Page 1 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire
Chapter One
It was a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman, recently dumped by her cheating scumbag of a boyfriend and fired by her two-faced, design-stealing boss, must blow a healthy portion of her life savings to run away from it all, preferably to some exotic, foreign shore like Italy’s Amalfi Coast.
Or if it wasn’t universally acknowledged, in Zoe Ryan’s opinion, it damn well should be.
“Eccoci qui,” the taxi driver announced with a flourish as the car lurched to a stop. “We are here,signora.”
Here was Bella Vista, a palazzo clinging to a cliff above the clear, calm, cerulean waters of the Mediterranean, with thick stone walls, wrought-iron accents, and bougainvillea-decked terraces. But it wasn’t the outside of the house Zoe was interested in. It was what was inside those walls. The work of the late, great interior designer Alberto Pinto. Zoe had done her senior thesis on him at CalArts, and she was going to spend the next four weeks surrounded by his brilliant, eclectic creations, getting a much-needed break from her dysfunctional family. Refilling her empty soul.
Her heart beating a little faster at the thought, Zoe pulled the Italian-English dictionary she’d had the foresight to pick up at the airport out of her backpack and flipped through it until she found what she was looking for.
“Quanto”—she leafed through it again—“costa?”
The driver tapped the meter. “Sixty euros,per favore.”
She dug into her bag for her wallet, pulled out the requested amount plus what she hoped was a respectable tip—like many creative types, math wasn’t her strong suit—and handed it to him.
“Grazie.” He leafed through the bills, nodded, and stuffed them into his pocket.
She gave herself a mental pat on the back, relieved she’d gotten something right as a stranger in this strange land, and reached for the door handle. But the driver beat her to it, springing out of the car like he was one of the Guardians of the Galaxy and flinging the door open.
“Grazie,” she echoed as she hitched her backpack over her shoulder and climbed out of the car.
The driver retrieved her suitcase from the trunk and set it down next to her, taking a business card from his pocket and holding it out to her. “If I can be of more service during your stay, please don’t hesitate to call.”
She plucked the card from his fingers and eyed him suspiciously. “I thought you didn’t speak English.”
He shrugged and gave her a sheepish smile. “A little game I like to play. A test of sorts.”
“Did I pass?”
“Si.” His smile widened to a full-on toothy grin. “Your Italian is serviceable at best, but you tried. That’s half the battle. I think you’ll find we locals are very forgiving if you make the effort to speak our language.”
“Thanks for the advice.” She blew a lock of stringy, straw-colored hair off her cheek, slipped the card into the back pocket of her cutoffs, and reached for the handle of her suitcase, stifling a yawn. Great. Not only was she fighting motion sickness from all the tight turns and steep drop-offs on the way from the train station to the villa, now jet lag was catching up to her. If there was a picture in the dictionary next to hot mess, it would be hers. She swallowed another yawn and telescoped the handle to its full height in one swift yank. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The driver—his card said his name was Bruno—lifted her free hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “Until we meet again, beautiful lady.”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Are all Italian men as forward as you?”
“No.” He winked. “They just wish they were.”
The mischievous sparkle in his gray eyes, the same shade as the streaks of silver in his salt-and-pepper hair, kept her from pulling away. “You know, if you were American, I’d have to slap you.”
“Bah.” He scoffed. “Americanos.Your men know nothing about love. They think pinching a woman’s ass is foreplay.”
“I didn’t come to Italy to find love.” Or foreplay, for that matter. Not that she was discussing her sex life—or lack thereof—with her cab driver.
“Ah, but perhaps love will find you.”
With those last, unlikely words of wisdom, he hopped into his taxi and sped off, leaving Zoe tired, queasy, and more than a little sore thanks to almost twenty hours of planes, trains, and one particularly nausea-inducing automobile. She dragged her suitcase to the front door and punched in the code the rental agency had given her to the keyless lock.
The door swung silently open to reveal a sight unlike anything she’d ever seen. An enormous, high-ceilinged, elaborately tiled foyer led directly into a sunken living room. A wall of windows flanked sliding glass doors that looked out over a stone patio with a lush, vine-covered pergola and an in-ground swimming pool. Beyond the ornate, wrought-iron fence that rimmed the patio, sparks of late afternoon sunlight bounced off the Mediterranean.
But none of that was what had her heart pounding and her hand wavering between fanning herself and pulling out her cell phone to dial 9-1-1. Or whatever the Italian equivalent of 9-1-1 was. No, that honor went to the man standing just outside the wide-open sliders, naked as the day he was born, like a living, breathing statue of David, his firm, fine ass on full display as he toweled off his hair. Water sluiced down the sculpted muscles of his shoulders and back, over that bitable, olive-skinned behind, and down trim, toned legs, dripping onto the smooth stones.
Logic overtook lust, and she backpedaled toward the main entrance, one hand hauling her suitcase, the other groping in her backpack for her phone. She’d almost made it to the front door when the real-life sculpture slung the towel around his neck and turned, giving her a full-frontal view as magnificent as his backside. Well-defined pecs, washboard abs—was that an eight-pack?—a narrow waist tapering to hips with that perfect, male vee that stunned women stupid, and between his legs…
Holy man meat, Batman.Even flaccid, his penis was impressive. Erect, it must be intimidating as hell. Not that she was picturing him rigid and swollen with arousal. Much.
