Innocent In The Billionaire's Bed

Tempted by the tycoon’s touch...

Rio Mastrangelo doesn’t want anything from the father who never acknowledged him. So when he unexpectedly inherits an island paradise, he’s determined to sell it as fast as he can! But the potential purchaser who lands on his shores is not the spoiled heiress he’s been expecting—and her luscious body fills him with a rush of hot, undeniable desire.

Cash-strapped Tilly Morgan accepted a payment to impersonate her best friend, but she hadn’t bargained on sexy Rio. When a storm hits, trapping them together, there’s nowhere to run from their raging hunger—and passion threatens to uncover Tilly’s every vulnerability...

Rio’s hands lifted to Tilly’s shoulders. His expression was dark.

Without make-up, her skin glowing from the shower, her hair pulled up into another messy bun, and with a tiny towel barely covering her, she was the most desirable woman he had ever seen. Rio glided his hands over her upper arms, but he wanted more. His hand moved to the back of her towel, pushing her towards him. She connected with his body—by design this time. She was soft and small, her curves fitting perfectly to him, as though they’d been designed for one another.

Her lashes were too dark—feathered fans against her flushed cheeks. And the small moan she made sent his pulse into overdrive. Would she moan when they made love? Would her pillowy lips part, breathing those sweet sounds into the air?

His need was a tsunami inside him, crashing inexorably towards land. She was the shore, she was the anchor, and he was powerless to fight the pull of her tide. Rio had never considered himself powerless before. But he didn’t care.

He lifted his hand to her face, cupping her cheek and sweeping the ball of his thumb over her lower lip. Her eyes flew open, pinning him with the same tsunami of need that was ravaging his defences.

‘We shouldn’t do this,’ she said quietly, but her hips pushed forward, moving from side to side in ancient silent invitation.

His fingers plaited through her hair, pulling it from the bun, running through the ends. ‘We shouldn’t,’ he agreed darkly.

CLARE CONNELLY was raised in small-town Australia among a family of avid readers. She spent much of her childhood up a tree, Mills & Boon book in hand. Clare is married to her own real-life hero and they live in a bungalow near the sea with their two children. She is frequently found staring into space—a surefire sign she is in the world of her characters. She has a penchant for French food and ice-cold champagne, and Mills & Boon novels continue to be her favourite ever books. Writing for Modern Romance is a long-held dream. Clare can be contacted via clareconnelly.com or at her Facebook page.

Books by Clare Connelly

Mills & Boon Modern Romance

Bought for the Billionaire’s Revenge

Visit the Author Profile page

at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

Innocent in the Billionaire’s Bed

Clare Connelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Amy Andrews—

It was friendship at first sight.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Extract

Copyright

PROLOGUE

IT WAS STRANGE that here, on an island where she’d spent only a few weeks of her life, Rio should feel so close to his mother. It was almost as if her presence roamed the walls of the shack, or drifted in off the salted waves that were rolling towards him. He didn’t see her here as she’d been at the end, so weakened and ill. Here he imagined her free, running across the sand, her laugh tumbling out of her of its own volition.

He cradled his Scotch, swirling it slightly so the ice chipped against the glass. The sound was swallowed by the surrounds of the island. The beach, the birds, the rustling of the trees. Even the stars seemed to be whispering to one another—and there were so many stars visible from this island in the middle of the sea, far from civilisation.

Rosa had loved it here.

He didn’t smile as he thought of his mother.

Her life had been shaped by loss and hardship, right to the end. And now he sat on the island of the man who could have alleviated so much of that pain, if only he’d bothered or cared.

No.

The island was no longer Piero’s.

It was Rio’s.

A too-little-too-late offering that Rio sure as hell didn’t want.

Even now, a month after his father’s death, Rio knew he’d been right to reject him. To reject any overtures at reconciliation.

He wanted nothing to do with the powerful Italian tycoon—never had, never would. And as soon as he’d offloaded this damned island he’d never think of the man again.

