The Real Rio D'Aquila. Sandra Marton

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.

      Sophisticated Anna would have known how to handle the situation. She would not have gotten lost or crashed the car. She certainly would not have turned up hours late for this appointment.

      And she absolutely would not have let a man like this intimidate her. She’d have known how to handle the half-dressed muscleman who was having such fun at her expense.

      That smirk was still on his face.

      It infuriated her. After the day she’d had, Izzy was in no mood to be laughed at, certainly not by him.

      She knew his type.

      Good-looking. Glib-tongued. Full of himself, especially when it came to women, because women, the silly fools, undoubtedly threw themselves at his feet with all the grace of—of salmon throwing themselves upstream.

      Okay, a bad metaphor. The point was, she was not a woman to be intimidated by an empty-headed stud. She was a self-sufficient businesswoman, never mind that she wasn’t self-sufficient enough to be wearing her own clothes or driving her own car.

      All that mattered was that she was here. And time was wasting. The sun would set soon, and then what?

      Then what, indeed?

      The caretaker was leaning against a table, hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans. She had a choice of views. His incredible face. His incredible chest. The tight fit of those faded jeans—

      Stop it, she told herself sternly, and set her gaze squarely on his chin.

      “Look,” she said, “I really don’t have time for this.”

      “For what?”

      Was the man dense?

      “Where is your boss?”

      That won her a shrug. “He’s around.”

      The answer, the lazy lift of those shoulders, those amazingly broad shoulders, infuriated her. All that macho. That attitude. That testosterone.

      That naked chest.

      Damnit, she was back to that and it was his fault. She’d have bet it was deliberate.

      Izzy narrowed her eyes.

      “Do you think you could possibly muster up enough ambition to find him and tell him I’m here?”

      Mr. Half-Naked didn’t move. Not a muscle. Well, that wasn’t true. He did move a muscle; one corner of his mouth lifted, either in question or in another bout of hilarity at her expense.

      Could you actually feel your blood pressure rising?

      “One problem,” he said lazily. “I’m still waiting for you to tell me why you’re here.”

      The simplest thing would be to do exactly that. Just say, I’m here to meet with Mr. D’Aquila and talk about landscaping this property.

      It was certainly not a secret.

      The problem was, she didn’t like Mr. All Brawn and No Brains’s attitude.

      Okay. That wasn’t fair.

      Just because he looked like he’d stepped off one of those calendars her roommate used to drool over in her college-dorm days didn’t mean he was stupid.

      It only meant he was so beautiful that looking at him made her heart do a little two-step, and that was surely ridiculous, almost as ridiculous as this silly power game they were playing.

      Who cared if it was silly? She was entitled to win at something today!

      “What are you?” she said sarcastically. “His appointment secretary?”

      One dark eyebrow rose again. “Maybe I’m his butler.”

      She stared at him for a long minute. Then she laughed.

      Rio grinned.

      He was really getting to her. Good. Fine. It was a lot more rewarding to take his pent-up irritation out on the woman, whoever she was, than on a trench.

      “His butler, huh?” Her chin went up. “One thing’s for sure, mister. I guarantee you’re going to be looking for another job two minutes after I meet your employer.”

      Rio folded his arms over his chest.