How Not to Mess with a Millionaire (Mediterranean Millionaires)

by Kyle, Regina

  “We’re managing fine without you.”

  “I’m a number cruncher. Not the genius in the kitchen. I can do my job virtually anywhere as long as I have a computer and access to the internet.”

  “But you haven’t been, have you?” Luca retorted. “You’ve been playing house with Nonna’s tenant.”

  “You know why I’m here.” Dante bristled, the corners of his mouth pulling downward into a tense frown. “And it’s not to play house.”

  “Of course,” Luca said, his tone softening. “Nicole. But that doesn’t mean—”

  “Yes,” Dante ground out through clenched teeth. “It does.”

  It should. If he could stop himself from obsessing over a woman he’d known for all of two weeks. Or, God forbid, kissing her again.

  “It’s been almost a year,” Luca said, a little less gently. “Twelve months.”

  “I know how long a year is,” Dante snapped. “And you’re starting to sound like our grandmother.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. The woman is a force of nature, and she has a point.”

  “Which I’m sure you’re going to elaborate on.”

  “You don’t think you deserve love because you hold yourself responsible—wrongly, I might add—for Nicole’s death.”

  True. Except for the wrongly part.

  “And you’re afraid to fall in love again because it might mean heartbreak, and you don’t think you could survive that a second time.”

  Also true.

  “But there’s no harm in having a little fun with a warm, willing woman, especially when she’s already living with you. A higher power dropped her in your lap. It’s destiny, campione. You’re tempting fate if you look the other way.”

  That was where Luca couldn’t be more wrong. Dante could think of plenty of things that could go horribly wrong if he let himself get in any deeper with Zoe.

  “I don’t believe in fate.” Not anymore. He picked up a pencil from his desk and twirled it between his fingers, needing something to occupy himself other than his nosy, irritating brother.

  “Well, I do,” Luca said. “Maybe I’m the one she’s meant for. That trip to Positano is sounding better and better by the minute.”

  Dante snapped the pencil in half and tossed both pieces down onto the desk with such force that one of them rolled off the edge and onto the floor. “Don’t you have some model or actress who would miss you in Rome?”

  “For someone who claims they want nothing to do with this girl, you’re fighting awfully hard to keep me away from her,” Luca said. “What was it Shakespeare wrote? Thou dost protest too much?”

  “You read Shakespeare?”

  “No, but I heard that line once in a movie with Gilderoy Lockhart from Harry Potter as this tortured prince haunted by the ghost of his father.”

  “Hamlet.”

  “That’s the one.”

  Dante bent down to pick up the pencil piece. “Is there any business you wanted to discuss with me, or did you call to harass me about my—Nonna’s—house guest?”

  By some miracle, Luca ignored his slip of the tongue. “Fine, be that way. We can talk shop. But don’t think the topic of your house guest is closed. At least not until her lease is up.”

  Who needed Nonna when he had Luca and Miguel prying into his love life? Or lack thereof.

  Dante threw both halves of the pencil in the waste basket and hit a button on his computer, waking the screen from sleep mode. “Let’s start with Rome. How are bookings looking? Is the new reservation system working out?”

  They talked for another half an hour, thankfully sticking to work. They said their goodbyes, and Dante was about to hang up when he heard his brother’s voice and brought the phone back to his ear.

  “One last thing,” Luca said.

  “This better be about business,” Dante warned.

  “Think about what we discussed.”

  “The New York expansion?”

  “Your American friend. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying a woman’s company. In every sense of the word. Nicole wouldn’t want you to live the rest of your life shutting yourself off like you have been for the past year.”

  No, but that’s what he wanted. To hope for more—with Zoe or anyone else—was to court disaster.

  …

  Zoe struggled to sit up, rubbing her eyes against the sunlight streaking through the sliding glass doors.

