How Not to Mess with a Millionaire (Mediterranean Millionaires)

by Kyle, Regina

  What was she, psychic? Or was he that fucking transparent? The pig must be psychic, too—or maybe he understood English—because he righted himself, hopped down from the bed, and trotted over to Dante, plopping his plump little body on Dante’s cross-trainers.

  “See?” Zoe said. “He likes you.”

  Unfortunately—or fortunately—the feeling wasn’t mutual. Dante picked up the pig and handed him back to Zoe. The animal immediately returned to his earlier position on his back between her legs. Smart little bugger. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  “Then it’s you and me, pal.” She gave Houdini a pat on his rounded belly, reached for her phone on the bed behind her, and swiped the screen to open her browser. “I’ve been reading up on caring for a pig. Is there somewhere we can get pig pellets? And we’ll need fresh, non-starchy vegetables, alfalfa hay or bran, children’s chewable multi-vitamins, some kind of bed for him to sleep in—”

  He raised a brow at her. “We?”

  She at least had the decency to blush. “I was kind of hoping you’d help. I’m a little out of my element here.”

  And he wasn’t? What did he know about pigs, besides the fact that they were the source of bacon, sausage, and ham, the trifecta of breakfast meats?

  “Haven’t I done enough?” He crossed his arms over his chest, not sure whether to continue lurking like a vampire afraid of the sun or sit down. This conversation was taking a lot longer than he’d intended. “I got rid of Mr. Abruzzi.”

  “How did you do it? Did you have to rough him up?”

  She looked positively gleeful at the thought. What was it with women and righteous bloodshed?

  “No.” Not that he didn’t deserve it. “Nothing that dramatic. I paid him off.”

  “Paid him off?” she echoed, her bright eyes suddenly dark and guarded.

  Dante shrugged. “Seemed like the simplest solution.”

  “How much did he want?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does to my bank account.”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “Consider it a gift. A souvenir of your trip to Positano.”

  She shook her head vigorously, sending a wave of yellow-blond strands flying around her face and rousing Houdini, who had started to nod off. She laid a calming hand on his abdomen, and he settled down. “I can’t accept.”

  “You can, and you will.”

  “Bossy, aren’t you?”

  “Stubborn, aren’t you?”

  They stared at each other wordlessly for a long moment, locked in an ideological standoff, until he broke the silence.

  “It seems we’ve reached a stalemate.”

  “Tell you what.” She gazed up at him, tilting her head to study him thoughtfully. “I’ll make you a deal.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You agree to help with Houdini, and I’ll drop the money thing.”

  “I have to pay for the pig and take care of him?”

  Now it was her turn to shrug. “You’re the one who likes to play Sir Galahad.”

  He wanted to argue with her but couldn’t. A hero complex, his grandmother called it. Why else would he still blame himself for Nicole’s death? If he had paid more attention, if he had been more prepared, he could have saved her. He was in the restaurant business. How many times had he told Luca food allergies were something they needed to take seriously?

  He shoved his guilt down deep and locked it away, keeping his face an impassive mask. “Fine, I’ll help. But I can’t keep him. You have to either find a way to take him back to America with you or find another home for him here.”

  She nodded, a smile spreading across her beautiful face, making her even more attractive, as impossible as that seemed. Gold flecks sparked in her eyes, and the freckles across the bridge of her nose crinkled endearingly.

  “Deal.”

  Chapter Six

  Dante turned to go, assuming their conversation was over.

  “Not so fast.” Zoe crooked a finger, beckoning him back. “If you’re going to be a parent, you should get acquainted with your son.”

  “Parent?” He almost choked on the word, his heart seeming to have lodged in his windpipe. He and Nicole had wanted children. Of the two-footed, not four-footed, variety. Another dream cut short by her sudden death.

  He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Isn’t that pushing it a bit far?”

  “Foster parent, then.” She patted the floor next to her. “Come on. I won’t bite. Although Houdini might if you’re not careful.”

