Page 57 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

She looked up and froze. The pig, free from his tether, clip-clopped over to his crate, which looked out of place with Dante’s sleek, industrial-inspired decor—none of Alberto Pinto’s work here—and made himself comfortable in the nest of blankets and pillows inside.

“You must be Zoe.” Xander pushed his chair away from the table, stood, and crossed to her. He held out a hand and she took it, letting him help her to her feet. “I’m Xander Castellanos, Dante’s richer, handsomer, more talented friend.”

“You left out cockier,” Dante muttered. “And more full of shit.”

Xander ignored him, bringing Zoe’s hand to his lips and kissing it. “You’re even more beautiful than I expected.”

“Si.” Miguel nodded his head in agreement and stubbed out his cigar. “Our poorer, uglier, far less talented friend’s description failed to do you justice.”

Bastard. Dante was starting to rethink the logic of bringing Zoe to Rome and exposing her to the two most obnoxious men in the Mediterranean. Even if they were his oldest and dearest friends.

She looked down at her outfit—a simple off-the-shoulder top and the same cutoff shorts she’d been wearing when she first barged into his villa and upended his life—and smoothed down her flyaway hair.

“You’re both bigger charmers than he is. I haven’t even showered yet. I look like something the cat dragged in. Or the pig.”

She looked over at the crate, where Houdini was already snoring softly. Then her eyes found Dante’s, a mildly accusing glint dancing in their depths. “I thought your friends weren’t arriving until later this afternoon.”

“So did I.” Dante laid his cards down on the table and went to the bar cart to pour himself another two fingers of scotch. Glenlivet. A real man’s drink that went down smooth and easy. And didn’t taste like gasoline. “They surprised me by showing up early.”

“We couldn’t wait to meet you,” Xander said. Did his voice always sound like that? Or was he doing a bad Idris Elba impression?

“And take all of Dante’s money,” Miguel added. “He’s a terrible poker player.”

“Can I sit in on your game?” Zoe asked. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to play. I used to watch my father and his friends from the Elks Lodge. It looked like so much fun.”

“Fun?” Xander scoffed. “Poker isn’t fun. It’s a game of skill. A serious game, for serious players.”

“And we bet real money,” Dante warned her. “Not toothpicks or candy.”

“Stop trying to scare her off.” Miguel joined Dante at the bar cart and reached for the Glenlivet. He poured some into a rocks glass, then added a healthy splash of club soda. Dante winced. It was a crime to water down good scotch. Or if it wasn’t, it should be.

Miguel sipped his criminal excuse for a cocktail. “I say we let her join us. A beautiful woman is exactly what our game needs.”

“He’s got a point,” Xander said. Turncoat. “I’d rather look at her across the table than either of your ugly mugs.”

“Fine. She can play.” Dante turned to Zoe. “But I’m warning you,carina, it can get pretty cutthroat. Don’t blame me when you wind up with empty pockets.”

He needn’t have worried about her. An hour and a half and ten hands later, Zoe had a pile of cash three times the size of Miguel’s, her closest competitor. Dante had only a handful of chips left, and Xander’s pile was nonexistent.

“Gentlemen,” Dante announced, leaning back in his chair and downing what was left of his scotch. “I think we’ve been conned.”

“By the prettiest card shark this side of the Tiber River,” Miguel added.

“Guilty as charged.” Zoe shrugged, color rising in her cheeks even as she tried to appear nonchalant. “I didn’t watch my father and his friends. They let me play with them, taught me everything I know.”

Xander looked from the empty space in front of him where his chips had been to Zoe’s towering pile and back again. “Looks like they taught you well.”

“I’d say I’m sorry, but I’d be lying.” She flashed him a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. “And like my great aunt Matilda always said, never tell a lie when you can tell the truth. Especially when the truth is so much more fun.”

“Nobody likes a sore winner,” Xander grumbled. “And I’ll bet you don’t even have a great aunt Matilda.”

“Do so,” Zoe shot back, laughing off his jibe and retrieving her cell phone from under her chair. But her smile drooped, and her laughter faded when she swiped the screen.

“Something wrong?” Dante asked.

“No. Just, uh, a missed call from my sister. I’ll call her back later.” She stood and scooped up her money. “It was a pleasure beating you, gentlemen. But it’s time for me to take my money and run. You can have a little guy time while I count my winnings and dream about what I’m going to spend them on.”

Dante tried, unsuccessfully, to fight back his own laughter as he watched her go. She’d lied to them. Handed them their asses. Played them for fools. He should be annoyed with her at a minimum. Humiliated. His ego in tatters.