  Sunlight? Damn. She must have overslept. Not surprising, given the restless nights she’d had recently. Every time her head hit the pillow and her eyes closed, visions of Dante lying naked on the other side of the wall, cock in hand, danced through her brain, keeping her awake and aroused, leaving her with no option but to take the edge off with her trusty rabbit or wait for sheer exhaustion to win out.

  The obvious solution was to be upfront with him. Not about the fact that she eavesdropped while he got himself off. No way was she going there. About the kiss. Make him admit he enjoyed it as much as she had, then get him to do it again. Burn off some of her sexual frustration so she could concentrate on something other than how he sounded when he came.

  Maybe a little vacation fling wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  But Dante had made that a non-starter. It was hard to have a fling with a guy when he wouldn’t stay two minutes in the same room with you. It wasn’t like Dante was being overtly rude. True to his word, he’d stopped trying to get rid of her. Instead, he just…disappeared. He spent most of his time in his room, or in the study he used as an office, or out in a secluded portion of the garden he seemed drawn to, beyond the pool and down the steep slope toward the Mediterranean.

  Zoe wondered if it had something to do with the picture she’d seen in the study. Okay, so she’d been snooping when he was out. In her defense, it started as research. She wanted to take photos of the various rooms, commit Pinto’s brilliant designs to film—or pixels—so she could go back to them again and again, not just as memories of her trip but for inspiration.

  That was when she stumbled on the picture, half hidden behind a vase of fresh-cut bougainvillea. A broadly grinning Dante—who knew he could smile like that, open and happy and eager?—with his arm around a statuesque brunette who was looking up at him with equally unabashed affection. A riot of yellow, pink, and purple flowers in the garden behind them completed the idyllic scene.

  The questions came flying at her fast and furious. Who was this woman? Where was she now? What tore them apart? At least, Zoe assumed they weren’t together anymore. She didn’t want to believe that Dante would kiss her if he was involved with someone else.

  Oh, well. No use speculating. It wasn’t like she was going to get any answers from her absentee housemate.

  She yawned and blinked once, twice, three times until the room started to swim into focus. What time was it, anyway? And where was—?

  Her head snapped to the crate in the corner. No sign of Houdini. She bolted out of bed and raced to the crate, flinging the door open and tossing out the blankets that lined the bottom.

  Still no pig.

  “Houdini? Where are you? Come on out, boy. Time for breakfast.”

  She searched the room as she called for him, growing more frantic by the second. Not under the dresser or the bed. Not behind the drapes or the desk. Not on the overstuffed chair or in the bathroom. She even checked the balcony because she’d read that some pigs could open doors.

  No Houdini.

  Great. Less than a week as a pet owner, and she’d already lost the pet. And she was supposed to be the responsible one in the Ryan family.

  “Here pig, pig, pig.” What was it you were supposed to say? Sooey?

  She did one last sweep of the room without success before tearing out of her room and heading downstairs, taking the steps two at a time in her panic. Maybe Houdini had lived up to his na
me and managed to escape, and now he was roaming the house, gnawing on the distressed furniture and peeing on the priceless Persian rugs. Or worse. What if he’d gotten out of the house? He could be who knew where doing Lord knew what by now.

  I know we’re not exactly on speaking terms, God. But please, please, please let Houdini be okay.

  She reached the landing and skidded to a stop. There must be some disconnect between her eyes and her brain, because the scene unfolding in the foyer below was surreal. Dante stood in front of the open door, cradling Houdini in one arm, completely unfazed as the pig contentedly chewed on one of the buttons on his designer linen shirt. On the other side of the door, an elegantly dressed older woman who reminded Zoe of a silver-haired Sophia Loren hitched her Gucci bag up on her shoulder and brushed past Dante into the house.

  “I hope you don’t mind me dropping by without notice,” the woman purred, laying a too-familiar, impeccably manicured hand on Dante’s arm and kissing his cheek. “But you haven’t called in days, and I wanted to check on you and make sure you weren’t lonely.”

  “As you can see, I’m perfectly fine.” Dante inclined his head to the pig. “And far from lonely.”