  He eyed the spot she indicated like it was quicksand, ready to swallow him up. “Do we have to do this now?”

  “No time like the present.”

  Never sounded like a good time to him. But he doubted Zoe would agree. He supposed the sooner he got it over with, the better. Reluctantly, he slumped down next to her, making sure to leave a good six inches between them.

  “Put your arms out.”

  He hesitated. “You want me to hold him?”

  “What’s the big deal? You did it last week. And what about all those other times he ran away?”

  “That was different. I was delivering him back to his owner. He was a package, not a pet.”

  She held the still-sleeping pig out to him. “It’s easy. Just pretend he’s a baby. And don’t forget to support his head.”

  Pretend he’s a baby. That was the problem right there. It was one thing to feed an animal. Give him water. Walk him. Those things were necessities. The bare minimum. But holding him meant bonding with him, and that was where Dante drew the line.

  He kept his arms resolutely at his sides. “What if he wakes up?”

  “Pet him. Play with him. He needs to get to know and trust you.”

  “Do I have to hold him to do that? Can’t I just—?”

  He didn’t get a chance to finish whatever it was he was going to suggest because Zoe thrust the pig at him, forcing him to take the animal. Just as Dante feared, the pig woke with a loud, startled grunt and stared up at him with tiny, dark eyes, almost human the way they studied him so intently.

  “Pet him,” Zoe urged again. “He likes it when you rub his ears.”

  What choice did he have, with the animal already awake and starting to squirm in his arms? Dante followed her instructions, and the pig showed his appreciation by stretching out his chubby body and wagging his curly tail excitedly.

  “See? You’re a natural.”

  A natural. The last thing he wanted to be.

  “There. We’re friends. You can take him back now.”

  He started to hand the pig over to her, but she held up a hand, stopping him.

  “Oh no, you don’t. You’re just getting started. Besides, you should be flattered. Houdini is very discerning. He doesn’t befriend just anyone.”

  “You’ve owned him for all of twenty minutes. How can you tell that?”

  “He had enough sense to run away from Mr. Abruzzi, didn’t he? He’s obviously a good judge of character.”

  “Good point.”

  They sat in silence for a minute as he continued to stroke the pig’s ears. He leaned back against the bed, wishing he was sitting six feet from Zoe instead of six inches. He could hear every breath she took, feel every move—no matter how slight—she made, sense every emotion that washed across her face.

  “I know I said this already, but thank you,” she said finally. “I couldn’t stand the thought of sending him back to that horrible man.”

  “I agree.” Dante shifted from rubbing the pig’s ears to scratching the top of his head. The pig’s eyes closed, and he let out a soft, satisfied snuffle. And there it was. That tug of affection Dante feared. But he couldn’t help it. No one deserved to be treated cruelly, especially not a defenseless animal.

  “What was it he said that changed your mind?”


  Dante stopped scratching, instantly on high alert. There was no reason she needed to know his neighbor had called her a whore. “What makes you think it was something he said?”

  “Don’t play poker. You’re as easy to read as a Dr. Seuss book. You got all hot under the collar when he said something about your poutine.”

  “I happen to be an excellent poker player.”

  “No, wait. That’s not right. Poutine is french fries, cheese curds, and gravy. I tried it when I went to Quebec with the high school marching band.” She made a face. “Gross. And definitely not what your neighbor was talking about. He didn’t say poutine. He said puttana.”

  “You were in the marching band?” Dante tried to picture her in a military-style uniform with a plumed hat. Wasn’t that what marching bands wore? They weren’t popular in Italy, probably because they were associated with what Americans called football, and Europeans understood what real football was all about. “What instrument did you play?”

  “I was in the color guard. I carried a flag, not an instrument. Now stop deflecting and tell me what it means.”

  “It’s not important.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” She gave him a side-eyed glare. “You know I can look it up in my Italian-English dictionary, don’t you?”

