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“She didn’t like how it sounded. Neither did I. So I tried to get hold of D’Aquila to see what he could tell me about Rossi.”
“And?”
“And, I couldn’t reach him. And something didn’t smell right. And,” Dante said, his voice becoming flat, “I decided to do some checking. I used that guy, the private investigator who’s done some work for Orsini Brothers Investments in the past.”
“And?” Falco said, through his teeth.
“D’Aquila’s real name is Matteo Rossi. He’s the man Izzy’s gone away with. He lied to her, told her he’s a caretaker, told her God only knows what other lies, and now she’s in the middle of nowhere with him.”
Silence wrapped around the office again. This time, it was ugly.
Isabella, sweetly innocent Isabella, the girl who worried over each flower she grew, who picked up half-dead plants left for the trash collector on the curb so she could nurse them back to life—she, the baby they all adored, had been seduced by a man reputed to be a heartless bastard, a man who had lied to her, who was pretending to be someone he wasn’t—
“Why?” Draco said.
They were all bewildered. Was it a cruel joke? A vicious prank? They talked. And postulated. And came up with only one obvious point of agreement.
Their Izzy needed them.
“They’re not in the middle of nowhere,” Anna said in a low voice. “They’re on Mustique.”
An hour later, the Orsinis’ private jet was in the air.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A LITTLE before eight, Isabella shooed her lover from the bedroom.
They had showered. Together, of course, which took a little longer—a lot longer—than if each had showered alone.
Matteo was shaved and dressed. Chino trousers. Dark brown moccasins with no socks. A black T-shirt that clung to his wide shoulders and hard body in a way that made her want to drag him down into the rumpled sheets, but he’d made dinner reservations at what he said was “just a restaurant” and said it in a way that made her suspect it was much more than that.
She knew he was spending far too much money and she’d tried to come up with a way to split costs. But she came from a family of strong, proud and, yes, occasionally arrogant brothers. Matteo had those same qualities and she’d decided it was best to let him spoil her, at least for a little while.
Besides, the selfish truth was that it felt lovely to be spoiled by a man like him.
So she let him bend her back over his arm for a dramatic kiss that made her laugh, and then she banished him to the patio.
“Give me fifteen minutes.”
Her gorgeous, sexy, amazing lover rolled his eyes. “A likely story.”
She grinned, he grinned back, stole one last quick kiss and went out the glass doors to the patio.
Isabella shut the doors. She wanted to look perfect for him, and to make her entrance a surprise.
How many other women had made him wait while they dressed? A legion, she thought as she dropped the bath towel she’d wrapped around her on the bed.
Matteo probably had to beat the women off with a stick—or with a kind word, because she couldn’t imagine him not being less than honorable in his dealings with anyone.
She had only to think of how honorable, how honest he’d been with her, telling her things about himself most men would try to keep buried. On top of that, he was gorgeous. Generous. Kind. Sexy as a man could be.
He was a modern Prince Charming—and he was hers. For tonight, for the next few days …
Don’t think too far ahead, Isabella.
No. She wouldn’t. But there was always a chance. What good were fairy tales, if one didn’t occasionally come true?
The clothes he’d bought her were laid out on a love seat in the corner of the bedroom.
They were beautiful. And he’d thought of everything. Well, almost. No comb and brush, but she had used his. No makeup but she rarely wore makeup anyway. Besides, lovemaking had left her eyes and skin glowing, and her lover’s kisses had left her lips rosy pink and delicately swollen.
The rest? Well, yes, he’d remembered to get panties.
But no bra.
Her heart did a little stutter step.
She’d just have to wear this bit of silk, this dress that reminded her of gossamer-winged lavender and blue butterflies, without one.
Her breasts would be bare behind the thin fabric. When
Matteo spoke to her in a low, husky voice, when he took her in his arms, he’d be able to see the effect he had on her.
Isabella let out a shaky breath.
Amazing. She was turning herself on just by thinking about him, and who’d ever imagined that?
