“So you’re not shy?”

A wicked smile curved Vito’s lips.

“Definitely not. I just don’t like to jump into anything without weighing the situation carefully,” Christine answered.

“Good. Then you won’t mind if I do this.” With a flick of his finger, her sundress lay in a rumpled pile at her feet. She stood before him clad only in her blue bikini bottoms and matching strapless bra.

His bold gaze raked over her, making her ache for his hands to follow the same path.

“A very good trick, Mr. Cesare.” She backed closer to the shower-stall door. “Is that what you learn over the course of seducing countless women around the globe?”

“Hardly.” He reached for his belt buckle and whipped the length of leather out of the loops. “That’s a trick I was only just inspired enough to try. Don’t underestimate the appeal of seeing you naked.”

Oh, he was good. Sexy as hell. Her gaze moved to his hand as he lowered his zipper. She licked her lips, her mouth suddenly too dry.

“I can see the appeal of naked,” she agreed.

Dear Reader,

If you haven’t guessed it already, I love writing about men who love sports. That makes sense, since I’m married to one—my husband spent the first ten years of our marriage as a sports editor. During that time I heard a lot about batting averages, NFL draft picks and shots on goal. None of which I find particularly exciting, but I enjoy seeing men get fired up about them. There’s something about the male competitive drive that makes my pulse pound!

So it is with this hero, Formula One race car driver Vito Cesare. Vito’s been in Europe for the past six years. Now he’s back in Florida to prepare for his sister’s wedding, but he wasn’t expecting to find a green-thumb goddess tooling around his yard with a rake and making herself very much at home.

And of course, Christine Chandler has little use for jet-setting bachelor types when her whole life revolves around planting. I hope you enjoy the sparks when these two get together. Please visit me at www.JoanneRock.com to learn more about my future releases!

Happy reading,

Joanne Rock

Books by Joanne Rock

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

863—LEARNING CURVES

897—TALL, DARK AND DARING

919—REVEALED

951—ONE NAUGHTY NIGHT*

HARLEQUIN HISTORICALS

694—THE WEDDING KNIGHT

HARLEQUIN BLAZE

26—SILK, LACE & VIDEOTAPE

48—IN HOT PURSUIT

54—WILD AND WILLING

87—WILD AND WICKED

104—SEX & THE SINGLE GIRL*

108—GIRL’S GUIDE TO HUNTING & KISSING*

135—GIRL GONE WILD

139—DATE WITH A DIVA

Her Final Fling

Joanne Rock

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Catherine Mann, my fearless critique partner and wonderful friend who consistently pretends it’s a pleasure to read my work, even when it’s two days before Christmas, the day before out-of-town company arrives, or when she’s swamped with her own deadlines. Cathy, please know you have my overwhelming and endless appreciation!

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

1

“PLEASE TAKE your hands off my fire bush.” Christine Chandler stared down the man taking too many liberties with her delicate red petals.

Was the urge to manhandle somehow tattooed across the Y chromosome?

“Excuse me?” The sexy stranger dressed in a charcoal-gray suit with the jacket unbuttoned and tie undone slid his hand away from the dewy softness of the unfurling bud.

Sighing, Christine nudged past the man who’d appeared out of nowhere on the Miami property she was currently landscaping.

“The fire bush is very delicate and I can’t afford to disturb the blooms before I transplant it.” She swiped a wrist over her sweaty brow, wondering why she bothered when the man clearly had no business being out here in the sweltering Florida sun. But maybe he was just a nosy neighbor looking out for Mr. Donzinetti’s property. The old Italian eccentric who’d hired her couldn’t have been nicer, so it only made sense he’d have a few friends in the Coral Gables neighborhood. “I need to get back to work before my roots start to dry, but if you’d like to leave your name, I’ll let the owner know you dropped by.”

Christine smiled politely even though her mind was already taking silent inventory of the shrubs she still needed to plant along the rock facing of the sprawling, sixties-style ranch house. She didn’t normally make time for too-handsome men wearing flashy gold watches and expensive sunglasses—even when she didn’t look like the Swamp Thing reincarnated.

But she sure as heck wouldn’t bother kowtowing to a guy whose suit probably cost more than her last month’s rent now, when she had ten pounds of dirt under her fingernails. Where were her gloves when she needed them?

She just had to suffer his picture-perfect presence long enough to be sure she didn’t offend one of Giuseppe Donzinetti’s friends.

“You say you know the owner?” Mr. Armani sounded doubtful of the fact as he surveyed the property in the relentless heat of the southern Florida afternoon, then turned his sleek black Wayfarers toward her.

All five feet four filthy inches of her.

Well fine, if that’s the way he wanted to play.

Shoving her dirt-covered trowel into an open loop on one leg of her cargo shorts, Christine used both hands 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 dug up, a tree cut down and lying in sawed-up chunks across the side yard and the cobblestone path to the front door piled into a heap of rubble. Just what in the hell did this woman who’d never bothered to introduce herself think she was doing to his property?

Strictly speaking, it wasn’t all his. He really did own it in conjunction with his siblings since their father had died and left the family home to them all. But with his youngest brother at Harvard and determined to live up north, a soon-to-be married sister who already lived abroad and two other brothers who had bought houses with their significant others, Vito had begun thinking of the Cesare family home as his responsibility.

The way it had been for many years after their folks had died.

As the oldest of the Cesares, Vito had stepped in to raise his younger siblings. His mother had passed away in childbirth when he was barely a teenager, his father had followed her six years later. He’d taken care of the kids and the house until his sister was safely in college and his youngest brother was almost finished with high school. Then he’d given over the responsibilities to his brothers Nico and Renzo so he could finally live his own dreams on the European racing circuit.

The sound of footsteps on the driveway made him pause, pulling his head out of old memories. Turning as he reached the side door, he found the possessive owner of the fire bush on his heels, staring up at him with wary blue eyes.

“You can’t go in,” she informed him, tucking a strand of chin-length dark brown hair behind one ear. “The place is a little messy.”

He peered around the yard and wondered if the inside could be as bad as the outside. Glancing back down at her dust-smeared khaki cargo shorts and damp gray T-shirt, he was hardly reassured. Although he’d be lying if he pretended not to notice the admirable curves beneath the layers of dirt. “How messy?”

