Page 2 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

She dragged her gaze up his torso and met his eyes, storm-cloud gray and brooding, framed by the kind of lashes women paid top dollar for—long and lush, with just the right amount of curl. Dark hair, still damp and sexily mussed, flopped over one brow, and his lips pressed into a thin, harsh line beneath a patrician nose.

“I… I’m sorry,” she stammered, willing her eyes not to drift south.

Wait, why was she apologizing? He was the one trespassing, not her. If anyone owed anyone an apology, it was him to her, not vice versa. She stood her suitcase on its end and folded her arms across her chest, trying her best to look as menacing as her five feet four inches would allow. “I mean, who are you, and what are you doing here?”

His lips curled into a smirk, and he matched her pose, making no attempt whatsoever to cover himself. And why should he? He sure as hell didn’t have anything to be ashamed of. Maybe he was some sort of exhibitionist, breaking into homes, stripping down to his birthday suit, and lying in wait to surprise unsuspecting residents.

“I’m Dante Sabbatini, the owner of this villa.” His perfect English was laced with a lilting Italian accent that almost—but not quite—softened the blow of his words. “And I could ask the same thing of you.”

…

Dante didn’t know whether to call the police or an ambulance.

His would-be burglar had gone almost deathly pale when he identified himself, putting a hand to her mouth and managing to eke out one word through her trembling fingers: bathroom. Figuring whatever her intentions were, she was fairly harmless in her current state—and not being a complete dickhead—he’d directed her to the door he now stood outside. From the sound of it, she was emptying the contents of her stomach into his top-of-the-line, self-flushing toilet.

Merda.There went his plan to get rid of her and get back to business as usual. Which in this case meant solitude. Complete and utter solitude. Hiding from the world at Bella Vista was the only way he was going to get through the first anniversary of Nicole’s death. One year. It was hard to believe his fiancée had been gone so long. That he’d managed to get through almost 365 days without her.

He dragged his thoughts from the woman he wished were by his side—the one who would be if it wasn’t for him—and focused on the one currently in his bathroom.

“Are you all right?” Stupid question. Of course she wasn’t all right, a fact that was confirmed when the sounds of retching started up again in earnest. She couldn’t have much left to expel, could she?

He ran a hand through his hair, almost dry by now, and proceeded down the hall to his bedroom for some clothes. He didn’t make it a habit of greeting guests—even unexpected, possibly criminal ones—in the nude. It was frowned on in polite society. And his grandmother would kill him.

Still, he’d seen how his little trespasser had looked at him. Her eyes had definitely lingered a little too long between his legs. She liked what she saw, and as a foreigner—obvious from her clipped American accent, “I Left My Heart In San Francisco” T-shirt, and battered Converse high-tops—he doubted she had any idea who he was or how much he was worth.

He discarded his towel and stepped into a pair of cream-colored, drawstring linen pants, opting to skip the underwear and shirt to save time. If his partial state of undress kept the pretty little American off balance, that would be a bonus.

After a quick check in the mirror, which prompted him to run a brush through his thick curls, he headed down the hallway to check on his unwelcome visitor. She was just coming out of the bathroom, still pale but apparently done driving the porcelain bus, at least for the moment.

“You got any toothpaste in this museum?” She ran her tongue across her teeth and frowned. “Mine’s packed, and I don’t feel like digging it out.”

Toothpaste?What was she going to ask for next? A facial and a hot stone massage?

He narrowed his eyes and leaned against the wall, crossing his bare feet at the ankles and his arms over his chest. “You haven’t answered my question. Who are you, and why are you here?”

She brought herself up to her full height, which put the top of her head just below his shoulder. He couldn’t help but admire her spirit. Powerful, sophisticated women—and men, for that matter—had withered under his glare.

Not this one.

“I rented this villa for the next four weeks.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “And I have the papers to prove it.”

Four weeks?His jaw tightened. “What papers?”

“Well, emails, technically. From the vacation rental website. On my phone. In my backpack.” She shrugged her bag off her shoulder and unzipped one of its many compartments.

“You must be mistaken. This house has been in my family for generations. We don’t advertise it on the internet to be inhabited by complete strangers.”

She produced her phone with a triumphant flourish, tapped the screen, and started scrolling. “If this villa really does belong to your family, then you must know Carmella. The listing agent said she was the owner.”

Know her? He was going to strangle her. “She’s my grandmother.”

“Well, that explains it.” She dropped the phone back into her bag and zipped it up, apparently believing she had nothing left to prove.

“It explains nothing.” He turned on his heel and headed back to his bedroom, needing to find his own phone. “Except that my grandmother is up to her old tricks again.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, trailing after him.

“Don’t play dumb with me.” She had to be in on Nonna’s little matchmaking scheme. His grandmother had been trying to pair him off for months.