Well, not quite all. He still didn’t know what had brought her here. The only certainty was that her presence could not possibly have anything to do with him.
Maybe she sold magazines door to door.
Maybe Southampton had designated her its Fruitcake of the Month.
Whoever she was, whatever she was, she was a welcome diversion. This little farce was fast becoming the best part of his long and irritating afternoon.
She was also very easy on the eyes, now that he’d had the chance to get a longer look at her.
The made-for-midwinter suit was rumpled, torn and a little dirty, but he was pretty sure it hid a made-for-midsummer-bikini body. Wool or no wool, he could make out the thrust of high breasts, the indentation of a feminine waist, the curve of rounded hips.
Rio frowned.
What the hell had put that into his head?
She was a woman, and women were not on his current agenda. He’d just ended an affair—women called them “relationships” but men knew better—and, as always, getting out of it had been a lot more difficult than getting in. Women were creatures of baffling complexity and despite what they all said, they inevitably ended up wanting something he could not, would not, give.
Commitment. Marriage.
Chains.
Rio moved fast. He intended to keep moving fast, to climb to the absolute top of every mountain that caught his interest. Why be handicapped by things he didn’t want or need? Why anchor himself to one woman and inevitably tire of her?
He had to admit, though, some women were more intriguing than others.
This one, for instance.
She was tough. Or brave. Maybe that was the better word for her.
Standing up to him took courage at the best of times. Right now, looking as he did, half-naked, unkempt, hell, downright scruffy—he hadn’t even shaved this morning, now that he thought about it—took colhões. Or cojones. The point was the same, in Portuguese or in Italian. Facing him down took courage. No, he didn’t look like Jack the Ripper but he sure as hell didn’t look like he’d stepped out of GQ, which was surely the kind of guy she normally dealt with.
This was, after all, the weekend haunt of the rich and famous. The I-Want-to-Be-Alone rich and famous, but that didn’t change the fact that he wasn’t usually the kind of guy who met you at the front door.
Given all that, he supposed you could call her foolish instead of brave. A woman who went toe-to-toe with a stranger, who walked into a house with a man she’d never seen before …
Foolish, sure.
But determined. Gutsy.
It was clear she wasn’t going to give ground until she met Rio D’Aquila.
A gentleman would have made it easy. I’m Rio D’Aquila, a gentleman would have said, right up-front, or if he’d let things go on for a while, he’d smile at her now, apologize for any confusion and introduce himself.
A muscle flickered in Rio’s jaw.
Yes, but he had not always been a gentleman. And right now, suddenly turning into one held no appeal.
The truth was, as soon as Rio D’Aquila appeared, all this would stop.
The bantering. The courage. Probably even the little blushes she tried to conceal each time she reminded herself that he wasn’t wearing a shirt.
He liked it. All of it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a woman blush, or the last time one had stood up to him.
It had been at least a decade on both counts, right around the time he’d made his first million.
The truth was, he was enjoying himself, playing at being someone he had once been. A man, not a name or a corporation or, even worse, a line in a gossip column.
Hell, there was nothing wrong with the game he was playing. It was just an extension of what had prompted him to buy the land and put up a house here in the first place.
He was being himself.
Rio frowned. And faced facts, because all that entire bit of justification was pure, unadulterated crap.
This was not who he was.
He didn’t dig ditches. He didn’t walk around half-dressed unless he was alone or unless he’d just been to bed with a woman, and what did that have to do with anything happening right now?
The point was, he was honest with people. Even with women, and that was occasionally difficult. No matter the situation, he never played games at a woman’s expense.
It was just that this particular woman was a puzzle, and he had always liked puzzles.
Why was she dressed for winter when it was summer? Why was there a rip in her skirt, dirt on those come-and-get-me stilettos, a smudge on her blouse?
Now that he took a better look, there was a streak of dirt on her cheek, too.
It was an elegant cheek. Highly arched. Rose hued. And, he was certain, silken to the touch.
Her hair looked as if it would feel that way, too. It was dark. Lustrous. She’d yanked it back, secured it at the nape of her neck, but it refused to stay confined.
Tendrils were coming loose.
One in particular lay against her temple, daring him to reach for it, let it curl around his finger, see if it felt as soft as it looked.
She had great eyes. A nice nose. And she had a lovely mouth.
Pink. Generous but not, he was sure, pumped full of whatever horror it was that turned women into fish-lipped monstrosities.
One thing was certain.
Despite the classic suit, the demure blouse, the pulled back hair, that mouth was made for sin.
For sin, Rio thought, and felt his body stir.
Hell.
He swung away from her, irritated with himself for his unexpected reaction, with her for causing it. She was on his turf and she had no right to be there.
For a man who liked puzzles, the only one that needed solving was figuring out why he hadn’t ended this charade before it began.
Truth time, Rio thought, and he unfolded his arms and took a long breath.
“Okay,” he said, “enough.”
His unwanted guest turned paper-white. Cristo, he thought, and cursed himself for being a fool.
“No,” he said quickly, “I didn’t mean …” He forced a smile. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid,” she said, but, damnit, her voice was shaking.