“Considering you look like you just walked off a shoot for GQ, you’ll probably think it looks pretty bad.” She folded her arms under those admirable curves of hers and looked at him as though he was the one covered in grime. “But as far as I’m concerned, it’s just all in a day’s work.”

That didn’t sound good. At all. Vito’s method of combating jet lag involved lots of sleeping, not cleaning. In fact, he’d grown accustomed to maid service since he’d traded surrogate parenthood to his younger siblings for life in the fast lane as a Formula One race-car driver. He hadn’t picked up a mop in years.

And he didn’t miss domestic duties one little bit.

Deciding that facing the mess couldn’t be any worse than surviving the heat, Vito inserted his key in the lock.

Paused. Turned back to the woman behind him.

“I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“Christine Chandler. Sorry. I try to avoid introductions when my hands are dirty.” She kept the hands in question tucked under her folded arms.

“Very understandable.” Nudging open the door he stepped inside the kitchen of the sprawling ranch house his dad had bought when he moved to the U.S. Or at least, the room that used to be the kitchen.

Currently, the kitchen sink overflowed with flower cuttings, plant stems and mountains of dirt. The windowsill overlooking the backyard was crammed full of flower flats precariously balanced half on the sill and half on the dining-room chairs. Bags of potting soil and birdseed crowded the floor.

“Birdseed?” It was the least offensive question that sprang to mind when all he really wanted to know was what in the hell this insane woman was doing to his house.

His mother had always called their home “Hollywood tacky” with its open floor plan and sixties modern architecture. But it had felt like home to Vito with the big yard and tons of neighbor kids to grow up with. He always looked forward to coming home, but this time…Damn.

“For the birds,” she explained very slowly as if only a complete moron would ask such an obvious question. Easing around the bags on the floor, she washed her hands over a tiny free corner of the sink. “Your uncle Giuseppe stressed that he hoped to attract a lot of birds.”

“And you can’t keep this stuff in the garage?”

“The birdseed, yes. I’ll move it now that you’re home.” She nudged one of the bags with the toe of her work boot. “But I have to be careful with the plants because it’s very hot in the garage and they’ll stay fresher if I keep them cool. I can always move them out to the workshop.”

Vito dropped his suitcase on top of a stack of empty flower flats by the door. Draping his jacket over the suitcase, he made his way to the refrigerator and hoped a drink would clear his head. He wanted straight scotch. He’d settle for a soda or anything else his brothers had left in the fridge.

He found only lemons. Tons and tons of lemons.

“I drink a lot of lemonade when I work.” Drying her hands, she moved past him to grab a white pitcher off the door. Something he hadn’t noticed thanks to the citrus garden growing on the other shelves. “Want me to pour you a glass while we discuss how to handle this miscommunication?”

He wasn’t sure he even wanted to discuss it anymore. His whole world was in chaos and he’d been made a stranger in his own home.

Maybe he’d hunt down the scotch after all.

“Are you okay?” Christine stuffed a glass in one of his hands and then pried the open refrigerator door from his other. “I’d be happy to get out of your way and go back to work as soon as we establish that I am still getting paid for my efforts. I am going to get paid for all this, aren’t I?”

She made a sweeping gesture to indicate his house, that ought to be condemned, and his eyesore of a yard that would piss off neighbors for miles around.

“Do you usually get paid for doing this?” He’d be surprised if she didn’t get hauled off to jail. Was she exercising squatter’s rights by moving into his house and making it hers?

He had to stifle an absurd urge to laugh as she seemed to genuinely consider his question.

“Honestly, sometimes I don’t get paid because I’m very new at this, but I studied horticulture with the best landscape designers in California and now I’m ready to bring that knowledge to southern Florida.” She busied herself by filling a paper cup with water and pouring the contents over the plants in his sink. “Your yard is my first large-scale production as a solo artist, but I’ve worked on bigger undertakings with other designers.”

He leaned against the light wooden cupboards in the kitchen where he’d toasted his first Pop-Tart, weary with the way she seemed to talk in circles. For all he knew, his tired brain could be making it sound as though she was talking in circles when she was being perfectly rational.

“And just what did my uncle hire you to do here?” He made a mental note to call Giuseppe as soon as possible and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing jumping in to hire help for Vito without asking.

For that matter, why did Vito’s whole family have to tiptoe around the fact that Vito was now a multimillionaire and could damn well afford to hire his own help? And his brothers were no better, paying to take care of every repair needed on the family home instead of letting him know when he needed to pitch in. According to Renzo and Nico, Vito had already given enough to the family coffers while they were growing up.

“I’m landscaping the property.” She set down the paper cup and turned to face him, her back against the wine cabinet his brother Renzo had built long ago. “Your uncle said he wanted this place to be gorgeous by the time his niece’s wedding rolls around, so I’m developing a large-scale overhaul.” Pausing, she bit her lip, automatically drawing his gaze to that soft expanse of pink. “Do you know anything about this wedding, or is your uncle…you know…losing it?”

“He’s not losing it.” And even if he were, Vito would never let on as much to an outsider. He did wonder if Giuseppe really intended to pay Christine, or if he was leaving that up to Vito. He needed to discuss that matter with him when he called, too. “He probably wanted to surprise me. He didn’t mention anything about me coming home while you were working?”

“Not so much as a whisper.” She rearranged a length of ivy along a countertop, her hands treating the delicate vine with tenderness. “Believe me, I would have remembered that part.”

No wonder she was a landscaper. She was obviously damn good with plants even if she didn’t know squat about brooms or mops. Something about her gentle touch as she handled her foliage made him wonder…

He stopped himself cold, allowing her words to sink in. Could it be a coincidence that his uncle had hired a young woman who, Vito was beginning to realize, was actually very attractive underneath all that grass stain? And could it be random accident that Giuseppe had invited a woman to sleep in the house when he knew damn well Vito would be coming home for his sister’s wedding?

Not a chance in hell.

“I’m afraid I have to apologize.” Setting his empty lemonade glass on the counter, Vito thought he had a better handle on this whole bizarre situation now. Uncle Giuseppe, eternal matchmaker, strikes again.

