Innocent In The Billionaire's Bed

‘That you grew up with more money than most people see in a lifetime. And that in my experience women like you tend to be...’

‘Yes?’ she prompted, her hackles rising despite the fact he was making assumptions about her doppelgänger, not her true self.

What had he wanted to say? Did it matter that the spoiled rich girls he’d bedded in the past were all boring, entitled, selfish and dull? Why were they talking about this?

His frown deepened. He was supposed to be showing her the island; that was all. It was the kind of thing he’d never have deigned to do under normal circumstances. God knew he had more important things to focus on. Still, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—let the press get wind of his ties to Prim’amore. Rio, and Rio alone, would handle all the contracts associated with the sale.

But it should have taken days. Not a week. Art had been strangely insistent, though. Cressida wanted a week ‘to really get a feel for the place’, and Art had expressed his relief that his wayward daughter was showing such good business sense.

But he didn’t need to spend the whole time taking beach strolls with the admittedly beautiful heiress. And certainly not sharing his innermost thoughts.

‘Never mind,’ he said, his voice a dark contradiction of the light banter they’d been sharing. ‘This beach stretches for another two miles before the cove curves inwards and we’ll need to climb the cliff. I suggest we leave that for another day.’

* * *

He was being deliberately unpleasant.

No, not unpleasant.

Just a big, gorgeous roadblock to any conversation she tried to make.

He’d been like it as they’d walked on the beach. As though he’d flicked a switch and she no longer held any interest for him. He’d pointed out details of the island, suggested positions that might be suitable for a hotel, but he had made it clear that he felt obliged to provide her with business information and that was the end of it.

So why did it bother her?

She’d come to the island expecting to meet with a dull estate agent. She’d brought books and bathing costumes, anticipating a delicious week on her own, soaking in the sunshine and relaxing.

But now her nerves were stretched on tenterhooks.

She flicked the page of her book, even though she had no concept of what she’d read, and briefly lifted her eyes to where he sat. There was only one living space in the house and he’d taken up position on the small table. It held his laptop, and thick files spread in each direction. His head was bent, he had a pen in his hand, and as he read one of the files he occasionally scratched a note angrily in the margin.

Unexpectedly he flashed his eyes in her direction and she looked away, stumbling her focus back to reading. His eyes continued to burn her skin, though.

He stood abruptly, scraping his chair noisily against the tiles. She kept her head bent as he moved into the kitchen and she heard the fridge open and shut.

She turned the page—again with no concept of where she was in the story.

The sound of butter simmering in a frying pan finally captured her interest, and she risked a glance towards him.

Her heart stuttered. Rio Mastrangelo was a seriously gorgeous man at any time. But with his shirtsleeves pushed up to the elbows, his head bent as he chopped tomato and fennel...he was the poster boy for sexiest man alive.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked, wishing she hadn’t when his eyes lanced her and she felt her stomach swoop.

‘Stringing a fishing line,’ he replied, with a sarcasm that he softened by smiling.

He had a dimple in one cheek. Deep enough to dip her finger into. She looked back at her book.

‘I presume you eat normal food?’ he asked, with a challenge she didn’t understand in his question.

‘It depends what you call “normal.”’ She gave up on the book, folding down the corner at the top of a page and placing it on the sofa.

She stood and padded towards the kitchen, curious as he added basil leaves to the chopping board. He reached for the fridge once more and returned with fish, adding each fillet one by one to the sizzling frying pan. He sliced a lemon down the middle and squeezed it over the top, then ground salt.

‘That smells delicious,’ she said seriously. ‘You like to cook?’

He shrugged. ‘I like to eat, so...’

Her smile was involuntary, and her attention was momentarily distracted by the sizzling fish, so she didn’t realise that his eyes had dropped to her mouth and were staring at it with an intensity that would have boiled her blood.

‘I would have thought you’d have a chef. No—a team of chefs. All ready to obey your every whim.’ She lifted her brows as she turned her attention back to his face.

‘No.’

More of the stonewalling she’d faced that afternoon.

‘No? Why not?’

‘Because, Principessa, not everyone grew up in the hyper-indulged, rarefied way you did. I learned to cook almost as soon as I could walk. Just because I can afford to employ chefs it doesn’t mean it’s necessary.’

The hostility of his statement hurt far more than it should have. He was judging her—no, he was judging Cressida, she reminded herself forcibly—and she didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Her throat ached. With mortification, Tilly realised his harsh rebuke had brought her to the brink of tears. She took a steadying breath and looked away.

He expelled an angry breath and reached for the fish, flicking it deftly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said after a moment. ‘That was rude of me.’

If his judgemental bitterness had surprised her, the apology had even more so.

She lifted her eyes to him slowly. ‘You think I’m spoiled.’

