She wasn’t the kind who had sexy thoughts. She didn’t even have sexy dreams.
You’re just inhibited, Iz, Anna had said, a long time back. They’d been in their mid-teens then, other girls talking about boys and sex, Isabella wondering if there was something wrong with her because she’d go to the movies with a boy, go to a school dance, and if her date tried to kiss her she’d imagine what it would feel like, where his lips would go, where hers would go, would she end up, yuck, tasting his spit?
Her solution to the problem was invariably the same. She’d stick out her hand and say Thanks, tonight was fun, and the boy would never call again.
You think things to death, Anna had said with the loving wisdom of a sister older by thirteen months and wiser by what sometimes seemed a decade. Just relax. Learn to let go a little.
It was good counseling. Isabella had even tried it.
She’d learned to like kissing. Not to love it but to like it.
Closed-mouth kissing, anyway. Eventually, she’d learned to tolerate a fumbled caress.
A couple of times, she’d let guys take things a little further. Open her bra. Touch her breasts. Watched, with a kind of clinical fascination, as their faces grew flushed, their breathing unsteady, while nothing even close was happening to her.
All she’d felt, each time, was embarrassed.
Finally, with all the grim determination of a woman going for a root canal, she’d decided it was time to have sex. Maybe the experience would turn out to be, well, liberating.
She’d gone to bed with a nice guy, the accountant who did her taxes. When it was over, she was out one lover …
And one accountant.
Which was when she’d decided to put sex and passion and all that nonsense out of her mind.
Until now.
Isabella drew another deep breath.
“Enough,” she told the silent room.
Everything in life had a logical explanation. So did her behavior. She was hungry. Starved, was closer to accurate. That explained a lot. She might even be dehydrated.
A meal. Lots of water. After that, she’d be fine.
The thing to do was get dressed, put on Matteo’s sweat suit and his socks. A classy, sexy outfit, for sure, she thought with a little smile, which was fine because sex and sexiness had nothing to with the reason she was spending the night.
Then, she’d head downstairs, help him put together some kind of supper. Sandwiches, soup, whatever. They’d eat, be casual about it, talk about banal things and then she’d come back up here, go to sleep and that would be the end of whatever was going on.
Because nothing was.
Okay. There was a little chemistry. She could admit that, she thought as she put on the clothes. And it was—it was fun, especially when you’d never had chemistry with a man before. Under the right circumstances, she just might find flirting, even sex, well, interesting.
Don’t you mean, sex with the right man, Isabella?
“The right man has nothing to do with it,” she said in a firm voice.
Liar, the little voice inside her whispered.
Isabella told it to shut up.
Then she opened the door and went in search of the kitchen.
Rio knew as much about kitchens as a lion would know about a canary.
This kitchen, especially. He’d told the architect to come up with a kitchen that would suit the house.
The result was this enormous room, a long stretch of stainless steel appliances that would have made a master chef smile, a variety of machines that baffled him, and the kind of lighting he figured surgeons would want in an operating room.
Merda!
He flicked switches, dimmers, took the lights down to a bearable level and thought how great it would be if he could do the same thing with his libido.
Damnit, he thought, as he opened the refrigerator, this nonsense had to stop!
He had not brought Isabella here to have sex with her.
Not that he hadn’t thought of it endlessly most of the day but he’d reached a decision. There wouldn’t be any sex. It was an excellent decision, and if he could just stop touching her, he would not have a problem over having reached it.
He’d brought her home with him because she had no place else to go.
Well, not exactly.
He could have flown her to New York. Or hired a limo.
But then the proverbial cat would have been out of the proverbial bag.
There was no reason to tell her anything.
After tomorrow morning, he would never see her again.
Where were those steaks his caretaker had said he’d bought? Where would you put a steak, in a fridge big enough to house a family of six and all their friends and relatives?
Right there. Inside a clear plastic drawer. And, in another drawer just below, there were lettuce and tomatoes and corn, things he’d almost forgotten the caretaker had mentioned hours ago. A lifetime ago, was more the way it felt.
