How Not to Mess with a Millionaire (Mediterranean Millionaires)

by Kyle, Regina

  He swallowed. Hard. “You know, you really should be wearing shoes for this.”

  She looked down at him through hooded eyes. “I could say the same for you.”

  Was he imagining things, or was her voice huskier than usual?

  “You’re running this show. I was drafted into service. Not that I blame you. I don’t know how you got the couch all the way to the center of the room without me. It must weigh over three hundred pounds.”

  “I put towels under the legs and slid it across the floor. Slowly. Trick of the trade.”

  “You couldn’t do that with the chair?”

  “I could have. But I didn’t. I thought it would be easier this way.” She tried to wiggle her toes and grimaced. “Guess I was wrong.”

  A pang of guilt hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. He was supposed to be assessing her injury, not questioning her furniture-moving choices.

  “Where does it hurt?”

  “It’s not that bad. Honest.” She tried to pull away, but he held fast, making her wince again.

  “Where?” he demanded.

  “My pinkie toe.”

  He pressed it gently, and she sucked in a sharp breath. “It’s probably just bruised. But we should tape it up to be sure.”

  “Tape it up? Is that really necessary?”

  “As you Americans say, better safe than sorry.” He released her foot and stood. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back. I think my grandmother has a first aid kit in the kitchen.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I do. You’re in my family’s home. That makes you my responsibility.”

  She bristled, straightening her back and jutting out her stubborn chin. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m a grown woman. I can take care of myself.”

  Oh, he’d noticed. He couldn’t stop noticing.

  “I’m sure you can. But I wouldn’t want you to aggravate your injury. You might sue me or my grandmother for contributory negligence.”

  “I’m not going to sue either one of you.”

  He suspected as much. But he wasn’t above having a little fun at her expense. “I don’t know. I read that the United States is one of the most litigious countries in the world.”

  “Do you even know what you’re doing?” she asked, her voice rising. “You’re not a doctor, are you? Or a—what do they call EMTs in Italy?”

  “Paramedicos. And no, I’m neither.” He didn’t offer more, like his actual profession. If his grandmother told her what he did for a living or how much he was worth, Zoe wasn’t letting on. She treated him like a man, not an instant teller machine, something he found delightfully refreshing. “But I played football at university. Soccer, I believe you call it in the States. I’ve taped my fair share of toes.”

  “Fine. Get the damn first aid kid so you can go all knight in shining armor.” Her eyes drifted down to his chest, lingering there for a long moment before tracking back up to meet his gaze. “And while you’re at it, why don’t you finish getting dressed?”

  Dante pressed his lips together, fighting the urge to break into an ear-splitting grin. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

  He headed for the kitchen, humming “Che gelida manina” as he went. Little Miss You-Won’t-Know-I’m-Here wasn’t as unaffected by his various states of undress as she wanted him to believe.

  Another little gem for the folder marked “Zoe” in his mental filing cabinet.

  Chapter Five

  “Shh,” Zoe hissed to the pig she was trying—unsuccessfully—to hide under her hoodie. As she’d suspected, it was only a matter of time before Houdini made his way back to Bella Vista. Time being six days. She was starting to wonder what was taking him so long. Now she was wondering how she was going to get him inside the villa and up to her bedroom without Dante noticing.

  She hadn’t been kidding when she’d told Dante she wasn’t giving the pig back if he showed up again. Animals didn’t run away repeatedly without a reason. Whatever Houdini was running from, she wasn’t sending him back there, even if it meant committing petty theft. Her first instinct was right. He needed her. And maybe with him around, she wouldn’t feel so lonely.

  “We’re both fugitives trying to outpace our problems, aren’t we, boy?” Houdini snorted his response, and Zoe stuffed him farther inside her hoodie, struggling to zip it with one hand while she held the pig with the other.

  “You have to be quiet. And stop squirming. If the master of the house finds out you’re here, he’ll never let you stay. He barely tolerates me as it is.”

