The Real Rio D'Aquila

It was an interesting face. Triangular. High cheekbones. Big green eyes. Feline, he thought.

Not that it mattered, but if she’d been in some kind of accident he supposed he could, at least, offer to—

“It is your attitude that would be news to him,” Isabella Orsini said, hoping her voice would not tremble because everything inside her was bouncing around like an unset bowl of gelatin and after all she’d gone through today, there wasn’t a way in hell she was going to permit this half-naked, good-looking-if-you-were-foolish-enough-to-like-the-type flunky of a too rich, too powerful, too full-of-himself ape to stop her now.

There was a moment’s silence. Then Mr. Half-Naked raised one dark eyebrow.

“Really.”

His tone was soft but it made Izzy’s heart thump. To hell with thumping hearts, she thought, and lifted her chin.

“Really,” she said, with all the hauteur she could muster.

Mr. Half-Naked gave another of those thin smiles and motioned toward the door.

“In that case,” he said, in a voice that was almost a purr, “you had better come in.”

CHAPTER TWO

A NAKED man.

A house in the middle of nowhere.

An open door, and an invitation to step through it.

Izzy swallowed hard.

Did she truly want to do that? She was not into taking risks. Everyone knew that about her, even her father, who didn’t actually know anything about any of his children.

I have heard that you are considering taking on a new client, Isabella, Cesare Orsini had said during one of the inevitable Sunday command performance dinners at the Orsini mansion. But you will not.

“Excuse me?” Izzy had said.

Her father had given her what she’d always thought of as one of his “I am the head of this family” glares except, of course, his glares as don of the East Coast’s most powerful famiglia had more impact on those who feared him than they did on his sons and daughters.

To them, he was not the head of anything. He was just a shame to be borne for the sake of their mother.

“Do I not speak English as well as you? I said, you are not to work for Rio D’Aquila.”

“And you say this because …?”

“I know of him and I do not like what I know. Therefore, accepting a position that will make you his servant is out of the question.”

Isabella would have laughed had her father’s view of what she did for a living not been such an old argument.

“I am not a servant, Father, I am a horticulturist with a degree from the University of Connecticut.”

“You are a gardener.”

“I certainly am. And what if I were what you call a servant? There’s nothing dishonorable in being a maid or a cook.”

“Orsinis do not bow their heads or bend their knees to anyone, Isabella. Is that clear?”

Nothing had been clear, starting with how her father had learned she’d been invited to bid on a job for a billionaire she’d never even heard of until a couple of weeks ago, going straight through to how Cesare could have imagined she would take orders from him.

If anything, his certainty that she would click her heels and obey him was what had convinced her to give serious consideration to the offer, something she really had not intended until then.

Now here she was, in Southampton, a place that might as well have been Mars for all she knew about it, hours late for an important interview, her car in a ditch, her suit and her shoes absolute disasters.

No. She was not going to think about that now. It would be self-defeating … and hadn’t she had enough of that?

It was enough to wonder at the crazed logic of moving past an all-but-naked man, a gorgeous all-but-naked man, to step inside a house that was, conservatively speaking, the size of an airplane hangar.

“Well? Are you coming inside, or have you changed your mind about Mr. D’Aquila expecting you?”

Izzy blinked. The caretaker, or whatever he was, was watching her with amusement. Forget amusement. That expression on his face was a smirk.

How lovely to be the day’s entertainment, Isabella thought, and drew herself to her full five foot seven.

“I am not in the habit of changing my mind about anything,” she said, and almost winced.

Such a stupid thing to say.

Too late.

She’d said it and now her feet, which seemingly had only a tenuous connection to her brain, propelled her past him, up a set of wide steps, through a massive door and into the house. She jumped as the door slammed shut behind her.

She wanted to think it was with the sound of doom but the truth was, it was the sound of a door slamming, nothing more, nothing less …

And ohmygod, the entry foyer was so big! It was huge!

“Yes. It is, isn’t it?”

She spun around. Mr. Half-Naked was standing right in back of her, arms folded across his chest. A very impressive chest, all muscle and golden skin and dark curls.

