Page 9 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

“That might be difficult.”

“Why?”

Dante blew out a long, heavy breath. “This one’s living with me.”

There was a moment of stunned silence before Miguel spoke. “We must have a bad connection. It sounded like you said this woman is living with you.”

“You heard right.” Dante scraped a hand across his jaw, rough with morning stubble since he hadn’t bothered to shower or shave. “My grandmother rented Bella Vista to her for the whole month.”

“Without telling you?”

“Si.”

Miguel let out a low whistle. “That does complicate matters.”

“You don’t have to tell me.” Dante stood and paced the room. He wasn’t one to stay still for long. Inactivity made him nervous, edgy. And he thought more clearly when he was in motion.

“Why not move out? It’s not like you have nowhere else to go. Your penthouse in Rome. The cabin in the Alps. The estate on Lake Como.”

“It’s a matter of principle.” Bella Vista had always been Nicole’s favorite of the Sabbatini homes. She’d loved reading on the terrace, swimming in the Mediterranean, haggling with the vendors at the farmers’ market. That was why he’d proposed to her there, on a moonlit night with the gentle surf of the Mediterranean as their soundtrack. It was only right he remember her there. “This is my family’s home. The one who should be leaving is Zoe.”

“Ah, she has a name.”

Dante could almost hear his friend’s self-satisfied sneer.

“Of course she has a name,” he snapped. “Everyone has a name.”

“A lovely name. Does she have a lovely face to match?”

Yes. A lovely face and a lovely figure with a round, ripe bottom and a pair of breasts that seem to defy gravity.

Dante stopped pacing and fought to focus his one-track mind. “Lovely or not, she’s still here. And she’s refusing to leave.”

“Offer to put her up somewhere else. With your money, you could rent out an entire five-star hotel and not put a dent in your pocketbook.”

“I tried. She won’t bite, and neither will my grandmother. She says Zoe is free to stay as long as she wants.”

“There’s your answer. Make her not want to stay.”

“I tried that, but nothing I do seems to faze her. Behaving like an ass. Walking around in my underwear.”

“Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?” Miguel scoffed. “I doubt that’s much of a deterrent. Unless your house guest has an aversion to attractive Italian millionaires.”

Dante ignored the backhanded compliment. “Do you have any better ideas? I need her gone. The sooner the better.”

“Well, if you’re that opposed to sharing your house with a beautiful woman—”

“I am.”

“Remember our fourth suitemate?” Miguel asked. “The one who didn’t even last through the first term? What was his name?”

“Felix.”

“Right, Felix.” Miguel said the name like it was a communicable disease. “He liked to play heavy metal music all night. Microwave fish. Forget to flush the toilet. And those were just a few of his more disgusting habits.”

Dante grimaced, remembering. “He was annoying as hell.”

“Exactly,” Miguel said, chuckling. “Pull a Felix on this girl, and she’ll be out the door before you can sayser pan comido.”