How Not to Mess with a Millionaire (Mediterranean Millionaires)

by Kyle, Regina

  “It was his idea that I start renting it out to help cover the taxes and upkeep. He’s been handling all the details.”

  “Then he can get her out of here.”

  “‘Her’ has a name,” the topic of the conversation piped up. “And it’s Zoe. Zoe Ryan.”

  “Now, now.” His grandmother drew out the words, like she was talking to a child, which he supposed he’d always be to her. “That’s not gentlemanly of you, Dante. This woman, whoever she is—”

  “Zoe Ryan,” he muttered.

  “Zoe Ryan has leased Bella Vista fair and square. Assuming, of course, she has the necessary documents.”

  “Si,” he gritted out between clenched teeth, glancing at a triumphant-looking Zoe. “She says she does.”

  “I know how important this time at the villa is to you,” his grandmother said gently. “But you’re one man. The villa has twelve rooms. Sixteen and a half if you count the bathrooms. Surely there’s space enough for both of you.”

  “If this is one of your matchmaking schemes—” Dante trailed off, rolling his eyes. The effect was obviously lost on Nonna but not on Zoe, who rolled hers right back at him.

  “I told you, it was Antonio’s idea, and I agree with him. Not just because of the extra income. It’s a shame Bella Vista sits unoccupied most of the year. I want people to enjoy it.”

  “I was planning on enjoying it,” Dante drawled. “Alone.”

  “Zoe and I have a contract. And if I know Antonio, he made sure she paid for the entire month. Up front.”

  “I’ll give her a full refund. And help her make alternative arrangements.” Hell, he’d even pay for her to stay somewhere else if he had to. It wasn’t like they needed the money. Thanks to Luca’s culinary genius, their restaurants in Florence, Naples, and Rome had more reservations than they could handle. And Dante, who managed things on the financial and administrative side, had plans to expand the business.

  Big plans.

  “Absolutely not,” Nonna snapped. “I forbid it.”

  He swallowed a laugh, imagining his grandmother, in her Sophia Loren–inspired pearls and heels, trying to block his way as he tossed Zoe’s bags out on the front porch. “You forbid it?”

  Zoe let out a decidedly unladylike snort and stuck her tongue out at him. The juvenile gesture should have irritated him. But instead, he found himself focusing on the way her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, picturing it doing the same thing to his mouth, then trailing down his neck and over his chest and abs to his…

  “Don’t forget whose name is on the deed.” Nonna’s pointed reminder brought his runaway libido to a screeching halt. Solitude, he scolded himself. Not sex.

  “Until I’m six feet under the ground, Bella Vista belongs to me,” his grandmother continued. “And I say Zoe is welcome to stay as long as she wants.”

  As long as she wants.

  Dante eyed Zoe, a plan beginning to form. “Fine. She can stay.”

  He said a terse goodbye to his grandmother before she could wheedle any more promises out of him, pressed the end call button, and tossed his phone back on the nightstand.

  “I don’t want to say I told you so, but—” Zoe bounced up off the bed. “I’ll get my bags and you can show me where you want me.”

  He could think of a few places he wanted her, none of which he was about to show her, no matter how much his disobedient dick protested.

  “And don’t worry,” she continued, clearly oblivious to his inner torment. “I’ll be quiet as a mouse. You’ll hardly know I’m here.”

  Not likely, he thought as he watched her sashay past him out of the room, his traitorous eyes tracking every victorious sway of her ample hips. Having her underfoot was going to be a giant pain in his ass.

  But he was a man of his word. He’d agreed to let her stay as long as she wanted, and that was what he was going do. That didn’t mean he had to make things easy for her, however. And if conditions at Bella Vista weren’t to her liking and she decided to cut her stay short, well…

  A smile played about the corners of his mouth. Zoe might have won their first battle, but the war was just beginning.

  Chapter Two

  Zoe yawned and rubbed her jet-lagged eyes as she shuffled into the kitchen, trying to focus on the scene unfolding in front of her and almost immediately regretting it when she did.

