The Real Rio D'Aquila

She reached the area where he’d been digging, didn’t hesitate, kicked off those dirt-spattered stilettos and stepped, barefoot, into the rich, dark earth.

Or maybe it was nylon-foot, he thought numbly. Not that it mattered. Whatever you called seeing a beautiful woman in an ugly outfit dig her toes into the soil, it finished him.

Rio was lost.

He took a step toward her. She was still talking, the names of plants and shrubs and God-only-knew what tumbling from that sweet-looking mouth.

“Isabella,” he said.

Everything he was thinking was in the way he said her name. He knew she sensed it, too, because she fell silent and swung toward him.

Was she as lost as he?

“Mr. Rossi,” she whispered, and the parting of her lips, the breath she took as he reached for her, was all the answer he needed.

“Don’t call me that,” he said gruffly.

“No,” she said, her voice as husky as his, “you’re right.” They stood an inch apart, her face lifted to his. A little smile curved her lips. “Hello, Matteo.”

“Isabella. You don’t underst—”

She put a finger against his mouth.

“I don’t want to understand,” she said, and Rio gave up the battle, gathered Isabella Orsini into his arms, bent his head and kissed her.

CHAPTER FOUR

OHMYGOD, Isabella thought, ohmygod …

Matteo’s body was hard. His mouth was firm. His arms were like steel bands, holding her to him.

The part of her brain that relied on cool logic said, Isabella! What on earth are you doing?

The part that was all female told that other part to shut up.

She had never been kissed like this. Never. She’d never wanted to be kissed like this …

He nipped lightly at her bottom lip. She knew he wanted her to open her mouth. To let him touch his tongue to hers. She’d never done that in her life. Well, once or twice, but never again. She hadn’t liked it, the intrusion, the intimacy—

“Isabella,” he whispered, “I want to taste you.”

The words made her tremble, though not with fear. She felt the tip of his tongue at the seam of her lips and she parted them and let him in.

Her knees almost buckled.

His taste. Oh, his taste. Clean. Indescribable. And so amazingly sexy. How could she have ever thought having a man’s tongue in your mouth was anything but glorious? Now he was framing her face with his hands, tunneling his fingers into her hair. The barrette securing it snapped open, and her wild torrent of dark curls tumbled free.

She moaned with pleasure.

How could the feel of his hands in her hair be so exciting?

“Isabella,” he said thickly, and he swept one hand down her spine and pulled her tight against him.

The world began to spin.

His hand on her backside. Cupping over her bottom through the awful wool skirt.

Her body, responding to the urgency of his, her hips lifting, moving against him.

And yet, there was more.

“Kiss me back,” he said in a voice rough as sandpaper.

Wasn’t she doing that? What did he want her to—

“Let your lips cling to mine.”

Hesitantly, perhaps a little inexpertly, she did as he’d asked and his groan told her she’d got it right.

The hard press of his sex against her belly was even greater confirmation.

He groaned again.

Both his hands cupped her bottom and he lifted her off her feet, lifted her into him. Breast against breast. Belly against belly. Hips against hips and, God, that male hardness was growing, growing, pressing into her—

A little knot of fear lodged in Isabella’s throat. Things were going fast, so fast, too fast.

She tore her mouth from his.

“Matteo,” she gasped. “Matteo, wait—”

But Rio was beyond waiting.

Later, he’d realize he’d been beyond thinking. Something about Isabella Orsini had turned sexual desire into sexual compulsion.

He wrapped one arm under her ass, wrapped the other around the nape of her neck, brought her mouth to his again and went on kissing her, blind to everything but the need burning white-hot within him as he strode back into the house.

“No.”

At first, he didn’t even hear her. But she said the word again, her voice harsh, her fists beating against his shoulders.

Sanity returned. Rio opened his eyes. Looked at the woman in his arms.

His gut clenched.

Her face was white, her eyes dark pools of terror. He’d seen all kinds of expressions on women’s faces but never fear of him. Dio, what in hell was he doing?

“Put me down,” she said in a paper-thin voice.

He drew a deep, deep breath. “Listen,” he said, “Isabella—”

“Put me down!”

He nodded. Set her carefully on her feet. She took a quick step back.

“Are you crazy?” she said shakily.

Rio ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? You’re sorry? That’s it? You—you attack me and then you say you’re sorry?”

A muscle knotted in his jaw.

“I did not attack you.”

“No? Then, how would you describe what just—what just happened?”

The muscle in his jaw flickered again. He’d have described it as a complete loss of control on his part, but that was impossible.

He never lost control.

“I would describe it as a mistake,” he said stiffly. “And I apologize.”

Isabella blew a curl from her eyes. Calmer now, she folded her arms, glared at him and told herself she was right, that it had been all his fault.

Of course it had.

The way she’d all but thrown herself into his arms, how she’d responded to his kisses, the wildness that had torn free within her—none of that had any relation to what he’d done …

“It’s late,” she said abruptly. “I have to leave.”

“Yes,” he said flatly. “You do.”

He swung away from her, walked quickly onto the now-dark terrace, scooped up the portfolio she’d dropped, the shoes she’d kicked off and brought them inside. He could hardly wait to get ri

d of her; he didn’t like what had happened, how he’d behaved, and he fought the urge to tell her that this had been as much her fault as his. She’d come at him with such heat, such hunger, never mind her lack of expertise …

Cristo! Her lack of expertise.

Was she a virgin? That was as impossible as his having lost control. There were no virgins over the age of puberty in today’s world.

Not that it mattered.

Hell, it damned well did matter! He’d never bedded a virgin in his life; he had no intentions of ever bedding one. Women could be foolish enough about sex, turning it into undying expressions of love even when a man made it absolutely clear, from the start, that sex had nothing to do with anything but desire.

But sex with a virgin? The possibilities were enough to make him shudder as he held out the portfolio and shoes.

“Thank you,” Isabella said coldly.

“You’re welcome,” he said, just as coldly.

She snatched her things from his hands, tucked the portfolio under her arm, spent a millisecond debating whether to try and stuff her size eight feet into Anna’s size seven shoes and decided there wasn’t a way in hell she’d perform that awful little comedy routine while Mr. Centerfold watched.

It was definitely time to go …

Oh, God! Go where? The car. The car!

“I thought you were in a hurry to leave.”

She looked up. Mr. Macho was watching her as intently as a cat might watch a mouse.

“I most certainly am,” she said, and she turned on her heel—her bare-but-for-her-shredded-panty hose heel … And turned back.

“Be sure and tell Mr. D’Aquila I’m very sorry he wasn’t here to meet with me.”

The caretaker’s lips turned up in a chilly smile.

“Don’t you mean, tell him you’re sorry you showed up three hours late?”

“I mean exactly what I said, Mr. Rossi. Nothing more, nothing less. Is that clear?”

Silence. Then his dismissive expression wavered and, damnit, he laughed. Laughed!

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, standing straight and tossing off a crisp salute.

Isabella wanted to strangle him. Instead, she chose a dignified exit, though dignity was a tough thing to maintain when you were barefoot, when a man’s smug laughter followed you …

When you could still feel the heat of his kisses burning on your lips.