Page 29 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

“I knew you wouldn’t understand. What do you know about young love? I’ll bet you haven’t even looked at another guy since you and Brad called it quits.”

Oh yeah? I haven’t just looked, I’ve listened. With my legs wide open and my hand down my pants.

“This isn’t about me. It’s about you. You’re practically an adult. You need to figure out how to deal with Dad without me running interference.”

“Thanks for nothing,” Fliss grumbled, probably with an accompanying pout or eye roll for dramatic effect.

“You’re a smart girl. I’m sure you’ll come up with some sort of compromise.”

They talked for a few more minutes, Zoe trying her best to assure her younger sister that her life wasn’t a complete disaster, before they said their good nights—or good afternoons in Fliss’s case—and ended the call.

Zoe put the phone down beside her and hugged her knees to her chest. She loved her family, truly, but putting some much-needed distance between them wasn’t entirely a bad thing. They had relied on her for far too much for far too long. She was right to cut the cord and let them succeed—or fail—on their own.

With a groan, she pushed herself up off the floor. She still wasn’t tired, but at least the phone call had been good for something. It had taken her mind off Dante. And reminded her why she’d come to Italy in the first place. She was supposed to be finding herself. Figuring out her next move, personally and professionally. Not spending her days—and nights—salivating over the first filthy rich, smoking hot piece of Italian ass to drop in her lap.

Even if said filthy rich, smoking hot Italian piece of ass was salivating over her, too.

Chapter Seven

Dante cursed under his breath at the spreadsheet on his computer screen. The numbers still didn’t add up. And the spreadsheet was coded to automatically tally the columns. Meaning the problem was user error. The user being him.

He swore again and saved the document before turning away from the computer. It was no use trying to fix it now, not when every nerve ending in his body and all his attention were attuned to the scene directly outside his window, where Zoe was training that infernal pig. Or trying to. From the sounds of her cries of “No” and “Stop it, Houdini,” she wasn’t having much success.

Maybe closing the damn window would help. Then again, maybe it wouldn’t make a lick of difference. His brain would still know she was there. His body would still sense her presence.

It was worth a shot anyway, he supposed. He had to do something to try to forget that he wasn’t alone in the villa. Ever since that kiss in Zoe’s room—why the hell had he gone in there?—he’d been hyperaware of her. The subtle, summery scent of the shampoo she used, a combination of lavender and coconut. The way she scrunched up her nose when something—usually him—annoyed her. Her ass in those tight yoga pants.

No matter how hard he tried to avoid her. No matter how much distance he put between them. It was like he had some perverse sixth sense. A Zoe radar, if you will, one that was apparently directly connected to his dick. Even masturbating—on more than one occasion—hadn’t quelled his desire for her. If anything, it had heightened it. His hand was a poor substitute for the flesh and blood woman.

He crossed to the window and slammed it shut. Juvenile, he knew, but the temptation to linger there and watch her from the safe anonymity of his study like some creepy stalker was strong. Closing the window as quickly as possible and getting back to work—or trying to—was the only way he knew to resist it. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Painful, but necessary.

He sat down at his desk and returned to the spreadsheet, determined this time to finish what he’d started. His butt had barely hit the chair when a familiar tone chimed from his phone, interrupting him. Luca’s ringtone. He was half tempted to hit ignore, but the truth was he hadn’t spoken to his brother since coming to Bella Vista. It was long past time for them to speak, if not as brothers, as his business partners. Dante was supposed to be holding up his end of things from Positano. It wasn’t fair to Luca for him to let things slide because he was distracted by his infuriatingly stubborn, impossibly sexy, eminently kissable housemate.

Dante snatched the phone off his desk and swiped the screen. “Ciao, fratellino.”

Luca’s derisive snort echoed through the phone’s tiny speaker. “I told you to stop calling me that. I was born two minutes after you. That hardly makes me your younger brother.”

“It does in my book.”

“Your book is wrong.”

Dante relaxed in his seat, propping his feet up on the corner of his desk. He’d almost forgotten how fun exchanging barbs with his brother could be. At a minimum, the concentration it took to keep up with the back and forth kept his mind from wandering to Zoe. Much. “Are you going to tell me the reason for this call or just argue with me about the semantics of our birth order all day?”

“Do I need a reason to call my own brother?”

“No, but knowing you, I’m sure you have one.”

“I’d say not hearing from someone in almost two weeks is a pretty damn good reason, wouldn’t you?” He could picture Luca’s smug smile as he puffed on one of those disgusting Chesterfield cigarettes he liked so much.

“I’m sorry,” Dante said, trying to convey as much sincerity in the two short, deceptively simple words as he could over a phone from more than two hundred kilometers away. “Things have been—interesting.”

“Nonna told me about your little American house guest. She’s that captivating, is she?”

Could you hear a smirk get smirkier? If so, Dante was fairly certain he just did.

“I wouldn’t know,” he lied. “It’s a big villa. We keep to ourselves.”

“Then what’s got you so occupied you couldn’t pick up a phone and call me?” Luca asked, sounding more than a little wounded. “And don’t tell me it’s work, because I’m not falling for that. I’m not the only one you’ve been ignoring. No one at any of the restaurants has heard from you. For all you know, all three of them burned to the ground.”