The dress fit as if it had been made for her. So did the sandals of soft gold leather with delightfully wicked heels. She fluffed her hair, sent up a silent thank-you to whichever of the Fates it was who’d decreed that her long, dark curls would not, for once in her life, turn to frizz.
There could not be a woman on the entire planet even half as happy as she was tonight.
Fifteen minutes, Isabella had said.
Rio knew what a woman’s fifteen minutes meant, that the actual time could run to an hour or more. But a quarter hour later, he heard the doors slide open. He turned around—
And there she was.
My God, he thought, in English and Portuguese and Italian and half a dozen other languages he’d picked up doing business around the world, My God, how beautiful she is!
Her hair, black and lustrous, fell in sexy curls over her shoulders. Her eyes were wide, glittering as if they were filled with starlight. And the dress …
Dio, the dress.
Over the years, he had spent thousands on couturier designs for his mistresses. This dress had cost him an almost pitiful fraction of that, but he was certain that Vogue or any fashion magazine would have fought for the privilege of taking a photo of it now.
Except, he thought, as he drank in the sight, except it wasn’t the dress that was special. It was his gorgeous, sweet, sexy Isabella.
Her smile turned questioning.
“What do you think?” she said. “Do I look—”
Rio swept her into his arms, angled his mouth over hers and kissed her. She made one of those little sounds that drove him half-crazy; her arms went around his neck and she returned his kiss with such passion, such honesty that he could have sworn he felt the earth tilt.
He kissed her again but it wasn’t enough. Not even taking her to bed again would have been enough because—
Because he loved her.
He had known it on the plane. Now, the realization swam in his blood.
He loved her.
Deeply. With everything he was, everything he had ever been or would ever be. He loved her, and it was time he told her the truth.
“Sweetheart,” he said softly, “Isabella mia …”
“I want to look beautiful for you tonight,” she whispered.
“You are more than beautiful, sweetheart.”
“You think?”
He smiled. “I know.”
And he knew, too, that all the things he had to tell her could wait. She deserved this night, a perfect night. Lovers going out for dinner, sharing a bottle of wine, holding each other close on a tiny dance floor.
Then he’d bring her home, and embark on a voyage that would make that long-ago trip in the forecastle of a rusting freighter seem simple.
He would bare his soul and his heart to the woman he adored, and pray she’d forgive him for his lies.
Isabella was almost dizzy with joy.
An ivory moon had risen majestically from a turquoise sea after the sun had made a spectacular exit over the horizon. The air was warm and scented with flowers.
Matteo drove them to a tiny restaurant that seemed to hang over a sea that rolled in on a whisper of sound that spoke of ancient mysteries.
The night and the setting were wonderful but wonderful was not sufficient to describe the man who
was her lover.
He was all a woman could dream of or want.
Not just the way he looked, though she had to admit to a moment of foolish pride when they’d been shown to their table in this casual but elegant little place and all the women in it had given him looks of longing.
I agree, Isabella thought, he’s spectacular—and he’s all mine.
Maybe it made more sense to say, she was all his.
And oh, if only he wanted to be hers …
Thinking like that was dangerous. She knew that it was. They were in a sexual relationship and she wasn’t naive, she understood that, too. But—
But maybe, just maybe, Matteo felt more for her than desire. He had to, otherwise how could he make her feel as if she were the center of his universe?
When the captain took them to their table and started to pull out her chair, Matteo politely demurred, moved forward and pulled it out himself.
His hands brushed over her shoulders; he moved her chair in and, as he did, he stroked his thumb lightly over the hollow in her throat.
Her breath caught.
His touch sent a rush of desire through her body. He knew it; she felt her nipples peak and his gaze dropped to her breasts and when he looked up at her again, his eyes burned with flame.
“I’m going to have a lot of trouble keeping my hands off you tonight,” he said in a rough whisper.
Just that—his words, his glance—and Isabella felt herself go hot and wet.
