The Real Rio D'Aquila

Well, no.

Not about his boss. About him. About the powerful, king-of-the-mountain Rio D’Aquila.

And then there was the shirt thing.

He couldn’t think of a woman he’d ever known who’d have been embarrassed by his standing around without a shirt. And she had, indeed, been embarrassed. Stripes of crimson had risen along her sculpted cheeks.

Not that her cheeks, sculpted or otherwise, mattered.

She had a forlorn expression on her face now. Her mouth had taken a downward curve.

That made-for-sin mouth.

That silken-looking mouth.

What would she do if he bent his head and put his lips on hers? If he tasted that rosy-pink softness? If he tasted her.

Rio’s anatomy responded with alarming speed. He swung away from her, feigned bending to pluck a bit of nonexistent dirt from the gleaming marble floor.

The sun had, indeed, fried his brain.

Why else react to her? She was not his type at all. He’d already admitted that once you got past the shapeless suit and pulled back hair she was pretty, he had to give her that, but a pretty face was not enough.

He liked his women sophisticated. Urbane. Sure of themselves. He liked them in silk and satin. He liked them capable of keeping up a conversation, okay, not about anything weighty but a conversation, nevertheless.

Isabella Orsini flunked all those categories. Plus, she’d wasted his afternoon and was well on the way to wasting his evening—but he wasn’t going to let that happen.

He wanted a shower and a cold beer, not necessarily in that order. Then he’d head for Easthampton, fly back to the city and never mind staying overnight here or wanting a break in the endless routine of dinner—theater—clubbing. He’d phone a woman, maybe the blonde he’d met last week at that charity thing, ask her if she was busy tonight even though he knew damned well she wouldn’t be, women never were when it came to interrupting their lives to accommodate him.

As for the lie he’d told Isabella Orsini about himself—it had been childish nonsense. Why had he done it? To get even with her? Whatever, it had been stupid.

Enough, Rio thought, and he turned and looked straight at her.

The woebegone look had been replaced by one of cool determination. Now what? he thought, and decided to not wait for the answer but, instead, to go straight to the truth.

“Ms. Orsini—”

“Izzy.”

“Ms. Orsini,” he said, with cool deliberation, “I haven’t been entirely straightforward with you.” An understatement, but what the hell? “What I said about Rio D’Aquila—”

“I know. You already said he isn’t here.”

“Right. But—”

“When will he be back?”

Aha. That explained the determined expression on her face. She was going to settle in and wait. Well, that wasn’t about to happen.

“I’m going to level with you, Ms. Orsini.”

“Izzy.”

“Izzy. The truth is—”

“He’s not coming back.”

“No. Well, that isn’t exactly what I—”

“He gave up waiting. And I can’t blame him.”

Her voice had fallen to a husky whisper. Damnit, was she going to cry? He couldn’t stand it when women cried. It was always a maneuver to try and get their own way and he was impervious to that time-worn trick.

“I can’t blame him at all.”

Dio, better tears than this low, sad tone.

“Look, Ms. Orsini. I mean, Isabella—”

“It’s Izzy. Nobody ever calls me ‘Isabella.’”

Impossible. She wasn’t an “Izzy.” “Isabella” suited her better. Maybe she wasn’t beautiful but she had a sweet voice, a pretty-enough face …

Rio acted on instinct. He reached out, cupped her chin, raised her face to his.

“Hey,” he said, and suddenly he knew he’d been all wrong, thinking her pretty.

She wasn’t. She wasn’t even beautiful.

She was something more.

How had he missed it? Had he been put off by the game? By his own anger? By her silly outfit?

For the first time, he saw her as she was. The thick, dark lashes. The high cheekbones. That lush mouth. A nose that wasn’t perfect; it had a tiny bump in the middle and, somehow, that made it perfect for her.

And, Cristo, her eyes.

Green. No, blue. Or brown. Or gold. The truth was, they were an amalgam of colors, and suddenly he was eight years old again, a half-starved kid pawing through a Dumpster behind a restaurant, coming across a chunk of strangely shaped glass.

He’d almost tossed it away. He’d had no need for useless things then. He still didn’t, all these years later.

But a ray of sun had hit the glass and the prism—he’d later learned that that was what it was—had flamed to life. The sheer brilliance of the colors had stolen his breath.

The same thing happened now.

Rio looked into Isabella Orsini’s eyes and what he saw made his heartbeat stumble.

He wanted to kiss her.