by Kyle, Regina
She skirted the pool, dodging assorted lounge chairs and patio furniture, and stopped beneath what she was pretty sure was his balcony. Unrolling her yoga mat, she opened the music app on her phone and scrolled through it until she found her yoga playlist. She hit shuffle, cranked up the volume as high as it would go, and set the phone down on the mat in front of her. The opening chords of Fleet Foxes’ aptly named “Sun It Rises” blared from the tinny speakers.
“Om. Om.”
Zoe continued to chant along with the music as she went into mountain pose, standing with her feet slightly apart and parallel to each other and her arms at her sides, palms facing out. She took a deep breath and swept her arms over her head, pressing her hands together and staring at her thumbs. She stayed that way for a minute, exhaling in a long, slow hiss, before sneaking a glance up at Dante’s balcony for some sign of life.
Nothing. The sliders were securely shut, the curtains covering them in the same position they were in when she first started, tightly closed and undisturbed.
She let her arms fall and folded her body forward, touching the mat with her fingertips and continuing to chant as she pushed off the floor and flattened her back.
“Oink.”
Something cold and wet brushed against her ankle, making her wobble unsteadily. She flailed her arms like a windmill in a category five hurricane, desperately attempting to regain her balance. That lasted all of two seconds until she landed hard on her ass, barely missing a squealing mass of coarse black-and-white hair.
“Ow. What the—?”
“Oink.”
A tiny piglet sat on the paving stones that made up the terrace, staring up at Zoe with intelligent, gray-green eyes.
“Where did you come from?”
The pig let out an adorable grunt and climbed in Zoe’s lap, curling into a ball.
“Don’t go playing the cute card now. You interrupted my workout. And made me fall.” She reached back to rub her left butt cheek.
The pig, undeterred, lifted his snout and grunted again.
“Okay, you win.” She scratched between the animal’s ears. The pig rewarded her by licking her hand. “I’ve heard of goat yoga, but not pig yoga. Maybe we could start a new fad. What do you say? We could be famous. Appear on the Today Show. Meet Kathy Lee and Hoda.”
“Make a new friend?”
Zoe startled at the unexpected sound of Dante’s voice, frightening the pig, who snuggled deeper into her lap, burying its head between her thighs.
She stroked the shivering animal’s back reassuringly and glared up at Dante, framed in the open slider wearing only a pair of form-fitting navy boxer briefs. Oh goodie. They were back to underwear only, clothing optional. She dragged her gaze away from the feast of sinfully smooth, solid male flesh and back to the still-shaking pig in her lap. “Look what you did. You scared him. Or her.”
She hadn’t bothered to check. Did pigs have penises?
“Him,” Dante confirmed.
“How do you know?” She lifted one of the pig’s rear legs tentatively. Nope. No penis there. At least not one she could see.
“He’s been here three times this week. Likes to escape.”
“Escape? From where?” She reached for her cell phone and swiped the screen to turn the music off. So much for yoga.
Dante waved toward a neighboring villa, perched higher on the cliff. “Mr. Abruzzi thinks he’s going to make a fortune raising these things.”
“Houdini is not a thing.” She picked the pig up and clutched him to her chest. Houdini squirmed, and she loosened her hold. “He’s a he. Remember?”
“Houdini?”
“Seems fitting, because he keeps escaping.”
“I know who Houdini is. Or was.” He stepped outside, closing the sliding doors behind him. “It’s not the name you chose that I’m questioning. It’s the fact that you named him at all.”
“He’s one of God’s creatures. He deserves a name.” Her eyes darted around the terrace, completely enclosed by a wrought-iron fence. “How does he keep getting in? This place is like a fortress.”
“He squeezes between the bars. Eventually, he’ll get too big and have to find someone else to bother.”
Houdini picked that moment to let out a long, loud fart.
Zoe held the pig away from her and wrinkled her nose. “It’s a good thing you’re cute, because you stink. We’re going to have to work on that.”