His smile was brief. A flicker across his face that she thought she must have imagined. He reached for two plates and scooped the tomato and fennel mixture into the middle, then added several fish fillets and half a lemon. It had the kind of presentation a five-year-old would have been proud of, but it smelled incredible. Her stomach groaned in agreement with that thought and she cleared her throat in an attempt to cover it.

‘I believe you drink champagne?’

Tilly frowned, and was on the brink of pointing out that she really didn’t drink much at all before remembering that Cressida was practically fuelled by the stuff. She found it perfectly acceptable to start her day with a glass of bubbles. And, despite the fact she could knock off a bottle on her own in no time, she never seemed affected by it. Which showed she had an incredible tolerance for the stuff. Unlike Tilly.

Yet she nodded, knowing it would lead to questions if she disavowed something so intrinsic about the heiress.

He reached into the fridge and pulled out a bottle—Bollinger, she saw as he unfurled the top.

‘The cabin is not exactly well appointed,’ he explained, pulling out a single tumbler and half filling it with champagne. He handed her the glass, then scooped up their plates and cutlery.

‘You’re not joining me?’

‘No.’

He moved down the corridor, pushing the door to the balcony open with his shoulder and holding it for her to move past. It surprised her; she’d assumed they’d sit inside at the table.

But when she looked up she let out a sound of astonishment.

Somewhere between their walk on the beach and the pages she hadn’t read, the sky had caught fire. Red, orange, pink and purple exploded in every direction, backlit by warmth and turning the ocean a vibrant hue of purple.

‘Wow!’

He set the plates on the small table, his eyes following hers.

‘Remember when we swam as the sun dipped down and the sky was orange? And you told me I was a mermaid who’d come from the sea?’

His mother’s voice had been crackly and faint. The last of her cancer treatments had left her disorientated and confused.

‘Prim’amore—my love, my first love. For ever.’

When death had been at her doorstep, she’d thought only of him. Piero. A man who hadn’t even come to the funeral—who hadn’t so much as acknowledged her passing.

Rio compressed his lips, his appetite diminished.

Not so Tilly’s.

She sat opposite him and attacked her fish with impressive gusto, pausing occasionally to turn back to the view, before remembering that she was starving, apparently, and pushing another piece of her dinner into her mouth.

A beautiful mouth. Full and naturally pouting, with a perfect cupid’s bow that out of nowhere he imagined tracing with his tongue.

His body stirred at the idea. The sooner he got off this island the better. Any number of women would make more suitable, less complicated lovers than Cressida Wyndham.

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes roaming her face. ‘Yes.’ His nod was concise. ‘I think you’re spoiled.’ His eyes dropped to her lips once more—lips that were parted now with indignation. ‘But it is not your fault.’

‘Oh, geez. Thanks.’ She reached for her champagne and sipped it, pulling a face when the water she wanted to taste turned out to be bubbly and astringent. Still, it slid down her throat, soothing her parched mouth and calming her nerves.

His laugh sent her pulse skittering.

‘I mean only that anyone raised as you were would be spoiled. You have been indulged from the first day of your life. Adored. Cherished. All your dreams made a reality, I imagine.’

Tilly couldn’t have said where the need to defend Cressida came from, but it was like a sledgehammer in her side. Sisterhood? Girl power? Her own childhood had been idyllic. She, Tilly, was the one who had been spoiled. Not with material possessions—money had always been tight in the Morgan household—but with time and love.

‘Yes, well, that may be true, but there’s more to life than physical possessions, and far better ways to show affection than by giving gifts.’

Curious, he leaned forward. ‘Poor little rich girl?’ he prompted, and when she kept her face averted, her chin set at a defiant angle, he felt a surge of adrenalin kick in his gut. ‘Have I hurt your feelings, Principessa?’

She reached for her champagne once more and held it in one hand, her eyes roaming the ocean before lifting to his face. ‘You haven’t hurt my feelings.’

She spoke with a calm control he hadn’t expected.

‘You’ve made me curious about yours. You haven’t even known me a day and yet you speak of me with derision and contempt. That can’t possibly be based on who I am, seeing as you barely know me. It must be because of who you are. And your hang ups. You think less of me because I come from money.’

* * *

She had surprised him and he hadn’t liked it. At all.

Her insight had been rapier-sharp. He’d judged her because of what he’d presumed her to be, and that was hardly fair. He’d have never made his mark in business if he’d carried such assumptions alongside him.

He swirled his Scotch, his eyes resting on the now dark sky.

Was she asleep? She’d finished her dinner abruptly after her incisive comment and scuttled inside. He’d listened to the sound of the sink being filled and dishes being washed, all the while pondering the mystery of Cressida Wyndham.

