The Real Rio D'Aquila

He wanted more. He wanted everything and from the way she responded, holding back for a heartbeat, then rising on her toes, sighing against his mouth, parting her lips to his, so did she.

Matteo groaned again and slid a hand under her sweatshirt. She gasped as his fingers skated over the silken flesh of one breast, moaned as they danced across the nipple.

“Matteo,” she whispered, “oh, God, Matteo …”

His body clenched like a fist. He lifted his head, looked blindly into her eyes. Then he drew his hand out from under her shirt and walked away.

When he reached one of the stone counters, he clutched the edge with both hands, waited for his heartbeat to return to something approaching normal. When it did, he faced her again.

She was standing as he’d left her, her eyes enormous, her lips slightly parted. Desire, fierce and hot, swept through him but he fought it and jerked his chin toward the plates and other things he’d set aside.

“Supper’s almost ready,” he said briskly. “How about setting the table?”

He saw her throat constrict as she swallowed. She swayed a little. Then she flashed a smile that he knew was as phony as his casually phrased request.

“Sure,” she said, and when she turned away and went to do as he’d asked, it was all he could do not to go after her, swing her into his arms and carry her to his bed.

They ate, or pretended to eat, in a strained silence broken only by Isabella’s polite, “This is very good,” and his equally polite, “I’m glad you like it.” Rio poured the wine but after a couple of obligatory sips, neither of them touched their glasses.

Finally, she put her knife and fork across her plate, touched her lips with her napkin and set it beside the plate.

“You know,” she said, “it turns out that I’m not very—”

“No. Neither am I.”

She pushed back her chair. He followed. They rose to their feet.

“I’ll help you clean up,” she said.

“No,” he said quickly. “I’ll take care of it. You go on to bed. You must be exhausted.”

She nodded. “I am. Yes. I—I—”

Ah, sweet Mary, she looked so lost.

“Isabella,” he said in a low voice.

She looked up at him. Her eyes were shiny with unshed tears.

“I was a fool to come here,” she whispered.

“No. You weren’t. I’m the fool. I shouldn’t have—”

“You were kind. You took in a stray, and I—I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“Isabella—”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll be out of your way first thing in the morning. I’ve thought it through and it’s ridiculous for me not to phone my sister. She’ll come get me and—”

“You don’t need her. I’ll take care of it.”

She shook her head. “I’m not about to let you drive me all the way to the city.”

“It’s not that far.”

“It’s a couple of hours. At least. If there’s traffic—”

“Hell, what do I care about traffic? I’ll take care of you.”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”

“Yes. You do.” Rio pushed aside the chair that separated them. “And I’m the one who’s going to do it.”

Isabella could feel fury growing inside her. He’d been taking care of her, all right, first driving her half out of her mind with his kisses, then turning cool and distant. Did he think she was a child?

Because she damned well wasn’t.

“Look,” he said, his tone so conciliatory it made her teeth grind together, “we shouldn’t be having this conversation. It’s late. You’re tired. And—”

“And what?” She closed the small distance between them, chin up, eyes molten gold, everything about her ready for a fight. “You think I don’t know what’s going on? That for all your Good Samaritan talk, you’re sorry as hell you ended up in this mess?”

“What mess?” He was bewildered. What the hell was she so angry about? “All I did was—damnit, I don’t know what I did! What’s got you so ticked off?”

“Me?” Isabella poked a finger into the center of his chest. “I am not ticked off. You are. And I know the reason. You’ve been stuck with me the entire day. And I haven’t tumbled into bed with you when you made those pathetic moves on me and—”

“Pathetic moves?”

She blinked. Had she actually said that? Hadn’t she just finished telling herself he was the one who’d backed off after each kiss? It was one or the other, she thought grimly, and what did it matter which?

“Pathetic moves,” she repeated recklessly, despite the swift glimmer of anger in his eyes. “That’s what I said.”

Rio’s jaw shot forward. “Damnit, woman,” he said, grabbing her wrist, “do not poke your finger at me! And do not twist the truth. If my moves were so pathetic—and, trust me, Ms. Orsini, they weren’t ‘moves’ at all—if they were, how come you responded by climbing all over me?”

That made her eyes flash. Good. Why should she be the only one hurling insults?

“You’re joking. I climbed all over you?”

“Like tonight, when I brought you that clothing. There I was, being, yes, a Good Samaritan, and how did you respond?” He lowered his head until they were eye to eye. “Like a cat in heat on a back alley fence, that’s how.”

Her face turned crimson.

“You,” she said in a voice that trembled, “are a horrible man.”

“Oh, I must be,” Rio snarled. “Hell, only a horrible man would tolerate the presence of a woman who showed up for an appointment six hours late.”

“Two. And what’s it to you? I wasn’t supposed to meet with you, I was meeting with your full-of-himself boss.”

“Three, and you don’t know a thing about my boss.”

“I know all I need to know.”

“For instance?”

“He’s pretentious.”

Rio’s eyes narrowed. “The hell he is.”

“He’s a cold-hearted SOB.”

“And you know this, how?”

“I just do,” Isabella snapped.

“Oh, that’s brilliant. ‘I just do,’” Rio said, mimicking her in a faux soprano that made Isabella want to scream.

The fact was, everything about him made her want to scream.

How could she hav

e even imagined wanting to go to bed with him? He wasn’t only horrible. He was arrogant and disgustingly macho and he twisted every word, every situation, to his own ends.

“You,” Isabella said, her nose an inch from his, “are an arrogant example of everything I despise! You—you toady to the rich, you make excuses for them—”

“Don’t hold back,” Rio said coldly. “Not on my account.”

“You dance to your boss’s tune because he lets you play at being him. Just look at you, living in his house, eating his food, drinking his wine … What are you laughing at? Damnit,” she shrieked, “do not laugh at me, Rossi. Do not dare laugh at—”

Rio pulled her into his arms.

“Let go,” she demanded, but he’d had enough.

He kissed her. And she went up in flames.

She grasped his shirt. Rose on her toes. Opened her mouth to his and sank her teeth delicately, deliciously into his bottom lip. She moaned. Whimpered. Pressed her body to his and he knew he was done pretending he didn’t want her.

Rio thrust his hands deep into her hair and lifted her against him. She cried out and ground her hips against his erection.

This, he thought, this was the one real thing, the one honest thing between them.

“Matteo,” she moaned, and even that was all right. He was Matteo Rossi; he was more him tonight than he had ever been Rio D’Aquila.

He drew back, just enough to look into her eyes, and any last remaining anger flew away.

“Isabella. Cara mia. Bella mia.” He ran his hand along the side of her face, her skin like silk under his callused fingertips, her eyes as filled with him as his surely were with her.

“Tell me,” he said gruffly. “I need to hear the words.”

Isabella sighed, and what he heard in that single expulsion of breath almost stopped his heart.

“Make love to me,” she said, lifting her arms, winding them around his neck, standing on her toes so she could press herself against him. “Please,” she whispered. “I want you so badly—”

Rio knew the right answer. The one logic demanded, but he was long past logic.

He said her name. Took her mouth in a deep, hungry kiss.

Then he scooped her into his arms and, still kissing her, carried her swiftly through the dark, silent house. To his bed.