  Not that she minded. Much. And if she kept telling herself that, maybe she’d start to believe it.

  She couldn’t understand it. People usually liked her. Sure, she had a smart mouth, and sometimes she didn’t know when to shut it and stop talking. But she was also adventurous and fun-loving and generally pretty amusing to hang out with.

  Not that her housemate would know.

  Zoe looked down at Houdini, who had stilled as if by magic and was staring up at her with those intelligent eyes that seemed to see into her soul. If she didn’t know better, she could swear he understood her. She’d read somewhere that pigs were smarter and more trainable than cats or dogs. Maybe she could train him to use a litter box. She stood a way better chance of convincing Dante to let her keep him if he was house-trained.

  She kissed the pig’s fuzzy head and tugged the zipper of her sweatshirt up higher, hiding him. She didn’t plan on running into Dante, who hadn’t made an appearance before noon since their adventures in interior decorating, but she wasn’t taking any chances. And if he did grace them with his presence, she mentally crossed her fingers he wouldn’t question why she was wearing a hoodie when the temperature was over seventy degrees.

  “Okay.” She stroked Houdini’s back soothingly through the soft cotton of her sweatshirt. “We’re going in. Remember, no noise. And stay still.”

  Zoe tiptoed across the terrace to the sliding glass door, favoring her injured foot. Holding her breath, she inched it open, stepped through, then slid it shut behind her, the click of the latch echoing in the cavernous living room. She froze and said a silent prayer the noise hadn’t roused her roommate. After a few seconds of silence, she let out a relieved sigh, confident Dante was still snug in his bed. Probably naked, given his aversion to clothing. Her mouth watered at the mental image of his broad, bare chest rising and falling with each deep breath, his powerful arms stretched above his head, his face relaxed in sleep, those thick, envy-inducing lashes lying dormant on his olive-skinned cheeks—

  No, no, no, no, no. This wasn’t the time for dirty daydreams, dammit. She had a pig to protect. A pig who was strangely still.

  She worked the zipper down to check on him. The little stinker lay snuggled contentedly against her, his snout burrowed under her sports bra between her breasts.

  “Pervert,” she scolded softly with a smile. “But if that’s what it takes to keep you quiet, I’m not complaining.”

  Heck, she’d even give him a treat if they made it to her room undetected. What did pigs eat, anyway? She needed to do some Googling. She hadn’t thought beyond smuggling Houdini past Dante. How was she supposed to care for a pig? Where would he sleep? How much exercise did he need? And what would happen when it was time for her to go home? Could she take him with her, or would she have to find a home for him in Italy?

  But all that could wait. Right now, her priority was getting Houdini safely hidden. And that meant getting him through the newly redesigned living room—which came out pretty great, if she did say so herself—up the stairs, and past Dante’s bedroom without being discovered.

  “Are you coming or going?” an all-too-familiar male voice asked.

  She turned away from the sliding glass doors and jumped at the sight of Dante lounging against the wall. At least he was fully dressed this time, although his tig
ht T-shirt and athletic shorts did nothing to conceal the breath-stealing perfection of his body.

  “What the hell?” Zoe squealed, startling Houdini, who wriggled in her arms. She tightened her hold on the frightened animal, hoping Dante hadn’t seen anything to stir up his suspicions. “Do you have to sneak up on people like that? What are you, a ninja?”

  “I’m not the only one sneaking around. Unless you’re not hiding something under that hideously huge sweatshirt.”

  “What, this old thing?” She glanced down at her bulky, faded CalArts hoodie. Damn. She looked like she’d gained twenty pounds overnight. Or was pregnant and starting to show. Still, denial was the path of least resistance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  “I can see that.” She shifted position, trying to shield the squiggling mass under her shirt from Dante’s view. “But it doesn’t change the fact that I’ve got nothing to hide. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to shower.”

  “Not so fast.” He held up a hand, but it was a knock at the front door that stopped her.