  “It might not be in there,” he hedged. “It’s a colloquialism. Street slang, really.”

  “Google Translate, then.” She brought her knees up to her chest and hugged them tightly. “You might as well tell me. I’m a pit bull when I want something.”

  Yes, he was well aware of that. It was one of her qualities he simultaneously admired and abhorred.

  He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. Better she hear it from him than from Siri. “A puttana is a woman of ill repute.”

  “You mean a prostitute?” Her eyes flashed dark with anger, and the hands clutching her knees balled into fists, reminding him of his own reaction to the slur. “Your neighbor called me a whore?”

  Dante nodded, not trusting himself to answer out loud. He wouldn’t blame her if she punched something. Preferably not him.

  Instead, after a moment, her fingers relaxed, and some of the light returned to her eyes. “That’s why you changed your mind about Houdini. You were standing up for me.”

  “I did it for the pig,” he insisted, he hoped convincingly. It wasn’t a total lie. Zoe wasn’t the only one his neighbor had insulted. He had had a few choice words for the piglet, too. “You were right. There was a reason he kept running away. That man is clearly unfit to take care of small animals.”

  “You did it for the pig. And for me. Admit it.”

  She nudged him playfully in the ribs with her elbow. Houdini buried his head in Dante’s armpit and snorted.

  “I admit nothing.” Dante ran a hand down the pig’s tiny body.

  Houdini chose that exact moment to sneeze, jolting himself awake and blinking up at Dante with watery, inquisitive eyes. Dante touched the back of his hand to the pig’s forehead, the way his grandmother had done when he was feeling—or faking—sick. Did pigs get colds? Fevers? How could you tell? He didn’t even know what a pig’s normal body temperature should be.

  “Is he all right?” The hand on Houdini’s forehead traveled down to his tail and back again. Was he warmer than he had been a minute ago? Colder? And what about that little bump behind his left ear? Was that normal? “Maybe we should call a vet.”

  “Be careful.” Zoe elbowed him again, a little more gently this time. “You might become so attached you can’t let him go.”

  Exactly what he was afraid of.

  “Here.” He held the pig out to her. That would show her who was and wasn’t capable of letting go. “You take him. I think we’ve bonded enough for one day.”

  Or for a lifetime.

  “Fine. Be that way.”

  She scooted closer so she could take the pig. Their fingers brushed as they made the exchange, putting all of Dante’s nerve endings on edge.

  Dammit to hell. The pig wasn’t the only one he was in danger of becoming too attached to.

  “He seems fine,” she babbled on, still oblivious to the battle raging inside him. “I’ll keep a close eye on him. Once we get all the stuff we need, I’ll set him up in here. The articles I’ve read say to keep him in a confined space until he gets used to his surroundings.”

  She set the pig down on the floor. His sharp hooves echoed on the faux wood porcelain tiles as he set off to explore the room.

  “I’ll change and we can go into town.” Dante brushed his hands off on his shorts. “Whatever we can’t find there, we can order online.”

  “What about Houdini?” Her eyes followed the pig, busy trying to squeeze his pudgy body under the dresser. “We can’t leave him here all alone.”

  Dante thought for a moment. As much as he hated to admit it, she was right. “We’ll have to take him with us. There’s some rope in the garage. I can rig up a makeshift leash and harness until we get something more suitable.”

  He braced himself to stand, but she put a hand on his forearm, stopping him. Heat seared his skin, stealing the breath from his lungs and making his pulse pound in his ears.

  “I just realized something.”

  Was it his imagination—or wishful thinking—or was her voice lower, more seductive?

  “What’s that?” he croaked, the two short words almost impossible to push past his suddenly dry lips.

  “Under that gruff exterior, you’re a big softie.”

  He scowled. No red-blooded male wanted to be described as soft in any way, shape, or form. “I am not.”

