The Real Rio D'Aquila

Rio watched her go.

An interesting woman, he had to admit. Even now, as she marched out of his life, back straight, shoulders squared, head up. Even her posture made it clear she’d been wrongfully treated.

That she wasn’t wearing shoes spoiled the effect.

It made him grin.

He lost sight of her once she’d turned the corner; a few seconds later, he heard the front door slam hard enough to make it rattle.

Okay.

She was gone.

Good. Excellent. Out of his home, out of his hair, out of his life.

“Good night, Ms. Orsini,” he murmured. “It’s a pleasure to have seen the last of you.”

What time was it, anyway? He’d left his watch somewhere before he’d started digging. Never mind. He’d search for it in the morning. Right now, he was going to have that long-awaited cold beer, take a shower, put together a meal because, by now, he was hungry as a bear. Then he’d drive to the airport.

Forget that.

He was tired. Simpler to spend the night here and fly home in the morning.

Rio yawned, stretched, headed for the kitchen. There were half a dozen bottles of beer in the fridge; he chose one at random, rummaged in a drawer, found an opener and yanked off the cap.

The first swallow went down cold, wet and welcome. He took another while he tried to find a way to describe the afternoon.

Unusual? Interesting? He smiled. A little of each, all thanks to Isabella Orsini.

He’d expected Izzy the Gardener.

What he’d got was Isabella the—the what?

She was a bundle of contradictions, charming one minute, prickly the next. Businesslike, then bumbling.

Hot as a woman could be, and then as innocent as a virgin. Unless the innocent thing had been an act. Unless she liked playing with fire, or she liked teasing a man until he went berserk, or—

What did it matter? She was gone.

And it was harmless to think about the possibility that she really was innocent.

That he’d have been the first man to touch her. To learn her secrets. To bring her pleasure again and again, because he would have done that, he’d have shown her what passion could be …

Merda.

Rio slapped the bottle on the counter and headed for the stairs. A shower would set things right, followed by the thickest steak in the freezer, and—

And, where was her car?

He paused on the second floor landing.

She’d come by car. She’d told him so, that confused tale about Manhattan traffic and highway traffic and the rabbit. Then, where was it? Why had she come down that long driveway on foot? He hadn’t thought about it before but now, he wondered.

Maybe she’d parked outside the gates. He couldn’t come up with a reason she would and, anyway, it wasn’t his problem.

Not his problem at all.

He went up another few steps.

Yes, but where was her car?

He hesitated. Then he cursed under his breath, went down the steps, pulled open the front door and saw—

Nothing.

An empty driveway. The tall trees that lined it. The iron gate in the distance. Everything seemed eerie under the glow of the outside lights that had automatically come on at dusk.

The area past the gate was black. A moon as thin as the blade of a scythe hung in the sky but it didn’t do much to illuminate the night.

Okay. He’d check. Obviously, her car had been parked on the narrow road outside the gate. It, and she, would be long gone but—

But, he’d check.

He trotted down the driveway. Reached the gate. Pushed against it, but the thing had chosen this moment to stay firmly closed. Rio cursed again. Fumbled for the number pad so he could key in the security code. The gate swung slowly open but so what? He had no idea what he was looking for, what he expected to see …

Hell.

A slender figure was marching along the road. A slender, distant figure, lit by a sliver of moonlight ghosting through the trees.

He had no doubt it was Isabella Orsini.

“Idiot,” he growled, as he stepped into the middle of the road and shouted her name.

No reaction. Either she hadn’t heard him, or she wasn’t going to acknowledge that she had.

“Isabella!” he yelled again. “Damnit, Isabella, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Still no answer. And she didn’t stop walking. He knew she’d heard him; he’d shouted loud enough to silence the cricket symphony in the shrubs, but Isabella was not a cricket.

She was a woman determined to prove she was fearless.

Or daft.

Rio’s vote was for “daft.” A woman alone, on a dark country road …

Grimly, he started after her. He walked fast. Then he trotted. He’d just broken into a run when headlights appeared, coming toward him. Toward her. Their light spilled over her and, for the first time, she hesitated.