“My uncle is a notorious family cupid and I have the feeling that he set us up to stumble on one another like this. Once he hired a pool boy for my aunt Lorraine who didn’t even own a pool. Another time he wrote love poetry for his brother to help him land a woman. He takes a lot of joy putting people in one another’s paths and seeing what happens. And since I’m way past marrying age in Uncle Giuseppe’s book, I’ve apparently become his new target.”

“Wait a minute.” Christine frowned, her wide blue eyes turning a shade darker. Her shoulders straightened and her cheeks flushed pink. “Do you mean to imply your uncle only hired me as a potential hookup for you and not because of my landscaping skills?”

“Hell no.” His uncle had been raised in a culture that didn’t approve of hooking up. He approved of marriage. Kids. Family. But Vito wasn’t about to share that with this gardening goddess who looked mad enough to spit nails. Although he had to admit that her pink cheeks were turning him on and making him think of wholly inappropriate other ways to make her flush like that. “He probably just wanted me to meet some more nice women—”

“I am not a nice woman.” The female who’d been so gentle with her ivy plant and so protective of her fire bush looked ready to personally take him out if he dared to suggest otherwise. “And I will sue your uncle for breach of contract if he thinks he can pawn me off on some overgrown, flashy playboy who is so far removed from nature he wouldn’t know what to do with a bag of birdseed if he tripped over it.”

“Now wait a minute.” Vito had always prided himself on having more patience than his hotheaded brothers who made a habit of speaking before thinking. But where did this woman get off calling him an overgrown playboy? And did she have any idea what it made a guy think when a woman told him she wasn’t nice? “I don’t think we need to start launching personal attacks to solve this. I was simply trying to share with you my uncle’s motivations.”

“Well you can tell him I don’t appreciate being hired for my ass and not my professional assets, okay? I agreed to a job, not a blind date.”

And before he could think of a comeback, Christine Chandler pivoted on her heel and walked right out the kitchen door.

If that didn’t beat all.

Of course, Vito couldn’t help moving to the kitchen window and watch the ass in question saunter away, hips twitching with her snappy walk down the drive-way. He felt a little bad for enjoying the view and the residual sparks in the air when she was clearly mad, but hell, wasn’t the urge to ogle tattooed across the Y chromosome?

Reaching for the door to follow her outside, hormones kicking to life, it occurred to him he didn’t feel tired anymore.

2

CHRISTINE HATED to muck up her big exit by simply digging her hands right back in the dirt to continue working for a guy who saw her presence as pure fluff.

Then again, what choices did she have? Pausing in the middle of Vito Cesare’s driveway, she scanned her brain for more options. Her beat-up secondhand truck was parked in the carport, so she possessed the means to leave. But where would she go?

She had no ready cash, and she was between apartments. Actually, she hadn’t even thought about looking for a new apartment for another month since this job was supposed to have taken at least that long. And if she left now, she could kiss her dreams of owning her own landscaping business goodbye. If she went bankrupt, no one in their right mind would ever give her a loan to start up again.

Peering around the yard for inspiration, her gaze landed on the fire bush already wilting in the Florida heat. She couldn’t just let the plant die so she could make a great exit.

Swallowing her pride, she trudged across the tilled up ground that would one day be a lush flower garden. As she finished securing the bush into the ground and giving the shrub a nice long drink, she couldn’t help but think of the fat investment account her older brother had started in her name.

She had the money to finance this dream. But damn it, she didn’t want to start her own business with money someone else had earned. Her older brother Seth had worked long hours for years after their father walked out, slowly growing adept at reading the stock market and knowing where to invest. He’d made huge profits on his investments, funneling money to both Christine and their brother Jesse.

But she’d never been comfortable with the idea of someone else making money on her behalf. What kind of satisfaction would she take in owning her own business if the whole operation rode on the shoulders of Seth’s hard work and not her own?

The answer remained the same as it had been for the last six months she’d struggled to start All Natural.

None.

Rinsing her hands in the stream from the hose before tossing aside the nozzle, Christine prepared herself to go back and face Vito Cesare. To somehow eat humble pie and pretend it tasted good.

Definitely not her forte.

But as she straightened, he was already there in front of her, dressed in olive-colored shorts and a white knit collared shirt. He held two glasses of lemonade in his hands.

He stepped over the hose to offer her a drink, his feet now visible in black flip-flops. “I would have come out sooner to apologize for that whole misunderstanding, but I thought it might be better if I cooled off first.”

He looked far more approachable in flip-flops. The gold wristwatch was gone, as were the slick shades. She wholeheartedly approved of the more laid-back Vito. In fact, if she hadn’t seen a glimpse of Vito the worldly jet-setter, she could almost be attracted to him.

Gulping down the lemonade he handed her, she decided she was the one who needed cooling off. No way would she develop a thing for the man who held the future of her fledgling business in his hands. Too unprofessional. Too tacky.

“Actually, I was just about to come looking for you to apologize, too.” She pressed the bottom of her cool glass to her hot forehead, the icy cold condensation a welcome relief from the sultry temperature outdoors and her hot flashes inside. “I was sort of taken off guard to think your uncle didn’t care about having the yard look really great. I wanted to be impressive with the best landscaping job I could provide and not because I look better in shorts than my competition, you know?”

His eyes flicked south at the mention of her legs and Christine found herself wondering how many other women had fallen victim to that hooded stare. Been there. Done that. Lived the public humiliation of having been taken in by a pro.

She swigged the rest of her drink and kept her mind on business.

“I understand better than you think.” He nodded toward the house. “There are some chairs around back on the patio if you want to sit for a minute.”

Nodding, she followed him since they obviously had a few glitches to iron out together.

“So, are you suggesting you know what it’s like to be hired for your bod instead of your brains, Cesare?” She could hold her own with this guy as long as she kept things light, easy. She would put herself in the driver’s seat of this relationship and stay there.

“As a matter of fact, I do. Sort of.” He led them to the patio that she’d commandeered for peat moss.

Thankfully, she’d used all the bags of manure a week ago.