  “Sabbatini,” an angry, heavily accented male voice called out. “Open the door. I want my pig.”

  Dante narrowed his eyes at her. “Still sticking with your story?”

  “Fine,” she huffed, lowering the zipper on her sweatshirt and giving Houdini some much-needed breathing room. “I have his pig, but I’m not giving him back. I’m telling you, there’s something rotten in Denmark. Animals don’t run away for no reason.”

  “I know you’re in there,” the man called again, louder this time. “You and your puttana. I can hear you talking. And I know you have my pig.”

  Something the man said seemed to flip a switch in Dante. His mouth flattened into a thin, harsh line, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

  “Go upstairs,” he hissed. “And stay there until I tell you it’s safe to come down.”

  “But—”

  “You want to keep the pig, don’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “Then do as I say.”

  Her insides fluttered a little at his commanding tone. Would he be that way in bed, all gruff and domineering? She’d never really understood the whole Fifty Shades thing, but she was starting to get why some women found it sexy. As long as the commands were coming from the right guy. Preferably someone tall, dark, and dangerous, with bedroom eyes and a hypnotic accent that made her panties damp.

  “Go,” he repeated, jolting her out of dirty daydream number two. Well, number two that morning. She’d been having dirty daydreams—and naughty nighttime fantasies—since she walked into the villa and saw everything—and she meant everything—he had to offer. “Now.”

  She adjusted her grip on Houdini and started for the stairs.

  “Thank you,” she whispered as she brushed past Dante. She paused, turned, and before she could think better of it, lifted herself up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. His lightly stubbled skin was an intriguing combination of rough and smooth under her lips, and she wondered how it would feel a little lower. Like against her nipples or on the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

  She pulled back abruptly, heat creeping up her face like mercury rising in a thermometer. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”

  He rubbed a hand across his jaw, like he was relishing the feel of her kiss. Or wiping it away. “It was nothing. Probably how you thank all your partners in crime.”

  “Crime?”

  “Kidnapping. Or is it called pignapping?” A flash of amusement lit his eyes. So he was human after all. Knowing he could find the humor in this situation—seeing the little chink in his armor—made Zoe warm to him in a different way. A new kind of attractiveness, beyond the obvious physical.

  “We’re not kidnapping him,” she insisted, relieved to have something to argue about other than that stupid, impulsive kiss. “We’re liberating him.”

  “If you say so.” Dante eyed Houdini. “But I don’t care how grateful he is, I’m not kissing a pig. That’s where I draw the line.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Three sharp raps brought both their attention back to the immediate threat on the threshold. “Answer the door or I’m calling the police.”

  “The police?” Zoe’s eyes widened. Whatever she thought would happen, it wasn’t that. She didn’t want to get Dante in any legal trouble.

  He gave her a gentle push toward the stairs. “Go. I’ve got this.”

  Her skin tingled where he’d touched her, her heavy sweatshirt providing zero protection from the strange, primal chemistry that buzzed between them. Her pheromones communicating with his and vice versa. Or something like that. What did she know about the science of sexual attraction? Not much, if her dismal dating record was anything to go by.

  Houdini snuffled softly, and she scratched between his ears, quieting him. “I’m sorry for being so much trouble.”

  “You have no idea,” Dante muttered, crossing to the door.

  She started up the stairs, pausing at the top to take one last look at him. He turned at that same second, one hand on the doorknob, and their eyes met and locked, sending a zing of electricity straight to her core.

  Yeah, she thought as she fled to the relative safety of her bedroom. I do.

  …

  If someone had told him a week ago he’d be purchasing a pig, he’d have told them they were crazy.

  Yet there he was, closing the door on a now smiling Mr. Abruzzi, almost nine hundred euros poorer and the not-so-proud owner of one miniature pot-bellied piglet.

  All for the sake of a woman he’d sworn to evict.