  Zoe watched as he took the woman’s bag, set it down on the foyer table, and put a hand on the small of her back. She knew she should leave, retreat to her room, and pretend like she hadn’t intruded on what was obviously a private moment. She willed her feet to move, but the message got lost somewhere between her brain and her legs, and she stayed put, like a silent stalker.

  “I see.” The woman scratched Houdini’s head with a perfectly polished pink fingernail. “He’s adorable. And affectionate. But not exactly who I was expecting to find you here with.”

  Zoe’s heart stuttered. Who was this woman? And what was she expecting to find?

  Okay, enough was enough. Time to stop snooping. It was none of her business who Dante’s guest was or what she wanted. Zoe’s feet got the message loud and clear this time, and she started back up the stairs. She hadn’t gone two steps when the woman’s voice froze her mid-stride.

  “Ah, there you are. You must be Zoe.”

  Zoe? This woman knew her name? Had Dante told her about them?

  “Don’t run away,” the woman continued, beckoning Zoe with a ringed finger. “Come, talk to me. I’ve been longing to meet you.”

  Longing to meet her?

  “I’m, uh, not really dressed for guests,” Zoe stammered, still hovering on the stairs, suddenly conscious of how her sleep shorts rode up her thighs and her nipples showed through the thin fabric of her tank top.

  Dante eyed her up and down, his gaze warming her already superheated skin. “I’m sure my grandmother doesn’t care what you’re wearing.”

  “Your grandmother?” Zoe crossed her arms over her chest to hide the aforementioned nipples. Seriously? This stunning, svelte creature in the exquisitely tailored dress, classic pearls, and suede pumps, looking ten times more put together than Zoe on her best day, was Nonna? What happened to Marie Barone? Where was the sauce-stained apron, the smudge of flour on one cheek, the extra twenty-plus pounds?

  “Si.” Nonna—or Carmella, Zoe guessed she should call her, since the woman wasn’t her grandmother—motioned again for Zoe to come closer, this time using her entire hand. “Who did you think I was?”

  “Yes.” The corners of Dante’s mouth quivered. Damn him. The bastard was clearly enjoying every minute of her obvious discomfort. “That’s a good question. Who did you think she was?”

  “Stop.” Carmella smacked him on the shoulder, and he winced. “Don’t tease the poor girl. I raised you better than that. And I’m sure she pictured me very differently when we spoke on the phone. I don’t exactly fit the media’s image of an Italian grandmother, do I?”

  There was no good response to that, so Zoe didn’t even bother trying. She descended the stairs, abandoning any pretense of modesty in her skimpy pajamas, and held her hand out to the older woman. “It’s nice to meet you, Carmella. You have a beautiful home.”

  “Grazie.” Carmella took Zoe’s hand in a firm, no-nonsense grip and shook it. “We’re happy to have you here, aren’t we, Dante?”

  “Of course,” he said with that self-assured smirk she’d come to know well. “Couldn’t be happier.”

  His grandmother gave him a side-eyed glance that spoke volumes and breezed past both of them into the kitchen.

  “Come,” she called over her shoulder, her flawlessly styled bob swaying as she walked on sky-high heels that would have tripped Zoe up with her first step. “Dante will make us some of his world-famous cappuccino, and we’ll all have a nice chat.”

  “World famous?” Zoe snickered.

  Dante’s smirk grew wider and, if possible, even more smug. “I’m her grandson. She thinks everything I do is brilliant.”

  “Andiamo.” Carmella’s voice echoed from the kitchen into the cavernous foyer. “Time is wasting. And my cappuccino isn’t going to brew itself.”

  Zoe smirked right back at him. “Not everything, apparently.”

  Houdini grunted, almost as if he understood what they were saying and was joining in on the conversation. Zoe took him from Dante, gave him a quick snuggle, and set him down on the floor. The pig immediately set off after Carmella, his hooves clip-clopping on the tile.