Her gaze skimmed lower.

A six-pack, she thought, sucking in her breath. Those bands of muscle really did exist, neatly bisected by silky-looking hair that arrowed down and down and …

“The foyer,” he said, his voice not just amused but smoky. Her gaze flew to his. “You were thinking it was big. Huge, in fact.” A smile tilted the corner of his lips. “That was what you were referring to, wasn’t it?”

She felt her face heat. Had she spoken aloud? She must have, but she’d certainly never meant to infer …

Isabella narrowed her eyes. Damn the man!

He was playing games at her expense.

Still, she could hardly blame him.

He might be only half-dressed but she—

She was a mess.

Everything she had on was stained, torn or smudged. A few hours ago, she’d looked perfect. Well, as perfect as she could ever look. She’d taken more time preparing for this meeting than she’d ever prepared for anything in her life.

Actually, she hadn’t done a thing.

Anna had done it all.

A suit instead of her usual jeans. A wool suit, hot as blazes on a day like this but, Anna had said, The Proper Thing for such an important interview. A silk blouse instead of a T-shirt. Shoes rather than sandals, and with heels so ridiculously high she could hardly walk in them, especially the million miles she’d had to plod after that rabbit had somehow materialized in the middle of the road and her car had taken a nosedive into that miserable ditch.

All of it was Anna’s, of course. The suit, the blouse, the shoes.

The car.

Oh, God, the car!

Forget that for now.

She had to concentrate on what lay ahead, the all-important chance to transform Growing Wild from a shoe-box operation in a cheap storefront on what was most definitely not a trendy street near the Gowanus Canal to an elegant shop—an elegant shoppe, Anna had joked—in SoHo. Or in the Village. Or on the Upper East Side.

No.

She’d never go that far.

The truth was, she liked the neighborhood she was in, seedy as it was, but she had to admit the growth of her little landscaping business was dependent on location and on landing a couple of really important clients. Aside from the admitted pleasure of defying her father, that was why she’d agreed to the interview with Rio D’Aquila, a man the papers called a removed, cold, heartless multibillionaire.

Heaven knew she was familiar enough with the type.

Izzy’s work was skilled and imaginative; she used only the most beautiful flowers and greenery. That made her services costly. It made them the province of the very rich.

And dealing with them was sometimes unpleasant. It was sometimes downright horrible. The very rich could be totally self-serving, completely selfish, uncaring of others …

“They’re not all like that,” Anna had said.

Well, no. Her brothers were very rich. So was Anna’s husband. But—

“But,” Anna had said, with incontrovertible logic, “if you’re going to have to like a person before you take him as a client, Isabella, you’re never going to make Growing Wild a success.”

True enough. And when you coupled that simple wisdom with the fact that the offer was important enough for Anna to refer to her as Isabella …

Well, that had convinced her.

Unfortunately, Izzy was here, not Anna.

Sophisticated Anna would have known how to handle the situation. She would not have gotten lost or crashed the car. She certainly would not have turned up hours late for this appointment.

And she absolutely would not have let a man like this intimidate her. She’d have known how to handle the half-dressed muscleman who was having such fun at her expense.

That smirk was still on his face.

It infuriated her. After the day she’d had, Izzy was in no mood to be laughed at, certainly not by him.

She knew his type.

Good-looking. Glib-tongued. Full of himself, especially when it came to women, because women, the silly fools, undoubtedly threw themselves at his feet with all the grace of—of salmon throwing themselves upstream.

Okay, a bad metaphor. The point was, she was not a woman to be intimidated by an empty-headed stud. She was a self-sufficient businesswoman, never mind that she wasn’t self-sufficient enough to be wearing her own clothes or driving her own car.

All that mattered was that she was here. And time was wasting. The sun would set soon, and then what?

Then what, indeed?

The caretaker was leaning against a table, hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans. She had a choice of views. His incredible face. His incredible chest. The tight fit of those faded jeans—

Stop it, she told herself sternly, and set her gaze squarely on his chin.