CHAPTER ONE

‘CRESSIDA WYNDHAM?’

This was the time to correct the lie. To be honest. If she wanted to back out of this whole damned mess, then she should just say so here.

No, I’m Matilda Morgan. I work for Art Wyndham.

But her back was well and truly against the wall this time. What had started out as an occasional favour for the high-maintenance heiress had turned into an obligation she couldn’t really escape. Especially not having accepted thirty thousand pounds for this particular ‘favour’. She’d been bought and paid for, and the consequences would be dire if she didn’t go through with the plan.

Besides, it was only for a week. What could go wrong in seven sunny days?

‘Yes...’ she heard herself murmur, before recalling that she was supposed to be acting the part of an heiress to a billion-pound fortune. Mumbling into her cleavage wasn’t really going to cut it.

She lifted her head, forcing herself to meet the man’s eyes with a bright smile. It froze on her face as recognition dawned.

‘You’re Rio Mastrangelo.’

His expression gave nothing away. That wasn’t surprising, though. Illario Mastrangelo was somewhat renowned for his ruthless dynamism. He was reputed to have a heart of ice and stone—he walked away from any deal unless he could get it on his terms. Or so the stories went.

‘Yes.’

The speedboat was rocking rhythmically beneath her. Was that why she felt all lurching and odd? She looked to the driver of the boat—a short man with a gappy smile and weathered skin—but he was engrossed in his newspaper. No help there.

‘I had expected to meet with an estate agent,’ she said, because the silence was thick and she needed to break it.

‘No. No agent.’ He stepped into the shallow water—uncaring, apparently, that his jeans got wet to just below his knees.

No agent. Great.

Cressida had been explicit that there would be.

‘It’s going to be you, some man from an estate agency, and whatever servants come with the island. Just tell them all that you want to spend time on your own to really get a sense of the place and then relax! You’ll get to chill all day, get fed gourmet meals—perfect holiday. Right? It’s no big deal.’

No big deal.

Only, looking at Rio Mastrangelo, Tilly thought the exact opposite was true. He was both a big deal and a big deal-maker, and she was hopelessly out of her depth even in the crystal-clear shallows that lapped against the side of the beautiful boat.

‘Have you got a bag?’

‘Oh, right...’ She nodded, reaching for the Louis Vuitton duffle Cressida had insisted on Tilly bringing.

Rio took it and lifted his eyes to her, a look of glinting curiosity in his expression.

Her stomach rolled in time with the waves. He was far more handsome in person. Or maybe she’d never really paid proper attention.

She knew bits and pieces about him. He was a self-made real estate tycoon. He’d been on the news about a year earlier, interviewed because he had bought a large parcel of land in the south of London to develop. She remembered because she’d been glad; there was a beautiful old pub there—one of the oldest in London, with wonky floors and leaning walls—and she’d worked there for a summer after she’d left school. The idea of it being knocked down had saddened her, and Rio had said in the interview that he intended to rejuvenate it.

‘You travel light,’ he remarked.

Tilly nodded. She’d thrown a few bikinis into the bag, along with a pair of flip-flops, a few books, and some of her go-to summer dresses. Perfect for a week alone on a tropical island.

He slung the bag over his shoulder and then lifted a hand towards her. She stared at it as though he’d turned into a frog.

‘I can manage,’ she said stiffly, wincing inwardly at the prim intonation of her words.

Cressida was definitely not prim. A snob of the first order, yes, but prim...?

Please. Cressida’s antics generally made a trip to Ibiza look like a visit to a retirement village. Cressida’s father—Tilly’s boss—had been thrilled that Cressida had shown a little interest in the business finally, and agreed to visit this island and scout it as a potential hotel site.

Rio Mastrangelo wasn’t Hollywood handsome, Tilly mused as she moved towards the dark stairs that dipped into the back of the boat. Not in that boy-next-door, blond, blue-eyed way that she usually found impossible to resist. Nor was he corporate and conventional, as she would have expected. He was...wild. Untamed.

