The Dare Collection 2018. Taryn Leigh Taylor

really believe his mother had ever known, if he was honest—turned out to be an excellent exit strategy.

      Now he was a boutique hotel owner in a high-class, undeniably beautiful part of the world he never would have seen if he’d stayed in Texas. He had a new life, the new start he’d always wanted and an aversion bordering on phobia for any further complications to his newly simple and easy life.

      But he was still him.

      And the gorgeous woman smiling at him with all that appreciation in her smile and the November sun playing over her face wasn’t complicated at all.

      She made him feel simple all the way through.

      “What did you have in mind?” he asked her, letting his drawl get lazy. He stripped off his work gloves and tossed them down near the base of the fence post, then rested his hands on his hips.

      “What’s on offer?” she asked, more of that wickedness in her voice.

      And in the way she shifted so he couldn’t help but look at that swing in her hips. His mouth went dry.

      “The hotel is full-service,” he assured her. “Whatever you want, you get.”

      “I’m delighted to hear that. I have a lot of...wants.”

      She laughed when she said that, which somehow transformed it from a silly little line anyone might say into something...extraordinary.

      Charlie had the distinct impression that if he didn’t get a taste of her, it might kill him.

      “Tell me what you want,” he said, grinning when she did, like they were both caught up in the bright grip of her laughter. “I’ll make sure you get it.”

      She moved closer, and he had to lecture himself not to reach out and sink his hands into the massive cloud of curls around her head. He had to order himself not to wrap his hands around her curvy hips or pull them flush to his, right here, out in the open.

      The steep incline of the village fell away behind her, and the ocean was spread out everywhere like a deep blue witness, but all he could see was the flirty skirt she wore that showed off her lean, muscled legs and her long-sleeved shirt with a neckline that drew attention to her delicate collarbones, her firm upper arms and her plump, mouthwatering breasts.

      He took his time dragging his gaze back up to her full, lush mouth. She swept her sunglasses off her face, and then he was lost for a moment in the dark brown of her eyes, hot and direct.

      He felt it like hands all over him. He wished hers were, and who cared if they were in public.

      “I would say I want you,” she said, and there was a certain awkwardness in her words, or maybe it was in the way she stood, as if this was out of character for her. But Charlie didn’t care. “But I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble on the job.”

      She didn’t know who he was. No one had pointed him out to her yet, calling him the American boss or whatever more colorful terms they used in Italian. Capo americano, whatever.

      It had taken him and the hotel’s longtime manager, Benicio, a solid three months to figure each other out. These days, Charlie left the running of the hotel to Benicio and amused himself with the kinds of things he was good at. He’d always worked with his hands. And there was a deep, unexpected satisfaction in working on something that was his. Something no one could take from him. It felt like an indulgence to spend an afternoon thinking about nothing more than repairing a fence.

      Instead of federal wiretaps on the people he’d always considered his family, for example. Or which friends might turn state’s evidence and throw him into the middle of it because of things his stepfather had done or boasts his drunken mother had made to the wrong people. It was a relief to be able to simply do a thing without running it through the proper channels so as not to offend anyone, making sure to use a shitty burner phone instead of the technology everyone else enjoyed these days or any of the other things he’d done over the years while he’d danced up and down that gray moral and legal line that all the lawyers he’d known had called, at best, arguable.

      There was nothing gray or arguable about a fence. Either it was fixed or it wasn’t.

      And this woman didn’t know he was the owner of this hotel. Charlie could tell from the way she held herself and the clothes she wore that she was high-class. Much higher class than a dirtbag from the Texas dust. She had diamonds in her ears, another one on a delicate chain around her neck, and everything on her curvy body was sleek and quietly expensive. She wasn’t dripping with over-the-top, conspicuous wealth the way so many people were around these world-renowned cliffside beach towns—film stars and European royalty and all the rest who flocked to the Amalfi coast because some Kennedy had done the same way back when.

      This woman was fancy.

      And she thought he was a handyman.

      That delighted Charlie all the way through.

      “What the owner doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” he drawled. Then he held out his hand, daring her. “Want me to give you a tour?”

      He watched her swallow, hard. He watched the way her smile froze, and then the way she forced it wide again.

      But what he really cared about was the way she held out her hand after a moment, sliding it into his and holding his gaze while she did.

      “I would love a tour,” she said, low and a little rough.

      Charlie laced his fingers with hers, enjoying the kick of heat that hummed through him at the contact. The way she sucked in a breath. Then he tugged her along behind him, skirting the bottom of the tiered gardens and terraces to duck into the little shed tucked away at the corner of the property.

      “This is the best part of the hotel,” he told her as he pulled her inside. There was no light, but the ancient windows let the afternoon in through the brightly painted shutters, and it took only a moment or two for his eyes to adjust. And he liked the way the sunshine poured over her pretty face, tipped up to his. “It’s nice and private, for one thing.”

      “Private is my favorite.”

      And again, there was that hesitation. But it was like she heard it, too, and didn’t like it. Because she threw herself forward.

      She braced herself on his chest, exhaling in a rush when her palms met his pectoral muscles. Her gaze met his, bright and intense. Then she surged up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his.

      Charlie liked that.

      And he liked it a lot more when he angled his mouth and took it deeper.

      Hotter. Wetter.

      And maybe a little bit insane.

      One thing he’d learned in Italy was never to deny himself a treat, and this was no different. He found her face with his palms and then guided her head where he wanted. He took the kiss harder. Wilder.

      She tasted almost too good. Sweet like honey, with a kick of something that went straight to his head like too much Jack on a long, rough night.

      He growled a little bit at that. She made a humming noise in response, and then she was pushing even closer to him, pressing those lush breasts of hers into his chest.

      Charlie swung her around, getting her back up against the old stone wall and levering himself against her. He ate at her mouth, demanding and dirty, loving the way she shuddered against him as she met every stroke.

      But it wasn’t enough.

      He picked her up, liking that she was a good, tight handful when he wrapped his arms around her ass and pulled her thighs wide. He pinned her to the wall. She wrapped her legs around his waist like they’d done this dance a thousand times, and he wedged himself there where she was softest and hottest.

      And the way he kissed her went savage.

      Then she made it worse, because she started to move. She rocked those hips of hers in a sweet circle, dragging her soft heat all over him,