How Not to Mess with a Millionaire (Mediterranean Millionaires)

by Kyle, Regina

  “I hate playing the “ladies first” card, but I’m totally going to. I have to get out of these wet clothes. And I’m dying to see if the bathroom lives up to the rest of this place.”

  Yeah, he wanted her out of those wet clothes, too. But what he had in mind once she was naked wasn’t checking out the walk-in shower or whirlpool tub. “I’ll order up something from room service. There should be a menu around here somewhere.”

  “I’m not picky, and I’m hungry enough to eat a cow. Whatever you order will be fine.” She disappeared into the bathroom, then poked her head out for one last parting jab. “We can continue our discussion of your treatment of that poor desk clerk and your friend Gianni over dinner.”

  He was hoping she’d forgotten about the clerk. And she’d thrown in Gianni, too. He’d better add some wine—something like a crisp, fruity falanghina or a tart, savory sangiovese—to that dinner order. Maybe with a hot shower to relax her and a little alcohol in her system, she’d let go of her fixation on his bad behavior.

  He crossed to the antique secretary, picked up a leather binder with the hotel’s logo embossed in gold, and opened it, leafing through the pages until he found what he was looking for.

  “Oh my God!” Zoe’s voice floated out through the bathroom door. “This shower is fan-freaking-tastic. It has dual rainfall shower heads with LED lights. And a TV.”

  Dante chuckled. “I’m glad it lives up to your expectations.”

  She turned the water on, and he focused on the menu in his hands to avoid the mental picture of the spray sliding over her breasts and down the cleft between her buttocks. After a few seconds, he snapped it shut and dialed room service, ordering a bottle of falanghina and a four-course meal of antipasto, ravioli caprisi, pezzonga—a local fish—and lavender panna cotta for dessert, with instructions to have it sent up in an hour. Then he made another quick call to the front desk and watched the storm through the glass doors, not wanting to sit on the expensive furniture in his still soaking shirt and shorts.

  “Bathroom’s all yours.”

  Zoe stood in front of the partially open bathroom door, steam wafting out behind her. She wore a white waffle robe that looked a size too big, the sleeves rolled to her wrists and the neckline gaping to reveal a generous amount of cleavage. Her damp hair hung in loose curls around her face, and her bare feet poked out from beneath the hem of her robe. Overall, the effect was of a sexy water nymph.

  He did another head-to-toe scan, forcing his eyes not to pause on her lips. Pink, pouty, and slightly parted, just begging to be kissed. If he looked too long, he’d be drawn in like a moth to a flame. “That was quick.”

  She shrugged. “I’m not a three-hours-in-the-bathroom kind of girl. More like get in there, get it done, and get out.”

  He lowered his voice to a seductive growl, not able to resist the urge to tease her, to test her, to see if she was as affected by him as he was by her. “You’re going to make someone a wonderful wife.”

  Her cheeks turned a delightful shade of salmon, and she adjusted the lapels of her robe, closing the gap and hiding the perfect, pale skin between her breasts. He mentally high-fived himself.

  Mission accomplished.

  He grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Dinner is on its way. I hope you like seafood.”

  “Like I said, I’m not picky.” She patted her hips. “Unfortunately.”

  “You won’t hear me complaining. A man needs something to grab on to.”

  With those playful parting words, he retreated into the bathroom. Thirty minutes later, he was in a matching white waffle robe, seated across from Zoe as she inhaled pepperoncini and marinated mushrooms at the speed of light.

  It was refreshing to see a woman who wasn’t afraid to enjoy food. Most women seemed intimidated eating in front of him, either because they wanted him to think they subsisted on nothing but raw vegetables or because he was the owner of a successful chain of restaurants and a bona fide foodie, he wasn’t sure.

  “Oh. My. God,” she managed between bites. “I think I’m in heaven. Tell me the main course is this good.”

  “Even better.” He stabbed a piece of prosciutto with his fork. “If you like this, you should taste my brother’s fresh burrata with honey-balsamic figs and roasted pistachios.”

  “You have a brother?”

  “A twin,” he said, surprised at his sudden willingness to discuss his personal life with her. Surprised, but not stopping. He wasn’t sure whether to blame the wine or the way she gazed at him across the table, with openness and an unconcealed interest he found irresistible. “Luca. Fraternal, in answer to your next question. I’m the better-looking one, but his skills in the kitchen are far superior to mine.”

  “I doubt that.” Her eyes danced with amusement as she picked up her wine and sipped. “I’ve tasted your biscotti.”

  “I dabble. My brother is the professional.”

  “He’s a chef?”

  “Yes.” Dante plucked the wine bottle from the silver-plated cooler in the stand next to him, refilling her glass, then his. “We have restaurants in Florence, Naples, and Rome.”

  “We?”

  She sucked an olive into her mouth. The unintentionally erotic gesture was a spark to his already overactive sex drive. Was she trying to kill him?

  He tossed back his wine like it was Perrier and poured himself another. “Luca is the creative genius. I handle the business end of things.”

  “Business is creative, too. It’s not all facts and figures. You have to constantly innovate to stay ahead of the competition.”