“Look,” she said, “I really don’t have time for this.”

“For what?”

Was the man dense?

“Where is your boss?”

That won her a shrug. “He’s around.”

The answer, the lazy lift of those shoulders, those amazingly broad shoulders, infuriated her. All that macho. That attitude. That testosterone.

That naked chest.

Damnit, she was back to that and it was his fault. She’d have bet it was deliberate.

Izzy narrowed her eyes.

“Do you think you could possibly muster up enough ambition to find him and tell him I’m here?”

Mr. Half-Naked didn’t move. Not a muscle. Well, that wasn’t true. He did move a muscle; one corner of his mouth lifted, either in question or in another bout of hilarity at her expense.

Could you actually feel your blood pressure rising?

“One problem,” he said lazily. “I’m still waiting for you to tell me why you’re here.”

The simplest thing would be to do exactly that. Just say, I’m here to meet with Mr. D’Aquila and talk about landscaping this property.

It was certainly not a secret.

The problem was, she didn’t like Mr. All Brawn and No Brains’s attitude.

Okay. That wasn’t fair.

Just because he looked like he’d stepped off one of those calendars her roommate used to drool over in her college-dorm days didn’t mean he was stupid.

It only meant he was so beautiful that looking at him made her heart do a little two-step, and that was surely ridiculous, almost as ridiculous as this silly power game they were playing.

Who cared if it was silly? She was entitled to win at something today!

“What are you?” she said sarcastically. “His appointment secretary?”

One dark eyebrow rose again. “Maybe I’m his butler.”

She stared at him for a long minute. Then she laughed.

Rio grinned.

He was really getting to her. Good. Fine. It was a lot more rewarding to take his pent-up irritation out on the woman, whoever she was, than on a trench.

“His butler, huh?” Her chin went up. “One thing’s for sure, mister. I guarantee you’re going to be looking for another job two minutes after I meet your employer.”

Rio folded his arms over his chest.

The lady was losing her temper. Let her lose it. Let her get ticked off. Let her see how it felt to be frustrated enough to want Izzy Orsini to finally show up if only so that he could deck the jerk. If that was unfair—

Hey, life was unfair. Besides, the lady wasn’t exactly behaving like a lady.

Well, yeah, she was.

Her clothes were a mess, but they were expensive.

So was her attitude.

He was the peasant, she was the princess. Only one problem in that little scenario.

The princess had no idea he held all the cards.

Well, not quite all. He still didn’t know what had brought her here. The only certainty was that her presence could not possibly have anything to do with him.

Maybe she sold magazines door to door.

Maybe Southampton had designated her its Fruitcake of the Month.

Whoever she was, whatever she was, she was a welcome diversion. This little farce was fast becoming the best part of his long and irritating afternoon.

She was also very easy on the eyes, now that he’d had the chance to get a longer look at her.

The made-for-midwinter suit was rumpled, torn and a little dirty, but he was pretty sure it hid a made-for-midsummer-bikini body. Wool or no wool, he could make out the thrust of high breasts, the indentation of a feminine waist, the curve of rounded hips.

Rio frowned.

What the hell had put that into his head?

She was a woman, and women were not on his current agenda. He’d just ended an affair—women called them “relationships” but men knew better—and, as always, getting out of it had been a lot more difficult than getting in. Women were creatures of baffling complexity and despite what they all said, they inevitably ended up wanting something he could not, would not, give.

Commitment. Marriage.

Chains.

Rio moved fast. He intended to keep moving fast, to climb to the absolute top of every mountain that caught his interest. Why be handicapped by things he didn’t want or need? Why anchor himself to one woman and inevitably tire of her?

He had to admit, though, some women were more intriguing than others.

This one, for instance.

She was tough. Or brave. Maybe that was the better word for her.

Standing up to him took courage at the best of times. Right now, looking as he did, half-naked, unkempt, hell, downright scruffy—he hadn’t even shaved this morning, now that he thought about it—took colhões. Or cojones. The point was the same, in Portuguese or in Italian. Facing him down took courage. No, he didn’t look like Jack the Ripper but he sure as hell didn’t look like he’d stepped out of GQ, which was surely the kind of guy she normally dealt with.

