Page 5 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

He half-heartedly lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “I’m wearing clothes.”

“Underwear doesn’t count.”

He lowered the burner and turned to face her, hitching his thumbs under his waistband. “I can take them off, if you prefer.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of adding a layer, not subtracting one.”

“What about you?” His eyes raked her up and down, lingering a little too long on her chest and sending traitorous prickles of heat through her body. “You’re not wearing much more than I am. If I have to add a layer, then so do you.”

She crossed her legs, bare below the hem of her sleep shorts, and tugged on the bottom of her matching Fries Before Guys tank top, pulling it tighter across her breasts and accentuating her already pebbled nipples. Two could play this game. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not the one parading around in my Jockeys. These are pajamas. I got them in the loungewear section at Macy’s.”

An impulse buy after her breakup with Brad. But she stood by the slogan on her shirt. In the space of seven short days, she’d been burned twice by the male of the species, at work and in love. Given the choice, she’d definitely go with the fries.

Dante shrugged again as if to say, “Have it your way,” and went back to his breakfast, pouring the steaming milk into a waiting mug until it foamed. When he was done, he rested his barely covered behind against the counter and took a long, leisurely sip of what she assumed was a cappuccino.

“Delicious,” he declared, licking a spot of foam from his full, firm, way-too-kissable upper lip.

Zoe tried to ignore the tingling in her private parts and concentrate instead on the appalling absence of caffeine in her bloodstream. “I don’t suppose you made enough for a second cup.”

“I thought you said I’d hardly know you were here.” He reached behind him, grabbed a biscotti from a plate next to what looked like a sophisticated espresso machine, and bit into it with a satisfied moan.

Zoe’s stomach grumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours. What with her whole exhausting planes-trains-and-automobiles adventure, topped off by the discovery of a buck-naked Adonis in her rented villa, food had gotten pushed to the back burner.

She looked longingly at the plate of pastry. “I guess that means no biscotti for me.”

“I suppose I could indulge you this once.” With a grudging sigh, he took a mug from a cabinet above the stove, popped it into the espresso machine, and hit a complicated series of buttons until it began to whir. “But if you’re going to stay, you might want to go into town for some staples. There’s an excellent farmers’ market on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“What do you mean, ‘if I’m going to stay?’” She sat up taller, trying to make her small frame seem imposing. “I told you, I’m not going anywhere. I rented this villa until the end of the month.”

There it was again, that infuriating, dismissive shrug, accompanied this time by an equally derisive eye roll. “People are fickle. Plans are flexible. And you know what they say.”

He paused, and she stared at him expectantly. “Please, enlighten me.”

“It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind,” he said, smirking.

She bristled, stopping herself short of slamming her hand down on the granite. “Well, this woman isn’t changing hers. Not now. Not ever.”

His smirk widened. “Never say never. You know, there are plenty of other accommodations in Positano where you wouldn’t have to put up with my half-naked ass. I’d even be willing to help you find something.”

“How generous of you. But no thanks. I’m staying here.”

He arched a brow. “You like my half-naked ass, then?”

“It’s not you I’m interested in. It’s Alberto Pinto.”

“Who?”

“The man responsible for all this.” She waved a hand at their surroundings. The eclectic mix of traditional and modern elements was classic Pinto. “Bella Vista was one of the last homes he decorated before he died.”

“You’re interested in interior design?”

“Interested is an understatement. It’s my passion.”

Or it was. And it would be again. As soon as she figured out her next move. Look for a position at another firm? Start her own company? Branch out into exhibit design, or maybe focus on sustainable interiors? She’d always been interested in green technologies and the energy-efficient use of space. The possibilities were endless, if she let herself imagine them. She might be down, but she wasn’t out. Not by a long shot.

The espresso machine finished its whirring. Dante extracted the cup and topped it off with milk from the still steaming pot. Then he placed it, and the plate of biscotti, on the counter in front of her.

“Thanks.” Zoe picked up the mug and drank. Yep. Cappuccino. And a damn good one at that. Not an easy thing to master, something she knew all too well from her brief stint behind the counter at Starbucks. “Let me guess. You’re an independently wealthy barista.”