  “Oh yeah?” She pushed on, undaunted, her hand tightening its grip on his arm. “I know you don’t want me here, but you still stuck up for me. And Houdini.”

  She jerked her head to the corner of the room, where the pig, apparently having given up on his quest to fit under the dresser, was playing with a sock he must have pulled from Zoe’s half-open suitcase.

  “What makes you think I don’t want you here?” At the moment, he wanted her everywhere. Under him, over him, against the wall, in his bed—

  “Please.” She laughed, the sound rippling around the room and rocketing another bolt of lust to his groin. “I’ve known what you were up to since day one. You’ve been trying to make me so miserable I’d have no choice but to leave.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You weren’t exactly subtle. Prancing around half naked. Blasting Puccini in the wee hours. Leaving the toilet seat up.”

  “In my defense, the toilet seat wasn’t intentional. And you haven’t been easy to live with, either. Rearranging the furniture. Yoga at the crack of dawn.”

  “How about we call it a draw?” She stuck her hand out, offering it to him. “Truce?”

  He stared at her slender, manicured fingers for a long moment before taking her hand in his. There was no point in battling any more. The war was already lost. He’d lost it when he spied her doing yoga with the damn pig, in her skimpy sports bra and skin-tight shorts. Or maybe it was when she first walked through the door.

  “Truce.”

  What should have been a perfunctory handshake became an erotic dance of fingers and thumbs. He stroked the back of her hand in slow, small circles, and she shivered. Almost without thinking, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he pulled her in, drawing her closer. Her lips parted as he brought his head down to hers, and he’d be damned if he was going to pass up that invitation.

  “What are you doing to me?” he muttered, the words spilling out of him like a spontaneous laugh he had no control over.

  Her tongue stole out to moisten her lower lip. “I hope it’s the same thing you’re doing to me.”

  That was it. He was only human. No mortal man could be expected to resist the gift she was offe
ring so sweetly, so willingly. A noise came out of him that he couldn’t quite identify—something like a groan mixed with a sigh, with a hint of a triumphant growl thrown in for good measure—and he surrendered to the need to kiss her. Time seemed to stop as mouths melded, tongues tangled, and hands explored.

  He’d kissed women since Nicole. He was a man, not a monk. Some of them had been more worldly than Zoe. Some more experienced, more confident. But none more desirable than this funny, feisty, frustrating-as-hell woman he was seconds away from taking on the tile floor.

  Zoe moaned into his mouth, and he framed her head with his hands, angling it so he could deepen the kiss. She tasted wild and intoxicating, like a fine, full-bodied wine or rich, dark chocolate.

  Delicious, but dangerous.

  From the other side of the room, the pig squealed, giving Dante the excuse he needed to break off the kiss before things got even more heated.

  “Wow.” Zoe touched a finger to her kiss-swollen lips. “That’s some way to declare a truce.”

  He wiped the back of one hand across his mouth, not because he didn’t want to savor her unique, unforgettable flavor on his lips but because the urge to let it linger was overwhelming and unnerving. His hand shook, and his dick, which hadn’t gotten the put-on-the-brakes message, ached.

  “Maybe it would be best if I went into town alone.”

  He stood and spotted Houdini, nestled in Zoe’s suitcase among her lacy bras and frilly underwear. He plucked him from the pile of clothes, silently imploring his brain to ignore the way the lace and silk scratched and slid against his fingertips, and thrust him out to Zoe.

  “Alone?” she echoed, rising to take the pig from him.

  “I can shop faster that way. And you can stay here and keep an eye on your new pet. Give me a list. I’ll make sure you have everything you need.”

  “Oh.” Her face fell, and the light in her eyes dimmed until it disappeared, his choice of “you” and “your” instead of “we” and “our” clearly not lost on her.

  He scrubbed a hand across his jaw, as if that would wash away the guilt that was swamping him. He was behaving like a real bastard. Cold. Cruel. Heartless. But better to hurt her—and himself—a little now than a lot later.