The words came to her out of nowhere, but as she risked a sidelong glance at him she knew instantly that she was right.

His skin was a dark brown all over, and his lower face was covered in a thick stubble that spoke of having not shaved for days, rather than an attempt to cultivate a fashionable facial hair situation. His eyes were wide-set and a dark grey that would match the ocean at its deepest point. They were rimmed with thick charcoal lashes, long and spiked in curling clumps. His hair was jet-black and it turned outwards at the ends, where it brushed the collar of his shirt.

He had the kind of physique that spoke of an easy athleticism. He was tall, broad-shouldered and leanly muscled. His forearms flexed even as he held her bag.

It was those eyes, though, she thought, turning her attention back to the twin masterpieces in his face.

She felt as though she’d been slapped. They locked to hers: grey warring with green. The boat lurched again. She reached down to the polished timber rail to steady herself, her manicured fingers running over it for strength.

She’d chosen a simple dress for the flight to Italy. It was a designer brand, but she’d picked it up in a charity shop a long time ago—before this crazy plan had even been hatched. It was turquoise—her favourite colour. It complemented her eyes and set off the auburn highlights in her long cherry-red hair. And her skin, though nowhere near as deep a tan as Rio’s, looked golden all over. She’d chosen the dress because it looked good on her and she’d wanted to look good. But not for Rio.

She’d chosen it for the photographers who might snap her passing through Rome’s airport, or travelling on the ferry to Capri. For the tourists with cell phones who would recognise Cressida Wyndham, her doppelgänger, en route to a luxurious Mediterranean holiday. She’d kept her head bent, as though she really was an heiress avoiding attention, but she’d courted it at the same time.

She’d chosen to wear the dress for those reasons.

For Rio, she suspected, she would be safer wearing a nun’s habit.

Anything to discourage his eyes from drifting over her in that slow, curious way they had.

She understood the speculation in them; she’d met enough men in her twenty-four years to know what interest looked like. Cursed, in many ways, with the kind of curves most women would kill for, Tilly had long ago come to despise her generous cleavage, neat waist and rounded bottom. There was something about her figure that seemed to signal to men that she wanted to strip naked and jump into their bed.

The boat shifted again, as a wave rolled beneath it, and she paused, reaching for the rail once more. The driver had backed it as close as possible to the shore but even so it wouldn’t be possible to disembark from the boat without getting her feet wet. She slipped her shoes off and hooked them with her finger, self-consciously aware that Rio was watching her from the shallows of the ocean.

She stepped down, and at the bottom moved to disembark from the luxury craft. But she mistimed it—badly. Another wave rolled and she lost her footing, stumbling almost completely into the water.

Rio caught her, of course. With Cressida’s bag hoisted safely over one shoulder, and taking only a single, long step in Tilly’s direction, he swept his arm around her back at just the moment she would have gone completely underwater.

He pulled her upright, his eyes crinkled with mocking amusement.

He was even more devastatingly handsome up close, where she could see the freckles that danced on his aquiline nose and appreciate the depths of his eyes, which weren’t just grey. They had flecks of black and green in there too, swirling together in a combination of shapes and colours that she could stare at all day.

‘I thought you could manage?’ he prompted.

Tilly was stricken. What a fool she was! Cressida would never have fumbled such a basic manoeuvre as exiting a speedboat. No, Cressida would have taken his damned hand when he’d offered it and run her fingernails over his palm, encouraging him to stare at her all he wanted. Inviting him to do much more than that.

Matilda Morgan, though, was a Grade A klutz. Falling off a speedboat was just the kind of thing her twin brother Jack would have laughed about, and she would have joined him. Tilly never missed a chance to be amused by her own lack of finesse.

She heard the amusement escape from her mouth as a giggle at first, and then finally a full-blown laugh, though she lifted a hand to cover it.

