Her Final Fling. Joanne Rock

to lift the large fire bush her uninvited guest had been examining when she discovered him. She hauled the shrub toward the new hole she’d just finished digging for her latest landscaping project.

      The project that would make or break her fledgling landscape business. The same project that had such a tight deadline no other designer in town had been willing to touch it. Only someone as desperate as Christine would try to complete this total lot makeover in six weeks for a late summer wedding. At twenty-five, she might not have completed too many projects, but she was confident she could handle the Donzinetti property.

      Edging around her unwelcome visitor, she resisted the urge to trail a muddy root across the fabric of his trousers. Would serve him right for getting in her way when she needed to be working her tail off today.

      “Obviously I know the owner or I wouldn’t be sweating like a pig to improve his property in the god-awful Miami summer heat.” Okay, so maybe that came out a little testier than she’d intended, but for crying out loud. It’s not like she was carrying a color TV out of the house. It had to be obvious to anyone—even a flashy Adonis whose eyes were hidden behind Oakley sunglasses. Those shades of his couldn’t dim his vision that much, could they?

      Settling the bush into the perimeter of a small garden designed to attract hummingbirds, Christine reminded herself not to be prejudiced against Mr. Pampered just because he reeked of wealth. No need to be biased because she had simple needs and simple values. And no cash.

      “I’m sorry.” He followed her, his dark leather shoes squashing through several yards of tilled ground to reach her. “I’m Vito Cesare and I happen to own this house jointly with my siblings.”

      Fingers faltering in the dirt she’d begun gathering around the fire bush, she peered back up at the man with a name straight out of The Godfather.

      Taking in Vito’s whipcord muscles that no amount of European tailoring could hide, she allowed herself a more careful inspection of her visitor. Dark brown hair grew too long around his face, while a neatly shaved patch of hair around his chin gave him a dissolute, Johnny Depp look. But his killer bod and custom-made suit belied the image.

      “Like what you see?” He pulled off his shades and surprised her with keen hazel eyes instead of the brown she’d expected.

      “Frankly, no. I was just thinking to myself that there isn’t a chance in hell you’re the owner’s brother.” Giuseppe Donzinetti had been dressed head-to-toe in clothes from the Gap. A neat, energetic little man, he’d talked with his hands as he’d ambled all over the sprawling Coral Gables yard to describe what he wanted her to accomplish.

      “Who hired you? Was it Nico? Renzo? Marco? I know it couldn’t have been my sister Giselle because I just talked to her a few days ago.”

      “Good Lord, how many of you are there?” Giving up her efforts to bury the shrub roots, she leaned back on her heels. “And I didn’t contract with anyone named Cesare.”

      Suspicion mounting, she rose to her feet. “Which leads me to wonder what kind of line you’re feeding me.”

      No man would ever trick her in a web of lies again. Least of all a guy named Vito who looked like trouble from the start. She’d been reeled in, hook, line and sinker, by a too-slick Internet Casanova last year who’d wooed her with poetry and promises before proposing online. She hadn’t realized until she’d gotten an irate phone call from his wife that she was one of eight fiancées who’d been lured by his romantic lies.

      Her BS detector was a hell of a lot more sensitive these days.

      “I’m not feeding you any lines.” Vito stuffed his sunglasses in the breast pocket of his shirt before wrenching off his jacket and then swiping a hand across his forehead. “And it’s too damn hot to argue about this in ninety-nine-degree weather. Why don’t you come inside where there’s an air conditioner so we can sort this out?”

      Over her dead body.

      “Do you think I was born yesterday? I’m not going to let a total stranger into the house.” Although, much to her happy fortune, she did possess a set of keys Mr. Donzinetti had loaned her as part of their deal. She’d given him the cut-rate bargain price he’d wanted and in return, he’d allowed her to stay on the property while her green thumb worked its magic.

      Not only was the arrangement highly convenient for planting purposes, it had come at just the moment she’d realized she couldn’t afford another month’s rent on her shoe-box studio apartment.

      “You don’t need to let me in.” He dug in his pants pocket and withdrew a well-worn key that appeared older and darker than the shiny bright gold one Mr. Donzinetti had cut for her. “I can get into my own house anytime I damn well choose.”

      Delving into her cargo shorts in search of her own key, Christine tried not to panic and failed. What if Mr. Donzinetti had just been a weird old man playing games with her and she’d never receive the rest of the payment on a job she’d been killing herself to complete? What if Giuseppe had Alzheimer’s and had given her his neighbor’s key instead of his own?

      Finding what she sought, she dragged her key out of her pocket and held it up near his, hoping maybe Vito had the wrong damn key and he had been pulling her leg the whole time. Damned if they weren’t mirror images of one another.

      Please don’t let this be happening.

      “If you’re really the owner, where have you been for the past week that I’ve been staying here? And for that matter, who is this Giuseppe Donzinetti character who hired me?”

      “Uncle Giuseppe was here?” Vito unbuttoned another fastening on his shirt, drawing her eye to the deep bronze hue of the skin there, along with a sprinkling of black hair.

      She fought the urge to tug at her collar, suddenly feeling the effects of the heat. But then his words hit home.

      “He’s a relative?” Maybe there was a chance her job here was still legit. That she’d be paid for all her hard work.

      “A relative with no business bringing in guests without asking me, but yes, he’s my uncle.” He shoved up his shirtsleeves as a group of prepubescent boys whizzed past on the sidewalk, their skateboards bumping over every seam in the pavement. “Last I knew he was still in Naples. Italy, that is.”

      Oh, great. What if the weird old uncle with Alzheimer’s had sailed back to Italy and left her here to contend with Vito’s torn-up lawn and no payment in sight?

      For the second time in her life, Christine Chandler found herself screwed by a situation that had looked too good to be true. Only this time, she had no one to blame but herself.

      VITO CESARE had never been the kind of guy who picked fights with women.

      And he definitely didn’t want to upset the very dirty female who seemed to have single-handedly dug up fifty percent of his yard. For all he knew, she’d go plow up the rest if provoked.

      But it was at least ninety-nine degrees outside his Coral Gables home, with enough humidity that he’d have to wring out his clothes by the time he got inside. Frankly, he was getting too cranky to discuss whatever the hell it was she was doing here while the sun deep-fried him on the front sidewalk. He’d just stepped off an international flight from Paris and he was fighting a bout of jet lag. Add to that the fact that he’d stayed up way too late the night before celebrating his latest racing win with an overenthusiastic female who’d had a really difficult time taking no for answer.

      All of which meant he was operating on no sex, no sleep and no patience.

      “Look. I’m sorry if there was a mix-up about the house, but I just had a twelve-hour flight and I’m going to lose it if I don’t get a drink and cool down.” He stalked toward his lone small suitcase the cab driver had left in the driveway as he shouted over his shoulder. “You’re welcome to come in while we figure out this mess.”

      And he meant the “mess” part quite literally. His house was a bona fide disaster with all the old flower beds