The Real Rio D'Aquila. Sandra Marton
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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