“You don’t understand.” He went toward her, held out his hand. She stared at it. He did, too, saw the redness of his knuckles, the dirt on his skin and under his nails, drew his hand back and wiped it on his jeans. “I shouldn’t have made things so difficult. You don’t want to tell me who you are until you’re positive Rio D’Aquila is here, that’s fine.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said quickly. “I’ll just—I’ll just phone Mr. D’Aquila from the city—”
“Is that where you’re from? New York?”
“Yes—but really, you don’t have to—”
“Obviously,” he said, trying to lighten things, “I’m not the butler.”
He waited. After a few seconds, she gave him a hesitant smile.
“No,” she said, “I didn’t think you were.”
Okay. It was time. He had the feeling she was going to be furious at his subterfuge but it wouldn’t matter.
He’d identify himself as the man she’d come to see, she’d tell him why she was here—something to do with town records, he’d bet, because it suddenly occurred to him that there’d been some sort of paper his lawyer had said he had to sign.
Whatever, they’d introduce themselves, he’d scribble his signature on the document she produced, and that would be the end of it.
“So,” Rio said, “let’s start from scratch.”
He extended his hand again. She looked at it, at him, and then she put her hand in his. It was a small, feminine hand; his all but swallowed it and yet, he could feel calluses on her fingers, which surprised him.
The coolness of her skin surprised him, too. It was a warm day. Was she still nervous about him? It was definitely time to identify
himself and set her concerns at ease.
“Hello,” he said, and smiled. “I’m—”
“The handyman.”
He almost laughed. “Well, no. Not exact—”
“The caretaker. Sorry.” She swiped the tip of her tongue over her lips, leaving them pink and delicately moist. “Nice to meet you”
“Yes.” He dragged his gaze from her mouth. “And you are …?”
“Oh. Sorry. I’m the landscaper.”
Maybe he hadn’t heard her right. “Excuse me?”
“Well, not the landscaper. I’m an applicant.” She looked around, then lowered her voice. “I’m late. Terribly late, but—”
“But?” he said carefully.
“But still, where’s your boss? He was expecting me. You know, Isabella Orsini. From Growing Wild?”
“You?” Rio heard his voice rise. Hell, why not? He could feel his eyebrows shooting for his hairline. “You’re Izzy Orsini?”
“That’s me.” She gave a nervous laugh. “And I hope this Rio D’Aquila isn’t, you know, what I heard he was.”
“What you heard he was?” he said, and wondered when in hell he’d turned into a parrot.
“Cold. Ruthless. Bad-tempered.”
Rio cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose some people might say he was simply a—”
“An arrogant tyrant. But you don’t have to like someone to work for them, right? I mean, here you are, Mister—Mister—”
Rio didn’t even hesitate.
“My name is Matteo,” he said. “Matteo Rossi. And you have it right. I’m D’Aquila’s caretaker.”
CHAPTER THREE
MATTEO Rossi still had Izzy’s hand trapped in his.
Well, no. Not trapped. Not exactly.
Just clasped, that was all. The pressure of his fingers over hers wasn’t hard or unpleasant or threatening, it was simply—it was simply—
Masculine. Totally, completely, unquestionably masculine.
Everything about him was masculine, from the drop-dead-gorgeous face to the King-of-the-Centerfolds body, but then a man who did manual labor on an estate of this size wouldn’t have to work up a sweat in a gym.
He was the real thing.
That was why those muscles in his shoulders, his biceps, his chest were so—so well-defined.
Isabella’s mouth went dry.
Her interest, of course, was purely clinical. After all, she did manual labor, too. Planting, weeding, all those things, even when done on Manhattan terraces rather than Southampton estates, made for sweat and muscles. Combine that with what she recalled of college physiology and she could easily conjure up a mental image of him working, sweating …
Except, the images flashing through her head didn’t have a damned thing to do with work. Not work done in a garden, anyway.
Actually, not anything a normal, healthy woman would call “work.”
Or so she’d heard.
God, what was wrong with her? He was sweaty and good-looking. So what? Neither of those things had anything to do with sexual attraction …
Liar, she thought, and she pulled her hand free of his.
“For heaven’s sake,” she snapped, “don’t you own a shirt?”
There was a moment of horrified silence. No, she thought, please no, tell me I didn’t say that …
The caretaker made a choked sound. She jerked her head up, looked at him and, oh, Lord, he was trying not to laugh but his eyes met hers and a guffaw broke from his lips.
Isabella wanted to die. How could she have said such a thing?
Unfortunately, she knew the answer.
When it came to men, good-looking men, there were two Isabellas.
She met handsome men a lot. Her work took her into their homes; she accepted invitations to parties, even though she hated parties where you stood around nibbling on awful little canapés and gagging down overly sweet drinks with umbrellas stuck in them, because networking was the best way to find new clients.
Plus her brothers, gorgeous guys themselves, had recently taken to trying to find, with what they surely thought was subtlety, The Right Man for her.