  She crossed her legs, flashing him a sliver of creamy thigh, and he asked himself for the millionth time why he was resisting her. This time, however, with her fresh from the shower and barely dressed, against the backdrop of the red-gold setting sun and the crystal blue Mediterranean, he couldn’t come up with one good reason. They were two consenting adults, on what could—or should—be a romantic island getaway. He’d be a goddamn fool to pass up this chance.

  And if there was one thing he wasn’t, it was a fool.

  …

  Fancy food? Check. Fine wine? Check. Moonlight, music, and a man who was staring at her across the table like she was his next course? Check, check, and double check. It all added up to the most romantic night Zoe had spent in—well, ever.

  If she didn’t know better, she’d swear Dante was trying to seduce her.

  “Are you enjoying your dessert?” he asked in a flirtatious bedroom whisper, his eyes never leaving her face.

  She let out a nervous little laugh, not used to be being the object of such intense, sensual scrutiny. “Is that a serious question? The answer is always yes. I’ve never met a dessert I didn’t like.”

  “So you have a sweet tooth?”

  “Oh yeah.” She scraped the side of her ramekin with her spoon, trying to scoop up every last bite of panna cotta. “More like a sweet mouth.”

  Wait. That didn’t sound right.

  Dante’s gray eyes darkened to a sexy, stormy charcoal. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “That’s not what I meant. It’s not just one tooth that wants sugar. It’s like every tooth. My whole mouth. I’m a certified sugar-holic.” Great. Now she was babbling. Really sexy, Zoe. Even her seventeen-year-old sister was better at this stuff.

  Time for a change of subject.

  “I’ve met your grandmother. You mentioned your brother. Any other family? What about your parents?”

  The heat in his eyes dimmed, and she instantly regretted bringing up what she should know from her own experience could be a touchy topic. She half expected him to push his plate away, abruptly ending both the meal and their conversation, but he surprised her by lifting another spoonful of the decadent dessert to his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully for a long minute, then calmly answered her question.

&nb
sp; “I never met my father. My mother was young. She wasn’t prepared to take care of a baby, much less two. My grandmother raised us.”

  And Zoe thought she had it rough. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

  “My brother and I are lucky. We had someone who could step in and do what our parents couldn’t. Not every child has that.”

  She didn’t expect that response. “That’s big of you.”

  Dante set his spoon down, leaving his dessert half eaten. “Trust me, I didn’t always feel that way. I spent years resenting my parents, my mother especially. But she did what she felt was best for us. And she was right. My grandmother was an amazing parent. She was working as a modeling agent by then, and she took us all over the world with her until we were old enough to start school. Then she walked away from it all so we could put down roots somewhere, make friends, live a more normal life.”

  Zoe fought to keep the corners of her mouth from curving into a sarcastic smile. “I’m not sure I’d call owning homes all over Italy ‘normal.’”

  “Just one at first, in Naples. Nonna didn’t buy the villa in Positano until we were ten. I got the penthouse in Rome after Luca and I opened our first restaurant.”

  “I stand corrected. Your childhood wasn’t just normal, it was downright disadvantaged.”

  He laughed and reattacked his panna cotta. “Your turn.”

  “For what?”

  “To tell me about your family.”

  “Father. Stepmother. Seventeen-year-old half sister who thinks the world revolves around her.”

  “And your mother?”

  Zoe looked down at her empty dish. “She died when I was eight. Cancer.”

  “So, in a way, we were both abandoned.”

  The raw pain, honesty, and compassion in his voice forced her head up. When she met his gaze, those emotions were reflected in his eyes, almost stealing her breath so that when she spoke, her words were barely above a whisper. “I guess you could say that.”

  A knock at the door shattered their connection and startled Zoe. Dante didn’t seem all that surprised, calmly rising and striding to the door.

  “Are you expecting someone?” Zoe asked. A bellhop had already come to collect their wet clothes, so it couldn’t be that. “Your manager friend?”

  “I am, but it’s not her.”

  “Then who?”

  “Give me a chance to answer the door, and you’ll see.”

  “I hate surprises, remember?” Zoe grumbled.

  “You liked the last one. And I think you’ll appreciate this one, too.”

  Dante opened the door and greeted their guest in Italian. Zoe craned her neck, trying to see who he—or she—was around Dante’s imposing frame. It wasn’t until he stepped aside and waved their visitor in that she recognized him as the desk clerk.

  “Wait right here,” Dante said, still talking as he headed for the bathroom. “I have something for you.”

  “Si, signore,” the young man said, looking as if he thought Dante might return with a .45-caliber Beretta.

  Zoe stood and crossed to him, needing to do something to put the poor boy at ease. “I’m Zoe.”

  She stuck out her hand, and he shook it. “Matteo.”

  Dante picked that moment to reappear, wallet in hand. For a hot second, she worried he might go all prehistoric again when he saw their hands joined. Instead, he took a few euros out of his wallet and extended them to the desk clerk.

  “I asked you up here because I didn’t thank you for your help earlier. And someone pointed out to me”—he glanced at Zoe, the playful light back in his eyes, but beneath it was something more: sincerity—“that I was rude. I wanted to apologize.”