Isabella had come walking up that driveway and ushered in a new dimension of time.
Which had nothing to do with turning this stuff into something resembling a late supper. And that was important because he needed a solid meal. Get something in his belly, he’d be able to think straight.
He’d made a decision and he was sticking to it.
No sex, he thought firmly, as he put the steaks on the stone counter beside the stove. It sounded like the title of a bad French farce—except there was nothing amusing about it.
Isabella was innocent. In spirit if not in fact. And he wasn’t into deflowering virgins or introducing inexperienced women to the pleasures of sex, no matter how willing the women might seem.
Rio’s mouth went dry.
And, Cristo, she was willing.
He could not think of a woman who had ever been more responsive to his caresses. He could imagine her in his bed, opening her arms to him as he slid between her thighs, as he filled her with his desire, his heat …
With the major hard-on that had just come to immediate life in his sweatpants.
Food. He needed a meal. So did she. A solid night’s sleep afterward and tomorrow, life would return to normal. She’d be back in New York and he—he’d be Rio D’Aquila again, because that was who he was. Not Matteo Rossi. He had not been Matteo Rossi for years and he’d be glad to get rid of him, for all time.
It would be a welcome relief.
The Viking stove had a built-in grill. He turned it on, then filled a pot with water and put it on to boil. He husked two ears of corn, checked the heat of the grill, slapped the steaks on it, found the water bubbling and dumped in the corn.
So much for putting a meal together, and wasn’t it a lucky thing his caretaker had bought steaks because steak, scrambled eggs and grilled cheese sandwiches constituted Rio’s entire kitchen repertoire.
Matteo Rossi had known how to cook. Not well, but well enough. He’d known how to make pasta sauce, chili, hamburgers, even omelets. When a man had to fend for himself and do it on the cheap …
Dio! Who gave a damn about any of that now? Why even think about it, when you had housekeepers and cooks?
He found the bottles of wine. A pair of reds, pinot noirs that carried the label of a noted South Shore vineyard. He uncorked one, set it aside to breathe; yanked open cabinets and drawers, found heavy white stoneware, equally heavy flatware, white linen napkins and salt and pepper mills. He opened another cabinet, found a pair of thin-stemmed red wineglasses …
And thought, What the bloody hell am I doing?
He stood still, put his hands on his hips and took a couple of deep breaths.
He was bustling around like a demented Julia Child, and for what? This was a late supper borne of necessity. It wasn’t a romantic dinner for lovers.
He and Isabella were not lovers. They would not be lovers.
All he had to do was get that final image of her out of his head. Her, wrapped in that towel, her hair damp and wild and sexy, water pearling on h
er shoulders, her eyes blurred and filled with him as he drew her to him and claimed her mouth …
“Hi.”
Rio swung around.
Isabella stood just inside the kitchen. Her face was shiny. Her curls were out of control. Her sweats—his sweats—dwarfed her. The socks were the finishing touch. They reminded him of the kind of things clowns wore on their feet: long, loose and oversize.
No designer outfit. No fifteen hundred dollar blowout that would have taken away those beautiful curls. No makeup so artfully applied that he was never supposed to know it had taken an hour to do.
Just this.
Just Isabella.
His heart turned over.
He wanted to go to her, kiss that naked mouth, that shiny face, plunge his hands deep into that tumult of untamed curls …
For God’s sake, D’Aquila. Weren’t you paying attention to yourself? None of that is going to happen.
When he didn’t answer, she colored a little and forced a laugh.
“Not exactly a Vogue cover, huh?”
He knew the correct, gentlemanly response. He was supposed to say she looked precisely like a Vogue cover but hell, he wasn’t a gentleman, he was Matteo Rossi who’d grown up in an orphanage and had worked with his hands.
“No,” he said a little hoarsely, “not a Vogue cover.”
Her smile dimmed and he walked slowly toward her.
“You’re far more beautiful that any cover, cara,” he said softly, and what could he do then but frame her face in his hands and kiss her?
It was a light kiss, the whisper of his lips against hers, but it made him groan.