“You realize you can’t keep him, right?” Dante parked his scantily clad ass on a nearby lounge chair. “Mr. Abruzzi will want him back.”
She cuddled Houdini close to her. She was becoming way too attached to the little guy way too quickly. He needed her. And in a strange way, she needed him, too. She might have travelled thousands of miles to put some distance between herself and her overly dependent family, but she was a nurturer by nature. And it turned out you couldn’t take the nurture out of the nurturer.
“That depends.” She sucked her lower lip between her teeth. “What’s Mr. Abruzzi raising him for? He’s not going to send him to the slaughterhouse, is he?”
“Don’t tell me you’re some sort of radical animal rights activist.”
Dante laid back on the lounge chair, stretching out his long legs and crossing his arms behind his head. Gah. Did he have to be so attractive? It should be a crime. Animal magnetism in the third degree. Strike that. Make it first degree.
“I like a BLT or a nice medium-rare burger as much as the next gal.” She held the pig up to Dante, forcing him to stare into the animal’s all-knowing, all-seeing eyes. “But look at that face. How could you condemn him to death?”
“That’s a low blow.”
She gave him what she hoped was a sinister smile. “I’m not above a little emotional blackmail.”
“Clearly.” He smiled back, his grin wide and self-satisfied. “But I’m not easily blackmailed.”
“Or you don’t have any emotions.”
Dante sat up and leaned forward, elbows perched on his muscular thighs, his eyes boring into hers so intensely she thought she might spontaneously combust. “If you won’t return him to his rightful owner, then I will. This isn’t a home for wayward livestock.”
“No.” She stood, tucking Houdini under her arm. The squirming pig farted again, and she tightened her hold, tears starting to swim in her eyes. Dammit. Fliss was right. She was too sensitive for her own good. Why else would she be crying over a flatulent farm animal? “I’ll do it.”
Dante’s eyes seemed to soften for a second before going back to their usual cool appraisal. “If it makes you feel any better, Mr. Abruzzi’s not planning on killing them. He wants to sell them as pets. Apparently, they’re all the rage. Even George Clooney had one.”
“You couldn’t have told me that in the first place?”
“That wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun as watching you get all worked up.”
“I am not worked up.” She switched Houdini to her other arm—he might be small, but he was surprisingly hefty—and bent to pick up her phone. The yoga mat would have to wait until later. “I’m righteously indignant.”
“Has anyone ever told you your cheeks get all flushed when you’re righteously indignant?”
He rose and crossed to her, coming too close for comfort, his toes inches from hers. He clearly had no concept of personal space. His just-out-of-bed scent—musky and male—swirled around her, and her fingers itched to run through his morning-mussed hair. Good thing she had her hands full or who knew what she might do. First his hair, then those massive shoulders and beefy biceps, then his—
Stop. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.
“No, no one has told me that.” She lifted her chin, determined to remain defiant despite the heat creeping up her face. “Because they don’t.”
“Yes, they do.”
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nbsp; He raised a hand to touch her cheek. She sucked in a breath and held it. Time suspended for a heartbeat as he trailed one finger from her ear to her jawline, leaving a series of delicious little tremors in its wake.
Houdini squealed, breaking the spell. Zoe let out the breath she’d been holding in a hiss and took a step backward.
“Here.” She thrust the pig at Dante. “Hold him while I go change clothes.”
Dante took the animal reluctantly, grabbing him gingerly under his haunches and holding him away from his bare chest. He eyeballed Zoe from head to toe, his gaze stopping briefly on her breasts and reigniting the tremors his finger had started. “Good idea. Mr. Abruzzi’s not getting any younger. You’d probably give him a heart attack dressed like that.”
Zoe ignored the not-so-subtle dig and the tremors. “He likes to be scratched behind his ears. Houdini, I mean. Not Mr. Abruzzi. I have no idea what he likes.”
