The Real Rio D'Aquila

by Sandra Marton

  “I will always care for you,” Isabella whispered.

  And, just as suddenly as that, Rio saw the truth.

  He had fallen in love with her.

  The realization stunned him.

  He was not a man who had ever looked for love. He was not a man who believed in love. How could this have happened? Because, like it or not, it had happened. He didn’t doubt his feelings, not for a minute. He was in love—deeply in love—with a woman who thought he was a man he was not.

  Tell her. Tell her. Tell her …

  “Your turn.”

  Rio swung his head toward her. “My turn?”

  “To tell me more about yourself.”

  But it wasn’t. Not when they were thousands of feet above the earth. When he told her the extent of the lie he was living, the lie he’d involved her in, he wanted to be able to take her in his arms, kiss her, make her see that it wasn’t important if he called himself Rio or Matteo because they were the same man.

  “I want to know more about that little boy in the orphanage,” she said softly. “And how he grew up to be you.”

  Rio nodded. He could surely tell her that. If anything, she could look back on this conversation when the time came and see that he had never lied to her about the things that mattered.

  Yes, he thought. He would tell her about that little boy, and the man he’d become.

  It was a story he’d never before revealed to anyone.

  He told her about living on the streets of Naples after he ran away from the orphanage. He told her the truth of it, not some sanitized version. The petty thefts. The pockets he’d picked. The cars he’d broken into so he could steal things left in them.

  He told her without excuses, without emotion, and though her hand tightened on his, she never interrupted, never offered stupid platitudes, and he loved her all the more for it—but the more he talked, the more he wondered if he were making a mistake.

  How would she look at him, once she knew all the sordid details of his early years? But it was too late to stop. She had the right to know everything about Matteo Rossi, and why and how he had become Rio D’Aquila.

  He took a deep breath.

  “I had a run-in with the polizia right around the time I turned seventeen. I got off easy but I knew everything would change once I turned eighteen. So I stowed away on a freighter and ended up in Brazil. I was broke and scared. There must have been a hundred times I thought about getting back on another freighter and heading home.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No. The truth was, I didn’t have a home to go back to. That was why I’d stowed away on that ship. To make a fresh start. New me, new life, new world.” He laughed, his belly knotted with tension. “So, what do you think, cara? A sordid tale? A bad movie?”

  “I think,” Isabella said gently, “you must have been a brave, terrified, amazing boy.” She reached for his hand. “You did what you had to do, and you made that new life for yourself.”

  A sweet sense of relief swept through him.

  “I am happy you see that,” he said softly.

  “What happened after you stowed away? When you got to Brazil?”

  “I made a plan.”

  “A plan?”

  “I’d educate myself. Learn things that would help me find that new life. I began by studying Portuguese and English. I took some night classes. Math. Science. History. Business. I wasn’t particular.” He laughed. “I’d never tried putting anything in my head before so there was lots of room up there to fill. And I worked at every possible kind of job. Loading cargo. Construction. The oil fields. You name it, I did it. I took some risks, made a little bit of money, took some additional risk and made more. And I discovered I had a talent for—for organizing things.”

  “Like managing property.”

  His gut twisted.

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “When did you meet Rio D’Aquila?”

  When, indeed. Rio took a deep breath. He had to be careful now, very careful until tonight, when he could tell her everything.

  “Remember the dot-com thing? The incredible rise in the stock market? Well, I’d played it. Invested in some of the companies. And—”

  “And lost your money.” Isabella sighed. “I remember.”

  The fact was, he hadn’t lost anything. His investments had been wise ones; he’d made his first millions on that Wall Street stampede but if he told her that—

  “Is that when you met D’Aquila?”

  “Yes,” he said, and damned if it wasn’t true. He’d looked in the mirror, said goodbye to Matteo Rossi and hello to Rio D’Aquila, and he’d never looked back.

  Until now.

  “So, he offered you a job? Managing property for him?”

  “It’s probably more accurate to say I handle a variety of things for him.”

  “You like him.”

  “I, ah, I think we get along well enough.”

  “We. You say that so easily. Is he really a nice man?”

  A good question. Rio felt a muscle knot in his jaw.

  “I think he wants to be,” he said, after a minute, “but there are lots of pressures on him.”

  “I guess he’s not so awful. Here we are, using his plane.”

  Was a lie still a lie when it actually was the truth?

  “Right,” Rio said, “here we are, using his plane.”

  “But the villa we’re going to … You said it’s yours.”

  “Absolutely mine,” he said without hesitation. “I bought it a long time ago with—with some winnings. It was the first home I’d ever owned.” He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “It means a lot to me,” he said gruffly. “But it will mean even more if you like it.”

  “I’ll love it,” Isabella said.

  “Will you?” he said, his voice filled with relief.

  How could she not? she thought, when she loved its owner with all her heart.

  They reached Mustique in late afternoon.

  Isabella’s first glimpse of the island made her catch her breath.

  Pale blue sky. Fluffy cotton clouds. A vivid blue sea, endless white beaches, lush emerald jungle. The colors of paradise, she thought happily.

