by Kyle, Regina
“Thank you, Greta. How is Cristian? Did he like his birthday present?”
“He loved it. He hasn’t stopped playing with it since he unwrapped it. Says he wants to be a chef when he grows up, just like Signore Luca.”
“Don’t worry.” Dante chuckled as he reached for the Prosecco and filled both glasses. “I’m sure he’ll grow out of it and choose a more sensible career. Maybe something in the finance industry.”
He handed one of the glasses to Zoe, and she took it. “Are you saying your brother isn’t sensible?”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that. We’re meeting him in Rome.”
Her hand froze, the glass halfway to her lips. “We’re what?”
“Is there anything else I can get you?” Greta asked.
He’d almost forgotten the stewardess was still standing there. That tended to happen when Zoe was around. Everything but her faded into the background. “No, thank you. We’ll call if we need anything.”
With a polite nod, she disappeared down the aisle and through the pocket doors that separated the galley and crew quarters from the passenger compartment. Dante turned back to Zoe, who was eyeing him over the rim of her glass, one brow quirked so high it almost disappeared under her bangs.
“Why didn’t you tell me we were meeting your brother?”
“Luca may act tough, but inside he’s a big teddy bear. He’ll love you.” Like I’m starting to.
Dante pushed the disturbing thought deep, deep down, plucked a grape from the tray, and fed it to the pig, who had made himself comfortable on Dante’s designer loafer, staring hungrily up at the table. He snuffed it up and wagged his tail appreciatively.
Zoe took a sip of her Prosecco. “Word to the wise, a lady appreciates a little advance warning. Gives her time to prepare.”
“Prepare?” he asked, reaching for his own drink.
“You know, steel herself mentally. Make sure she looks presentable. Avoid embarrassing situations like flashing her ass cheeks to unsuspecting grandmothers.” She grimaced.
“Trust me. Nonna was totally charmed, flashing aside.” And the skin had been a nice bonus for him.
“Well, I was totally humiliated.” Her grimace turned to a groan. “Please, God. Never again.”
“I guess now would be a good time to tell you a couple of my university buddies will be joining us. We have a monthly poker game.”
“Aha.” She snapped her fingers, startling the pig, who leaped to his feet, squealing. “So that’s what this trip is all about. Poker. I thought you had business in Rome.”
“Why can’t it be both? A little business. A little pleasure.” He set his glass down and slipped the animal another grape, which stopped his whining. Then instead of bringing his hand back to his glass, he let it rest on Zoe’s smooth, bare thigh, under the hem of her sundress. “Maybe a lot of pleasure.”
Her eyes went from the pale gold color of champagne to a rich, dark amber. “What did you have in mind?”
Before he had a chance to tell her about the aft cabin with a king-sized bed, Greta reappeared.
“We’ll be taking off in a few minutes. The pilot asked me to make sure you were buckled in.”
“Thank you, Greta.”
He fastened his seat belt and motioned for Zoe to do the same. Seeing that they were secured, Greta nodded and went back into the galley, sliding the pocket door shut behind her.
“Now, where were we?” He lowered his hand back to her thigh as the plane started to taxi down the runway.
“But Greta—”
“Is strapped into her own seat, where she’ll stay until we’re in the air. And even then, she won’t disturb us unless I ring for her.”
Zoe looked down at his hand then back up at him, her lips twisted into a sort of half smile, half smirk. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”
“If you’re asking if I’m a member of the mile-high club, the answer is no. But I’m hoping that will change in about”—he glanced at his Rolex—“twenty minutes.”
“That fast, huh?” There was no halfway about it this time. She was definitely smirking at him. “You’re not usually that quick on the trigger.”
“I didn’t want to set the bar too high. Better to exceed expectations than fail to meet them.”
The plane lifted into the air, pushing them back in their seats. Dante took advantage of the involuntary movement to slip a finger under the edge of her lacy panties, making her gasp.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she said, her eyes fluttering closed.