She couldn’t picture Vito hanging out around the fertilizer, even in his flip-flop guise. Settling into the wrought-iron chair across from him with a big glass-topped umbrella table between them, she placed her empty glass on the surface and was grateful the lawn wasn’t in full destruction mode back here. A tire swing still hung in an old banyan tree behind a big workshop in the backyard. “And how is it that you end up being judged on your looks? Are you an underwear model on the side?”

“Are you suggesting I’d have a future in the industry?”

“Just taking wild guesses.” She wished she hadn’t emptied her glass so quickly as she conjured images of Vito in his underwear. Was he a boxers or briefs kind of guy?

Considering his flashy clothes earlier, she’d have to go with silk boxers. But if ever a man had been built for tighty-whiteys…

“Christine?”

Her underwear daydreams faded at Vito’s voice. “Sorry. You were saying?”

“I’m a race-car driver.” The humor in his eyes suggested he knew the direction of her daydreams. “And sometimes people bet on a driver because he looks good in his racing suit instead of how well he drives. That bugs me, too, so I don’t blame you for being miffed that my uncle would be so superficial. If it makes you feel any better though, I’m sure he never would have hired you if he didn’t think you’d do a great job on the landscaping. He’s really excited about Giselle’s wedding.”

“You race cars?” Christine didn’t know squat about any sport. For that matter, was racing even considered a sport since it didn’t have a damn thing to do with being athletic?

“I’m a Formula One driver.” At her blank look, he continued. “It’s open-wheel racing. You know, as opposed to stock cars like NASCAR?”

“Don’t have a clue about any of those, actually. Although I’m sure you look very cute in the racing suit.” She’d flirt with him before he had the chance to flirt with her, putting herself firmly in control of the situation. No sense making herself seem like a novice when it came to men. She wouldn’t be taken advantage of again. “But back to the matter at hand, what do you suggest we do in relation to my work here?”

He peered around the yard, his square shoulders settling deeper into the wrought-iron patio chair. “I think you’d better keep working. No offense, Christine, but it looks like a natural disaster around here.”

“It’s a work in progress.” She wasn’t always the neatest person, even when she wasn’t involved in an extensive landscaping job. But she could see the potential for the yard and had every confidence it would be gorgeous by the time she finished. “Besides, I was operating under the impression that the house would be vacant except for me, so I’ll admit I’ve been a little more lax about daily cleanup just because I’m working such long hours on this job. It doesn’t make much sense for me to put away my tools in the garage every night when I’m only going to need them six hours later.”

“You’re putting in that much time on the yard?”

“Have you seen the property recently? It was in shambles. Not that it looked terrible from the street or anything, but from a professional perspective, it needed to be almost started from scratch. Just keeping up with all the watering is more than a full-time job for transplants in this heat.” She leaned closer, elbows on the table. “But you think I’ll be able to stay on here and finish up the job?”

She folded her hands inward so he wouldn’t see her crossing her fingers.

“Definitely. I sure as hell couldn’t have my baby sister come home with the house looking like this. Giuseppe told you it needs to be ready to go September first?”

“It won’t be a problem as long as I can continue to work at manic speed, which means I can’t take off many afternoons like this.” She plucked her T-shirt away from her damp skin in the hope of catching a breeze. “And I’d also need to be able to stay onsite so I can maximize my work hours. Do you have any family you can stay with for a few weeks while I finish up? Giuseppe, maybe, since he’s the one who assured me I’d have twenty-four-hour access to the property?”

“That could be a problem.” Vito drained his lemonade glass with one long swallow. The upturned glass dripped condensation down into the open neck of his collared shirt, drawing Christine’s eye to that dark expanse of skin glistening with a slight sheen.

She blinked fast before the underwear fantasy came back.

“How so? If you don’t want to stay with your uncle, maybe you could stay at a swanky hotel while you’re in town. Aren’t European race-car drivers practically made of money?”

“No. But money isn’t really the issue here—it’s more of a comfort concern. I like to stay at the house whenever I’m in the States. I grew up here, so it’s sort of…home.” He met her gaze, his hazel eyes dark and intense despite his relaxed tone.

Christine had the feeling he wouldn’t be changing his mind on the issue anytime soon.

“Well, we can’t both stay here.” What did he expect her to do—pitch a tent out front for the next month?

“Why can’t we?”

For a moment she thought he really wanted her to get to work on the tent, until she realized she’d never said that part out loud. “You mean both of us in the house?”

“It housed a family of seven before my parents died. Later it accommodated five kids, most of them teenagers. I think it ought to be able to handle two of us.” He grinned. “You don’t look like you take up much room.”

Did she understand this man correctly? “I’m sorry, I must be out of mind, because I could have sworn you suggested that I take it on blind faith you aren’t some kind of psychopath and should share the house with a virtual stranger.”

His grin faded. “You’ve got a point. If my sister pulled a stunt like that, I’d—Well let’s just say I’d be mad and leave it at that.”

“See? You making vague threats of hypothetical retribution isn’t convincing me you’re not a psychopath, that’s for sure.” Damn it, why did he have to show up today and throw a huge wrench in her plans? She needed this job, needed to work things out with him.

“If you could convince Giuseppe to foot the hotel bill for me, I suppose I could make the trip back and forth. I just don’t like to drive when I’m tired.” And by the time she was done with the physically demanding work this job entailed, she was usually so bone-weary she was cross-eyed. What if she knocked herself out to make her business work, only to wrap her piece-of-junk truck around a telephone pole because she fell asleep at the wheel?

“No. You’re working too hard already. Don’t you have any other employees or co-workers who could help you out with this job?”

How could she afford to hire anyone when she could barely keep herself afloat? Of course, she wouldn’t tell him that. “I’m giving your uncle a cut-rate price. There’s no budget for anyone else.”

“I can increase your budget.” He looked ready to whip out a checkbook then and there.

And she definitely didn’t want to get roped into that discussion.

“Look. I appreciate the offer, but I’m not trying to bleed more money from you. I just want to be able to fulfill my end of the bargain with your uncle.” Was it her fault the guy had had more than gardening on his mind when he’d hired her?

“Okay. How about this—I’ll haul a few neighbors over here to vouch for me. For that matter, you can have my license and check me out.”