This was, after all, the weekend haunt of the rich and famous. The I-Want-to-Be-Alone rich and famous, but that didn’t change the fact that he wasn’t usually the kind of guy who met you at the front door.

Given all that, he supposed you could call her foolish instead of brave. A woman who went toe-to-toe with a stranger, who walked into a house with a man she’d never seen before …

Foolish, sure.

But determined. Gutsy.

It was clear she wasn’t going to give ground until she met Rio D’Aquila.

A gentleman would have made it easy. I’m Rio D’Aquila, a gentleman would have said, right up-front, or if he’d let things go on for a while, he’d smile at her now, apologize for any confusion and introduce himself.

A muscle flickered in Rio’s jaw.

Yes, but he had not always been a gentleman. And right now, suddenly turning into one held no appeal.

The truth was, as soon as Rio D’Aquila appeared, all this would stop.

The bantering. The courage. Probably even the little blushes she tried to conceal each time she reminded herself that he wasn’t wearing a shirt.

He liked it. All of it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a woman blush, or the last time one had stood up to him.

It had been at least a decade on both counts, right around the time he’d made his first million.

The truth was, he was enjoying himself, playing at being someone he had once been. A man, not a name or a corporation or, even worse, a line in a gossip column.

Hell, there was nothing wrong with the game he was playing. It was just an extension of what had prompted him to buy the land and put up a house here in the first place.

He was being himself.

Rio frowned. And faced facts, because all that entire bit of justification was pure, unadulterated crap.

This was not who he was.

He didn’t dig ditches. He didn’t walk around half-dressed unless he was alone or unless he’d just been to bed with a woman, and what did that have to do with anything happening right now?

The point was, he was honest with people. Even with women, and that was occasionally difficult. No matter the situation, he never played games at a woman’s expense.

It was just that this particular woman was a puzzle, and he had always liked puzzles.

Why was she dressed for winter when it was summer? Why was there a rip in her skirt, dirt on those come-and-get-me stilettos, a smudge on her blouse?

Now that he took a better look, there was a streak of dirt on her cheek, too.

It was an elegant cheek. Highly arched. Rose hued. And, he was certain, silken to the touch.

Her hair looked as if it would feel that way, too. It was dark. Lustrous. She’d yanked it back, secured it at the nape of her neck, but it refused to stay confined.

Tendrils were coming loose.

One in particular lay against her temple, daring him to reach for it, let it curl around his finger, see if it felt as soft as it looked.

She had great eyes. A nice nose. And she had a lovely mouth.

Pink. Generous but not, he was sure, pumped full of whatever horror it was that turned women into fish-lipped monstrosities.

One thing was certain.

Despite the classic suit, the demure blouse, the pulled back hair, that mouth was made for sin.

For sin, Rio thought, and felt his body stir.

Hell.

He swung away from her, irritated with himself for his unexpected reaction, with her for causing it. She was on his turf and she had no right to be there.

For a man who liked puzzles, the only one that needed solving was figuring out why he hadn’t ended this charade before it began.

Truth time, Rio thought, and he unfolded his arms and took a long breath.

“Okay,” he said, “enough.”

His unwanted guest turned paper-white. Cristo, he thought, and cursed himself for being a fool.

“No,” he said quickly, “I didn’t mean …” He forced a smile. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said, but, damnit, her voice was shaking.

“You don’t understand.” He went toward her, held out his hand. She stared at it. He did, too, saw the redness of his knuckles, the dirt on his skin and under his nails, drew his hand back and wiped it on his jeans. “I shouldn’t have made things so difficult. You don’t want to tell me who you are until you’re positive Rio D’Aquila is here, that’s fine.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said quickly. “I’ll just—I’ll just phone Mr. D’Aquila from the city—”

“Is that where you’re from? New York?”

“Yes—but really, you don’t have to—”

“Obviously,” he said, trying to lighten things, “I’m not the butler.”

