The Real Rio D'Aquila

“Good,” she whispered back, and the flames in his eyes narrowed to pinpoints of light.

He ordered for them both.

“Is that all right, cara?”

She, the woman who bristled when one of her own brothers was foolish enough to think he could decide if she wanted a burger or a hot dog at a Fourth of July barbecue, she smiled and said that would be fine.

His choices were eclectic and wonderful. A drink that tasted deliciously of coconut and rum arrived in a tall glass garnished with gorgeous flowers. A cold fruit soup dotted with freshly ground black pepper, a combination that seemed incongruous until she tasted it, was next. And then white wine that was cool and crisp, crab cakes hot with spices, pan-blackened grouper, bananas sautéed in butter and cinnamon and nutmeg and who knew what else.

The meal was decadently delicious.

The service was wonderful.

But being with Matteo …

No words could do that justice.

They ate. They talked. They laughed. And, in between, Matteo led her onto a miniscule dance floor where he wrapped his arms around her, gathered her close against him, and they swayed in rhythm to soft music.

Isabella sighed as he drew her to him, as she felt his hard body against the softness of hers, his muscled thighs against the length of hers.

She put her arms around his neck. He put one hand in her hair, the other at the base of her spine.

She buried her face against him, inhaling him, feeling him harden against her, feeling the power of knowing she could make him want her just by being in his arms.

It happened over and over. Dancing, or pretending to dance. The teasing of him against her, her against him, until they were both half out of their minds.

Isabella moaned.

“Matteo,” she whispered, “take me to bed.”

Rio had done a lot of tough things in his life but nothing compared to getting off that dance floor without lifting her in his arms, taking her down to the beach and making love to her right there.

Somehow, he managed to hang on to what little sanity he had left. He clasped her hand, never broke stride as he dug a handful of bills from his pocket and dropped them on the table.

He drove home fast, his hand under her skirt, her hand on him, taking the narrow, curving roads at speeds his brain warned were dangerous, even when he wasn’t almost blind with desire, but all that mattered was getting home.

When they reached the villa, he drew her from the car before she had time to get her door open.

“Isabella,” he said, just that, because her name was infused with everything a man could need or want.

She went into his arms.

He held her to him, kissed her mouth and throat. And fought to hang on to his control.

“Isabella.” He drew back, framed her face with his hands. “Sweetheart, we have to talk.”

“Not now,” she said in a broken whisper, and when she went up on her toes, dug her hands into his hair and kissed him, her mouth open and hot and greedy against his, Rio forget everything except his need for her.

There would be plenty of time, later.

He carried her through the dark house to the bedroom where they tore at each other’s clothes.

When they were naked, she moved against him.

“Now,” she said, and the urgency in her voice all but finished him.

They fell to the bed in each other’s arms and made love, again and again and again, while the moon sailed across the heavens and the earth spun through the mantle of the night …

And, fell asleep, at last, wrapped in each other’s arms.

Isabella came awake abruptly from a deep, dreamless sleep. The moon had set. The night had turned black and impenetrable.

Something had awakened her—

A sound. A noise. Something growling just beneath the hiss of the waves rolling in from the sea.

She recognized it now. What she heard was a car, coming up the narrow road to the villa—and where was Matteo? She was alone in the big bed.

Fear turned her skin icy.

She sat up quickly, grabbed the first thing at hand—a cotton throw from the foot of the bed—and wrapped it around herself.

“Matteo?” she whispered as she padded out of the bedroom. “Matteo? Where—”

A hand closed around her wrist.

“Easy, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

Her heart felt as if it were going to burst from her chest. Her lover had all but materialized from the shadows in the hallway; her eyes had adjusted to the dark and she saw that he’d pulled on a pair of jeans and nothing else.

Shivering, Isabella moved closer to him.

“It’s a car, isn’t it? Who—”

“I don’t know,” Rio said, and, damnit, he didn’t.

Who would come to the villa in the middle of the night? Crime was practically nonexistent on the island but things happened, no matter how safe and tucked away a place seemed.

“Matteo. I’m frightened.”

He was, too. Not for himself. For her. A dozen ugly headlines, splashed across newspapers everywhere, shot through his mind.

“Don’t be,” he said. “It’s probably nothing. Kids out, having fun. Or somebody tipsy who made the wrong turn.” He put his hand against her cheek. “Isabella. I want you to go into the bedroom and lock the—”

“No! I’m not leaving you.”

The sound of the engine died and the night filled with silence. A car door slammed, and then another.

“Isabella,” Rio said urgently, “get inside that room and lock yourself in.”

“I am not leaving you, Matteo. Whatever happens, I want to be with you.”

Rio’s heart swelled with love.

“Ah, Izzy,” he said softly, “Izzy, sweetheart—”

A fist hammered against the door. “Open up!”

A heavy wooden statue stood on a table near the door. It wasn’t a hell of a good weapon, but it was all there was. Rio grabbed it.

“Isabella,” he hissed, “go into the bedroom and—”

Bam! “You open this effing door or—” Bam! “—you effing son of a bitch, or so help me God—” Bam! “—I’ll break it down!”

Isabella stiffened. No. It couldn’t be—

“D’Aquila, you no good, sleazy, bastard! I’ve come for my sister. If I have to take this place apart to get to her, I will!”

Isabella stared at her lover.

“That’s—that’s my brother,” she said. “But what’s he doing here??

??

“D’Aquila!”

The door shuddered under Dante Orsini’s fist.

“He thinks—” She shook her head. “He thinks you’re Rio D’Aquila.”

“Isabella,” Rio said in a low voice, “Isabella, you must listen to me.”

“My God, what a mess!” Isabella gave an unsteady laugh. “My brother, come to rescue his little sister from the clutches of big, bad Rio D’Aquila … I’m so sorry, Matteo!” She moved past him, reached for the lock on the door. “I’m horrified. Humiliated. I don’t know how this could have happ—”

“Isabella!” Rio caught her by the shoulder. She could feel each finger digging into her flesh. “Don’t open that door.”

“What do you mean, don’t open it? I know this is awful but he’s got things all wrong. I most certainly don’t need rescuing. He had no right to come here. And you most certainly are not—”

“But I am,” Rio said. “I am Rio D’Aquila.”

Isabella stared at him. He saw the color drain from her face. Her lips formed a word—No—but it was soundless.

Rio cursed violently. He dropped the wooden statue and reached for her but she stumbled back. Cristo, he was running out of time! The pounding at the door had stopped, but he wasn’t foolish enough to think Dante Orsini had gone away.

He knew he had only minutes to explain everything. How what had started as a farce had become all that mattered, all that ever would matter for the rest of his life.

“It’s true,” he said in a low voice. “I am Rio.”

Isabella shook her head. Her eyes were wide with disbelief.

“No. You’re not. You’re not! You’re his caretaker. His property manager. His pilot. You’re Matteo Rossi.”

“Si. Sim. I am him, as well. Matteo Rossi is my real name. Hell, not my real name. It’s the name I was given. I took the name Rio D’Aquila years ago.” Desperate, he ran his hands through his hair. “Isabella mia. Sweetheart, it’s all so damned complicated—”

Tears ran down her face.

“Why?” she whispered. Her voice broke. “Why did you lie to me? Why did you let me think—”

Glass shattered in the bedroom. Rio knew it meant that Dante Orsini had broken open the patio doors, that he had only seconds left.

“Why?” she said. Her voice rose to a sobbing cry. “Why?”