The Real Rio D'Aquila

“You don’t understand.” He went toward her, held out his hand. She stared at it. He did, too, saw the redness of his knuckles, the dirt on his skin and under his nails, drew his hand back and wiped it on his jeans. “I shouldn’t have made things so difficult. You don’t want to tell me who you are until you’re positive Rio D’Aquila is here, that’s fine.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said quickly. “I’ll just—I’ll just phone Mr. D’Aquila from the city—”

“Is that where you’re from? New York?”

“Yes—but really, you don’t have to—”

“Obviously,” he said, trying to lighten things, “I’m not the butler.”

He waited. After a few seconds, she gave him a hesitant smile.

“No,” she said, “I didn’t think you were.”

Okay. It was time. He had the feeling she was going to be furious at his subterfuge but it wouldn’t matter.

He’d identify himself as the man she’d come to see, she’d tell him why she was here—something to do with town records, he’d bet, because it suddenly occurred to him that there’d been some sort of paper his lawyer had said he had to sign.

Whatever, they’d introduce themselves, he’d scribble his signature on the document she produced, and that would be the end of it.

“So,” Rio said, “let’s start from scratch.”

He extended his hand again. She looked at it, at him, and then she put her hand in his. It was a small, feminine hand; his all but swallowed it and yet, he could feel calluses on her fingers, which surprised him.

The coolness of her skin surprised him, too. It was a warm day. Was she still nervous about him? It was definitely time to identify himself and set her concerns at ease.

“Hello,” he said, and smiled. “I’m—”

“The handyman.”

He almost laughed. “Well, no. Not exact—”

“The caretaker. Sorry.” She swiped the tip of her tongue over her lips, leaving them pink and delicately moist. “Nice to meet you”

“Yes.” He dragged his gaze from her mouth. “And you are …?”

“Oh. Sorry. I’m the landscaper.”

Maybe he hadn’t heard her right. “Excuse me?”

“Well, not the landscaper. I’m an applicant.” She looked around, then lowered her voice. “I’m late. Terribly late, but—”

“But?” he said carefully.

“But still, where’s your boss? He was expecting me. You know, Isabella Orsini. From Growing Wild?”

“You?” Rio heard his voice rise. Hell, why not? He could feel his eyebrows shooting for his hairline. “You’re Izzy Orsini?”

“That’s me.” She gave a nervous laugh. “And I hope this Rio D’Aquila isn’t, you know, what I heard he was.”

“What you heard he was?” he said, and wondered when in hell he’d turned into a parrot.

“Cold. Ruthless. Bad-tempered.”

Rio cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose some people might say he was simply a—”

“An arrogant tyrant. But you don’t have to like someone to work for them, right? I mean, here you are, Mister—Mister—”

Rio didn’t even hesitate.

“My name is Matteo,” he said. “Matteo Rossi. And you have it right. I’m D’Aquila’s caretaker.”

CHAPTER THREE

MATTEO Rossi still had Izzy’s hand trapped in his.

Well, no. Not trapped. Not exactly.

Just clasped, that was all. The pressure of his fingers over hers wasn’t hard or unpleasant or threatening, it was simply—it was simply—

Masculine. Totally, completely, unquestionably masculine.

Everything about him was masculine, from the drop-dead-gorgeous face to the King-of-the-Centerfolds body, but then a man who did manual labor on an estate of this size wouldn’t have to work up a sweat in a gym.

He was the real thing.

That was why those muscles in his shoulders, his biceps, his chest were so—so well-defined.

Isabella’s mouth went dry.

Her interest, of course, was purely clinical. After all, she did manual labor, too. Planting, weeding, all those things, even when done on Manhattan terraces rather than Southampton estates, made for sweat and muscles. Combine that with what she recalled of college physiology and she could easily conjure up a mental image of him working, sweating …

Except, the images flashing through her head didn’t have a damned thing to do with work. Not work done in a garden, anyway.

Actually, not anything a normal, healthy woman would call “work.”

Or so she’d heard.

God, what was wrong with her? He was sweaty and good-looking. So what? Neither of those things had anything to do with sexual attraction …

Liar, she thought, and she pulled her hand free of his.

“For heaven’s sake,” she snapped, “don’t you own a shirt?”

There was a moment of horrified silence. No, she thought, please no, tell me I didn’t say that …

The caretaker made a choked sound. She jerked her head up, looked at him and, oh, Lord, he was trying not to laugh but his eyes met hers and a guffaw broke from his lips.

Isabella wanted to die. How could she have said such a thing?