‘I’m sorry.’ She smiled up at Rio, lifted a hand around his neck in an automatic response. ‘I’m perhaps the clumsiest person you’ll ever meet.’

Her laugh, and the admission of a lack of coordination hot on its heels, caught him unawares.

When Art Wyndham had said he’d be sending his daughter Cressida to complete an inspection of Prim’amore Rio had felt mixed emotions.

On the one hand, the beautiful heiress was known to be vapid and uninterested—he suspected he’d have her desperate to buy the island in a day or two at the most. And on the other, from what he’d heard of the mogul’s daughter, Cressida Wyndham was the kind of woman he had only ever found good for one thing. She was all beauty, no substance, and she was the last person he’d willingly spend time with—except, possibly, in his bed.

But he had to admit her laugh was lovely. Like music and sunshine.

Still smiling, she pushed away from him, standing on her own two feet. ‘I’m fine,’ she assured him. ‘Just a little wet.’

He made a guttural noise of agreement and then released her abruptly. ‘You can dry off inside.’

He nodded towards the shoreline and for the first time her attention moved to the island. It was lush and green, right in front of them, but a little way further down she could see dark red cliffs that were bare of greenery. High above them there was more red, like ochre, and then in the distance the hint of trees—cypress, olive and citrus, she guessed. Back down on the coastline the sand was crisp white in both directions. Only one building broke up the expanse of beach.

A boathouse of sorts, it was of simple construction, a cross between a cabin and a hut. It was whitewashed stone, and the window frames had been painted a bright blue at one time—though a lot of the paint looked to have chipped off now. There was a small deck at the front, with two cane armchairs propped on either side of a small card table. A jaunty pot plant that had clearly been tormented by the wind stood sentinel at the door, though it had grown heavily in one direction, casting a diagonal shadow. To the side of the cabin a motorbike was propped, and beside it a speedboat on a trolley, smaller than the one she’d just stepped off—or rather leaped off into the ocean.

It was on the tip of Tilly’s tongue to ask Rio what the building was, but he was already moving towards it. Sand clung to his bare feet as he strode easily across the beach. She didn’t rush to catch up. Not because Cressida wouldn’t rush, though she wouldn’t. Tilly was captivated by the beauty of this place and she wanted to savour this, her first opportunity to drink it in.

Halfway between the shoreline and the cabin she stopped walking altogether. A light breeze trembled past her, but it was a hot day and it brought welcome relief to her through her wet clothes. She stared up at the sky, her eyes noting the colour—a glistening cerulean blue.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said to herself.

But Rio caught the words and turned. Her dress was saturated all the way to the top. Did she have any idea that she might as well have been standing on the beach completely naked, for all the fabric did to hide her body? Her red hair was trapped in a messy bun on top of her head but he was pretty sure it wanted to be free, to fly down her back as it might have done on Boudica or one of Titian’s models.

He turned back to the cabin, his jaw clenched.

Of course she knew how alluring she looked. Cressida Wyndham had made flirtation an art form. He didn’t really know anything about her, and nor did he read the gossip magazines, but he did know that her name couldn’t be mentioned without the implication that she was an entitled, spoiled tramp with little morality.

And for some reason that angered him now.

He paused at the steps that led to the deck. They were timber, built from one of the trees that covered the island.

‘What’s this?’ she asked, her green eyes, almond in shape, moving across the frame of the hut.

‘Where we’ll be staying.’

Where we’ll be staying? Her heart skidded against her breastbone. Surely he’d meant Where you’ll be staying? Though he spoke English fluently, his voice was accented. It wasn’t inconceivable that he’d made a mistake.

Because this place was definitely not going to accommodate the two of them.

He moved ahead of her and she followed.

‘It was built around fifty years ago,’ he said as he shouldered the door inwards. It groaned a little. It was just wire pressed against an ornate wrought-iron pattern. There was no actual door.

