Page 3 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

“Vita mia,” his grandmother would say to him. “I know you loved Nicole, but her death wasn’t your fault, and you can’t mourn forever. Life is too short. You have to get back out there and start dating again. And I’ve found the perfect girl.”

He rebuffed her, politely at first. Later, as she’d gotten more persistent, his refusals had been more forceful. Eventually, she’d stopped asking and started springing women on him. Bringing them to the restaurant. Inviting them to join her and Dante in their box at the opera. Engineering for him to bump into them at cafes and clubs.

But renting out Bella Vista to one of her prospects when she knew he’d be there, grieving for Nicole and regretting his part in her death? That took meddling to a whole new level. And an American. Another new page in Nonna’s matchmaking playbook.

“Play dumb?” Nonna’s latest victim—strike that, accomplice—plopped down on his bed like she owned it. Which, in a manner of speaking, she probably thought she did. At least for the next thirty days.

He quirked a brow at her. “Do you always follow men into their bedrooms and make yourself at home without waiting for an invitation?”

“Only when absolutely necessary,” she shot back, her smart mouth working overtime. Funny. Her stomach problems seemed to have miraculously healed themselves, and she was in top form now. The color had even returned to her cheeks. “Do you always answer a question with a question?”

“Only when absolutely necessary,” he echoed smugly.

She crossed one smooth, bare leg over the other, and he noticed not for the first time how attractive she was. A riot of blond curls brushed slender shoulders, framing a delicate face dominated by wide eyes the color of fine champagne—pale gold with a warm, almost orange tinge. And her figure—not waifishly thin like the models his twin brother Luca preferred, but perfectly feminine, with full breasts that would fill his hands and hips he could sink his fingers into.

He swore under his breath at the lascivious direction of his thoughts and snatched his phone off the nightstand.

“What are you doing?” She leaned forward, balancing her elbows on her shapely thighs.

“Isn’t it obvious?” He opened his recent call list and tapped the first one. He’d spoken to his grandmother that morning, yet she hadn’t said a word about a tenant arriving at Bella Vista. Either the woman perched comfortably on his bed was lying or Nonna was becoming even more devious in her quest to end his bachelor status. “There’s only one way to get to the bottom of this. I’m calling my grandmother.”

“Suit yourself, but she’s going to back me up.”

“We’ll see about that.”

The phone had barely begun to ring when his grandmother answered, her tone cheerful and light, no hint of deceit or trepidation. “Dante. What a surprise to hear from you again today. Is something wrong at the villa?”

Dante frowned. “You could say that. You have exactly two minutes to tell me what the hell is going on.”

His unwanted guest wagged a finger at him. “That’s not a very nice way to talk to your grandmother.”

“Quiet.” He held up a warning finger of his own. “I’ll deal with you in a minute.”

“Deal with who?” Nonna asked. “Is someone there with you?”

He swore under his breath, exasperated. Now he had two women playing dumb with him. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“About the woman standing in front of me. The one you rented Bella Vista to for the month.” The month she knew he planned to spend there. At the place Nicole loved best. Where he had proposed to her, in the perennial garden behind the swimming pool.

There was an awkward silence, then his grandmother sighed. “Vita mia, I’m so sorry. I must have forgotten to tell Antonio the villa was occupied.”

Dante’s frown deepened. “What does your business manager have to do with this?”

“It was his idea that I start renting it out to help cover the taxes and upkeep. He’s been handling all the details.”

“Then he can get her out of here.”

“‘Her’ has a name,” the topic of the conversation piped up. “And it’s Zoe. Zoe Ryan.”

“Now, now.” His grandmother drew out the words, like she was talking to a child, which he supposed he’d always be to her. “That’s not gentlemanly of you, Dante. This woman, whoever she is—”

“Zoe Ryan,” he muttered.

“Zoe Ryan has leased Bella Vista fair and square. Assuming, of course, she has the necessary documents.”

“Si,” he gritted out between clenched teeth, glancing at a triumphant-looking Zoe. “She says she does.”