Page 13 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

“Is Puccini the guy singing?” she asked, absently twirling a long, blond ringlet around one finger.

“No.” Did she have to do that? It was damn distracting. Made him want to bury his hands in her thick curls to see if they were as soft and springy as they seemed. Instead, he satisfied himself with puffing on his cigar. “He’s the composer. The singer is Jose Carreras.”

“What language is he singing in? Italian?”

“Naturally.” Dante rested his cigar in the crystal ashtray on the table beside him and crossed an ankle over his knee. “All of the greatest operas are in Italian.”

They listened in silence for a few minutes before Zoe spoke again. “He sounds sad.”

“He’s in love. With Mimi, a beautiful seamstress who shows up on his doorstep asking him to light her candle. Then she faints and drops her key.”

Zoe snickered. “You mean like how I showed up on your doorstep and tossed my cookies in your downstairs bathroom?”

“Tossed your cookies?”

“An American expression. It means—”

He held up a hand, stopping her. “I think I can work out what it means.”

“Please tell me he doesn’t open the door buck naked.”

Dante fought off a smile. She had guts. And grit. He couldn’t help thinking how much his grandmother would like her.

“Hardly,” he drawled. “This is opera, not a cheap porno.”

“So this Mimi takes one look at—what’s this dude’s name?”

“Rudolfo.”

“She takes one look at Rudolfo and passes out.” Zoe rolled her expressive champagne eyes. “Very romantic.”

“It is.” Opera didn’t get more romantic than Rudolfo and Mimi’s sweeping arias in the first act ofLa Bohème. The instant crackle of attraction the moment they see each other. Rudolfo taking Mimi’s cold hand in his and declaring that his heart has been stolen by a beautiful pair of eyes.

It had been that way with Nicole the first time Dante had seen her. He’d been dealing with a particularly difficult customer—some foreign diplomat who thought his perfectly cooked fettuccini alfredo was too al dente—when she walked into his restaurant in Rome, laughing and shaking out her long, auburn curls, wet from a sudden summer storm. He’d known right then and there that she was the one. People said there was no such thing as love at first sight, but first-hand experience told him otherwise.

Of course, people also said everyone had only one, true soul mate. Theiranima gemella. And that he believed, with all his heart. He’d found—and lost—his.

He swallowed to get past the lump in his throat. “Their candles go out, and they search for her key in the dark. Their hands touch, and Rodolfo sings, telling her how beautiful she is. When he finds the key, he pockets it so he can spend more time with her.”

“Isn’t that sort of stalker-y? Very Christian Grey of him.”

“You’re not a big believer in love, are you?”

“Been there, done that, got the T-shirt and burned it.” She unfolded her legs from underneath her and slung them over the arm of the chair. “What about you? Have you ever been in love?”

How in the hell had they gotten into this deep discussion? And how was he going to get out of it? “That’s a bit personal from someone who’s known me all of forty-eight hours.”

“You started it, Mr. Romantic-Italian-Opera.” She studied him, swinging one foot distractedly, the pale purple polish on her toenails catching the light from the recessed ceiling lamps.

“What can I say?” He snuffed out his cigar. No use wasting a perfectly good Cuban. “I’m a man of many contradictions.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” She stood and crossed to the bar cart.

“What are you doing?”

“Pouring myself a drink.” She examined the bottles one by one, finally selecting what looked like sambuca. “I’m up, so I might as well make the most of it.”

“By all means.” Sarcasm dripped from his words like gelato on a summer afternoon. “Make yourself at home.”