He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Eyes open. I want to see them get all soft and hazy when you come.”
She complied, her eyelids slowly rising. “My eyes get all soft and hazy when I come?”
He nodded, adding another finger under the lace, inching them closer to her center. “And your cheeks flush and your lips part. Sometimes your tongue darts out to wet them. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
“Oh.”
The word was a prayer, a promise, a plea that went straight to his dick. But there would be plenty of time to take care of that on the hour-long flight. This was for her, not him.
His fingers found her core, warm and oh so wet, and he slid them inside, moving them slowly at first, teasing, then gradually increasing momentum until she was lifting her hips to press against him, her breath coming in short, moaning gasps. He lowered his mouth to hers and captured one, inhaling it as their lips met and his tongue brushed hers.
She tasted vibrant and crisp and bubbly, with hints of apple and peach from the Prosecco. The total effect was invigorating. Intoxicating. Addictive.
He worked his fingers in deeper, using his thumb to find the hard little nub at the top of her sex. She rewarded him by crying out his name, softly but no less urgently than if she’d screamed it loud enough to be heard by the people thousands of kilometers below.
“That’s it,” he urged against her lips. “Let go.”
Again she obeyed, digging her nails into his forearm as she came apart around his fingers. When the tremors subsided, he unbuckled his seat belt, then hers, and stood, scooping her up in one swift move and carrying her to the back of the plane.
She banded her arms around his shoulders and buried her face in the crook of his neck. “Where are you taking me?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” he asked, knowing full well he hadn’t. “There’s a king-sized bed in the aft cabin.”
…
“I raise.” Miguel pushed a stack of coins to the center of the table and sat back smugly, puffing on his cigar.
Dante grimaced and threw his hand down. The gods of Texas hold ’em were not with him tonight. “I fold.”
“I call.” Xander tossed a few more coins onto the pile and flipped his cards over. “Straight, eight to queen.”
“Nice.” Miguel tapped his cigar over the ashtray and turned over his hand. “But not nice enough. Full house, jacks over aces.”
Xander shook his head and reached for his Tsipouro, which he insisted on bringing with him every month from Greece. If you asked Dante, it tasted like gasoline. “Damn. I was sure you were bluffing. You were bouncing your knee. You always do that when you have a weak hand.”
“Not always, apparently.” Miguel swept the pot into his pile of cash, which was already larger than Dante’s and Xander’s combined. Then he puffed out a ring of smoke from his cigar and eyed Dante, who was shuffling the cards. “Where’s your girlfriend? I thought she was joining us.”
Dante stopped shuffling. “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s just a friend who happens to be a girl.”
“Right.” Xander sipped his disgusting drink. “A friend you’ve been living with for—what, almost a month now?”
“And who you couldn’t bear to leave behind.” Miguel chuckled. “I’m surprised you coul
d tear yourself away from your seaside love nest to join us.”
It was pointless arguing with these two. Let them think what they wanted. Never mind that what they were thinking was closer to the truth than Dante wanted to admit.
He tapped the deck of cards on the table and dealt the next hand. “She went to walk Houdini.”
The name sounded strange on Dante’s lips, and he realized that—consciously or unconsciously—he tended to think of the pig as some nameless, faceless being. Another self-defense mechanism. A way for him to distance himself, from both the woman and the pig.
“You got a dog?” Xander asked, his interest suddenly piqued. “I wondered what the crate was for but was afraid to ask.”
“Not a dog, a pig,” Dante corrected. “And he’s not mine. He’s Zoe’s.”
Miguel peeked at his cards, then tossed a couple of coins in the center of the table. “Call. Who keeps a pig as a pet?”
“George Clooney, for one.” Dante added some money to the pile. “Raise. And I’ll have you know that pigs make excellent pets. They’re smarter than dogs and easier to train.”
Christ. Now he sounded like an ad for that organization Zoe was always talking about. What was it called? Right, the AMPA. American Mini Pig Association.
