Interior decorator Zoe Ryan’s life resembles a bad country song. Her boyfriend dumped her, her car died, and she was recently handed a pink slip. What’s a girl to do? Leave everything behind for a bit….in Positano, Italy. And when she gets there, she finds a surprising extra—millionaire restaurateur Dante Sabbatini in the kitchen. In his underwear. Making coffee. It’s suddenly not only hot outside, but exactly what is he doing inside, in her temporary kitchen?
Dante’s plan was to escape to his family’s beach house for some quiet and privacy. What he didn’t know was that his meddling, matchmaking nonna rented the entire house to a sexy stranger at the exact same time as his stay. It took him months to clear his schedule—there’s no way he’s leaving now.
With both refusing to leave, Zoe and Dante agree to be temporary roomies, but secretly aim to try to drive the other out. He plays his music as loud as he wants and will wear as little clothing as possible, and she’ll just go ahead and adopt that pig she fell in love with in town. But suddenly their game of one-upmanship takes a very sexy detour, and they can’t believe what happens next.
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But none of that was what had her heart pounding and her hand wavering between fanning herself and pulling out her cell phone to dial 9-1-1. Or whatever the Italian equivalent of 9-1-1 was. No, that honor went to the man standing just outside the wide-open sliders, naked as the day he was born, like a living, breathing statue of David, his firm, fine ass on full display as he toweled off his hair.
Water sluiced down the sculpted muscles of his shoulders and back, over that bitable, olive-skinned behind, and down trim, toned legs, dripping onto the smooth stones.
Logic overtook lust, and she backpedaled toward the main entrance, one hand hauling her suitcase, the other groping in her knapsack for her phone. She’d almost made it to the front door when the real-life sculpture slung the towel around his neck and turned, giving her a full-frontal view as magnificent as his backside. Well-defined pecs, washboard abs—was that an eight pack?—a narrow waist tapering to hips with that perfect, male vee that stunned women stupid, and between his legs…
Holy man meat, Batman. Even flaccid, his penis was impressive. Erect, it must be intimidating as hell. Not that she was picturing him rigid and swollen with arousal. Much.
She dragged her gaze up his torso and met his eyes, storm cloud gray and brooding, framed by the kind of lashes women paid top dollar for—long and lush, with just the right amount of curl. Dark hair, still damp and sexily mussed, flopped over one brow, and his lips pressed into a thin, harsh line beneath a patrician nose.
“I…I’m sorry,” she stammered, willing her eyes not to drift south.
Wait, why was she apologizing? He was the one trespassing, not her. If anyone owed anyone an apology, it was him to her, not vice versa. She stood her suitcase on its end and folded her arms across her chest, trying her best to look as menacing as her five feet four inches would allow. “I mean, who are you, and what are you doing here?”
His lips curled into a smirk, and he matched her pose, making no attempt whatsoever to cover himself. And why should he? He sure as hell didn’t have anything to be ashamed of. Maybe he was some sort of exhibitionist, breaking into homes, stripping down to his birthday suit, and lying in wait to surprise unsuspecting residents.
Regina Kyle knew she was destined to be an author when she won a writing contest at age ten with a touching tale about a squirrel and a nut pie. By day, she writes dry legal briefs, representing the state in criminal appeals. At night, she writes steamy romance with heart and humor.
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