The Real Rio D'Aquila

Isabella frowned, peeled off what remained of her panty hose, her bra and her panties—she’d never been sure whether you were supposed to wear them over or under your panty hose but it didn’t much matter because she lived in jeans. As for all this stuff, bra and panties and pathetic panty hose—it went into the trash, too.

Soap, she thought. And shampoo. Matteo had said—and yes, once she’d opened a few drawers, she found it all. Soap and shampoo and conditioner, toothpaste and toothbrushes and towels. Big, fluffy towels.

She plucked a wrapped bar of soap from its shelf and sniffed it. Mmm. Vanilla. Were they all …? No. There were half a dozen different scents. Lemon. Jasmine. Lavender. Tea rose. Ginger.

Lemon, she decided. Lemon was always her favorite. And for her hair … She opened a small bottle and brought it to her nose. Lemon, again.

Perfect.

Did Matteo like the smell of lemon?

Not that it mattered, she thought quickly, as she stepped into the enormous glass shower. Why on earth would it matter? She liked it. That was all that was important. She wasn’t interested in Matteo Rossi as a man. Well, he was a man, of course. An incredible man. Gorgeous. Sexy. Funny and clever, but so what?

She wasn’t looking for a one-night stand.

Even if she had been—

Matteo wasn’t interested in her.

He’d kissed her. So what? You didn’t have to be sexually knowledgeable—and, good Lord, there had to be a better way to put it than that—to know that a kiss was just a kiss.

She had four brothers, all of them settled now into happy married lives, but she’d grown up with them, she’d overheard conversations she wasn’t supposed to overhear. Meaning, Isabella thought as she rinsed conditioner from her hair, meaning a guy might well kiss a woman for no better reason than because he could.

A good-looking man saw a good-looking woman …

Not that she was good-looking, she thought, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror across from the glass shower stall.

She turned a little. To the side. To the back. To the front again.

Okay. She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t homely. What she was, she decided, was medium.

Medium height. Medium build. Medium everything, legs and hips and breasts.

Would Matteo want to kiss a medium woman? If he saw her now, would he? With her hair loose and wet, the long curls hanging down her back. With her skin glittering with droplets of water. With her nipples tightly budded by the coolness of the water.

Or by imagining him, in the stall with her.

Isabelle moved the soap slowly over her skin.

His body, hard and muscled and sleek, supporting hers as she leaned back against him. His hands, cupping her breasts; his fingers on her nipples. His mouth on the nape of her neck. His leg separating her thighs, and then his hand between them, seeking, finding, touching—

The soap fell from her fingers.

Quickly, she picked it up. Rinsed herself. Shut off the water, grabbed an oversize bath towel and wrapped herself in it as she padded into the bedroom.

Fantasizing about George Clooney was one thing. Not that she ever did but if she did, well, George Clooney was George Clooney. A face, a body on the screen.

Matteo Rossi, on the other hand, was a real person. A real, real person, someone she knew. Someone in another room, just down the hall, maybe standing in the shower right now, naked …

Isabella bit back a moan.

What was wrong with her?

She didn’t think about naked men. She didn’t think about men, period. It was silly and she had better things to do with her time, like retrieving the yucky suit and equally yucky blouse from the trash because, damnit, she had nothing else to put on, and the fifteen minutes Matteo had mentioned were just about—

Knock, knock, knock.

Isabella spun toward the door. “Yes?”

“It’s me.”

Her heart pounded. Matteo. Who else would it be?

“I know.” She winced. That was clever. “I mean, I’ll be ready in—”

“I have some stuff you can wear.”

She blinked. So much for his not having brought women here before.

“Isabella? Open the door.”

“No, that’s okay. I mean, I don’t need—”

“You do,” Matteo said, sounding amused. “Unless you really prefer that ‘I’ve been dragged through the mud’ look that’s so popular this year.”

She laughed. Carefully. Not loud enough so he’d hear it, but how could she not laugh at such a perfect description of how she’d certainly looked in what had once been a designer outfit?

She looked down at herself. The towel was tucked tightly under her arms and went all the way down to her knees. She wore less than this to the pool.

“Okay. You want to put that stuff back on, I’ll just—”

The door swung open. Wrong. Isabella had cracked it maybe an inch. Rio saw an eye, half a mouth, a tumble of dark, wet curls and a naked shoulder.

A wet naked shoulder.

His mouth went dry.

There was a long silence. Then he cleared his throat and forced his gaze to her face.

“I, ah, I brought you some things.”

“What size?”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I wondered what size clothes the women you haven’t brought here left be—”

Isabella’s voice trailed off. Oh, God! Such a dumb thing to say? What did it matter how many women he invited home? She was spending the night out of expediency, not spending it with him.

“Why, Izzy,” he said softly. “You’re jealous.”

Heat flooded her face. “Certainly not! I simply meant—”

“I know exactly what you meant.”

“No,” she said quickly, “you don’t. Why would I—”

“They’re sweats. And socks.” He smiled. “Mine.”

“Oh. Well, I knew that. I mean, I figured that. I mean—”

Rio put his hand against the door. Before she had time to react, he’d pushed it open, leaned in, bent his head and captured her lips with his.

Dio, she tasted wonderful. Mint toothpaste and essence of Isabella. It was an amazing combination and when she moaned and melted toward him, he dropped the stuff he was holding and wrapped his arms around her.

She was soft. Warm. She smelled of lemon. And he wanted her, wanted her, wanted her …

It took all the willpower he possessed to slowly drop his hands to his sides and step back. Isabella was breathing hard. Well, merda, so was he.

“I don’t,” she whispered, “I really don’t understand any of this. I’m not like this. I’m not. I’m really not—”

He bent to her

and kissed her again. Deeper. Harder. With a hunger that he knew he’d never felt before. Then he scooped the sweats and socks from the floor and held them toward her. She looked at them. Looked at him. Then, clutching the towel to her with one hand, she took the things and pressed them against her breast.

“I’ll meet you in the kitchen,” Rio said gruffly.

One last kiss. One soft brush of his lips over hers. Then he stepped away, closed the door …

And wondered what she’d say if he told her he didn’t understand any of it, either.

CHAPTER SEVEN

HER knees were wobbly.

Which was silly.

How could a man’s kisses turn your knees to jelly?

They did, though. Isabella plopped down on the edge of the bed. Maybe it was safer to contemplate a thing that was clearly a physical impossibility sitting down.

Her lips tingled. Her heart was racing. She was breathing fast. She was a cliché-ridden mess, a bad romantic movie translated from the screen to real life.

Brilliant. Truly brilliant.

The clothes Matteo had given her lay in her lap. She looked down and choked back a laugh. Workout clothing. A sweatshirt and pants, a pair of socks that looked big enough to fit the feet of a yeti.

And she’d accused him of bringing her stuff another woman had worn.

The laugh turned into a groan, and Isabella buried her face in her hands.

Forget silly. She’d gone straight to stupid. Why was he doing this to her? Turning not just her bones but her brain to jelly?

She drew a long, ragged breath, pushed her hair from her eyes and sat up straight.

Except—except he wasn’t “doing” anything. Well, he was kissing her, sending shivers up and down her spine each time he did, but she was equally guilty.

She let him do it. Let him? An understatement. She was encouraging him by kissing him back, each and every time.

The why of that was easy.

She was doing it because she loved how he kissed her. How he held her. She loved the feel of his hard body against hers, the heat of his hands, the tightly controlled power she could sense when he held her.

Forget what she’d told herself about his kissing her because he could.

He wanted more. Lots more.

And, oh, my, so did she.

Which was absolutely, totally, completely incomprehensible.