The vehicle slowed. She looked at it. The driver must have said something. Did she want a ride, maybe.

Don’t say yes, Rio thought, and ran faster. Whatever you do, Iz, do not say—

She wasn’t.

She was saying “no.” He couldn’t hear her but he could see it. She was shaking her head, shaking it harder and now the vehicle stopped—Rio flew down the road.

Don’t panic.

The words sang in Isabella’s head. Do not panic! Do not let every Grade D horror flick you saw as a teenager take over your common sense.

The driver who’d pulled over and asked if she needed a ride was just trying to be helpful. That he’d called her “little girl,” that he looked like a sumo wrestler version of Jack the Ripper, meant nothing.

Stop that, Isabella!

The man’s weight was his affair. And she didn’t even know what Jack the Ripper looked like. Nobody did. She was letting her imagination run away with her …

Isabella’s heart leaped into her throat.

Sumo Jack opened his door. “You ain’t bein’ very friendly,” he said as he heaved his bulk out of the car, “an’ here I am, just tryin’ to be helpful.”

Isabella’s heart leaped in her throat. Run, she told herself, run, run, run …

“There you are, sweetheart.”

That voice. Husky, lightly accented. “Matteo,” Isabella sobbed, and went straight into Rio’s arms.

Rio held her close against him. His heart was hammering, and not only from his crazed sprint.

“Baby,” he murmured, “it’s okay.”

For a few seconds, nothing existed but the night and the woman burrowing against him. Then, Rio cleared his throat and looked at the guy standing next to a battered pickup. He was big and beefy. Still, under that beef there probably were slabs of muscle, but that wasn’t what troubled him.

It was the way the guy stood there, motionless, his eyes hard and fixed on Isabella.

Rio’s blood pounded.

I can take you, you SOB, he thought—but what if he couldn’t? He wasn’t a fool; he knew how to box. He was strong, his body was hard. He knew that fury at what might have happened would fuel him.

But the guy might get lucky, and win the confrontation. And if he did, what would happen to Isabella?

So Rio swallowed his rage, cleared his throat, forced a smile to his lips.

“Thanks, man,” he said. Isabella stiffened against him. Rio held her even closer, hoping the unspoken warning to keep quiet would get through to her. “Offering to help my lady was really decent.”

Nothing. The hulking figure didn’t speak, didn’t move.

Isabella shivered.

“We had an argument. She was angry as a hornet and she took off.” A quick grin, this one man-to-man. “You know how it goes.”

The guy shifted from one massive leg to the other. Rio waited; he was sure the man’s brain was as undersized as his body was massive. Would he take the easy out—or would he come at them?

Rio almost wished

he would …

No. He couldn’t risk something happening to the woman trembling in his arms. Better to give the hulk the chance to hang on to whatever it was he called his honor.

Rio looked into Isabella’s face.

“Sweetheart?” She looked up at him. Her eyes were wide with fear. He wanted to kiss her and tell her everything was going to be fine, soothe her until the terror left her and she sighed and melted against him …

But the thing to do now was to get moving.

“Baby,” he said, “let’s go home, okay?”

The big man in the road shifted his weight again.

“You need to keep an eye on your woman,” he said in a low voice. “Anythin’ can happen, a woman walkin’ around alone out here at night.”

Rio nodded. “Yeah. Thanks again. You take care, dude, okay?” He slid his arm to Isabella’s waist. “Come on,” he said so quietly that only she would hear him. “Start walking. Come on, Iz. That’s it. Left. Right. Left. Right. Faster. The way you did when you and your ego marched out of my house.”

That did it.

He felt the strength coming back into her. She’d have jerked away, but he’d expected her to react, hell, he’d counted on it, and he kept her where he wanted her, right in the curve of his arm.

“My ego had nothing to do with it,” she whispered, but without as much heat as he’d have liked.

“We can argue that later. For now, just keep going.”

“Is he—is he going to let us?”