How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

By Regina Kyle

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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Jun 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649371768

Regina Kyle

Regina Kyle 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. At night, she writes romance with heat, heart and humor. A lover of all things theatrical, Regina lives on the Connecticut shoreline with her husband, daughter and two melodramatic cats. When she’s not writing, she’s singing, reading or watching bad reality television. Find her at www.reginakyle.com.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Discover more category romance titles from Entangled Indulgence…

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Over Her Wed Body

Reforming the CEO

Betraying the Billionaire

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 by Regina Kyle. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

10940 S Parker Rd

Suite 327

Parker, CO 80134

[e-mail]

Indulgence is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Alethea Spiridon

Cover design by LJ Anderson/Mayhem Cover Creations

Cover photography by innervision/Deposit Photos

ISBN 978-1-64937-176-8

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition June 2021

To Candy, editor extraordinaire, who doesn’t think goats belong in the city. And George Clooney, who lived with his pet pig, Max, for over 18 years. If you like Houdini, thank them.

Chapter One

It was a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman, recently dumped by her cheating scumbag of a boyfriend and fired by her two-faced, design-stealing boss, must blow a healthy portion of her life savings to run away from it all, preferably to some exotic, foreign shore like Italy’s Amalfi Coast.

Or if it wasn’t universally acknowledged, in Zoe Ryan’s opinion, it damn well should be.

"Eccoci qui, the taxi driver announced with a flourish as the car lurched to a stop. We are here, signora."

Here was Bella Vista, a palazzo clinging to a cliff above the clear, calm, cerulean waters of the Mediterranean, with thick stone walls, wrought-iron accents, and bougainvillea-decked terraces. But it wasn’t the outside of the house Zoe was interested in. It was what was inside those walls. The work of the late, great interior designer Alberto Pinto. Zoe had done her senior thesis on him at CalArts, and she was going to spend the next four weeks surrounded by his brilliant, eclectic creations, getting a much-needed break from her dysfunctional family. Refilling her empty soul.

Her heart beating a little faster at the thought, Zoe pulled the Italian-English dictionary she’d had the foresight to pick up at the airport out of her backpack and flipped through it until she found what she was looking for.

"Quanto—she leafed through it again—costa?"

The driver tapped the meter. "Sixty euros, per favore."

She dug into her bag for her wallet, pulled out the requested amount plus what she hoped was a respectable tip—like many creative types, math wasn’t her strong suit—and handed it to him.

"Grazie." He leafed through the bills, nodded, and stuffed them into his pocket.

She gave herself a mental pat on the back, relieved she’d gotten something right as a stranger in this strange land, and reached for the door handle. But the driver beat her to it, springing out of the car like he was one of the Guardians of the Galaxy and flinging the door open.

"Grazie," she echoed as she hitched her backpack over her shoulder and climbed out of the car.

The driver retrieved her suitcase from the trunk and set it down next to her, taking a business card from his pocket and holding it out to her. If I can be of more service during your stay, please don’t hesitate to call.

She plucked the card from his fingers and eyed him suspiciously. I thought you didn’t speak English.

He shrugged and gave her a sheepish smile. A little game I like to play. A test of sorts.

Did I pass?

"Si. His smile widened to a full-on toothy grin. Your Italian is serviceable at best, but you tried. That’s half the battle. I think you’ll find we locals are very forgiving if you make the effort to speak our language."

Thanks for the advice. She blew a lock of stringy, straw-colored hair off her cheek, slipped the card into the back pocket of her cutoffs, and reached for the handle of her suitcase, stifling a yawn. Great. Not only was she fighting motion sickness from all the tight turns and steep drop-offs on the way from the train station to the villa, now jet lag was catching up to her. If there was a picture in the dictionary next to hot mess, it would be hers. She swallowed another yawn and telescoped the handle to its full height in one swift yank. I’ll keep that in mind.

The driver—his card said his name was Bruno—lifted her free hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. Until we meet again, beautiful lady.

She raised an eyebrow at him. Are all Italian men as forward as you?

"No. He winked. They just wish they were."

The mischievous sparkle in his gray eyes, the same shade as the streaks of silver in his salt-and-pepper hair, kept her from pulling away. You know, if you were American, I’d have to slap you.

Bah. He scoffed. "Americanos. Your men know nothing about love. They think pinching a woman’s ass is foreplay."