  “Grazi, signore.”

  “Here’s my card. Stop by my restaurant the next time you’re in Naples, Florence, or Rome, and show that to the hostess. Dinner is on me.” Dante pressed a business card with something scrawled on the back into the clerk’s hand. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  Matteo blushed. “Si, signore. I do.”

  “Bring her, too.”

  “I will. Grazi.”

  Matteo thanked Dante at least ten more times as he made his way out of the suite. Dante closed the door behind him and leaned against it, dropping his wallet into the pocket of his robe and crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?” Zoe asked.

  “Did you like your surprise?”

  “I think it was more of a surprise for the desk clerk,” she said. “But yes, I did. Thank you for listening to me.”

  He shrugged and crossed back to the table, picking up his half-full glass of wine. “I’m not entirely without shame. And you were right, I acted like an ass.”

  “Could you repeat that?”

  “I acted like an ass.”

  “No, the part before that. Where you said I was right.”

  “You were right,” he repeated dutifully, sipping his wine.

  There was an awkward pause, like neither one of them was sure where to take the conversation next. Zoe stretched her arms over her head and feigned a yawn. “It’s, uh, been a long day, and I’m beat. I’m going to hit the hay.”

  “Hit the hay?” The corners of Dante’s sensuous mouth quirked into a smile. “Is that another one of your delightful American expressions?”

  “Get some sleep,” she said, her gaze drifting to the bedroom door.

  “If it will make you feel more comfortable, I can sleep on the couch in the sitting area.”

  “That’s not a couch,” she scoffed. “It’s barely a settee. And you’re, what, six feet tall?”

  He drew himself up to his full height. “Six-two.”

  “You’d be miserable scrunched up like a pretzel on that thing. We’re adults. We can handle sharing a bed. I’ll stay on my side, and you stay on yours.”

  She didn’t know who she was trying harder to convince, him or herself.

  “If you insist.” Dante drained the rest of his wine and set his glass down on the table. “But if you change your mind, just say the word.”

  She shook her head and started for the bedroom. “I told you, I’m not making you sleep on the sofa.”

  Maybe she could build a wall of pillows between them. Or hang a sheet, like she’d seen Clark Gable do in an old movie once. The Walls of Jericho, he called it, separating him from Claudette Colbert.

  That’s what she needed. Her own Wall of Jericho. One strong enough to withstand her crumbling resolve.

  Dante followed her into the room and cupped her cheek, stroking her skin with his thumb. Her already weakened resolve took a huge nosedive, and she couldn’t help leaning into his touch. Forget sheets and pillows—she needed a brick wall separating them. Or industrial-strength steel.

  “I meant say the word if you decide you want me on your side of the bed.” He inched his body forward until they were barely a hair apart, what little space there was between them charged with sexual tension. “Or, better yet, just slide over to mine. I promise I won’t bite, unless you’re into that kind of thing.”

  She brushed his hand aside and pushed him away. “You have to stop doing that.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Teasing me.” She sank down onto the bed. “It’s not fair.”

  “What makes you think I’m teasing?” The mattress dipped as he sat beside her. “I’m attracted to you. And if I’m not mistaken, you’re not immune to me. There’s nothing stopping us from having what we both want.”

  He shifted his weight to move closer, and his robe parted, revealing his lightly furred chest. Damn. She’d forgotten—or pushed to the back of her brain—how scantily clad he was. How scantily clad they both were.

  She crossed her legs and pulled the lapels of her robe together. “And what exactly is that?”


  “This.” He traced her lips with his thumb. They parted on a sigh that echoed like a gust of wind in the otherwise quiet room.

  “And this.” His hand roamed lower, down her neck to the swell of her breasts, and her breath hitched.

  “And possibly this.” He followed his fingers with his mouth, leaving a wet trail to the soft spot where her neck met her collarbone.

  Well, when he put it that way—

  She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, encouraging his erotic exploration. After all she’d been through recently, didn’t she deserve to have a little fun? That vacation fling she’d been dreaming about. A pleasant, passing diversion until it was time for her to get on a plane and return to reality.

  His mouth drew back, and she whimpered a protest at its absence. She opened her eyes to find his face looming above hers, his gaze locked on her lips, which suddenly seemed as dry as the Sahara. Her tongue stole out to moisten them, eliciting a loud, ragged breath from Dante.

  “You have to say the words. I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us. You have to tell me what you want.”

  “You, dammit. I want you,” she practically shouted, her chest heaving. “There. I said it. Are you happy?”

  The smug bastard had the nerve to laugh. “Very.”

  “Good. Now kiss me before I spontaneously combust.”

  With a lazy smile, he wound his fingers into her hair and pulled her in for the promised kiss. Their lips connected, and her brain went hazy for a second before the sensations started to register—the softness of his lips on hers, the sureness with which he held her, the hand at the back of her head warm and firm. The sweetness of the panna cotta lingering on his tongue.

  After far too short a time, he pulled away again and peered at her.

  “Why did you stop?”

  He clucked that devilish tongue that only a heartbeat ago had her desperate and panting. “Patience. Good things come to those who wait. And even better things come to those who wait longer.”