The door to his penthouse apartment swung open and the mini pig in question trotted through, followed by Zoe at the other end of his fancy leash. She knelt down to unclip it from his harness.
“We’re back. Sorry it took so long. Houdini took forever to do his business, and then I got distracted by the—”
She looked up and froze. The pig, free from his tether, clip-clopped over to his crate, which looked out of place with Dante’s sleek, industrial-inspired decor—none of Alberto Pinto’s work here—and made himself comfortable in the nest of blankets and pillows inside.
“You must be Zoe.” Xander pushed his chair away from the table, stood, and crossed to her. He held out a hand and she took it, letting him help her to her feet. “I’m Xander Castellanos, Dante’s richer, handsomer, more talented friend.”
“You left out cockier,” Dante muttered. “And more full of shit.”
Xander ignored him, bringing Zoe’s hand to his lips and kissing it. “You’re even more beautiful than I expected.”
“Si.” Miguel nodded his head in agreement and stubbed out his cigar. “Our poorer, uglier, far less talented friend’s description failed to do you justice.”
Bastard. Dante was starting to rethink the logic of bringing Zoe to Rome and exposing her to the two most obnoxious men in the Mediterranean. Even if they were his oldest and dearest friends.
She looked down at her outfit—a simple off-the-shoulder top and the same cutoff shorts she’d been wearing when she first barged into his villa and upended his life—and smoothed down her flyaway hair.
“You’re both bigger charmers than he is. I haven’t even showered yet. I look like something the cat dragged in. Or the pig.”
She looked over at the crate, where Houdini was already snoring softly. Then her eyes found Dante’s, a mildly accusing glint dancing in their depths. “I thought your friends weren’t arriving until later this afternoon.”
“So did I.” Dante laid his cards down on the table and went to the bar cart to pour himself another two fingers of scotch. Glenlivet. A real man’s drink that went down smooth and easy. And didn’t taste like gasoline. “They surprised me by showing up early.”
“We couldn’t wait to meet you,” Xander said. Did his voice always sound like that? Or was he doing a bad Idris Elba impression?
“And take all of Dante’s money,” Miguel added. “He’s a terrible poker player.”
“Can I sit in on your game?” Zoe asked. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to play. I used to watch my father and his friends from the Elks Lodge. It looked like so much fun.”
“Fun?” Xander scoffed. “Poker isn’t fun. It’s a game of skill. A serious game, for serious players.”
“And we bet real money,” Dante warned her. “Not toothpicks or candy.”
“Stop trying to scare her off.” Miguel joined Dante at the bar cart and reached for the Glenlivet. He poured some into a rocks glass, then added a healthy splash of club soda. Dante winced. It was a crime to water down good scotch. Or if it wasn’t, it should be.
Miguel sipped his criminal excuse for a cocktail. “I say we let her join us. A beautiful woman is exactly what our game needs.”
“He’s got a point,” Xander said. Turncoat. “I’d rather look at her across the table than either of your ugly mugs.”
“Fine. She can play.” Dante turned to Zoe. “But I’m warning you, carina, it can get pretty cutthroat. Don’t blame me when you wind up with empty pockets.”
He needn’t have worried about her. An hour and a half and ten hands later, Zoe had a pile of cash three times the size of Miguel’s, her closest competitor. Dante had only a handful of chips left, and Xander’s pile was nonexistent.
“Gentlemen,” Dante announced, leaning back in his chair and downing what was left of his scotch. “I think we’ve been conned.”
“By the prettiest card shark this side of the Tiber River,” Miguel added.
“Guilty as charged.” Zoe shrugged, color rising in her cheeks even as she tried to appear nonchalant. “I didn’t watch my father and his friends. They let me play with them, taught me everything I know.”
Xander looked from the empty space in front of him where his chips had been to Zoe’s towering pile and back again. “Looks like they taught you well.”
“I’d say I’m sorry, but I’d be lying.” She flashed him a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. “And like my great aunt Matilda always said, never tell a lie when you can tell the truth. Especially when the truth is so much more fun.”