  He blamed his no-account neighbor. When the piece of shit called Zoe a puttana, something inside Dante snapped. He might not know much about her—aside from their late-night opera chat, they hadn’t exactly been having any heart-to-heart discussions—but one thing he was certain of was that she was no whore. He had even come to the reluctant conclusion that she wasn’t conspiring with his grandmother to fix him up. She certainly wasn’t acting like someone trying to snare a rich husband, alternating between annoying him and avoiding him like the plague.

  Maybe that was why his neighbor’s insult rankled, bringing out all of the old-world European chivalry his grandmother had drilled into him from the time he could talk.

  Girls are people, too.

  Manners matter. Be a gentleman.

  You can be strong and sensitive, vita mia. They are not incompatible.

  Dante rested his back against the door and groaned, his grandmother’s words echoing in his brain. He might as well wave the white flag and resign himself to three more weeks of frustration, sexual and otherwise. Zoe wasn’t budging, and neither was he.

  What choice did he have? Forget Nicole and go back to Rome? Luca would never let him live down being bested by a woman. And Nonna would never forgive him for abandoning Zoe. His grandmother might only weigh a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet, but her tongue-lashings were legendary.

  Bottom line: leaving wasn’t an option. He’d have to suck it up and make the best of cohabiting with a woman he couldn’t seem to keep from running through his mind. Usually naked.

  And now he could add a pig to the mix. As if things couldn’t get more complicated.

  He shoved off the doorframe and dragged his sorry self upstairs, heading for Zoe’s room to give her the good news that the coast was clear and her stupid swine was safe. Well, his stupid swine, technically, since he’d paid for the porker. Not that he had any intention of keeping him. He didn’t do romantic relationships, and he didn’t do pets. Both left his heart open and exposed to grief and loss, two things he wasn’t about to voluntarily subject himself to. Not again.

  He stopped partway down the hall when he heard Zoe’s soft, soothing voice through the partially open door of the room next
to his.

  “Who’s a good boy? You’re a good boy. You like that, don’t you? Yes, you do.”

  His cock twitched in his shorts. Why did everything sound sexual coming from her full, sensuous lips? He adjusted his crotch and tried to focus on dry, dull business matters like margins and mark-ups—anything to make sure she didn’t see him pitching a tent—before pushing the door the rest of the way open.

  “What are you doing in here?” he asked, taking in the scene before him. Zoe sat cross-legged on the floor next to the enormous canopy bed, the pig nestled in the crook between her legs, lying splayed out on his back with his head lolling over one shapely thigh, his tiny hooves waving in the air as she rubbed his tummy. He looked like he was in heaven, and Dante couldn’t blame him. If Zoe rubbed his tummy—or other, more southerly, parts of his anatomy—he’d be in heaven, too.

  Margins. Mark-ups. Net profit. Amortization.

  He subtly shifted his weight to hide his growing erection and continued. “I thought your room was at the end of the hall.”

  “It is.” She looked up from scratching the pig’s stomach. “Or was. I’m thinking of moving, if that’s all right with you. It’ll be easier to take care of Houdini if he’s closer to the kitchen.”

  No, it wasn’t all right with him. The last thing he wanted was her sleeping less than five feet from him, with only a thin wall between them. But he couldn’t tell her that, and he was having trouble coming up with another, plausible excuse.

  “Why not move him downstairs, then? Or, better yet, outside?”

  “Outside? Are you crazy? It gets cold at night. And he’ll be lonely. Won’t you, boy?” She tickled Houdini under his chin. The pig responded with a grunt, his curled tail whipping back and forth furiously. “That’s why he’s going to sleep with me.”

  “With you?”

  “Unless you want to have that honor.”

  Of sleeping with her? Dante’s dirty mind immediately went to sweat-slicked, naked bodies, tangled limbs, and rumpled sheets.

  Zoe rolled her eyes at him, throwing cold water on his dirty dreams. “Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m talking about you bunking with the pig.”