Page 45 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

Dante picked that moment to reappear, wallet in hand. For a hot second, she worried he might go all prehistoric again when he saw their hands joined. Instead, he took a few euros out of his wallet and extended them to the desk clerk.

“I asked you up here because I didn’t thank you for your help earlier. And someone pointed out to me”—he glanced at Zoe, the playful light back in his eyes, but beneath it was something more: sincerity—“that I was rude. I wanted to apologize.”

“Grazi, signore.”

“Here’s my card. Stop by my restaurant the next time you’re in Naples, Florence, or Rome, and show that to the hostess. Dinner is on me.” Dante pressed a business card with something scrawled on the back into the clerk’s hand. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

Matteo blushed. “Si, signore. I do.”

“Bring her, too.”

“I will.Grazi.”

Matteo thanked Dante at least ten more times as he made his way out of the suite. Dante closed the door behind him and leaned against it, dropping his wallet into the pocket of his robe and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” Zoe asked.

“Did you like your surprise?”

“I think it was more of a surprise for the desk clerk,” she said. “But yes, I did. Thank you for listening to me.”

He shrugged and crossed back to the table, picking up his half-full glass of wine. “I’m not entirely without shame. And you were right, I acted like an ass.”

“Could you repeat that?”

“I acted like an ass.”

“No, the part before that. Where you said I was right.”

“You were right,” he repeated dutifully, sipping his wine.

There was an awkward pause, like neither one of them was sure where to take the conversation next. Zoe stretched her arms over her head and feigned a yawn. “It’s, uh, been a long day, and I’m beat. I’m going to hit the hay.”

“Hit the hay?” The corners of Dante’s sensuous mouth quirked into a smile. “Is that another one of your delightful American expressions?”

“Get some sleep,” she said, her gaze drifting to the bedroom door.

“If it will make you feel more comfortable, I can sleep on the couch in the sitting area.”

“That’s not a couch,” she scoffed. “It’s barely a settee. And you’re, what, six feet tall?”

He drew himself up to his full height. “Six-two.”

“You’d be miserable scrunched up like a pretzel on that thing. We’re adults. We can handle sharing a bed. I’ll stay on my side, and you stay on yours.”

She didn’t know who she was trying harder to convince, him or herself.

“If you insist.” Dante drained the rest of his wine and set his glass down on the table. “But if you change your mind, just say the word.”

She shook her head and started for the bedroom. “I told you, I’m not making you sleep on the sofa.”

Maybe she could build a wall of pillows between them. Or hang a sheet, like she’d seen Clark Gable do in an old movie once. The Walls of Jericho, he called it, separating him from Claudette Colbert.

That’s what she needed. Her own Wall of Jericho. One strong enough to withstand her crumbling resolve.

Dante followed her into the room and cupped her cheek, stroking her skin with his thumb. Her already weakened resolve took a huge nosedive, and she couldn’t help leaning into his touch. Forget sheets and pillows—she needed a brick wall separating them. Or industrial-strength steel.