The Real Rio D'Aquila. Sandra Marton
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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.
She met handsome men a lot. Her work took her into their homes; she accepted invitations to parties, even though she hated parties where you stood around nibbling on awful little canapés and gagging down overly sweet drinks with umbrellas stuck in them, because networking was the best way to find new clients.
Plus her brothers, gorgeous guys themselves, had recently taken to trying to find, with what they surely thought was subtlety, The Right Man for her.
“Hey,” Dante or Rafe, Falco or Nick would say in the falsely cheerful giveaway tone she’d learned to recognize, “how about coming over for supper Friday evening?” Or Sunday brunch, or whatever was the latest excuse for introducing her to the latest candidate in the Orsini Brothers’ “Let’s Find a Guy for Izzy” plan.
To Isabella’s chagrin, even Anna was getting into it, asking her to stop by and, surprise, surprise, a friend of Anna’s handsome husband would just happen to stop by, too.
Hadn’t any of them figured it out yet?
Put an attractive man in front of her and she either became tongue-tied or just the opposite, a woman whose mouth ran a hundred times faster than her brain.
Hi, a guy would say.
Her response? Silence, and a deer-in-the headlights stare.
Or she’d babble. He’d end up the bewildered recipient of whatever came into her head. Did you know that shrimp you’re tucking into probably came from an uninspected shrimp farm in some godforsaken place in the Far East? Or, How do you feel about the destruction of wetlands?
The result, either way?
Disaster.
It had been the pattern of her life, ever since she’d first noticed that boys were not girls.
The thing was, she wasn’t pretty, or clever, or the kind of woman men lusted after. Not that she wanted to be lusted after …
Okay.
A little lust would be nice.
Anna was the pretty one.
She was a great sister and Izzy adored her, but she had long ago faced facts.
Anna was the Orsini sister boys had always noticed.
She was the one with the blond hair, the one who knew, instinctively, what to say and what to wear, who knew how to charm and flirt and turn the most gorgeous guys to putty.
Izzy had long ago accepted the fact that she didn’t have those attributes, and she could live with that. What she couldn’t live with was turning into a jerk each and every time she found a man attractive.
Speechless or babbling. Those were her choices.
Today’s winner was Izzy the Babbler.
She’d already said more to this guy than she should have about his employer. For all she knew, Mr. Heartbreaker might think Rio D’Aquila walked on water.
And now, this—this outburst about him not wearing a shirt …
She swallowed drily and risked a glance at him.
He’d