“Nobody likes a sore winner,” Xander grumbled. “And I’ll bet you don’t even have a great aunt Matilda.”
“Do so,” Zoe shot back, laughing off his jibe and retrieving her cell phone from under her chair. But her smile drooped, and her laughter faded when she swiped the screen.
“Something wrong?” Dante asked.
“No. Just, uh, a missed call from my sister. I’ll call her back later.” She stood and scooped up her money. “It was a pleasure beating you, gentlemen. But it’s time for me to take my money and run. You can have a little guy time while I count my winnings and dream about what I’m going to spend them on.”
Dante tried, unsuccessfully, to fight back his own laughter as he watched her go. She’d lied to them. Handed them their asses. Played them for fools. He should be annoyed with her at a minimum. Humiliated. His ego in tatters.
And yet he was laughing, because he didn’t feel any of those things. In their place was an irrational feeling of pride. Not of himself, but of her. And something else. A floating, almost euphoric sensation he hadn’t felt since—
Miguel slapped him on the back. “You owe your grandmother an apology. And an expensive bottle of Campari. She found you a real gem. Finally.”
“You’re not telling me that beautiful creature”—Xander waved a hand at the archway Zoe had disappeared through—“was one of Nonna’s fix-ups?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Miguel raised his glass in a mock toast, whether it was to Zoe’s beauty or Nonna’s matchmaking skills, Dante wasn’t sure. “She rented Zoe the villa knowing Dante would be there.”
“She swears it was a booking error,” Dante said, not sure why he felt it necessary to defend his grandmother.
Xander let out a low wolf whistle. “Damn. Nonna really hit it out of the ballpark this time. Do you think she could find someone for me?”
“You?” Miguel scoffed. “Serial dater extraordinaire? King of the one-night stand?”
“Isn’t that like the pot calling the kettle a playboy?” Dante asked, gathering the cards.
A shadow crossed the usually good-natured Xander’s face. “One-night stands start to feel pretty empty after a while. There comes a time when a man wants something more.”
“Not you, too?” Miguel blew out a derisive raspberry. “It’s obvious Dante is a lost cause. But I never thought you’d be tempted to succumb.”
“Succumb?” Xander raised an eyebrow at the ten-dollar word. “To what?”
“To the power of love.”
Love? What was Miguel talking about? Dante wasn’t in love. It was too much, too soon. And what about Nicole? She was his anima gemella. His soul mate. And she was gone. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—be in love with Zoe. Not so soon. Not when she was leaving. Not when they agreed that what they were doing was temporary. A vacation fling, nothing more.
He shuffled the deck and cut it twice. If he could distract his friends with the promise of more poker, maybe Miguel would forget the ridiculous notion that Dante was in love. “Anyone up for another hand? I need a chance to recoup my losses.”
Xander shook his head. “I’m busted.”
“And I’m not risking what little I have left.” Miguel took his pathetic pile of coins and dropped them into his pocket. “Besides, I’d much rather continue to interrogate you about your love life now that you actually have one.”
Dante pushed the deck of cards to the center of the table. “I told you. Zoe and I are—”
“Just friends.” Xander rolled his eyes. “Right. And denial is just a river in Egypt.”
“You called her carina,” Miguel pointed out, his tone suddenly serious. “Sweetheart. And I see the way you look at her. I haven’t seen you look at anyone that way since—”
“Don’t,” Dante snapped, pushing his chair away from the table with so much force that the cards scattered. “Don’t say it.”
Miguel stood and put his hand on Dante’s shoulder. “It’s time. You have to stop blaming yourself for Nicole’s death. She’d want you to be happy.”
“I don’t want to talk about Nicole.” Why did it matter what she would have wanted? She wasn’t there. Because of him. No matter what his friends thought, they couldn’t change the truth. If he had talked to the chef, asked a few simple questions. Then Nicole would have known—
