Page 6 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

“Hardly.” He retrieved his coffee, pulled out a stool next to her, and sat, grabbing another biscotti from the plate. “But I know my way around the kitchen.”

And a few other rooms, too, she’d bet.

She shifted away from him. He smelled way too good. Fresh and clean, like laundry straight off the line, ocean air, and newly cut grass, with a hint of mocha from the cappuccino. “That must make you a huge hit with the ladies.”

“I do all right.”

Probably the world’s biggest understatement. No doubt he had women lining up around the block for his considerable cock and killer cappuccino—condescending attitude notwithstanding.

Not that she cared. She’d traveled halfway across the globe to escape the male sex. She hadn’t intended to run smack into Italy’s answer to David Beckham. And no matter how much her naughty bits protested, she wasn’t about to let him derail her well-laid plans.

This spontaneous excursion was all about Zoe getting some much-needed perspective. Time to relax, take a break from the constant demands of her family, who couldn’t seem to accomplish even the simplest tasks without her assistance, and decide what she was going to do with her life now that she was suddenly single and unemployed. Not bang the first arrogantly attractive alpha male to cross her path—which would be a whole hell of a lot easier if they weren’t sharing the same house. And if he didn’t look so good and smell so good and wasn’t sitting with his thick, taut, scantily clad thigh inches from hers.

She picked up a biscotti and brought it to her mouth.

“Wait,” Dante barked before she could take a bite, making Zoe almost drop the biscotti.

“What now?” she asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind about feeding me. Haven’t you ever heard of the no backsies rule?”

“You don’t have any food allergies, do you? Eggs? Nuts?” He paused for a split second, just long enough for her to see something dark and mysterious cross his face. “Strawberries?”

“Nope. I’m one hundred percent allergy free.”

“Then by all means, indulge yourself.”

“Are you always so vigilant about food allergies?”

“Yes,” he answered, his voice low but forceful.

There it was again. That mysterious something that darkened his classically handsome features. And damn if it didn’t make him even more attractive. It was that whole broody bad-boy thing that usually wasn’t her jam but was totally working on him.

She bit into her biscotti, washing it down with a generous gulp of cappuccino. No leisurely breakfast for her. She needed to put a little distance between her and the Italian stallion. Pronto.

“Stop.” Dante held up a hand. “That is not how you drink cappuccino.”

Not again. It was like she could do no right where this guy was concerned. What was his deal? It wasn’t her fault his grandmother rented the villa without telling him. If he was going to be mad at anybody, it should be at his own flesh and blood. Not her.

She eyed him over the rim of her cup, not willing to back down. She had as much right to be there as he did, and if he didn’t like it, he could go jump in Lake Como. “Really? I thought the general idea was to get it into my mouth and not down my shirt.”

“A good cup of cappuccino is a work of art. To be sipped. Not slugged down like that bitter, unpalatable swill you Americans call coffee.”

He lifted his mug to his lips and inhaled deeply, letting the scent pull him in before tipping the cup and swallowing. She followed suit, earning an approving nod.

“Better. When you’ve mastered it, you can move on to the fine Italian art of dunking.” He demonstrated again, dipping one end of his biscotti into his mug and crunching into it.

She nibbled at her suddenly sad, dry biscuit. “Thanks, Obi Wan. I can hardly wait.”

He repeated the dunking ritual and took another bite, taunting her. “Perfect. Nonna’s secret recipe never fails.”

“Your grandmother baked these?” She nibbled again. Even dry it was delicious. She wasn’t a foodie by any stretch of the imagination, but she thought she tasted almond and vanilla.

“No.” He gestured toward a rack next to the sink, where a mixing bowl, baking pan, and a whole host of kitchen utensils sat drying. “I did.”

She lowered her biscotti, which had been poised at her mouth, ready for another taste, and gaped at him. Cappuccino was one thing. But baking? That was on a whole other level. It required practice. Patience. Precision. Precision she’d give him. He seemed like the exacting sort. But patience? No way. “You’re joking.”

“I don’t joke.”

“Now that I believe.” His shouldn’t-be-sexy scowl, deep, authoritative voice, the way he carried himself, regal and proud, even in only his boxers, all spoke of a serious businessman who spent his days behind an impressive chrome-and-glass desk on the top floor of some equally impressive high-rise, signing important papers and barking at minions. Not in front of a stove measuring, chopping, and stirring.