Page 10 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

“Ser pan comido?” Spanish and Italian were similar enough that Dante could usually make out what his friend was saying when he slipped into his native tongue. But this time, he was stumped.

Miguel laughed again, more heartily. “Piece of cake.”

Chapter Three

So that was how it was going to be.

Zoe backed slowly, softly down the hall, Dante’s words bouncing around in her head like ping-pong balls.

I need her gone. The sooner the better.

Even in his sultry, sexy accent, it cut like a razor, sharp and clean across her psyche.

She retreated to the privacy of her room, at the opposite end of the house from Dante’s. She’d been glad of the isolation when he put her there. Now, with his words still ringing in her ears, it stung.

She knew he wasn’t thrilled to be sharing the villa. But to hear the lengths he was willing to go to to get rid of her? It was an ice-cold dose of reality she could have done without. One she would have if she hadn’t realized halfway to town that she’d forgotten her Italian-English dictionary.

Darned language barrier.

Then again, maybe it was a good thing she’d come back. Forewarned was forearmed. She’d only heard the last few minutes of Dante’s side of the conversation, but it was enough for her to figure out what he was trying to do. If he thought some boorish behavior and gratuitous skin was going to run her off, he had another think coming.

The one consolation was that, apparently, he did own clothes. He just chose not to wear them when she was around.

Lucky her.

The sliding glass doors that led to her balcony beckoned to her, luring her outside. Maybe some fresh air would help clear her head so she could decide her next move rationally, not emotionally. After all, she was the logical, responsible one in the Ryan family. She hadn’t lived at home in years, but she was still the one who made sure all the bills were paid so the electricity didn’t get shut off. Who did grocery runs so there would be something other than condiments and cheap beer in the house. Who texted her half-sister Fliss every morning to make sure she wasn’t late to school.

It had been hard leaving them to fend for themselves. Hard, but necessary. It wasn’t just her ex-boyfriend and ex-boss who had pushed her over the edge and across the Atlantic. She loved her family. But she also resented them. Resented their dependence on her. Maybe with her thousands of miles away, they’d finally learn the art of adulting.

Either that or they’d be living in the dark, subsisting on mustard and Michelob.

Zoe dropped her backpack on the bed, opened the door, and stepped outside, the warm breeze and sweet smell of lavender and honeysuckle from the flowering vines that climbed the villa’s stucco walls instantly soothing her. Resting her forearms on the railing, she stared out across the almost unnaturally blue Mediterranean water, her plan to head to the farmers’ market all but forgotten. Why stock the refrigerator when she could be out on the street by nightfall?

Something buzzed in her pocket, and it took her a second to remember she’d put her cell phone in there before hopping on the scooter. She fished it out, worry lines creasing her forehead when she saw a text from Fliss.

Hey, loser. U were supposed 2 text when you got 2 Italy. Mom and Dad r freaking out. U better be in a food coma, hung over, or spent from joining the mile-high club with some Sicilian hottie u met on the flight.

Crap. So much for being the responsible one in her family. How had she forgotten something so basic as letting them know she’d arrived safely?

Probably had something to do with jet lag. And the naked guy in her villa.

Her villa. No matter what the naked guy had up his figurative sleeve, seeing as he so very rarely wore a shirt.

She swiped the screen to respond to her sister’s text.Sorry. Arrived safely. Tell Mom and Dad I’m fine.

She reread what she’d written before hitting send. A little terse, but best to keep it short and simple. She didn’t want to say anything that would have her nosy little sister asking questions. Fliss might be only a teenager, but she was a regularMy Cousin Vinny. Ten minutes under her withering interrogation and Zoe would be spilling her guts about everything, including her roommate with an aversion to wearing clothes and sharing space.

Fliss’s answer came quickly.No mile-high club?

Zoe shook her head and started to type.Not that it’s any of your business, but no. And how do you know about the mile-high club anyway?

I’m 17, not 7,Fliss answered.

Zoe grimaced. As much as she loved her sister, sometimes she longed for the less complicated days before Fliss hit puberty and discovered the opposite sex.Don’t remind me.

After a short pause, another text came through.Send me a pic. I want 2 experience the Amalfi Coast vicariously through u.

Zoe’s thumbs flew over the keyboard.Vicariously?