Vito had to admit he respected a woman who looked out for herself. How could he have suggested for a minute that she stay in the house with him when for all she knew he was a wanted man in ten states? She hadn’t even recognized his name from his racing career, so she wouldn’t know the first thing about him.

“What do I look like, a private eye? I don’t want your license.” She brushed aside the idea with an airy wave of her hand.

Vito studied her the way he’d check out a new racecourse, seeking hidden obstacles and tricky angles. She was tougher than she looked with her wispy brown hair fluttering around her chin and her short stature. Despite her delicate features and heart-shaped face, she was a hard worker in a physically demanding job.

She was also pretty damn sarcastic.

“I realize you’re not a private eye. Don’t you have any friends who are cops? Or you could look up my name on the Internet and make sure there aren’t any stories about me getting arrested or groping unsuspecting landscapers.” Women couldn’t be too careful these days. How many times had he told his sister Giselle that very same thing? “Do you have any family in the area? Anyone who can watch your back while you’re out working?”

Who made sure she arrived home every day? In her line of work, she must meet a lot of strangers.

She frowned, those narrow arches of her eyebrows flattening into one line of dark scowl. “I imagine your job is far more dangerous than mine. And I certainly don’t need my family to help me run my business.”

Touchy subject, apparently. Vito made a mental note to revisit the topic at another time.

Wait a minute. Had he really just planned for future personal discussions with Christine Chandler, prickly gardener and owner of a very tempting pair of legs?

Bad idea, given his brief time in the States and his dating code of ethics. He made it a point not to get involved with women who weren’t looking for the same things from a relationship as him. And he could almost guarantee that this woman who put down roots for a living wouldn’t be romanced by the idea of a fast fling.

Time to rein in those wayward thoughts about her sexy legs and the enticing contrast between her nurturing profession and her tough personal side.

“So what do you suggest?” he asked, the oppressive heat robbing him of alternative ideas for their dilemma.

“The house is very big,” she admitted. “And it’s not like I spend all that much time in it.”

Vito about fell out of his chair. She’d been driving such a hard bargain about the house issue. Was she actually relenting? No matter what she said to him about not trying to angle for money on this job, Vito would make sure Giuseppe gave her some sort of bonus for all her overtime hours and having to deal with the inconvenience of him showing up. That was only fair compensation.

But given her prickly independent nature, Vito would make certain any bonus looked like it came from Giuseppe and not from him.

“I’ve got a lot to do while I’m in town, too,” he lied, certain he’d find something to keep him occupied so that he didn’t scare her off a job that was obviously very important to her. He had some game software he’d been trying to develop over the past few years.

Besides, despite the stern reminder to himself about the whole dating ethics thing, some deep-seated guy instinct reminded him that Christine was one of the most intriguing women he’d been around in a long time. After the artifice of too many Barbie-doll babes in his world, he couldn’t help but appreciate the way Christine seemed so genuine. So real.

“Fine.” She gave a brusque nod and rose to her feet, putting him at eye level with her hips. “How about we go see a few of your neighbors tonight. If they can vouch that you’re really the owner of this place and—to their knowledge—a good guy, I’ll get back to my work here and we’ll just try to stay out of one another’s way in the house.”

Even the thrill of an open track couldn’t compare to the unexpected adrenaline surge her declaration inspired. He’d probably slept in closer proximity to strangers in nearby hotel rooms than he would with Christine in the sprawling ranch house, but that didn’t stop his adolescent excitement at the sleepover plans.

What if she exited the shower in just a towel? Or forgot to put on a robe when she prowled around the house for a midnight snack? The possibilities were endless. And Vito couldn’t believe that all of those goofy scenarios inspired more interest than easy sex with the latest European model or South American heiress.

Working hard to keep the grin off his face, Vito rose to his feet and reminded himself he was a gentleman.

Damn it.

“It’s a deal.” He replaced the wrought-iron patio chairs and stepped around the mountain of bags containing the foreign-sounding substance named peat moss. Venturing closer to Christine, he extended his arm and told himself being a gentleman could be a good thing. For starters, it made him positive that his neighbors would have only great things to say about him.

“Why don’t we go see Mrs. Kowolski first?” He pointed to the house next door, knowing damn well the widow who ran a catering business out of her home rarely left her kitchen. “I hope you’re hungry because I’ve never once been to her house when she didn’t force me to eat something.”

Ignoring the arm he offered her, she jumped off the patio instead of taking the two low steps down. “Great. I’m starving.”

Christine was already trekking across the rough patches of torn-up lawn in the direction he’d pointed, tanned calves flexing as she navigated the awkward terrain with ease. Vito followed her, reminding himself that American women were a whole different breed.

Independent. A little stubborn, maybe. And very, very sexy.

His appetite was definitely calling to him by now, and he didn’t think Mary Jo Kowolski’s cookies were going to do a damn thing to satisfy the hunger.

3

ENSCONCED in Mary Jo Kowolski’s kitchen an hour later, Christine began to wonder if she would be able to finish transplanting the other fire bushes before the sun set. She’d somehow walked into a massive PR campaign for Vito since Mary Jo was launching into yet another tale of his youth as she refilled Christine’s glass of raspberry tea.

“And then there was the time he organized the neighborhood go-cart drag race. Did he tell you about that, Christine?” Round-cheeked and smiling, Mary Jo had to be approaching sixty, but her bright red T-shirt reading Bloom Where You’re Planted and her masterful organization of ten different things cooking in her ovens made her seem younger.

“Mrs. Kowolski, Christine and I hardly know each other,” Vito reminded her, swiping a lemon cookie off a tray she’d just taken from the oven. He tossed the hot treat from hand to hand, a ritual Christine suspected was his method of helping it cool off. “We should probably be going so that Christine can—”

“Not one of the Cesare kids will call me Mary Jo to this day. Can you imagine? It makes me feel a hundred years old.” Mary Jo waved hello out the kitchen window to an older lady walking a white terrier and then shoved a plate in front of Vito for his cookie. “Anyhow, Vito was always the quiet one compared to his brothers who can all talk your ear off.”

Christine thought that was saying a lot since Mary Jo seemed fairly verbal herself.