  Zoe started to follow him, but Dante’s hand closed around her arm, stopping her.

  “Wait,” he said, suddenly serious. “Before we go in there and face my grandmother’s well-meaning but no doubt intensely personal interrogation, I’d like to clear the air between us.”

  “What do you mean?” Was he talking about their kiss? Or later that evening? Had he heard her out on the balcony after all?

  He released her arm like it had suddenly become radioactive. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’m sorry. It was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

  She cringed at the one-two punch of his rejection, first physical, then verbal. Not that she hadn’t been expecting it from the way he’d been avoiding her. Still, it stung. “Just what every girl wants to hear. Aren’t you the charmer?”

  “I wanted to make sure you didn’t get the wrong idea. I’m not in the habit of leading women on. I’m attracted to you, obviously. But this”—he waved a hand between them—“whatever it is, it can’t go any further.”

  Wow. She’d never had a guy put it quite so bluntly before. It was strangely both ruthless and refreshing.

  “Don’t worry, Casanova. I’m not picking out china patterns just yet.”

  A crash from the kitchen cut off whatever Dante was going to say next. His head swiveled toward the source of the sound, and he swore under his breath. Before either of them could move, Carmella marched into the foyer with Houdini in one arm, cradled against her designer dress.

  “We’re fine,” she insisted, waving her free hand dismissively, her rings catching the morning sunlight streaming through the glass door. “Nothing but a broken mug.”

  Dante frowned. “I thought you wanted me to make the cappuccino.”

  “I got tired of waiting.”

  “Let me take Houdini.” Zoe held out her arms. “I’ll bring him upstairs, get changed, and be back down in few minutes.”

  She took the pig from Carmella and turned to Dante with a confused and somewhat embarrassed frown. “I still don’t understand how he got downstairs in the first place. Please tell me he hasn’t figured out how to turn a doorknob.”

  Dante shrugged. “I let him out. He was scratching at the door.”

  “Aha,” Zoe said, a triumphant smile replacing her frown. “I knew Houdini would grow on you.”

  “He has not grown on me,” Dante grumbled. “The doors in this villa are handcrafted from Brazilian hardwood. I didn’t want him to destroy it.”

  “Houdini.” Carmella raised an already arched brow. “Interesting name.
”

  “He kept escaping from his owner and finding his way over here, so Dante bought him for me,” Zoe explained.

  “My grandson bought you a pig?” Carmella directed a pointed gaze at Dante. “You’ve never heard of chocolate? Flowers? Jewelry?”

  Dante frowned. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Avanti.” Carmella put a hand on her grandson’s forearm. “Come with me to the kitchen. You can tell me what it was like and make me that cappuccino.”

  Zoe would love to be a fly on the wall for that conversation. But she had Houdini to deal with, and she really, really wanted to be wearing something that didn’t flash her boobs or butt every time she bent over.

  When she made it back downstairs a few minutes later—in a cute sundress that completely covered all her naughty bits in every conceivable position—Dante and his grandmother had moved from the kitchen to the outdoor terrace and were sitting across from each other at one of the wrought-iron tables with foaming cups of cappuccino. A third mug sat in front of an empty chair between them. Zoe pulled it out, sat down, and reached for the frothy confection.

  “This is for me, I assume.”

  Dante nodded. “I wasn’t sure, but I thought you might like one. You certainly seemed to enjoy it last time.”

  Last time? More like the only time. He hadn’t made her cappuccino since that first morning, and she wasn’t about to beg him for more, no matter how damn delicious it was. No doubt he’d only done it today to impress his grandmother. Maybe Carmella should drop in more often. Hopefully when Zoe was fully clothed.

  She took a sip and sighed. Yep. Delicious. Just like the man who made it.

  Whoa. Down, girl. There had to be some sort of rule of etiquette against thinking dirty thoughts about a man with his grandmother sitting right next to her.

  “So.” Carmella tapped a finger on the table. “Dante was telling me you two have been enjoying each other’s company.”