Page 18 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

She indicated a spot in front of the white marble fireplace. “Would you mind helping me?”

“You still haven’t answered my question.” Dodging his inquiries was becoming a common theme with her. It should irritate him. But instead, he found himself liking the challenge.

“What question was that?” Zoe batted her long lashes, all fake, wide-eyed innocence.

“Who gave you permission to do this?” He waved a hand around the room.

“Your grandmother.”

He should have known. Nonna. She’d do anything to keep Zoe at the villa, even if it meant letting her rearrange the furniture.

“She called this morning to make sure I was enjoying my stay,” Zoe continued. “We got to chatting, and when I told her I was an interior decorator, she suggested I take a crack at freshening the place up. I tried telling her you don’t mess with a genius like Alberto Pinto, but she insisted. Said she knew him personally and that he would have liked nothing more than one of his admirers putting her own spin on his vision. She wanted me to tackle the whole house, but we compromised on the living room. And I took plenty of pictures before I started moving stuff around so she can have someone put it back the way it was if she doesn’t like what I’ve done.”

Right. She was an interior decorator. Another factoid for him to file away in his subconscious. Not that he was interested in her. It was the Sun Tsu know-your-enemy theory rearing its ugly head again. No, enemy was too strong a word. Rival. Or maybe adversary. That sounded more civilized. Less hostile.

“So, what do you say?” Zoe gestured to the chair, snapping his thoughts back from the detour they’d taken. “Can you help me move this thing? I almost threw my back out wrestling with the couch, and if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not risk that again.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. That would put a stop to your morning yoga.”

She pursed her temptingly plump, pink lips. “Is my exercise routine bothering you?”

“Not at all,” he lied. It was bothering him, all right. But not in the way she thought. He could handle waking up with the sun. Watching her contort her body in figure-hugging spandex—that was another story.

He crossed to the chair in question, putting his hands under the overstuffed arm. “On three?”

It wasn’t like he had much choice. She had the room in shambles. He might as well help her put it back together, even if it wasn’t quite the same afterward. Besides, a little physical exertion was exactly what he needed to get his mind off Zoe’s physical attributes.

“Okay.” She grabbed the other arm of the chair. “One. Two. Two and a half.”

He arched a brow.

“Three.”

They had only moved the chair a few feet when Zoe squealed and let go, dropping her side of the chair to the tile floor with a thud.

He lowered his side. “What’s wrong?”

“Lost my grip,” she gritted out through clenched teeth, hopping on one bare foot.

He rounded the chair and was next to her in a heartbeat, putting an arm around her slender waist to steady her. He tried to ignore the way her body fit perfectly with his and concentrated on playing doctor. The medical kind, not the naughty kind. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I always jump around like this when I move furniture.”

Ah, there was the smart mouth that was bound to get her—and him—into trouble.

“Here. Sit.” He guided her into the chair then knelt down, taking her injured foot into his hands. He’d never been a foot fetish guy, but hers were perfect. Delicate and pale, her skin soft under his fingers, her toes in a neat diagonal line, big to small, the nails painted a glittery blue-green. A tiny tattoo of a wave just below her ankle completed the pretty picture.

He swallowed. Hard. “You know, you really should be wearing shoes for this.”

She looked down at him through hooded eyes. “I could say the same for you.”

Was he imagining things, or was her voice huskier than usual?

“You’re running this show. I was drafted into service. Not that I blame you. I don’t know how you got the couch all the way to the center of the room without me. It must weigh over three hundred pounds.”

“I put towels under the legs and slid it across the floor. Slowly. Trick of the trade.”

“You couldn’t do that with the chair?”