Page 12 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

“Can’t you? I’m Italian. I like a good meal as much as the next guy. And naps are underrated, especially with a partner.”

His lip curved higher, and her stupid heart stuttered.

Okay. Time to go. Past time.She hiked up her bag, which had slipped down her arm. “I’m out of here. Don’t want to miss the market.”

“Watch out for Giuseppe,” he called after her as she turned for the door. “He makes the best limoncello in Campania, but he likes to gouge foreigners. Don’t pay more than ten euros for a two-liter bottle.”

Now that he mentioned it, picking up some adult beverages sounded like a damn good idea. “Got it. No more than ten euros for Giuseppe’s limoncello.”

Zoe swung the door open and made the colossal mistake of glancing back over her shoulder as she crossed the threshold. Dante’s storm-cloud eyes appraised her, trailing down her back, over her ass, to her legs. Goose bumps prickled on the smooth skin exposed by her denim cutoffs. She whipped her head around and closed the door quickly behind her, the barrier between them doing nothing to settle the mutant moths flapping around in her stomach.

Giuseppe wasn’t the only one she had to watch out for.

…

Dante paused at the bottom of the stairs, listening for signs of life above.

Nothing but silence.

He checked his watch—the Rolex Yacht-Master Nicole had given him for his thirtieth birthday a few months before she died—and made a quick mental calculation. It had been over an hour since Zoe announced she was turning in for the night. She was most likely asleep. Or maybe reading the romance novel he’d caught her with by the pool. The one with the headless, half-naked man on the cover she’d tried to hide under her towel.

Time for phase one of Operation Felix.

He slipped off his loafers, allowing him to move noiselessly across the tile floor, and made his way to the sunken living room. He picked up a remote control from the coffee table and pointed it at the state-of-the-art entertainment system on the far wall. The opening notes of Puccini’sLa Bohèmefilled the room, and he relaxed into an overstuffed chair, stretching out his long legs and closing his eyes as he let the music cascade over him.

Luca hated opera. It was a painful reminder of their mother. But for Dante, it was the only connection he had to the woman who had left them in Nonna’s care when they were seven, only to die two years later in a car accident.

Puccini had been her best-loved composer andLa Bohèmeher favorite of his works. She’d wanted to be an opera singer before an unplanned pregnancy left her with not one but two babies. Still, parenthood hadn’t dulled her admiration for the art form. One of Dante’s most treasured memories was of the late nights when he’d creep from his bed, lured by the sounds ofToscaorLa Traviataor, when his mother was feeling adventurous, something in German or French, like Bizet’sCarmen, and curl up in her lap as she rocked him, singing, her soprano as vibrant and clear as any of the professionals on the recordings.

He pointed the remote at the stereo again and hit the arrow to increase the volume. Once, twice, three times until the music was so loud he could feel the vibrations through the floor. Then he took a cigar from a wooden box on the side table—Cuban, of course—cut it, and lit it. Lifting it to his lips, he took a puff and savored the flavor, sweet and fruity, with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg, while he waited for the inevitable.

It didn’t take long.

“Do you know what time it is?” Zoe shouted over the music, hands on her hips as she glared at him from the step leading into the recessed room. “Turn that racket down.”

“It’s Puccini.”

“I don’t care if it’s Elvis Presley risen from the grave. It’s after midnight, and decent people are trying to sleep.”

“Are you saying I’m not decent?” He glanced down at his outfit—crisp white T-shirt and dark jeans—then raised his eyes to hers. “I’m fully clothed.”

“This time,” she snapped. The hands at her hips balled into fists. “Are you going to turn the music down or not?”

He took a long draw on his cigar, blowing the smoke out in a long, thin stream. “I hear the rooms at Hotel Montemare are soundproof.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

As if to prove her point, she flounced into the living room and planted herself on the armchair opposite him.

“Have it your way.” He surreptitiously lowered the volume a hair. The mother of all headaches was building behind his temples. He wasn’t used to listening to opera at full blast.

“So, Puccini, huh?” She tucked her legs underneath her and settled deeper into the cushions, making her look like a lost little girl. “Who’s he?”

“You’re kidding, right?” What was she doing? She was supposed to be running for the hills, not hanging around questioning him about his taste in music.

She adjusted the overlong T-shirt that apparently doubled as pajamas so it covered her knees. “I’m more of a hard rock kind of gal than an opera fan.”

“At least you recognize an opera when you hear one.”