  An old Jeep was waiting for them at the small airport, keys dangling from the ignition. They got in and drove along a narrow road that climbed into the low hills. Just when it seemed as if the surrounding jungle was going to swallow them up, the trees opened onto a clearing and a graceful white building.

  Matteo pulled the Jeep to a stop before it.

  “Well,” he said, as if his heart wasn’t in his throat, “this is it.”

  “Oh,” Isabella said, “oh, Matteo …”

  He felt the tension within him ease, if only a little.

  “You like it?”

  “Like it?” She flung herself into his arms, gearshift be damned. “It’s wonderful! Like a painting. Something by, what’s his name—”

  “Gauguin?”

  She laughed with delight. “Exactly.”

  “Si. Sim.” He grinned. “Yes. I thought the same thing the first time I saw it. Want to get out and take—”

  But Isabella was already out of the Jeep, her face alive with pleasure. Rio followed, and took her hand.

  “Thank you,” she said, her eyes shining, “for sharing this beautiful place with me.”

  She turned to him, lay a hand on his chest, rose on her toes and kissed him.

  Rio felt his throat constrict.

  Showing her the pool, the beach, the sea, could wait.

  It was far more important to scoop her into his arms, carry her into the villa and make love to her with a tenderness that made her weep.

  They fell asleep in each other’s arms but when Isabella woke, she was alone.

  Shadows had crept across the bedroom; she could see the pink and violet of twilight through the open glass that led to the patio.

  She could see her lover, as well.

  Matteo stood at the t
eak railing, his back to her as he looked out over the sea.

  The breeze ruffled his hair. He had thick, dark, short hair; she loved the feel of it under her hands.

  She loved the feel of every part of him.

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  He was so strong, so masculine. He was a feast for her eyes and without him watching her, she could take all the time she wanted to enjoy the view.

  Matteo wore faded jeans and a white T-shirt. The simple clothes emphasized his broad shoulders, long body, narrow hips and long, muscled legs.

  He was—God, he was gorgeous.

  And he was hers.

  Not for forever. She knew that. They had not talked about forever; how could they, when they’d only just met? Still, the truth was that she was already his, forever, in her heart.

  She thought of Anna, always cynical about men, and how she teased Isabella about her love life. Her lack of a love life, to be accurate. Anna’s teasing was a cover-up for sisterly concern.

  You’re waiting for Prince Charming, Iz, she’d say, but there’s a problem. He only exists in a fairy tale.

  Not true.

  Pessimist or not, Anna had found her very own Prince Charming. Now, Isabella had found hers. Unfortunately, there was one huge difference. Anna and her prince had fallen in love. Isabella’s story had not gone that way.

  She’d fallen in love. Her prince had not.

  Isabella sat up in the bed, sighed and thrust her hands into her hair, dragging the heavy mass back from her face.

  Her prince was her lover but that wasn’t the same as loving her. Okay. So be it. She was a grown-up, not a dreamy-eyed girl, and this wasn’t a story, it was reality, and when it ended, she’d survive.

  She’d survive. She’d have to survive, no matter how it hurt to think of a future without Matteo, and she must never let him know—

  “Hey, sleepyhead. You’re awake.”

  Quickly, she ran her hands over her eyes, turned toward him and forced a smile.

  “Hi.”

  He sat down beside her, opened his arms and gathered her into his embrace.

  “Mmm.” He pressed his lips to her hair. “I love the way you smell when you wake up. All soft and female.”

  Her lips curved in a smile. “I like the way you smell, too. Sea and sky and Matteo.” She leaned back in his arms and looked at him. “If only somebody could bottle that and turn it into cologne …”

  He laughed. Then, his eyes searched hers.

  “You really like it here, sweetheart?”

  “How could I not? This beautiful island. This wonderful house.” She smiled again. “And you. It’s all perfect.”

  Rio linked his hands at the base of her spine.

  “We can make it more perfect,” he said softly.

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Dinner in a quiet little restaurant by the sea would be a start.”

  “Uh-huh. A quiet little restaurant, and me in those sweats.” She laughed and wrinkled her nose. “I think there might be Health Department rules to keep me out.”

  He grinned and planted a kiss on the end of her nose.

  “I took care of that.”

  “You did, huh?”

  “I did.”

  “You bribed the department of health?” she said, laughing.

  “I bought you some stuff to wear.”

  “What?”

  “I said, I bought you—”

  “Matteo. You can’t do that.”

  He smiled. “Too late. I already did.”

  “But—”

  “A dress. One of those floaty things with skinny straps. Brown. Well, maybe it’s amber. Or dark gold.”

  “Matteo, listen to me. You cannot—”

  “Shorts. A couple of T-shirts. Sandals. I guessed at the sizes.”

  “Would you listen?”

  “So I went with size sixteen for the clothes and size ten for the sandals.”

  “Matt—” Isabella slapped her hands against his chest. “Size what for the clothes? And for the sandals? Do you really think—” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re making that up.”

  “The part about the sizes?” He smiled. “Absolutely.”