“But he was serious about racing from the time he was knee-high to a grasshopper,” she rattled on, moving like a whirlwind through the big country kitchen decorated with lots of cows and painted milk cans. “And when he was probably about twelve he posted flyers all around Coral Gables about his drag race. He charged an entry fee and used it to buy trophies. Even the local cops showed up to watch the race.”

“Did he win?” Christine munched on her scallops wrapped in bacon and decided being a caterer beat landscaping hands down.

Sparing a glance for Vito who had been giving her apologetic smiles every few minutes, she noticed he was hanging his head.

“Oh, no.” Mary Jo turned on a big electric mixer in one corner of the room and let it do its noisy job while she simply raised her voice to be heard over the racket. “He got beaten soundly by the Baker boys up the street, but the neighborhood kids loved the event so much they made it an annual thing for the next four years, and after that Vito never lost, did you, hon?” She reached over the kitchen island to pat Vito’s cheek as if he was still ten years old, then turned her mixer back off. “It’s good to have you home. And I’m so glad we’ve got a couple of months to work on keeping you here. I can’t wait for your sister’s wedding.”

Vito slid off the tall chair perched at the kitchen island. “It’s going to be great to have the family together again. I couldn’t stay in town long after Renzo’s wedding this spring, so it will be nice to have more time to see friends this trip.”

Christine finished her tea and licked her lips as she rose, wondering if she could find an excuse to drop in on Mary Jo again. The food she normally ate on her work break was more in the peanut-butter-and-jelly vein.

Moving the lemon cookies to a cooling rack with the smooth efficiency of a seasoned pro, Mary Jo winked at Vito. “I can’t wait to meet the man you finally deemed good enough for your little sister. Did you tell your friend Christine about the time you followed Giselle to her prom and then hid in the bushes when she went parking with her date?”

“That story got really blown out of proportion.” Vito backed toward the door as if to flee, but Christine thought she had time for a final Vito story.

She remained rooted to the spot.

“Apparently he neglected to tell me that one. Can you possibly spare another cookie, Mary Jo?” Even after the plateful of scallops, she was dying for a sweet. And the kitchen smelled so lemony good.

“I always have plenty,” she insisted, dealing out another red ceramic plate and three cookies faster than a Vegas card sharp. “In fact I’ll pack up a box for you to take home while I tell you about poor Giselle’s prom night.”

Christine snagged one of the warm cookies while Vito groaned behind her. She was finding it increasingly difficult to reconcile her initial impression of him as Mr. Flashy in his European suit and expensive gold watch with the same person Mary Jo Kowolski kept talking about.

“Well, none of the Cesare boys liked anyone to date their sister. I can’t tell you how many young men I saw approach their house once Giselle turned sixteen, but those brothers sent all of them away because none of them was good enough for her as far as they were concerned.”

“Mrs. K., that’s not totally true—”

Mary Jo shook a finger at Vito and smiled. “You had your chance to share the story, but you didn’t. Now it’s my turn.”

Christine wondered if anyone ever got a word in edgewise around Mrs. Kowolski.

“Anyhow, we were all surprised when Billy Spears asked Giselle to the prom and she said yes. I had my doubts about whether or not Giselle would actually make it out of the house that night, but sure enough, I saw her leave just as I was putting the finishing touches on a friend’s wedding cake.”

Christine understood all too well how difficult it could be to have overprotective older brothers breathing down your neck. She’d grown up with two brothers determined to keep her safe, especially after their father walked out, which meant they usually scared off all prospective boyfriends.

No wonder she found herself rooting for Giselle and Billy.

“And then, what do I see out my kitchen window?” Mary Jo pointed with a thumb over her shoulder to her view of the sidewalk and the Cesares side yard. She removed a huge silver bowl from underneath the electric mixer and moved it to another counter where she’d set out her cookie sheets. “Huey, Dewey and Louie, better known as Vito, Nico and Renzo, all pile into the family car to follow them.”

“We were going to a party,” Vito interjected. “Both Marco and Giselle had gone out, so we felt entitled to a night on the town, too. We weren’t following my sister.”

Mary Jo gave him a brush-off smile as if she didn’t believe a word. “Still, Vito and his brothers came back a few minutes after Giselle pulled into the driveway with her date and—”

“We knew when she was supposed to be home and we were running late,” Vito explained, cramming his words in on top of Mary Jo’s.

She paused in the process of dabbing globs of cookie dough on the baking sheets. “And when he found his little sister necking in the car, he probably took ten years off Billy’s life by personally hauling him out of the vehicle.”

Vito shook his head as if still disgusted with the incident that was probably nearly a decade old. “The punk was all over my sixteen-year-old sister and gunning for first base—in my driveway, no less. I was damn proud I handled the matter with no bloodshed.”

Thinking she’d probably tormented Vito enough with this walk down memory lane, Christine scooped up the box of cookies and drifted closer to the door. “In other words he took the whole protector thing pretty seriously?”

Mary Jo winked. “I think he still does.”

Vito was already outside holding the door for Christine.

She hoped he didn’t think she needed any chivalry. She’d left home the moment she turned eighteen just so she could be her own person and make her own mistakes.

Which, of course, she’d done in spectacular fashion. She’d thought she was being so smart and conservative by getting to know Rafe online before she let herself get swept away by his sensitive notes and romantic poems. At least she hadn’t jumped straight into bed with him, right?

Ha! She would have been a lot better off having a fling than getting engaged to a man who already had a wife and had lined up seven other sucker fiancées.

“Thanks for the cookies, Mrs. K.” she called, stepping outside into the Florida twilight.

“Nice meeting you, hon,” the woman hollered back as the screen door slammed. “Come back anytime!”

“Sorry about that.” Vito paused when they reached the street. “I didn’t mean to spend so long at her house, but she’s a really nice lady even if she likes to trot out all my secrets.”

“I bet that’s not all your secrets.” Christine savored the marginally cooler air now that the sun was setting. If she hadn’t known better, this time spent with Vito could almost feel like a date. Good thing she wasn’t such a starry-eyed romantic anymore, right? “I’ll wager your lifestyle abroad is a far sight more colorful—and secret—than your life over here.”