“He’s a man. As long as he still has a heartbeat, I’m sure he won’t object to having a pretty lady scratch him where it itches.”
Was he calling her pretty? She shook off the stray thought. He could call her a bridge troll for all she cared. She was no Victoria’s Secret Angel, but she was comfortable in her own skin. She certainly didn’t need validation from a man she’d known all of seventy-two hours. “Has anyone ever told you you have a dirty mind?”
“Si.” His mouth twisted into a smug smile. “But they usually mean it as a compliment.”
“Well, I don’t.”
Okay. Enough was enough. Time to get out of there before she said something stupid. Or stupider. Like that she wouldn’t mind him scratching her itch. Dante, that was. Not Mr. Abruzzi.
“And one more thing.” She pushed past man and beast and opened the sliding glass door. “If the pig comes back again, he’s staying.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“As I recall, you said the same thing about me.” She shot him a saucy smile before stepping inside the house. “And we both know how that turned out.”
…
It was quiet. Too quiet.
Dante threw off the sheet and sat up in bed, naked, the cool morning breeze that ruffled the curtains raising goose bumps on his bare skin. He cocked his head to listen for the sound of pan flutes or dulcimers or didgeridoos or whatever instruments musicians played in that new-age crap Zoe listened to when she exercised. The sounds that had woken him every morning for the past five days.
This time, however, there was nothing but the normal noises of daybreak in Positano. Birds chirping. Waves lapping against the shore below. The low drone of a boat engine.
Which meant one of two things: either Zoe had decided to give up her game of slow, calculated torture or she’d left, preferably permanently. The first would be good. The second would be even better.
He’d survived almost week of yoga at the ungodly hour of what-the-fuck o’clock, fortunately without a reappearance of his neighbor’s pig. He’d survived watching Zoe prance around in skintight workout clothes and sun herself in bikinis that might as well have been dental floss. He’d even survived her attempts at cooking, including one particularly memorable occasion when she set a dishtowel on fire. She would have torched the whole kitchen if he hadn’t been there to toss the damn thing into the sink and turn on the faucet.
He didn’t know how much more he could take. Had she figured out what he was up to? Was she trying to out-Felix him? If she was, she was a damn sight better at it than he was. She hadn’t shown any signs of budging, no matter what he tried. He’d followed Miguel’s advice and even added a few creative touches of his own—leaving his dirty clothes lying around, eating all the fancy figs she bought at the farmers’ market, changing the wifi password—and she hadn’t blinked an eye. As much as he hoped the silence meant she’d left for good, the truth was he was no closer to having her gone than he was on day one.
With a groan at that grim realization, he pulled on a pair of jeans—his underwear act was getting old—and went downstairs to investigate. He rubbed sleepy eyes as he rounded the corner at the foot of the stairs—and ran smack into something hard and unforgiving.
The couch.
He blinked and tried to focus so he could scan his living room. Or what he thought was his living room. But nothing was where it should be. The couch, obviously, had been pulled to the middle of the room. The Persian rug his grandmother had brought back from Nepal was rolled up in one corner. And the artwork Nonna had spent years collecting in her younger days, when she’d traveled the world as a high-end fashion model, had been taken down and sat propped against the walls.
In the center of it all stood Zoe in skimpy denim shorts and a bright orange halter top, hands on her curvy hips, surveying everything with a look of intense concentration he found strangely arousing.
He mentally beat back the arousal and let annoyance bubble up in its place. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Redecorating,” she answered without missing a beat, not bothering to look at him.
“And who gave you permission to do that?” He glared at her back. “Or have you forgotten who owns this place?”
She swiveled her head, fixing him with those pale, yellow-gold eyes that made his insides twist into nervous, needy knots. “How could I, with you stalking around like a wounded bear?”
