Page 63 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

“Positive. How else can I prove to you that Puccini’s soaring melodies are more ear-pleasing than Freddie Mercury’s caterwauling?” The hint of a smile that had started to play around the corners of his lips faded, and his teasing tone grew more serious. He put an arm around her, pulling her closer. “Please,carina. I don’t want this night to end. Not yet. Let me share this with you. I need to share this with you.”

That hopping, skipping, and jumping thing? Her heart was doing it, triple time. He’d shared so much of himself already. She had no right to want more, but she did.

“Freddie Mercury didn’t caterwaul,” she said, trying to follow his initial lead and add some lightness to what had been an emotionally exhausting evening. “But I’d be happy to—”

“Senta. Senta, scusi.” A police officer in a neon yellow vest ran up to them, blowing his whistle. “Stand up.”

Zoe blinked up at him. “I’m sorry, officer. Did we do something wrong?”

“Loitering on the steps is illegal.” He shook a finger at them, then took a pad and pen from his vest. “It will cost you two hundred and fifty euros. Each.”

Dante stood, holding out a hand to Zoe and pulling her up with him. “We were just leaving.”

“Too late. I’ve seen you. The crime has already been committed.” The officer flipped his pad open and started scribbling.

Dante glanced down at the Gucci slingbacks he’d bought just that morning for more money than Zoe wanted to remember, then whispered in her ear. “Can you run in those heels?”

She risked a glimpse at the officer, who was head down, still scrawling away. “I don’t know.”

“Are you willing to try?” Dante asked, his smile full-blown and the unhappiness in his eyes replaced by a mischievous glint.

She met his gaze, glad for the diversion. Like Dante, she didn’t want this night to end, either. Even if it meant trying to outrun the police in four-inch heels. “I’m game if you are.”

“On the count of three.” He tightened his grip on her hand. “One, two—”

“Three,” Zoe yelled.

And they took off down the stairs, giggling like the teenagers they pushed past as they made their way through the crowd, the officer’s muffled curses fading behind them in the warm September night.

Chapter Thirteen

Dante was right.

They had just enough time to make it to their box seats as the lights were going down. Of course, it didn’t hurt that they were running from the law. Even in her brand-new, not-yet-broken-in, too-high heels, Zoe figured they cut a good five minutes off the trek from Piazza di Spagna to the opera house.

Her phone buzzed. Again. It had been buzzing all night, but she’d dutifully ignored it. She knew who it was and what he wanted. She just wasn’t ready to answer him yet.

She fished her phone out of her purse to silence it, glancing at the latest text before shutting it off.

Yep. Just as she suspected. Her former boss’s boss. He’d been leaving voicemails and texts ever since the poker game yesterday. Apparently, Smarmy Marty wasn’t only a two-faced design stealer. He’d also been padding his expenses. He’d been found out and fired, and the firm was offering her his job—at almost twice her old salary.

Sure, she was happy that good won out and the bad guy got what he deserved. But she didn’t want to think about what was waiting for her back in San Francisco. She wanted to live in the moment, in the fairy tale, for as long as it lasted. And the fairy tale was in Rome, with Dante, the man who had just bared his soul to her.

“That’s Mimi,” he whispered, pointing to a stunning brunette in a simple, pale blue gown. “See how her candle is out? She’s asking Rudolfo to light it for her.”

“Right,” Zoe said, remembering Dante’s late-night opera tutorial at Bella Vista. She slipped her aching feet out of her shoes and tucked them underneath her. One advantage of being secluded in a box. “And then she’s going to faint and he’s going go all Christian Grey on her and steal her key.”

Dante chuckled. “Close enough.”

“What’s he saying now?” Zoe asked a few minutes later when Rudolfo took Mimi’s hand and began to sing.

“‘Che gelida manina.’” Dante copied Rudolfo, taking Zoe’s hand and turning it over to trace her life line. “It means, ‘What a cold little hand.’ He’s telling her he’s a poet and asking her more about her life. He wants to know everything about her. Her hopes. Her dreams. Her fears.”

Zoe’s breath caught in her throat. She wasn’t sure if Dante was still talking about Mimi and Rudolfo or if he was talking about them.

“Listen,carina.” Dante’s low whisper tickled her cheek and ruffled the hair behind her ear. “Now they’re singing together, confessing their love for one another. He says she’s a dream come to life, a dream he prays always to dream. She calls him her beloved and tells him he alone commands her heart.”

Game, set, match to Dante. Zoe had no idea opera could be so beautiful. So moving. So—okay, he was right—romantic. By the end of the fourth act, when Rudolfo rushed to Mimi’s bedside only to find her dead from consumption or some other old-timey disease that made you cough a lot, Zoe was sobbing right along with him.