The Real Rio D'Aquila. Sandra Marton
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“Southampton,” he’d said. “I visited a friend there one weekend last summer. Lucas Viera. You know him? Anyway, Viera has a house on the beach. Very private, very quiet. I liked what I saw, and now—”
“And now,” Gabriella Orsini had said, smiling as she joined the men and slipped her arm through her husband’s, “you need a landscaper.” Her smile broadened. “You do, don’t you?”
Rio had shrugged. “Well, sure, but—”
“We just happen to know a very good one.”
To Rio’s amazement, Dante had blushed.
“Izzy,” Gabriella had said. She’d nodded toward the lush plantings along the borders of the terrace. “That’s Izzy’s work. Spectacular, don’t you think?”
Rio had looked at the plantings. Not spectacular, but nice. Natural-looking, which could not have been easy to accomplish when the setting was a three-level penthouse in the sky.
“Uh,” Dante had said, “see, Izzy is sort of trying to branch out, and—”
“And,” Gabriella had said sweetly, “we’re not above a bit of nepotism. Are we, darling?”
The penny had finally dropped.
His friend, actually, his friend’s wife, was hustling the work of one of her husband’s relatives. A cousin, maybe an uncle, because there were only four Orsini brothers. Rio had met them all and not one was named Izzy.
Whatever, it didn’t matter.
The terrace plantings had looked good. And, what the hell, Rio liked Dante and Gabriella, who happened to have been born in Brazil, his adopted country. So when it came time to deal with the landscaping, Rio gave Izzy Orsini’s name and email address to his contractor, who’d made the contact and set up the time and date of the meeting.
A meeting for which Izzy Orsini had not showed.
Time had passed, with the contractor trying hard not to look at his watch until, finally, Rio had thought, basta. Enough. He’d told the contractor he was free to leave.
“I’m sure you have better things to do than wait around for some guy who’s going to be a no-show.”
“You sure, Mr. D’Aquila? ‘Cause if you want, I can—”
“It’s Rio, remember? And it’s not a problem. I’ll hang around for a while, just in case.”
Which, Rio thought grimly as he dug the shovel into the soil in the trench, brought things straight to the present.
To two bloody hours, waiting for Izzy Orsini to put in an appearance.
“Merda,” he muttered, and stabbed the shovel blade into the earth again.
His temper was rising in inverse proportion to the depth of the trench which would ultimately be the foundation for a low stone wall but at the rate he was going, he was liable to dig his way to China.
He’d run out of excuses for Dante’s cousin.
Rio leaned on the shovel handle, wiped sweat from his eyes with a tightly muscled forearm.
Maybe Orsini got the time wrong. Maybe he’d had a flat. Maybe his great-aunt had come down with an attack of ague, or whatever it was great-aunts came down with, assuming he had a great-aunt at all.
Any of those things could have been explained by a phone call, but Orsini had not called.
Rio’s lips thinned.
Okay. He’d wasted enough time on this. It would be sticky, telling Dante and Gabriella what had happened, but he’d had it.
A shadow passed overhead. Rio looked up, tilted his head back, watched a squadron of pelicans soar overhead, aiming for the ocean. The cool, refreshing ocean.
That did it.
He yanked the shovel free of the soil and put it back where he’d found it.
He’d bought this place as somewhere he could relax. Well, he damned well wasn’t relaxing now. Thinking about an idiot who’d let a chance at a job like this slip through his fingers made his blood boil.
Back when he was just starting out, he’d never have let something so important get away. He’d have walked, crawled, done whatever it took to snag even a chance at a job that would pay well and could lead to something even better.
No wonder Gabriella was hustling this Orsini jerk. The fool couldn’t do anything on his own.
Rio stretched and rotated his shoulders. His muscles ached. He’d skinned a couple of knuckles and there was dirt under his usually well-manicured fingernails.
The truth was, he’d enjoyed a couple of hours of work. Real work, physical work just as he enjoyed being in the ring at his gym. But enough was enough.
Sweat dripped off the end of his nose. He yanked his T-shirt over his head and used it to mop his face.
The sun was starting to drop lower in the sky. The day was coming to an end. He hated to leave. The city would be hot and noisy …
Rio made a quick decision.
He’d take that swim. Then, instead of flying back to Manhattan, he’d spend the night here. Hell, why not? Most of the furniture he’d ordered was in. Thanks to his property manager, he had steaks, fresh corn, even wine. The more he thought about it, the better it—
Bzzzz.
What the hell was that? A bee? A wasp? No. It was the intercom at the gate.
He wasn’t expecting anyone …
Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz.
Orsini. It had to be. The fool had shown up after all, except he was three hours late.
Rio almost laughed. The guy had cojones, he had to give him that, but that was all he had. No way was he going to buzz him in. The business of the day was over. This was his own time. His quiet time. His—
Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz.
Rio folded his arms. Stood his ground.
The damned thing buzzed again.
Cristo! What would it take to get rid of the guy?
More buzzing. Rio narrowed his eyes, marched to the intercom and depressed the button.
“What?” he snarled.
A blast of static roared from the speaker.
Rio cursed, slapped the button. No good. Orsini had to be leaning on the button at his end, or maybe the freaking thing wasn’t working again. Nothing but static was coming through.
Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz.
His jaw tightened. If Orsini wanted in, then “in” and a lesson on courtesy and punctuality was what he’d get. And he was in the mood to give it to him.
Rio balled up his T-shirt and tossed it aside, yanked open the glass French doors that led into the great room, marched through the house to the entry foyer, his work boots leaving muddy prints on the Carrara marble floors.
“Damnit,” he roared, as he flung open the front door—
And stopped.
A figure was coming toward him, hurrying up the long, unfinished driveway. Trying to hurry, at any rate, but how fast could a person go on that uneven, pitted, rocky surface in—in—
Were those stiletto heels?
His visitor was not Izzy Orsini.
It was a woman.
Damn the malfunctioning intercom and gate!
He’d been this route one time before. A woman had decided he was her true love.