The knots tightened. Yes, he wanted her gone. But part of him—a big part—couldn’t help wondering what Nicole would have thought of his boorish behavior. No, that wasn’t true. He knew exactly what she’d think. She’d think he was being an ass and that Bella Vista was more than big enough for him and Zoe to share.
But she’d be wrong. Yes, the villa had sixteen rooms, six bedrooms, and four and a half baths. But somehow, no matter how far apart he and Zoe were physically, he was acutely aware of her presence. It was like he had some sort of strange sixth sense that made his skin sizzle when she was near.
“Have I been that bad?” he asked, suddenly conscious of the way the hair on his chest was standing at attention. Why hadn’t he taken the extra few seconds necessary to throw on a T-shirt?
“Worse.” She bit her lip and frowned thoughtfully. “I think this”—she pointed to one of two overstuffed chairs—“should be over there.”
She indicated a spot in front of the white marble fireplace. “Would you mind helping me?”
“You still haven’t answered my question.” Dodging his inquiries was becoming a common theme with her. It should irritate him. But instead, he found himself liking the challenge.
“What question was that?” Zoe batted her long lashes, all fake, wide-eyed innocence.
“Who gave you permission to do this?” He waved a hand around the room.
“Your grandmother.”
He should have known. Nonna. She’d do anything to keep Zoe at the villa, even if it meant letting her rearrange the furniture.
“She called this morning to make sure I was enjoying my stay,” Zoe continued. “We got to chatting, and when I told her I was an interior decorator, she suggested I take a crack at freshening the place up. I tried telling her you don’t mess with a genius like Alberto Pinto, but she insisted. Said she knew him personally and that he would have liked nothing more than one of his admirers putting her own spin on his vision. She wanted me to tackle the whole house, but we compromised on the living room. And I took plenty of pictures before I started moving stuff around so she can have someone put it back the way it was if she doesn’t like what I’ve done.”
Right. She was an interior decorator. Another factoid for him to file away in his subconscious. Not that he was interested in her. It was the Sun Tsu know-your-enemy theory rearing its ugly head again. No, enemy was too strong a word. Rival. Or maybe adversary. That sounded more civilized. Less hostile.
“So, what do you say?” Zoe gestured to the chair, snapping his thoughts back from the
detour they’d taken. “Can you help me move this thing? I almost threw my back out wrestling with the couch, and if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not risk that again.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. That would put a stop to your morning yoga.”
She pursed her temptingly plump, pink lips. “Is my exercise routine bothering you?”
“Not at all,” he lied. It was bothering him, all right. But not in the way she thought. He could handle waking up with the sun. Watching her contort her body in figure-hugging spandex—that was another story.
He crossed to the chair in question, putting his hands under the overstuffed arm. “On three?”
It wasn’t like he had much choice. She had the room in shambles. He might as well help her put it back together, even if it wasn’t quite the same afterward. Besides, a little physical exertion was exactly what he needed to get his mind off Zoe’s physical attributes.
“Okay.” She grabbed the other arm of the chair. “One. Two. Two and a half.”
He arched a brow.
“Three.”
They had only moved the chair a few feet when Zoe squealed and let go, dropping her side of the chair to the tile floor with a thud.
He lowered his side. “What’s wrong?”
“Lost my grip,” she gritted out through clenched teeth, hopping on one bare foot.
He rounded the chair and was next to her in a heartbeat, putting an arm around her slender waist to steady her. He tried to ignore the way her body fit perfectly with his and concentrated on playing doctor. The medical kind, not the naughty kind. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I always jump around like this when I move furniture.”
Ah, there was the smart mouth that was bound to get her—and him—into trouble.
“Here. Sit.” He guided her into the chair then knelt down, taking her injured foot into his hands. He’d never been a foot fetish guy, but hers were perfect. Delicate and pale, her skin soft under his fingers, her toes in a neat diagonal line, big to small, the nails painted a glittery blue-green. A tiny tattoo of a wave just below her ankle completed the pretty picture.