“Hey,” Dante or Rafe, Falco or Nick would say in the falsely cheerful giveaway tone she’d learned to recognize, “how about coming over for supper Friday evening?” Or Sunday brunch, or whatever was the latest excuse for introducing her to the latest candidate in the Orsini Brothers’ “Let’s Find a Guy for Izzy” plan.
To Isabella’s chagrin, even Anna was getting into it, asking her to stop by and, surprise, surprise, a friend of Anna’s handsome husband would just happen to stop by, too.
Hadn’t any of them figured it out yet?
Put an attractive man in front of her and she either became tongue-tied or just the opposite, a woman whose mouth ran a hundred times faster than her brain.
Hi, a guy would say.
Her response? Silence, and a deer-in-the headlights stare.
Or she’d babble. He’d end up the bewildered recipient of whatever came into her head. Did you know that shrimp you’re tucking into probably came from an uninspected shrimp farm in some godforsaken place in the Far East? Or, How do you feel about the destruction of wetlands?
The result, either way?
Disaster.
It had been the pattern of her life, ever since she’d first noticed that boys were not girls.
The thing was, she wasn’t pretty, or clever, or the kind of woman men lusted after. Not that she wanted to be lusted after …
Okay.
A little lust would be nice.
Anna was the pretty one.
She was a great sister and Izzy adored her, but she had long ago faced facts.
Anna was the Orsini sister boys had always noticed.
She was the one with the blond hair, the one who knew, instinctively, what to say and what to wear, who knew how to charm and flirt and turn the most gorgeous guys to putty.
Izzy had long ago accepted the fact that she didn’t have those attributes, and she could live with that. What she couldn’t live with was turning into a jerk each and every time she found a man attractive.
Speechless or babbling. Those were her choices.
Today’s winner was Izzy the Babbler.
She’d already said more to this guy than she should have about his employer. For all she knew, Mr. Heartbreaker might think Rio D’Aquila walked on water.
And now, this—this outburst about him not wearing a shirt …
She swallowed drily and risked a glance at him.
He’d stopped laughing. More or less. Actually, she was pretty sure he was choking back another guffaw.
“I’m sorry,” she said miserably. “Honestly, I didn’t mean—”
“No, you’re right.” He cleared his throat, rearranged his face until he looked as if he were the one who should do the apologizing. “I was working out back, see, and then I heard the security buzzer go off, and—”
“Really, you don’t owe me an explanation. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“It’s the heat. It makes it hard to think straight.”
He flashed a smile that sent her pulse into overdrive. Had she ever seen blue eyes so dark, lashes so long? A woman could hate a man for having lashes like those.
“And you proved it.”
Isabella blinked. “Proved what?”
“That it’s too hot to think straight. So here’s what I suggest. Instead of standing in the foyer, why don’t we head for the kitchen? On the way, I’ll take a quick detour, grab a clean shirt, and then I’ll get us a couple of cold drinks, and—”
“Really, that’s not necessary,” she said quickly. “You go on. I mean, get yourself something cold. And a shirt.” She blushed. “I mean—I mean, I’ll just wait here while you tell Mr. D’Aquila that I’m …” Her eyebrows rose, even as her heart sank. “What?”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Can’t do what?”
“I can’t pass on your message.” He pa
used. “Mr. D’Aquila isn’t here.”
“He isn’t?”
“No,” Rio said, and Isabella Orsini’s face fell.
Well, so what?
He’d been cooling his heels for hours, waiting for her to turn up. Now she was upset that the man she’d come to see wasn’t available.
Tough.
He wasn’t in the mood to conduct an interview now. Besides, only a fool would contract with a workman—a workwoman—Cristo, maybe the sun really was getting to him. The point was, even if she had the necessary credentials—and it was an excellent bet that she didn’t—he would never deal with a contractor who could not adhere to a schedule.
“He left about an hour ago,” he said, and watched as she sank what looked like perfect white teeth into the soft fullness of her bottom lip.
Rio’s gut tightened.
And that was a second excellent reason for not even considering hiring her.
The last thing he needed was to be attracted to a woman who worked for him, although what there was for him to be attracted to was beyond him to comprehend. There were things to like about her he had to admit. She spoke her mind. Those comments about his boss …
Well, no.
Not about his boss. About him. About the powerful, king-of-the-mountain Rio D’Aquila.
And then there was the shirt thing.
He couldn’t think of a woman he’d ever known who’d have been embarrassed by his standing around without a shirt. And she had, indeed, been embarrassed. Stripes of crimson had risen along her sculpted cheeks.
Not that her cheeks, sculpted or otherwise, mattered.
She had a forlorn expression on her face now. Her mouth had taken a downward curve.
That made-for-sin mouth.
That silken-looking mouth.
What would she do if he bent his head and put his lips on hers? If he tasted that rosy-pink softness? If he tasted her.
Rio’s anatomy responded with alarming speed. He swung away from her, feigned bending to pluck a bit of nonexistent dirt from the gleaming marble floor.
The sun had, indeed, fried his brain.
Why else react to her? She was not his type at all. He’d already admitted that once you got past the shapeless suit and pulled back hair she was pretty, he had to give her that, but a pretty face was not enough.
The Real Rio D'Aquila Page 3