God, that sounded like a come-on. Giving herself a mental shake and a stern reminder of where fanciful thoughts had led her the last time, Christine decided to make tracks back to her sweaty physical labor before she started thinking about other ways of getting sweaty and physical with the undeniably delicious Vito.

Turning her gaze back to the torn-up Cesare yard, she promised herself she’d ditch Vito and all thoughts of a sexy interlude ASAP.

VITO STARED DOWN at Christine in the rosy light of sunset and wondered how many more neighbors’ ancient stories he’d have to suffer through before he could go home.

With her.

“I refuse to answer that until you tell me something about you.” In fact, he wasn’t budging until he knew more about this woman full of contrasts. Her pixie figure versus her very healthy appetite was the most recent of his intriguing discoveries about her. “You know all the dirt on me now, but I don’t know the first thing about you other than you run your own business and you don’t like anyone to handle your petals too roughly.”

He didn’t know what demon within made him add in that last part. He had the feeling he shouldn’t be flirting with her if he wanted to convince her they could successfully share the same house for the next six weeks.

But she didn’t blush or look the least bit flustered. Instead, she jammed her box of cookies under one arm and faced him head-on. All business.

“Fair enough. I’m a Tampa native but I went to college in L.A. I wanted to put as much distance between me and the overbearing men in my family. But now I’m back in the same state as my older brothers and I’m determined to develop my own business independent of anyone’s help—financial or otherwise.”

Was it his imagination, or did he detect a note of warning in her voice? And how had she come to be so damn prickly at such a young age? She couldn’t be much older than twenty-five.

She waved to a little girl pushing her way down the sidewalk on a scooter before she took up her story again. “My five-year plan sees All Natural thriving as an independent success while my ten-year goals include opening offices in other Florida cities. Either that, or I might just open a nursery of specialty plants you can’t find anywhere else. I don’t date much because I work too hard and I spend the majority of my waking hours with dirt under my fingernails.”

He found it interesting she opted to slide in her dating stance. Another warning, no doubt.

“Just out of curiosity’s sake, are men in the five-year plan?” Not that he was jockeying for position or anything.

“Men aren’t even in the long-term planning unless I get really lonely. And even then…Well let’s just say I don’t need much in that department to tide me over.” Glancing around the neighborhood, she peered back at Vito’s ranch house. “And I think that bit of sharing probably evens up the score don’t you? I really need to do a few more things around the yard before it gets totally dark.”

Letting her off the hook for now, Vito definitely planned to ask her about her opposition to dating sometime down the road. Her stance surprised him since he had her pegged for more the home-and-hearth type with her green thumb and nurturing career.

But he had to admit, her anti-relationship views opened up some very intriguing possibilities for them this summer.

“Don’t you want to go talk to a few more neighbors?” Vito had seen Mrs. Hollenbeck walking her dog on the street earlier. She’d vouch for him in a heartbeat, assuming she’d forgiven him for feeding Fluffy pizza the one and only time he’d done any dog-sitting. How was he supposed to know Fluffy had wheat allergies?

“Are you kidding? I just got your whole life story from Mary Jo.” Christine hurried back over to his yard, her low-cut work boots moving silently over the dark ground, her hair fluttering around her chin with the help of a welcome breeze. “I’m confident there’s not a chance you could be a homicidal maniac without her knowing all the details. Even if you did have a dark and wicked side, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to exercise it for fear of jeopardizing lifetime access to the best cookies in southern Florida.”

Setting her box of sweets on the tailgate of the rusty pickup truck parked under the carport, she circled around to retrieve a few tools still lying around the property.

Vito ducked into the carport to turn on a couple of floodlights and then followed her across the yard, enjoying the view from behind. “The people around here are pretty nice. They were all really good to the family after our folks died. Mrs. Kowolski fed us for a week before Giselle decided she wanted to take up cooking. Nico grew pretty talented in the kitchen, too, but me and Renzo—forget it. We would have been living on Cap’n Crunch without some help.”

Giselle’s exploits as a superstar chef were a welcome topic of conversation normally, but Vito didn’t want to overload his guest on his first day back in town. She probably knew more than she ever wanted to know about the Cesares.

“How can I help?” He took a shovel from her since she was juggling too many tools.

“I don’t need any help.” She smiled brightly before trudging to an outbuilding at the back of the property that his brother had built for his woodworking. “And I can get the shovel, too, so please don’t feel like you need to stick around if you have other things to do. I’ll probably be busy for a few more hours at least.”

“Aren’t you picking up for the night?” Somehow he’d had visions of them going inside together. Talking. Hanging out. Hell, he didn’t know what he had in mind.

He knew perfectly well it was too soon to act on this attraction to Christine.

“No, I’m just organizing so that my work space doesn’t look like a disaster area now that you’re here. I’ll clean up in the house before I go to bed, too, and I’m sorry about all the plants in the sink. I can guarantee they’re bug-free, however.”

Damn, he hadn’t even thought about the infestation potential.

“It’s not a problem.” Especially since he always had someone come in to clean the house whenever he was in town. What was the point of all his racing winnings if he couldn’t occasionally dip into them for a few perks? After having struggled and scrimped to help his brothers and Giselle pay for college, who could blame him for a little self-indulgence now? “And damn it, Christine, let me give you a hand just for tonight since I threw off your whole workday by showing up.”

Ducking into the workshop, Christine switched on a lamp. Of course, this being his brother’s old carpentry haven, the lighting wasn’t just a bare electric light bulb. Although the rest of the room had been cleared out of hand carved desks and elaborate sideboards, the oversize shed still boasted wooden wall sconces at three-foot intervals.

Just what every backyard storage shed needed.

With a thunk, Christine set down the tools she’d been lugging on the sealed concrete floor.

“Look. I don’t mean to be rude, Vito, and I’ve had a surprisingly nice day hanging out with you, considering you’re some sort of European playboy extraordinaire. But I have a really hard time accepting help and I feel a big sense of ownership on this project, so if you don’t mind…”

“You want me to leave you alone.” He set down his shovel, the only tool she’d let him carry. She’d given him loud and clear warnings about the whole independence thing, so he wasn’t surprised there. But he was surprised to feel a twinge of disappointment. “Fair enough. I just wanted to make sure things were cool between us before I went inside.”