I didn’t come to Italy to find love. Or foreplay, for that matter. Not that she was discussing her sex life—or lack thereof—with her cab driver.

Ah, but perhaps love will find you.

With those last, unlikely words of wisdom, he hopped into his taxi and sped off, leaving Zoe tired, queasy, and more than a little sore thanks to almost twenty hours of planes, trains, and one particularly nausea-inducing automobile. She dragged her suitcase to the front door and punched in the code the rental agency had given her to the keyless lock.

The door swung silently open to reveal a sight unlike anything she’d ever seen. An enormous, high-ceilinged, elaborately tiled foyer led directly into a sunken living room. A wall of windows flanked sliding glass doors that looked out over a stone patio with a lush, vine-covered pergola and an in-ground swimming pool. Beyond the ornate, wrought-iron fence that rimmed the patio, sparks of late afternoon sunlight bounced off the Mediterranean.

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 backpack 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.

I’m Dante Sabbatini, the owner of this villa. His perfect English was laced with a lilting Italian accent that almost—but not quite—softened the blow of his words. And I could ask the same thing of you.

…

Dante didn’t know whether to call the police or an ambulance.

His would-be burglar had gone almost deathly pale when he identified himself, putting a hand to her mouth and managing to eke out one word through her trembling fingers: bathroom. Figuring whatever her intentions were, she was fairly harmless in her current state—and not being a complete dickhead—he’d directed her to the door he now stood outside. From the sound of it, she was emptying the contents of her stomach into his top-of-the-line, self-flushing toilet.

Merda. There went his plan to get rid of her and get back to business as usual. Which in this case meant solitude. Complete and utter solitude. Hiding from the world at Bella Vista was the only way he was going to get through the first anniversary of Nicole’s death. One year. It was hard to believe his fiancée had been gone so long. That he’d managed to get through almost 365 days without her.

He dragged his thoughts from the woman he wished were by his side—the one who would be if it wasn’t for him—and focused on the one currently in his bathroom.

Are you all right? Stupid question. Of course she wasn’t all right, a fact that was confirmed when the sounds of retching started up again in earnest. She couldn’t have much left to expel, could she?

He ran a hand through his hair, almost dry by now, and proceeded down the hall to his bedroom for some clothes. He didn’t make it a habit of greeting guests—even unexpected, possibly criminal ones—in the nude. It was frowned on in polite society. And his grandmother would kill him.

Still, he’d seen how his little trespasser had looked at him. Her eyes had definitely lingered a little too long between his legs. She liked what she saw, and as a foreigner—obvious from her clipped American accent, I Left My Heart In San Francisco T-shirt, and battered Converse high-tops—he doubted she had any idea who he was or how much he was worth.

He discarded his towel and stepped into a pair of cream-colored, drawstring linen pants, opting to skip the underwear and shirt to save time. If his partial state of undress kept the pretty little American off balance, that would be a bonus.

After a quick check in the mirror, which prompted him to run a brush through his thick curls, he headed down the hallway to check on his unwelcome visitor. She was just coming out of the bathroom, still pale but apparently done driving the porcelain bus, at least for the moment.

You got any toothpaste in this museum? She ran her tongue across her teeth and frowned. Mine’s packed, and I don’t feel like digging it out.

Toothpaste? What was she going to ask for next? A facial and a hot stone massage?

He narrowed his eyes and leaned against the wall, crossing his bare feet at the ankles and his arms over his chest. You haven’t answered my question. Who are you, and why are you here?

She brought herself up to her full height, which put the top of her head just below his shoulder. He couldn’t help but admire her spirit. Powerful, sophisticated women—and men, for that matter—had withered under his glare.

Not this one.

I rented this villa for the next four weeks. She lifted her chin defiantly. And I have the papers to prove it.

Four weeks? His jaw tightened. What papers?

Well, emails, technically. From the vacation rental website. On my phone. In my backpack. She shrugged her bag off her shoulder and unzipped one of its many compartments.

You must be mistaken. This house has been in my family for generations. We don’t advertise it on the internet to be inhabited by complete strangers.

She produced her phone with a triumphant flourish, tapped the screen, and started scrolling. If this villa really does belong to your family, then you must know Carmella. The listing agent said she was the owner.

Know her? He was going to strangle her. She’s my grandmother.