When Art had said his daughter was coming to inspect the island Rio had instantly formed preconceptions. He knew enough about Cressida to know what to expect. But since she’d arrived she’d defied each of the ideas he’d held. She’d fallen into the water...and laughed. She’d accepted the humble accommodation without complaint. She’d read her book, and she’d thanked him for cooking. Hell, she’d done the dishes.

None of that fitted into the way he’d envisaged someone like Cressida behaving.

She’d been right. He didn’t like her. He didn’t like women like her.

How could someone like Rio, who’d been raised in abject poverty, feel anything but resentment for the kind of indulged lifestyle that had been made available to the Cressidas of the world?

His thoughts wandered distractedly to Marina. The heiress he’d thought himself in love with many years ago. She’d been beautiful, too, and she’d seemed interesting and genuine. But she’d taught him an important lesson: never trust a beautiful woman who cared only for herself.

He leaned back on the deck, his eyes lingering on the silver streak of the moon reflected in the water. His mother had tried to provide for him. Had she not become ill, undoubtedly their lives would have been comfortable. His expression was grim as he remembered that sensation of hunger and worry. Even as a young boy he had been sent to school in uniforms that were a little too small, shorts that didn’t quite fit, shoes that were second-hand and badly scuffed.

All the while his wealthy father had refused to intervene. And now he’d given him this! A parting shot. A last insult. An island that intrinsically reminded him of Piero and all the ways he’d failed Rio and Rosa.

CHAPTER THREE

SHE WAS IN AGONY.

Being tortured alive with every bump.

The bike was old, yet powerful, and the man drove it with expert ease. Still, there wasn’t a road so much as a track, and she had to keep her arms wrapped tight around his waist, her legs squeezed against his. She could feel his heart racing beneath her hands, smell his intoxicating masculinity, and her stomach was in knots.

Every hitch in the road brought her womanhood closer to him, bouncing her on the seat. Needs long ago suppressed were being pushed to the front of her mind. Heat flamed through her and it had nothing to do with the morning sun that was beating down on her back.

Tilly had never been into cars or bikes. She liked nice, smart, kind men. Men who had blond hair and white teeth and clear blue eyes. Who called her mum ‘ma’am’ and liked to watch the football with her dad and Jack.

Nice guys.

There was nothing ‘nice’ about Rio Mastrangelo, but her body was sparking with a desire she’d never felt before.

She angled her head, focussing on the view of the island as the bike climbed higher, around the track, but it was no use. Her eyes saw the glistening ocean, and the spectacular greenery between them and it, but in her mind she was imagining making love to Rio on top of this very bike. Straddling him and taking him against the leather seat.

She was ashamed of herself!

Then again, she’d woken up in a state of confusion and arousal because she’d dreamed about him. Dreams that had made her body sensitive. And that sensitivity was not being helped now, by the bumping of the bike along the road. Nor by the feeling of his powerful legs moving inside hers. The broadness of his chest and the rise and fall of his back.

She was in trouble.

Cressida might have no trouble getting into bed with strangers, but Tilly didn’t do the whole casual sex thing. She wasn’t a prude, but she’d never really wanted any guy enough to ignore common sense. She wanted the fairy tale. She wanted to meet a man who swept her off her feet and offered love and happily-ever-after.

Rio would never be that.

What he would be was a sensational lover.

She groaned under her breath at the very idea. Her hands, curved around his chest, wanted to drop lower. To find the hem of his shirt and push it up so that her fingertips could connect with bare flesh.

This was a nightmare.

No way could she act on these feelings! Apart from anything, she’d feel as if she was letting herself down. Where could this go? She was lying to him—pretending to be someone she wasn’t. A secret she absolutely had to keep!

It wasn’t just the money Cressida had paid, though that was a huge part of it. Cressida had begged her to play along, and not for the first time in Tilly’s life she’d felt sorry for the glamorous heiress.

‘I have a wedding to go to. Mum and Dad would never approve. It’s really important, Tilly, or I wouldn’t have asked.’

Matilda suspected that Art and Gloria would indeed have disapproved, but that wouldn’t have stopped Cressida from going. It just would have led to yet another loud shouting match, resulting in Cressida storming out and Art fretting for days over how he could handle his wayward daughter more effectively.

Having worked for Art for four years, Tilly had seen enough of those confrontations to know they were best avoided. Art wasn’t in great health, and every time he lost his temper with Cressida, Tilly worried.

No, she’d saved everyone a whole heap of trouble by coming to Prim’amore in Cressida’s place. After all, it was only a week. Cressida would attend the wedding, Tilly would stay on the island, and then they’d get back to their normal lives with no one ever knowing they’d performed a switcheroo.

She ignored the niggle of disquiet over that—and the inevitable conclusion that after this week she would never see Rio Mastrangelo again.