  Did the man own any clothes?

  Okay, yesterday he’d worn those damn linen pants. Eventually. Not that they’d concealed much. They were so paper-thin she could practically see the outline of his monster cock. And they’d done nothing to hide the perfect curve of his bubble butt. Then there was his muscled, lightly furred chest, which he hadn’t bothered to cover up. Maybe he was low on shirts.

  But this morning he’d gone even more minimalist, stirring something on the stove in nothing but a form-fitting pair of boxer briefs.

  That had to be dangerous, right? You never saw Gordon Ramsey cooking in his unmentionables.

  Zoe pulled out a stool at the counter and sat, determined not to be intimidated. For the next month, this kitchen was as much hers as his. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “What does it look like?” Dante shot back without turning around, his attention still on whatever was starting to steam in the pot in front of him. “Making breakfast.”

  “I can see that, Captain Obvious.” She rested her elbows on the granite countertop. “I meant where are your clothes?”

  He half-heartedly lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “I’m wearing clothes.”

  “Underwear doesn’t count.”

  He lowered the burner and turned to face her, hitching his thumbs under his waistband. “I can take them off, if you prefer.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of adding a layer, not subtracting one.”

  “What about you?” His eyes raked her up and down, lingering a little too long on her chest and sending traitorous prickles of heat through her body. “You’re not wearing much more than I am. If I have to add a layer, then so do you.”

  She crossed her legs, bare below the hem of her sleep shorts, and tugged on the bottom of her matching Fries Before Guys tank top, pulling it tighter across her breasts and accentuating her already pebbled nipples. Two could play this game. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not the one parading around in my Jockeys. These are pajamas. I got them in the loungewear section at Macy’s.”

  An impulse buy after her breakup with Brad. But she stood by the slogan on her shirt. In the space of seven short days, she’d been burned twice by the male of the species, at work and in love. Given the choice, she’d definitely go with the fries.

  Dante shrugged again as if to say, “Have it your way,” and went back to his breakfast, pouring the steaming milk into a waiting mug until it foamed. When he was done, he rested his barely covered behind against the counter and took a long, leisurely sip of what she assumed was a cappuccino.

  “Delicious,” he declared, licking a spot of foam from his full, firm, way-too-kissable upper lip.

  Zoe tried to ignore the tingling in her private parts and concentrate instead on the appalling absence of caffeine in her bloodstream. “I don’t suppose you made enough for a second cup.”

  “I thought you said I’d hardly know you were here.” He reached behind him, grabbed a biscotti from a plate next to what looked like a sophisticated espresso machine, and bit into it with a satisfied moan.

  Zoe’s stomach grumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours. What with her whole exhausting planes-trains-and-automobiles adventure, topped off by the discovery of a buck-naked Adonis in her rented villa, food had gotten pushed to the back burner.

  She looked longingly at the plate of pastry. “I guess that means no biscotti for me.”

  “I suppose I could indulge you this once.”
With a grudging sigh, he took a mug from a cabinet above the stove, popped it into the espresso machine, and hit a complicated series of buttons until it began to whir. “But if you’re going to stay, you might want to go into town for some staples. There’s an excellent farmers’ market on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if I’m going to stay?’” She sat up taller, trying to make her small frame seem imposing. “I told you, I’m not going anywhere. I rented this villa until the end of the month.”

  There it was again, that infuriating, dismissive shrug, accompanied this time by an equally derisive eye roll. “People are fickle. Plans are flexible. And you know what they say.”

  He paused, and she stared at him expectantly. “Please, enlighten me.”

  “It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind,” he said, smirking.

  She bristled, stopping herself short of slamming her hand down on the granite. “Well, this woman isn’t changing hers. Not now. Not ever.”

  His smirk widened. “Never say never. You know, there are plenty of other accommodations in Positano where you wouldn’t have to put up with my half-naked ass. I’d even be willing to help you find something.”