Well, that explains it. She dropped the phone back into her bag and zipped it up, apparently believing she had nothing left to prove.

It explains nothing. He turned on his heel and headed back to his bedroom, needing to find his own phone. Except that my grandmother is up to her old tricks again.

What do you mean? she asked, trailing after him.

Don’t play dumb with me. She had to be in on Nonna’s little matchmaking scheme. His grandmother had been trying to pair him off for months.

"Vita mia, his grandmother would say to him. I know you loved Nicole, but her death wasn’t your fault, and you can’t mourn forever. Life is too short. You have to get back out there and start dating again. And I’ve found the perfect girl."

He rebuffed her, politely at first. Later, as she’d gotten more persistent, his refusals had been more forceful. Eventually, she’d stopped asking and started springing women on him. Bringing them to the restaurant. Inviting them to join her and Dante in their box at the opera. Engineering for him to bump into them at cafes and clubs.

But renting out Bella Vista to one of her prospects when she knew he’d be there, grieving for Nicole and regretting his part in her death? That took meddling to a whole new level. And an American. Another new page in Nonna’s matchmaking playbook.

Play dumb? Nonna’s latest victim—strike that, accomplice—plopped down on his bed like she owned it. Which, in a manner of speaking, she probably thought she did. At least for the next thirty days.

He quirked a brow at her. Do you always follow men into their bedrooms and make yourself at home without waiting for an invitation?

Only when absolutely necessary, she shot back, her smart mouth working overtime. Funny. Her stomach problems seemed to have miraculously healed themselves, and she was in top form now. The color had even returned to her cheeks. Do you always answer a question with a question?

Only when absolutely necessary, he echoed smugly.

She crossed one smooth, bare leg over the other, and he noticed not for the first time how attractive she was. A riot of blond curls brushed slender shoulders, framing a delicate face dominated by wide eyes the color of fine champagne—pale gold with a warm, almost orange tinge. And her figure—not waifishly thin like the models his twin brother Luca preferred, but perfectly feminine, with full breasts that would fill his hands and hips he could sink his fingers into.

He swore under his breath at the lascivious direction of his thoughts and snatched his phone off the nightstand.

What are you doing? She leaned forward, balancing her elbows on her shapely thighs.

Isn’t it obvious? He opened his recent call list and tapped the first one. He’d spoken to his grandmother that morning, yet she hadn’t said a word about a tenant arriving at Bella Vista. Either the woman perched comfortably on his bed was lying or Nonna was becoming even more devious in her quest to end his bachelor status. There’s only one way to get to the bottom of this. I’m calling my grandmother.

Suit yourself, but she’s going to back me up.

We’ll see about that.

The phone had barely begun to ring when his grandmother answered, her tone cheerful and light, no hint of deceit or trepidation. Dante. What a surprise to hear from you again today. Is something wrong at the villa?

Dante frowned. You could say that. You have exactly two minutes to tell me what the hell is going on.

His unwanted guest wagged a finger at him. That’s not a very nice way to talk to your grandmother.

Quiet. He held up a warning finger of his own. I’ll deal with you in a minute.

Deal with who? Nonna asked. Is someone there with you?

He swore under his breath, exasperated. Now he had two women playing dumb with him. Don’t pretend like you don’t know.

Don’t know what?

About the woman standing in front of me. The one you rented Bella Vista to for the month. The month she knew he planned to spend there. At the place Nicole loved best. Where he had proposed to her, in the perennial garden behind the swimming pool.

There was an awkward silence, then his grandmother sighed. "Vita mia, I’m so sorry. I must have forgotten to tell Antonio the villa was occupied."

Dante’s frown deepened. What does your business manager have to do with this?

It was his idea that I start renting it out to help cover the taxes and upkeep. He’s been handling all the details.

Then he can get her out of here.

‘Her’ has a name, the topic of the conversation piped up. And it’s Zoe. Zoe Ryan.

Now, now. His grandmother drew out the words, like she was talking to a child, which he supposed he’d always be to her. That’s not gentlemanly of you, Dante. This woman, whoever she is—

Zoe Ryan, he muttered.

Zoe Ryan has leased Bella Vista fair and square. Assuming, of course, she has the necessary documents.

"Si, he gritted out between clenched teeth, glancing at a triumphant-looking Zoe. She says she does."

"I know