He turned the bike around a corner, leaning into it, and she leaned with him, holding on tight as the bike seemed to dip close to the grass on one side. He straightened, but she kept on holding him tight. Finally he brought the bike to a stop, pressing one powerful leg down to kick the stand.

‘This is where the path stops.’ His words were accented.

Belatedly, Tilly realised she was still gripping his waist and that there was no reason to do so. She jerked her arms away and fumbled her way off the back of the bike, scratching her calf in the process.

He had no such difficulty. He lifted himself off as though he’d been riding bikes all his life.

‘You’re a natural at that,’ she said, the words thick.

He lifted his helmet off and placed it on the seat, the turned to unclip hers. ‘It’s not rocket science.’

‘Still...’ She held her breath as his fingers brushed against the soft flesh under her chin.

He reached for the clasp and pressed it; the helmet loosened and she reached up to dislodge it at the same time he did. Their fingers tangled but he didn’t pull away, and nor did she. His eyes held hers for a beat longer than normal, and her stomach swooped up and then down.

She cleared her throat, pulling her hands away and smiling awkwardly. Yeah, great. Just what Cressida would have done, she thought with an inward groan of mortification.

He didn’t seem to realise. He pressed the helmet onto the seat and then reached back towards her.

His hand in her hair was like the start of her dream coming true. She watched, mesmerised, as he studied the red lengths, pulling his fingers through it, a slight frown on his face. Her breath hitched in her throat and anxiety began to perforate that strange mood.

Had he recognised who she was? Or rather who she wasn’t?

‘Do you dye this?’

She pulled a face, not comprehending why he’d ask such a question. ‘No!’

‘I didn’t think so.’ His frown deepened. ‘It’s like copper and gold.’

‘Yes.’ She nodded, stepping backwards and almost tripping on a rock that jutted out of the ground. His hand on her elbow steadied her, then dropped away again. ‘I hated it, growing up. I used to get teased mercilessly.’

‘I find that hard to believe.’

Strangely, it was something that Cressida and Tilly had in common. They’d discussed the dislike they’d felt as children, for having such unique colouring.

‘Yes, well—says you, who’s probably always looked like a mini-Greek god.’

The words were out before she could stop them.

‘I’m Italian,’ he pointed out, his grin doing strange things to her blood pressure. ‘And there is nothing miniature about me.’

‘You know what I mean.’ Her cheeks flushed bright red. She might as well have blurted out that she couldn’t stop thinking about how gorgeous he was.

He nodded, apparently taking pity on her because he didn’t pursue it. ‘I wouldn’t have teased you for your hair. Or anything.’

Her heart thumped. ‘Is this the volcano?’ She nodded at the jagged mountaintop that was still a little way above them.

He grinned, his eyes lifting to the peak. ‘Yeah. The track stops here.’

‘So we’ll walk?’

‘Sure.’ He lifted the seat of the bike and pulled out a black rucksack, hooking it over his shoulder. ‘Let’s go.’

She’d packed flip-flops and dresses, neither of which were especially suited to scaling a Mediterranean volcano. But she wasn’t going to complain.

‘The volcano would make an excellent tourist attraction. I know the previous owner of the island had plans drawn up to run a cable car across the top.’

‘That’s a great idea,’ she murmured.

The climb was steep and her breath was burning, despite the fact she was generally in good shape.

‘Just say if you require a break,’ he murmured.

Not bloody likely, she thought to herself, sending him a sidelong glance. ‘I’ll be—’

‘Fine,’ he responded. ‘The thing is, you usually say that before you fall over, so perhaps we should pause.’

‘That happened once,’ she said with a laugh, reaching across and pushing at his arm playfully.

He grinned back, but it was no longer playful. The atmosphere was electric.

She swallowed, forcing the conversation to something less incendiary. Something safe. ‘Was the previous owner looking at developing the island for tourists?’

Rio’s step slowed. ‘Si.’

‘I wonder why he didn’t,’ she murmured.

‘He died. Unexpectedly.’

‘Oh! What a shame. That’s awful.’

He stopped walking and turned to face her. ‘Look, Cressida.’

He nodded behind her and she spun.

An enormous smile broke across her face. ‘I’m on top of the world!’ she said, shaking her head.

The ocean spread like a big blue picnic blanket in every direction, but from this height she could make out ships in the distance, and another island dotted with bright homes.

‘Capri,’ he explained. ‘It is only twenty minutes away by boat.’

‘So close. And I thought we were all alone in the middle of the sea...’

She smiled up at him, but the look of speculation in his eyes stole her breath. There was no way this awareness was one-sided. He felt it too. Didn’t he?

She jerked her eyes back to the view, her mind spinning, her blood rushing.

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