He waited. After a few seconds, she gave him a hesitant smile.

“No,” she said, “I didn’t think you were.”

Okay. It was time. He had the feeling she was going to be furious at his subterfuge but it wouldn’t matter.

He’d identify himself as the man she’d come to see, she’d tell him why she was here—something to do with town records, he’d bet, because it suddenly occurred to him that there’d been some sort of paper his lawyer had said he had to sign.

Whatever, they’d introduce themselves, he’d scribble his signature on the document she produced, and that would be the end of it.

“So,” Rio said, “let’s start from scratch.”

He extended his hand again. She looked at it, at him, and then she put her hand in his. It was a small, feminine hand; his all but swallowed it and yet, he could feel calluses on her fingers, which surprised him.

The coolness of her skin surprised him, too. It was a warm day. Was she still nervous about him? It was definitely time to identify himself and set her concerns at ease.

“Hello,” he said, and smiled. “I’m—”

“The handyman.”

He almost laughed. “Well, no. Not exact—”

“The caretaker. Sorry.” She swiped the tip of her tongue over her lips, leaving them pink and delicately moist. “Nice to meet you”

“Yes.” He dragged his gaze from her mouth. “And you are …?”

“Oh. Sorry. I’m the landscaper.”

Maybe he hadn’t heard her right. “Excuse me?”

“Well, not the landscaper. I’m an applicant.” She looked around, then lowered her voice. “I’m late. Terribly late, but—”

“But?” he said carefully.

“But still, where’s your boss? He was expecting me. You know, Isabella Orsini. From Growing Wild?”

“You?” Rio heard his voice rise. Hell, why not? He could feel his eyebrows shooting for his hairline. “You’re Izzy Orsini?”

“That’s me.” She gave a nervous laugh. “And I hope this Rio D’Aquila isn’t, you know, what I heard he was.”

“What you heard he was?” he said, and wondered when in hell he’d turned into a parrot.

“Cold. Ruthless. Bad-tempered.”

Rio cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose some people might say he was simply a—”

“An arrogant tyrant. But you don’t have to like someone to work for them, right? I mean, here you are, Mister—Mister—”

Rio didn’t even hesitate.

“My name is Matteo,” he said. “Matteo Rossi. And you have it right. I’m D’Aquila’s caretaker.”

CHAPTER THREE

MATTEO Rossi still had Izzy’s hand trapped in his.

Well, no. Not trapped. Not exactly.

Just clasped, that was all. The pressure of his fingers over hers wasn’t hard or unpleasant or threatening, it was simply—it was simply—

Masculine. Totally, completely, unquestionably masculine.

Everything about him was masculine, from the drop-dead-gorgeous face to the King-of-the-Centerfolds body, but then a man who did manual labor on an estate of this size wouldn’t have to work up a sweat in a gym.

He was the real thing.

That was why those muscles in his shoulders, his biceps, his chest were so—so well-defined.

Isabella’s mouth went dry.

Her interest, of course, was purely clinical. After all, she did manual labor, too. Planting, weeding, all those things, even when done on Manhattan terraces rather than Southampton estates, made for sweat and muscles. Combine that with what she recalled of college physiology and she could easily conjure up a mental image of him working, sweating …

Except, the images flashing through her head didn’t have a damned thing to do with work. Not work done in a garden, anyway.

Actually, not anything a normal, healthy woman would call “work.”

Or so she’d heard.

God, what was wrong with her? He was sweaty and good-looking. So what? Neither of those things had anything to do with sexual attraction …

Liar, she thought, and she pulled her hand free of his.

“For heaven’s sake,” she snapped, “don’t you own a shirt?”

There was a moment of horrified silence. No, she thought, please no, tell me I didn’t say that …

The caretaker made a choked sound. She jerked her head up, looked at him and, oh, Lord, he was trying not to laugh but his eyes met hers and a guffaw broke from his lips.

Isabella wanted to die. How could she have said such a thing?

Unfortunately, she knew the answer.

When it came to men, good-looking men, there were two Isabellas.