Page 51 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

She ignored the pang in her chest at the thought of returning home and tried again, waggling the piece of popcorn.

“Smell that? Popcorn. Your favorite. All you have to do is come over here and get it.”

The pig made a snuffling sound and flopped onto his stomach.

Great. Now they were moving backward.

She scooted forward an inch, then another. “Pretty please? If you won’t do it for you, do it for me.”

“I’ll come for you, and you don’t have to beg. Or bribe me with treats.”

That voice. Deep. Husky. Dripping with sexual innuendo. It never failed to make her breath catch and the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. She put a hand to the staccato pulse beating at her throat. Damn the man, sneaking up on her like that.

She turned her head to face him, taking a moment to drink in what she’d had the pleasure of exploring for the past week. Even with his body hidden by his button-down shirt and impeccably tailored khakis, her sense memory supplied every hard ridge, every smooth plane.

“How long have you been standing there?” she asked when her pulse had slowed and her mouth was able to form words.

He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Long enough.”

“Long enough for what?”

“To know your pig is untrainable.”

“You could have said something.”

He gave her a sexy smirk that kicked her pulse back up a few notches. “About the pig?”

She returned the smirk with an are-you-kidding-me look. “About your eavesdropping. Or coughed discreetly to let me know you were there.”

“Then I wouldn’t be much of an eavesdropper.” He gestured to Houdini, who was scratching his back against a stool leg. “Ready to give up yet?”

She shook her head. “According to the AMPA, pigs are easy to train. Did you know they’re smarter than dogs?”

“The AMPA?”

“The American Mini Pig Association.”

Now the are-you-kidding-me face was his. “You’re making that up.”

“Nope.” She tossed the piece of popcorn still in her outstretched hand into her mouth and grabbed another one from the bowl on the floor behind her. “They’re a registered nonprofit. Their mission is to protect miniature pigs, improve breeding practices, and encourage responsible mini pig ownership.”

Dante crossed the room and stood next to her, staring down at the pig. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

She wrinkled her nose at him, confused. “Maybe what’s the problem?”

“Houdini’s not American. He’s Italian. Maybe he only understands commands in his native tongue.”

“He’s a pig. His native tongue isoink, oink.”

Dante crouched down, pried the popcorn from her fingers, and held it out to Houdini. “Vieni, maiale. Prendi i popcorn.”

The little turncoat trotted right over to him, practically inhaled the popcorn, and plopped down onto his round, pink, piggie bottom, looking up at Dante with Oliver Twist eyes that almost screamed, “Please, sir, may I have some more?”

“Traitor.” Zoe gave the pig’s head an affectionate scratch. “It’s not fair.”

“That your pig prefers Italian to English?”

“No, that he prefers you to me.”