Page 14 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

The last strains of “Che gelida manina”—“What a cold little hand”—faded away. Mimi’s aria was next, but Dante picked up the remote and pressed the off button. The music had served his purpose, and his heart wasn’t in it anymore. The music or the purpose.

For tonight, Operation Felix was a bust.

“I will. For the next twenty-eight days.” Zoe finished pouring her drink and looked up at him. “Want anything?”

He should say no. It was late. It would be easy to excuse himself and hide out in safety in his room.

“Scotch. Neat.”

“Good, because the ice bucket is empty and I don’t feel like hauling my sorry, dragged-out-of-bed-in-the-middle-of-the-night ass into the kitchen.”

She searched through the bottles until she found the Glenlivet 18 and sloshed some into a tumbler. Then she picked up both glasses and crossed to him, handing him his.

“Cheers.” She lifted her glass.

He raised his, slowly, and clinked it with hers. “Saluti.”

She sat back down, tucking her legs underneath her again and sipping her sambuca. “Is this opera thing going to be a nightly ritual? I’m not going to be blasted out of bed by Puccini on a regular basis, am I?”

“If you have a problem with Puccini, I can mix it up a bit. Maybe throw in some Verdi. A little Mozart. Even Wagner, if that’s your thing.”

“I told you, hard rock’s more my speed. Pearl Jam. Metallica. Radiohead.” She swirled the liquid in her glass and sipped again. “Not that I didn’t enjoy learning all about Mimi and Rudolfo. You sure know your opera.”

“It’s a passion of mine.” One he hadn’t had anyone to share with since Nicole’s death. Luca was out. Ditto Miguel and Xander, who thought opera was all fat ladies in Viking helmets. Nonna paid for a box at the Real Teatro di San Carlo in Naples—he had his own at the Teatri dell’opera di Roma—and she even went with him on occasion, but that was more so she could entertain business associates or fix him up with one of her perpetual string of wannabe Mrs. Dante Sabbatinis than because she was an opera devotee.

Maybe that was why he jumped at the chance to talkLa Bohèmewith his house guest. To fill yet another void Nicole had left when she died.

He felt a sudden, sharp stab of disloyalty to his fiancée. He tossed back what remained of his scotch and stood. “This has been entertaining, but it’s time for me to say good night.”

“So soon?” Zoe peered at him over the rim of her glass. “I thought we could listen to some Queen. I’ve got ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ on my iPhone. It’s almost six minutes long. That should give me plenty of time to tell you all about the life and times of Freddie Mercury.”

Six minutes? Hell no. “Another time.”

“Did you know his real name was Farrokh Bulsara and he was born in Zanzibar, now part of Tanzania? But he spent most of his childhood in India.”

“Fascinating.” He feigned an exaggerated yawn.

“Fine, be that way.” She waved him away. “There’s always tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next.”

He turned to leave, not bothering to respond. Phase one of Operation Felix might have been a dismal failure. But Zoe was right—tomorrow was another day. And Operation Felix was just getting started.

Chapter Four

Zoe wasn’t a morning person under the best circumstances, and her present circumstances were far from the best.

She buried her head in her pillow to muffle the shrill, incessant beeping of her cell phone and stuck one arm out, reaching blindly toward the nightstand. After a few seconds of frustrated fumbling, her fingers folded around it, and she swiped the screen with her thumb.

Silence. Blessed silence.

She rolled over and cracked one eye open. The sun was starting to peek over the horizon, sending pale streaks of light through the sheer curtains across the sliding glass doors.

5:03.

What on earth had possessed her to set her alarm this early? It had been after one when Dante called their impromptu opera tutoring session to a halt. Then there had been another hour of tossing and turning before she’d managed to fall asleep. Meaning she’d gotten a whopping total of three hours of sleep. Nowhere near enough for her to function as a normal human being.

Zoe groaned into her pillow. She hated to admit it, but listening to Dante pontificate about Puccini had been more fun than she’d expected. It had started innocently enough. She had wanted to mess with his head, show him it was going to take more than a little loud music to scare her off.

But she’d quickly gone from jerking his chain to enjoying his company, which made her uneasy. She didn’t want to like the guy. What did it say about her that she was falling for someone who wanted nothing to do with her? Was it some kind of reverse Stockholm syndrome?