  “How generous of you. But no thanks. I’m staying here.”

  He arched a brow. “You like my half-naked ass, then?”

  “It’s not you I’m interested in. It’s Alberto Pinto.”

  “Who?”

  “The man responsible for all this.” She waved a hand at their surroundings. The eclectic mix of traditional and modern elements was classic Pinto. “Bella Vista was one of the last homes he decorated before he died.”

  “You’re interested in interior design?”

  “Interested is an understatement. It’s my passion.”

  Or it was. And it would be again. As soon as she figured out her next move. Look for a position at another firm? Start her own company? Branch out into exhibit design, or maybe focus on sustainable interiors? She’d always been interested in green technologies and the energy-efficient use of space. The possibilities were endless, if she let herself imagine them. She might be down, but she wasn’t out. Not by a long shot.

  The espresso machine finished its whirring. Dante extracted the cup and topped it off with milk from the still steaming pot. Then he placed it, and the plate of biscotti, on the counter in front of her.

  “Thanks.” Zoe picked up the mug and drank. Yep. Cappuccino. And a damn good one at that. Not an easy thing to master, something she knew all too well from her brief stint behind the counter at Starbucks. “Let me guess. You’re an independently wealthy barista.”

  “Hardly.” He retrieved his coffee, pulled out a stool next to her, and sat, grabbing another biscotti from the plate. “But I know my way around the kitchen.”

  And a few other rooms, too, she’d bet.

  She shifted away from him. He smelled way too good. Fresh and clean, like laundry straight off the line, ocean air, and newly cut grass, with a hint of mocha from the cappuccino. “That must make you a huge hit with the ladies.”

  “I do all right.”

  Probably the world’s biggest understatement. No doubt he had women lining up around the block for his considerable cock and killer cappuccino—condescending attitude notwithstanding.

  Not that she cared. She’d traveled halfway across the globe to escape the male sex. She hadn’t intended to run smack into Italy’s answer to David Beckham. And no matter how much her naughty bits protested, she wasn’t about to let him derail her well-laid plans.

  This spontaneous excursion was all about Zoe getting some much-needed perspective. Time to relax, take a break from the constant demands of her family, who couldn’t seem to accomplish even the simplest tasks without her assistance, and decide what she was going to do with her life now that she was suddenly single and unemployed. Not bang the first arrogantly attractive alpha male to cross her path—which would be a whole hell of a lot easier if they weren’t sharing the same house. And if he didn’t look so good and smell so good and wasn’t sitting with his thick, taut, scantily clad thigh inches from hers.

  She picked up a biscotti and brought it to her mouth.

  “Wait,” Dante barked before she could take a bite, making Zoe almost drop the biscotti.

  “What now?” she asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind about feeding me. Haven’t you ever heard of the no backsies rule?”

  “You don’t have any food allergies, do you? Eggs? Nuts?” He paused for a split second, just long enough for her to see something dark and mysterious cross his face. “Strawberries?”

  “Nope. I’m one hundred percent allergy free.”

  “Then by all means, indulge yourself.”

  “Are you always so vigilant about food allergies?”

  “Yes,” he answered, his voice low but forceful.

  There it was again. That mysterious something that darkened his classically handsome features. And damn if it didn’t make him even more attractive. It was that whole broody bad-boy thing that usually wasn’t her jam but was totally working on him.

  She bit into her biscotti, washing it down with a generous gulp of cappuccino. No leisurely breakfast for her. She needed to put a little distance between her and the Italian stallion. Pronto.

  “Stop.” Dante held up a hand. “That is not how you drink cappuccino.”

  Not again. It was like she could do no right where this guy was concerned. What was his deal? It wasn’t her fault his grandmother rented the villa without telling him. If he was going to be mad at anybody, it should be at his own flesh and blood. Not her.

