The Real Rio D'Aquila. Sandra Marton
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rearranged his face until he looked as if he were the one who should do the apologizing. “I was working out back, see, and then I heard the security buzzer go off, and—”
“Really, you don’t owe me an explanation. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“It’s the heat. It makes it hard to think straight.”
He flashed a smile that sent her pulse into overdrive. Had she ever seen blue eyes so dark, lashes so long? A woman could hate a man for having lashes like those.
“And you proved it.”
Isabella blinked. “Proved what?”
“That it’s too hot to think straight. So here’s what I suggest. Instead of standing in the foyer, why don’t we head for the kitchen? On the way, I’ll take a quick detour, grab a clean shirt, and then I’ll get us a couple of cold drinks, and—”
“Really, that’s not necessary,” she said quickly. “You go on. I mean, get yourself something cold. And a shirt.” She blushed. “I mean—I mean, I’ll just wait here while you tell Mr. D’Aquila that I’m …” Her eyebrows rose, even as her heart sank. “What?”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Can’t do what?”
“I can’t pass on your message.” He paused. “Mr. D’Aquila isn’t here.”
“He isn’t?”
“No,” Rio said, and Isabella Orsini’s face fell.
Well, so what?
He’d been cooling his heels for hours, waiting for her to turn up. Now she was upset that the man she’d come to see wasn’t available.
Tough.
He wasn’t in the mood to conduct an interview now. Besides, only a fool would contract with a workman—a workwoman—Cristo, maybe the sun really was getting to him. The point was, even if she had the necessary credentials—and it was an excellent bet that she didn’t—he would never deal with a contractor who could not adhere to a schedule.
“He left about an hour ago,” he said, and watched as she sank what looked like perfect white teeth into the soft fullness of her bottom lip.
Rio’s gut tightened.
And that was a second excellent reason for not even considering hiring her.
The last thing he needed was to be attracted to a woman who worked for him, although what there was for him to be attracted to was beyond him to comprehend. There were things to like about her he had to admit. She spoke her mind. Those comments about his boss …
Well, no.
Not about his boss. About him. About the powerful, king-of-the-mountain Rio D’Aquila.
And then there was the shirt thing.
He couldn’t think of a woman he’d ever known who’d have been embarrassed by his standing around without a shirt. And she had, indeed, been embarrassed. Stripes of crimson had risen along her sculpted cheeks.
Not that her cheeks, sculpted or otherwise, mattered.
She had a forlorn expression on her face now. Her mouth had taken a downward curve.
That made-for-sin mouth.
That silken-looking mouth.
What would she do if he bent his head and put his lips on hers? If he tasted that rosy-pink softness? If he tasted her.
Rio’s anatomy responded with alarming speed. He swung away from her, feigned bending to pluck a bit of nonexistent dirt from the gleaming marble floor.
The sun had, indeed, fried his brain.
Why else react to her? She was not his type at all. He’d already admitted that once you got past the shapeless suit and pulled back hair she was pretty, he had to give her that, but a pretty face was not enough.
He liked his women sophisticated. Urbane. Sure of themselves. He liked them in silk and satin. He liked them capable of keeping up a conversation, okay, not about anything weighty but a conversation, nevertheless.
Isabella Orsini flunked all those categories. Plus, she’d wasted his afternoon and was well on the way to wasting his evening—but he wasn’t going to let that happen.
He wanted a shower and a cold beer, not necessarily in that order. Then he’d head for Easthampton, fly back to the city and never mind staying overnight here or wanting a break in the endless routine of dinner—theater—clubbing. He’d phone a woman, maybe the blonde he’d met last week at that charity thing, ask her if she was busy tonight even though he knew damned well she wouldn’t be, women never were when it came to interrupting their lives to accommodate him.
As for the lie he’d told Isabella Orsini about himself—it had been childish nonsense. Why had he done it? To get even with her? Whatever, it had been stupid.
Enough, Rio thought, and he turned and looked straight at her.
The woebegone look had been replaced by one of cool determination. Now what? he thought, and decided to not wait for the answer but, instead, to go straight to the truth.
“Ms. Orsini—”
“Izzy.”
“Ms. Orsini,” he said, with cool deliberation, “I haven’t been entirely straightforward with you.” An understatement, but what the hell? “What I said about Rio D’Aquila—”
“I know. You already said he isn’t here.”
“Right. But—”
“When will he be back?”
Aha. That explained the determined expression on her face. She was going to settle in and wait. Well, that wasn’t about to happen.
“I’m going to level with you, Ms. Orsini.”
“Izzy.”
“Izzy. The truth is—”
“He’s not coming back.”
“No. Well, that isn’t exactly what I—”
“He gave up waiting. And I can’t blame him.”
Her voice had fallen to a husky whisper. Damnit, was she going to cry? He couldn’t stand it when women cried. It was always a maneuver to try and get their own way and he was impervious to that time-worn trick.
“I can’t blame him at all.”
Dio, better tears than this low, sad tone.
“Look, Ms. Orsini. I mean, Isabella—”
“It’s Izzy. Nobody ever calls me ‘Isabella.’”
Impossible. She wasn’t an “Izzy.” “Isabella” suited her better. Maybe she wasn’t beautiful but she had a sweet voice, a pretty-enough face …
Rio acted on instinct. He reached out, cupped her chin, raised her face to his.
“Hey,” he said, and suddenly he knew he’d been all wrong, thinking her pretty.
She wasn’t. She wasn’t even beautiful.
She was something more.
How had he missed it? Had he been put off by the game? By his own anger? By her silly outfit?
For the first time, he saw her as she was. The thick, dark lashes. The high cheekbones. That lush mouth. A nose that wasn’t perfect; it had a tiny bump in the middle and, somehow, that made it perfect for her.
And, Cristo, her eyes.
Green. No, blue. Or brown. Or gold. The truth was, they were an amalgam of colors, and suddenly he was eight years old again, a half-starved kid pawing through a Dumpster behind