  “But you really spent money on clothes for me? I can’t let you do that. Really, I—”

  “Really, you can. Things are inexpensive here.” It was a lie of monumental proportions but what did one more matter? “I guessed at the sizes. And the colors.” He nuzzled a curl from her cheek. “I ordered everything by phone, sweetheart, and they delivered it while you were sleeping. So if things don’t fit, or if you don’t like them—”

  “If I don’t like them? Are you crazy? I’m going to love them! How could you even think—”

  Rio kissed her. Kissed her gently, then more deeply. She made a soft, sexy little sound; he groaned as she melted against him.

  “Isabella,” he whispered, and she fell back on the bed, her arms taking him down with her, and he made love to her as Matteo Rossi for the very last time because tonight, after he’d showed her off to the world …

  Tonight, he was going to take the biggest risk of his life.

  He was going to tell Isabella he’d been deceiving her.

  And that he loved her, with all his heart.

  A couple of thousand miles away, Anna Orsini Valenti was pacing the office at the rear of the bar her brothers owned in SoHo.

  That she was able to pace it was proof of how carefully everyone else was maintaining their distance.

  Eight of them—Anna, her husband, three of her brothers and their wives—were packed into the relatively small room.

  The bar—The Bar, to use its semiofficial name—was still a real bar. Rafe, Dante, Falco and Nick had bought it for the express purpose of keeping it that way as the area all around it turned upscale and expensive.

  They had done little to change it, and the little they had done had not included expanding the office. It was small. Very small. On a good day, all four brothers, big men every one, constituted a crowd.

  “For the tenth time, Anna,” Rafe said, “what’s this all about?”

  Anna glared at him.

  “For the tenth time,” she snapped, “I’ll tell you once we’re all here.”

  “Well, then,” Falco said impatiently, “where in hell is Dante?”

  “He’s on his way, with Gabriella.”

  “And Izzy?”

  “Izzy’s not coming.”

  “Maybe Dante and Gaby aren’t, either,” Nick said logically. “Maybe they’re away. Maybe they’re out for the evening. Damnit, Anna—”

  The office door edged open. Dante Orsini and his wife squeezed into the small room. One glance at Dante’s grim face and Gaby’s swollen eyes and the Orsini-Valenti clan fell silent.

  “Okay,” Rafe said grimly. “Let’s hear it.”

  Anna took a deep breath. “Izzy phoned me this morning.”

  Nick: “So?”

  “She phoned to tell me she was going away for the weekend.”

  Rafe: “And?”

  “She was in Southampton.”

  Falco: “Southampton, Long Island? What was she doing all the way out there?”

  Anna looked at Dante, who cleared his throat.

  “She went to interview for a job. A landscaping job. We—I got her the interview.”

  “It was me,” Gabriella Orsini said quickly, touching her husband’s arm. “I thought it was a wonderful opportunity. It was such an important commission …”

  “I’m the one, darling,” Dante said softly. “It’s entirely my fault, not yours.”

  “Goddamnit,” Falco snarled. Elle, his beautiful wife, grabbed his hand and clutched it. “Will somebody get to the point?”

  “I convinced Rio D’Aquila to add her to his short list of landscaping applicants.”

  “Rio D’Aquila?” Nick raised an eyebrow. “Smart guy. Lots of money. He’s into shipping, freight, oil, computers—”

  “He’s into women, too,” Rafe murmure
d. Chiara Orsini dug a sharp elbow into her husband’s side. “Hey,” he said, “I’m only saying what I’ve heard.”

  “You’re right,” Dante said tersely. “Lots of money. Lots of women. Not much heart.”

  “Well, so what?” Nick said. “The guy doesn’t have to pass a morals test before Iz can go to work for him.”

  Anna narrowed her eyes.

  “Izzy drove out there yesterday. She took my car. She had some kind of accident.”

  A communal gasp almost sucked the air from the room.

  “No,” Anna said quickly, “she’s fine. She’s okay. But—”

  “But?”

  “She met someone. A man. And she called to tell me she was going away with him for the week.”

  Silence descended on the tiny room again.

  Falco: “Wow.”

  Nick: “Our Izzy?”

  Rafe: “Going away, with a guy?”

  The brothers looked at each other.

  “Well,” Rafe said, “okay. I mean, she’s a big girl. I mean, hell, we’re happy for her. I mean—”

  “His name,” Anna said, “is Matteo Rossi.”

  Frowns all around. Nobody knew a Matteo Rossi.

  “Who?” Nick’s wife, Alessia, said.

  “Exactly. So, I asked her, who was this Matteo Rossi? And she said that Rossi worked for Rio D’Aquila. That he was the caretaker at D’Aquila’s Southampton estate.”

  “A caretaker?” a male voice asked.

  Throats were cleared.

  “Okay,” Falco said, “well, hell, we’re not snobs—”

  “Except,” Dante said, “except, D’Aquila’s caretaker is a guy named Bill Foster.”

  This time, the silence in the room was a palpable force.

  “What the hell is going on?” Nick said softly. “Has Izzy been kidnapped?”

  “Worse.”

  “Sweet Mary, what could be—”

  “Matteo Rossi and Rio D’Aquila are the same man.”

  Rafe shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “They’re the same man, damnit! Anna called me, told me Iz had called and said that she was leaving the country with some stranger.”

  “Leaving the—”