I am.”
“Remember our fourth suitemate?” Miguel asked. “The one who didn’t even last through the first term? What was his name?”
“Felix.”
“Right, Felix.” Miguel said the name like it was a communicable disease. “He liked to play heavy metal music all night. Microwave fish. Forget to flush the toilet. And those were just a few of his more disgusting habits.”
Dante grimaced, remembering. “He was annoying as hell.”
“Exactly,” Miguel said, chuckling. “Pull a Felix on this girl, and she’ll be out the door before you can say ser pan comido.”
“Ser pan comido?” Spanish and Italian were similar enough that Dante could usually make out what his friend was saying when he slipped into his native tongue. But this time, he was stumped.
Miguel laughed again, more heartily. “Piece of cake.”
Chapter Three
So that was how it was going to be.
Zoe backed slowly, softly down the hall, Dante’s words bouncing around in her head like ping-pong balls.
I need her gone. The sooner the better.
Even in his sultry, sexy accent, it cut like a razor, sharp and clean across her psyche.
She retreated to the privacy of her room, at the opposite end of the house from Dante’s. She’d been glad of the isolation when he put her there. Now, with his words still ringing in her ears, it stung.
She knew he wasn’t thrilled to be sharing the villa. But to hear the lengths he was willing to go to to get rid of her? It was an ice-cold dose of reality she could have done without. One she would have if she hadn’t realized halfway to town that she’d forgotten her Italian-English dictionary.
Darned language barrier.
Then again, maybe it was a good thing she’d come back. Forewarned was forearmed. She’d only heard the last few minutes of Dante’s side of the conversation, but it was enough for her to figure out what he was trying to do. If he thought some boorish behavior and gratuitous skin was going to run her off, he had another think coming.
The one consolation was that, apparently, he did own clothes. He just chose not to wear them when she was around.
Lucky her.
The sliding glass doors that led to her balcony beckoned to her, luring her outside. Maybe some fresh air would help clear her head so she could decide her next move rationally, not emotionally. After all, she was the logical, responsible one in the Ryan family. She hadn’t lived at home in years, but she was still the one who made sure all the bills were paid so the electricity didn’t get shut off. Who did grocery runs so there would be something other than condiments and cheap beer in the house. Who texted her half-sister Fliss every morning to make sure she wasn’t late to school.
It had been hard leaving them to fend for themselves. Hard, but necessary. It wasn’t just her ex-boyfriend and ex-boss who had pushed her over the edge and across the Atlantic. She loved her family. But she also resented them. Resented their dependence on her. Maybe with her thousands of miles away, they’d finally learn the art of adulting.
Either that or they’d be living in the dark, subsisting on mustard and Michelob.
Zoe dropped her backpack on the bed, opened the door, and stepped outside, the warm breeze and sweet smell of lavender and honeysuckle from the flowering vines that climbed the villa’s stucco walls instantly soothing her. Resting her forearms on the railing, she stared out across the almost unnaturally blue Mediterranean water, her plan to head to the farmers’ market all but forgotten. Why stock the refrigerator when she could be out on the street by nightfall?
Something buzzed in her pocket, and it took her a second to remember she’d put her cell phone in there before hopping on the scooter. She fished it out, worry lines creasing her forehead when she saw a text from Fliss.
Hey, loser. U were supposed 2 text when you got 2 Italy. Mom and Dad r freaking out. U better be in a food coma, hung over, or spent from joining the mile-high club with some Sicilian hottie u met on the flight.
Crap. So much for being the responsible one in her family. How had she forgotten something so basic as letting them know she’d arrived safely?
Probably had something to do with jet lag. And the naked guy in her villa.
Her villa. No matter what the naked guy had up his figurative sleeve, seeing as he so very rarely wore a shirt.
She swiped the screen to respond to her sister’s text. Sorry. Arrived safely. Tell Mom and Dad I’m fine.
She reread what she’d written before hitting send. A little terse, but best to keep it short and simple. She didn’t want to say anything that would have her nosy little sister asking questions. Fliss might be only a teenager, but she was a regular My Cousin Vinny. Ten minutes under her withering interrogation and Zoe would be spilling her guts about everything, including her roommate with an aversion to wearing clothes and sharing space.
Fliss’s answer came quickly. No mile-high club?
Zoe shook her head and started to type. Not that it’s any of your business, but no. And how do you know about the mile-high club anyway?
I’m 17, not 7, Fliss answered.
Zoe grimaced. As much as she loved her sister, sometimes she longed for the less complicated days before Fliss hit puberty and discovered the opposite sex. Don’t remind me.
After a short pause, another text came through. Send me a pic. I want 2 experience the Amalfi Coast vicariously through u.
Zoe’s thumbs flew over the keyboard. Vicariously?
It was 1 of r vocab words in Honors English. I get extra credit if I can show I used it in a sentence. Pic?
Zoe opened the camera app and lifted her phone. But instead of a view of the Mediterranean, with its azure water and cloudless sky, she stalled on Dante’s bootylicious ass, this time covered in a butt-hugging swimsuit that left little to the imagination—not that she needed to do any imagining.
Damn. For a hot second, she forgot that her mere presence gave him the heebie-jeebies and drank in his unadulterated male beauty as he stood by the edge of the pool, head bowed, contemplating the gently rippling surface. In one swift move, he lifted his arms and pushed off the side, slicing gracefully through the air and breaking the water without a splash.
He moved through the water as smoothly and surely as he did the air, surfacing at the far end of the pool. Her breath caught as he stood and slicked his hair back from his face, water dripping deliciously off his shoulders and back.
His head swiveled in her direction, and she shrank away, pressing herself against the balcony wall. She felt like some cheap voyeur, spying on him for the second time in as many days. Not that it stopped her from looking.
&nb
sp; He opened his eyes, and for a heartbeat she saw something that looked like pain. Raw and naked, it made him appear vulnerable, and she almost felt sorry for him. But it faded as fast as it came, replaced by an icy hardness that reminded her of the sharp bite of his words earlier.
She tipped her head back against the wall and sighed. Why were the gorgeous ones always such jerks? What had she done to make him hate her so much? Besides show up, that was.
No. She wasn’t going to concern herself with his motives. It didn’t matter why he wanted her gone because she wasn’t going anywhere. She could give as good as she got. Whatever he did to annoy her, she’d do something twice as bad. Paint her nails in the living room with the windows closed. Leave dirty dishes in the sink. Or wet towels on the bathroom floor. They’d see who broke first.
Her money was on him.
Her phone, forgotten in her hand, buzzed, and she looked down to see another text from Fliss.
Hello? U still there? Where’s my pic?
She risked a glance over the railing. Dante was still there, hoisting himself out of the pool, the muscles in his arms and chest rippling with the effort. She resisted the urge to ogle, snapped a quick picture of the horizon, and texted it to her sister. How’s that?
Fliss’s reply came a few seconds later. Nice. But it would be better if I was there with u 2 see it in person. R u sure I can’t come visit 4 a few days?
That was a big hell to the no for obvious reasons, ones Zoe wasn’t about to share with her impressionable younger sister. And miss school in the beginning of your senior year? You should be working on your college applications. Besides, who will hold down the fort until I get back? I’m counting on you to make sure Mom and Dad eat three meals a day and pay the utilities.
Of the three of them, Fliss, at only seventeen, was the most reliable. Their father was more concerned with puttering around in his workshop than paying bills. He reminded her of the dad in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, always inventing some new gadget that was supposed to change the world but never did. And Fliss’s mother—Zoe’s stepmother—wasn’t much better. Dreamers, both of them, living with their heads in the clouds.