  She eyed him over the rim of her cup, not willing to back down. She had as much right to be there as he did, and if he didn’t like it, he could go jump in Lake Como. “Really? I thought the general idea was to get it into my mouth and not down my shirt.”

  “A good cup of cappuccino is a work of art. To be sipped. Not slugged down like that bitter, unpalatable swill you Americans call coffee.”

  He lifted his mug to his lips and inhaled deeply, letting the scent pull him in before tipping the cup and swallowing. She followed suit, earning an approving nod.

  “Better. When you’ve mastered it, you can move on to the fine Italian art of dunking.” He demonstrated again, dipping one end of his biscotti into his mug and crunching into it.

  She nibbled at her suddenly sad, dry biscuit. “Thanks, Obi Wan. I can hardly wait.”

  He repeated the dunking ritual and took another bite, taunting her. “Perfect. Nonna’s secret recipe never fails.”

  “Your grandmother baked these?” She nibbled again. Even dry it was delicious. She wasn’t a foodie by any stretch of the imagination, but she thought she tasted almond and vanilla.

  “No.” He gestured toward a rack next to the sink, where a mixing bowl, baking pan, and a whole host of kitchen utensils sat drying. “I did.”

  She lowered her biscotti, which had been poised at her mouth, ready for another taste, and gaped at him. Cappuccino was one thing. But baking? That was on a whole other level. It required practice. Patience. Precision. Precision she’d give him. He seemed like the exacting sort. But patience? No way. “You’re joking.”

  “I don’t joke.”

  “Now that I believe.” His shouldn’t-be-sexy scowl, deep, authoritative voice, the way he carried himself, regal and proud, even in only his boxers, all spoke of a serious businessman who spent his days behind an impressive chrome-and-glass desk on the top floor of some equally impressive high-rise, signing important papers and barking at minions. Not in front of a stove measuring, chopping, and stirring.

  He dunked the last sliver of biscotti into his cup, popped it in his mouth, and stood, taking his mug with him to the sink. “Surely my grandmother filled you in on my vital statistics. Height. Weight. Occupation. Bank balance.”

  Thi
s time, Zoe couldn’t stop her hand from smacking the counter. Unfortunately, it was the hand with the biscotti, which dissolved into a pile of crumbs on the granite. A waste of quality baked goods, even if it was prepared by the most frustrating man on the planet. “I was as surprised to find you here as you were to find me. And the only communication I had involved your grandmother’s real estate, not her relatives.”

  “Spare me the melodramatics.”

  “I am not being melodramatic. I’m—” She searched for the right word. “Exasperated.”

  He chuckled, a low rumble that started a conga line of tingles through her nervous system. “You look more—what is that charming phrase you Americans use? Pissed off.”

  She tossed back what was left of her cappuccino—to hell with sipping—and plunked her cup down on the counter. Time to bounce. Her new roomie might be the hottest thing in boxers since Mark Wahlberg’s Calvin Klein ads—and a damn good cook, too—but his crappy attitude was wearing thin. “Whatever.”

  “Ah, another favorite American expression. I’m told it can mean everything from ‘who cares’ to ‘fuck you.’ Which is it this time?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She pushed her stool away from the counter and hopped down, her bare feet slapping the tile floor.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Does it matter as long as I’m out of your hair?”

  “Not really,” he admitted, scraping his fingers through his thick curls. Apparently, it wasn’t only clothes he was boycotting. Brushes were on his no-no list, too. “But you won’t get far without transportation.”

  She flapped a hand dismissively. “Your grandmother has given me the run of the place. I saw a cute little mint green scooter in the garage.”

  His eyes widened. “Nonna’s letting you ride Bianca?”

  “She named her scooter Bianca?” Zoe was going to have to revise her mental image of Carmella. She’d pictured her as the stereotypical Italian grandmother, like Marie Barone in Everybody Loves Raymond or that woman who went viral on YouTube trying to use Google Home. She couldn’t imagine either one of them zipping around Positano on a scooter named Bianca.