The Real Rio D'Aquila

“I am not a servant, Father, I am a horticulturist with a degree from the University of Connecticut.”

“You are a gardener.”

“I certainly am. And what if I were what you call a servant? There’s nothing dishonorable in being a maid or a cook.”

“Orsinis do not bow their heads or bend their knees to anyone, Isabella. Is that clear?”

Nothing had been clear, starting with how her father had learned she’d been invited to bid on a job for a billionaire she’d never even heard of until a couple of weeks ago, going straight through to how Cesare could have imagined she would take orders from him.

If anything, his certainty that she would click her heels and obey him was what had convinced her to give serious consideration to the offer, something she really had not intended until then.

Now here she was, in Southampton, a place that might as well have been Mars for all she knew about it, hours late for an important interview, her car in a ditch, her suit and her shoes absolute disasters.

No. She was not going to think about that now. It would be self-defeating … and hadn’t she had enough of that?

It was enough to wonder at the crazed logic of moving past an all-but-naked man, a gorgeous all-but-naked man, to step inside a house that was, conservatively speaking, the size of an airplane hangar.

“Well? Are you coming inside, or have you changed your mind about Mr. D’Aquila expecting you?”

Izzy blinked. The caretaker, or whatever he was, was watching her with amusement. Forget amusement. That expression on his face was a smirk.

How lovely to be the day’s entertainment, Isabella thought, and drew herself to her full five foot seven.

“I am not in the habit of changing my mind about anything,” she said, and almost winced.

Such a stupid thing to say.

Too late.

She’d said it and now her feet, which seemingly had only a tenuous connection to her brain, propelled her past him, up a set of wide steps, through a massive door and into the house. She jumped as the door slammed shut behind her.

She wanted to think it was with the sound of doom but the truth was, it was the sound of a door slamming, nothing more, nothing less …

And ohmygod, the entry foyer was so big! It was huge!

“Yes. It is, isn’t it?”

She spun around. Mr. Half-Naked was standing right in back of her, arms folded across his chest. A very impressive chest, all muscle and golden skin and dark curls.

Her gaze skimmed lower.

A six-pack, she thought, sucking in her breath. Those bands of muscle really did exist, neatly bisected by silky-looking hair that arrowed down and down and …

“The foyer,” he said, his voice not just amused but smoky. Her gaze flew to his. “You were thinking it was big. Huge, in fact.” A smile tilted the corner of his lips. “That was what you were referring to, wasn’t it?”

She felt her face heat. Had she spoken aloud? She must have, but she’d certainly never meant to infer …

Isabella narrowed her eyes. Damn the man!

He was playing games at her expense.

Still, she could hardly blame him.

He might be only half-dressed but she—

She was a mess.

Everything she had on was stained, torn or smudged. A few hours ago, she’d looked perfect. Well, as perfect as she could ever look. She’d taken more time preparing for this meeting than she’d ever prepared for anything in her life.

Actually, she hadn’t done a thing.

Anna had done it all.

A suit instead of her usual jeans. A wool suit, hot as blazes on a day like this but, Anna had said, The Proper Thing for such an important interview. A silk blouse instead of a T-shirt. Shoes rather than sandals, and with heels so ridiculously high she could hardly walk in them, especially the million miles she’d had to plod after that rabbit had somehow materialized in the middle of the road and her car had taken a nosedive into that miserable ditch.

All of it was Anna’s, of course. The suit, the blouse, the shoes.

The car.

Oh, God, the car!

Forget that for now.

She had to concentrate on what lay ahead, the all-important chance to transform Growing Wild from a shoe-box operation in a cheap storefront on what was most definitely not a trendy street near the Gowanus Canal to an elegant shop—an elegant shoppe, Anna had joked—in SoHo. Or in the Village. Or on the Upper East Side.

No.

She’d never go that far.

The truth was, she liked the neighborhood she was in, seedy as it was, but she had to admit the growth of her little landscaping business was dependent on location and on landing a couple of really important clients. Aside from the admitted pleasure of defying her father, that was why she’d agreed to the interview with Rio D’Aquila, a man the papers called a removed, cold, heartless multibillionaire.

Heaven knew she was familiar enough with the type.

Izzy’s work was skilled and imaginative; she used only the most beautiful flowers and greenery. That made her services costly. It made them the province of the very rich.

And dealing with them was sometimes unpleasant. It was sometimes downright horrible. The very rich could be totally self-serving, completely selfish, uncaring of others …

“They’re not all like that,” Anna had said.

Well, no. Her brothers were very rich. So was Anna’s husband. But—

“But,” Anna had said, with incontrovertible logic, “if you’re going to have to like a person before you take him as a client, Isabella, you’re never going to make Growing Wild a success.”

True enough. And when you coupled that simple wisdom with the fact that the offer was important enough for Anna to refer to her as Isabella …

Well, that had convinced her.

Unfortunately, Izzy was here, not Anna.