The heat of the day hadn’t managed to penetrate the thick walls. It was cool and dark. A hallway—quite wide, given the size of the building—went all the way to the back of the home, though at the rear, she glimpsed a sofa. There was more light there, too.

‘Your bedroom.’ He nodded towards a room as they swept past. She had only a brief impression of a narrow single bed and a bookshelf. He nodded to another door. ‘My bedroom.’

Her heart thumped harder.

‘Bathroom.’

She peered in as they walked past. It was simple, but clean. It smelled of him. She caught the masculine scent as they walked past and her stomach squeezed.

‘And the kitchen.’

It was also simple, but charmingly so, with a thick timber bench, a window that overlooked the beach, a small fridge and a stove. There was a table with four chairs, and across the room a sofa and an armchair. Another larger window framed a different perspective of the beach.

‘Your...your bedroom is...opposite mine?’ The words were almost a whisper and she shivered.

‘Surely you didn’t think we’d be sharing?’ he prompted, enjoying the blush that spread across her face and the way her nipples stretched visibly against the wet fabric of her skin-tight dress.

‘Of course not,’ Tilly snapped, before remembering that she was Cressida, and Cressida would never have taken offence at such a suggestion. She would have purred right back that he shouldn’t rule anything out... ‘I just didn’t realise we’d be staying in the same house.’

His smile was laced with sardonic amusement. ‘It’s the only house on the island,’ he said. ‘Didn’t your father tell you?’

She shook her head, but questions were floating through her mind...suspicions. Shortly after Cressida had said there’d be servants she’d said that Tilly would be left to her own devices. She’d made it sound like a glamorous beach retreat awaited.

Had she known that Rio Mastrangelo would be literally shacking up with her? Had she wisely decided to keep that titbit to herself, knowing that Matilda would have found it impossible to go along with such an elaborate deception in close quarters with a man like him?

‘He must have,’ Tilly said with a shrug, as though it didn’t matter, but inside she was fuming.

If she hadn’t desperately needed that thirty thousand pounds, how she would have loved to tell Cressida to go to hell!

Only she wouldn’t have. She couldn’t have. For, as much as the heiress drove her absolutely crazy, Tilly felt sorry for her. And the longer Tilly worked for Art and felt the warmth of his affection, the more she saw him disapprove of Cressida and ruminate on her lack of intelligence, skills and focus, and the more guilt Tilly felt—and more pressure too.

This was the first time Cressida had ever asked Tilly for more than an easy favour, though. And certainly the first time she’d outright lied to her! This wasn’t going to a film premiere dressed to the nines, or slipping out of a top-notch restaurant early to divert the paparazzi’s focus. This was a whole week in close quarters with a gorgeous stranger.

‘And you forgot?’ he responded with a droll inflection.

‘There were a lot of instructions.’ She forced herself back to the present, pushing aside the sticky question of just what Cressida had kept to herself to get Tilly on board with this deception. Were there any more surprises in store for her?

‘Such as?’

‘Such as don’t fall out of boats.’ The snappy response was watered down by a spontaneous smile. ‘Mind if I get changed?’

Yes, he wanted to say. He liked watching her in this dress. Seeing the way it clung to her was flooding his body with desire—desire he wouldn’t indulge with her, of course.

Yet he hadn’t been himself since hearing of his father’s death. His libido—something he liked to give free rein to, often—had taken a hit in recent times. Feeling his body stir to life was good. It was nice. He revelled in the sensation of anticipation, knowing that relief would be worth the wait.

He wouldn’t give in to temptation with Cressida—that would be foolish. But once he left the island he’d call Anita or Sophie, or one of the other women always happy to join him in bed and rediscover some very pleasurable habits.

‘Make yourself at home,’ he said, with a shrug that was the personification of nonchalance.

She nodded, her eyes not meeting his. He was still holding her bag and he made no attempt to hand it over. She crossed the tiled floor until she was within arm’s reach. At this distance she could see the flecks of black that marked his grey eyes, and she caught more of that enticingly masculine fragrance.