“They’re very cool.” She straightened the tools in the corner of the half-empty shed and failed to meet his eye.

Too bad he didn’t feel very cool at the moment. Watching her walk all over the yard, her slender hips in constant motion, had produced quite the opposite effect.

“Good.” He didn’t mean to move closer to her, but somehow he had. Just for a moment. “Because I wouldn’t want things to be awkward for you, having to sleep under the same roof as me.”

She blinked up at him, their bodies suddenly too close together, the pink bow of her mouth forming a round O of slight surprise.

He thought about taking that mouth, about tasting the lemony sugar of her kiss and putting an end to the mix of awkwardness and attraction between them. But given all her boundary-drawing and warning signs posted, Vito thought maybe he’d be better off letting her go this time. Saving that kiss for a moment when neither of them would find any reason to stop.

“’Night, Christine.” Easing away from her and the raw temptation of her tanned, slender body, Vito took a step back. Her boundaries were safe for a little while longer. “Pleasant dreams.”

And for the first time in a long time, he knew damn well that his would be.

4

TWO WEEKS LATER, Christine was still cursing Vito Cesare’s insistence that she have pleasant dreams.

Slumping into the ancient tire swing in the backyard after another endless day of working, she stared up at the dark house where Vito worked on his computer and wished she could get a good night’s sleep for a change. But she’d been having so many confounded pleasant dreams of him that she dreaded going to bed lately for fear of the overly romantic plotting of her subconscious mind.

Wrapping her arms around the old tire, she rested her chin on her hands and kicked the swing into motion, every muscle aching from spending her day on her hands and knees finishing the hard-scaping, or structural work for the new landscape. She’d installed new patio blocks and pathways around the property, creating all new foundations and focal points for the colorful tropical gardens she had yet to develop.

But despite her bone-weary exhaustion, she couldn’t help but fantasize about the man she’d shared a house with for the last two weeks. He’d been a perfect gentleman ever since that first night when he’d helped her put away the tools in the workshop. She’d been taken aback by his sudden proximity that night, and could have sworn he’d been about to kiss her. And then…nothing.

A reminder to have pleasant dreams, and then he was off to his own room, staying out of her way day after day while she worked sunup to well after sundown creating the kind of lush foliage and private terrain she and Giuseppe Donzinetti had discussed.

She’d made it her habit to work late every night. Not only because she needed to get a lot done, but also because she hoped she’d dream about him less often if she didn’t run into him in the hallway before going to bed. She opted to clean up in the charming outdoor shower she’d found behind the outbuilding at the back of the property instead. An adorable latticework enclosure complete with wooden privacy screens, the shower stall had to have been built by the Cesare brother who had been into carpentry.

Not only did she avoid Vito that way, but she really enjoyed showering under the stars, sliding into some clean clothes, and then sneaking into the house after Vito was asleep. But tonight she was too exhausted even to make it back to her bed.

A warm evening breeze fluttered through her damp hair as she studied the dark house for some sign of life. It was only midnight and she’d noticed Vito sometimes stayed up until one or two. He left the house for long periods of time during the day, coming home at seven or eight and offering her dinner most nights.

Which she had always refused. Except for earlier in the week when he’d simply brought bags of takeout home and set them on the picnic table for her. Considering his idea of takeout had been Cajun-fried shrimp and jambalaya from a local specialty restaurant, she could hardly have refused. But even then, he’d left her alone to eat in peace.

Which had been very gentlemanly. And, if she was completely honest with herself, maybe just a teeny bit disappointing.

Had she dreamed the mutual attraction of that first day? Or had the chemistry between them been so one-sided it had skewed her perceptions?

Yawning and stretching, she told herself to quit ruminating and just get her butt inside so she could snag some sleep. Then again, maybe if she closed her eyes out here, farther away from where Vito slept, she’d be able to catch a few Zs that weren’t interrupted by sultry dreams. Surely even her romantic subconscious wouldn’t plague her with sexy visions while she was perched in a ring of vulcanized rubber.

After two weeks, maybe she’d found the key to a few hours of sleep that didn’t star Vito Cesare wearing nothing but a pair of gardening gloves and a wicked grin.

FEET SINKING into the soft earth beneath his flip-flops, Vito walked across the yard at 2:00 a.m. to find Christine slumped in the old tire swing, her chin resting on her folded hands. He paused over her, wondering what she was dreaming about. He’d wake her in a minute and steer her to bed so she could get a good night’s sleep. For now he simply indulged in the unique experience of watching her at rest.

Did she think about fire bushes and patio blocks even while she slept? Plants and landscaping seemed to be all she talked about while awake. The few times he’d tried to draw her into conversation over the last two weeks that he’d been back home, she’d quickly rerouted the discussion back to watering schedules and his yard’s soil composition.

All business, in other words.

He studied her face in the moonlight. Swiping a thumb across her cheek, he told himself he was just brushing off a stray hair and not testing the softness of her creamy skin. Although if he had been taking note of what she felt like, he would have had to admit her skin was even softer than he’d imagined. More delicate.

Debating the best way to wake her, Vito skimmed a short brown lock of hair away from her face, exposing the full expanse of her cheek to the moonbeams, along with her tempting pink lips.

He’d been trying to give her space ever since that first night when she’d outlined her boundaries as concretely as if she’d laid her damn paver stones around them. He’d hoped that maybe with time and enforced proximity, the spark between them would develop into something even she couldn’t ignore. But she was either too exhausted to look at him twice or she deliberately avoided him. He couldn’t be sure which.

And since the out-of-town guests would start arriving for the wedding preliminaries in another week or so, Vito knew he didn’t have much more time to make his move. If he wanted to woo Christine, he couldn’t afford to sit back and wait for her boundaries to dissolve any longer.

Tomorrow, he’d pick up his pace for the full-throttle rush toward the finish line and break through those barriers of hers on his own. Tonight, he’d have to settle for cruising one more test lap.

“Christine?” He laid his hand on her shoulder, debating if he should just scoop her out of the swing and carry her to bed. She had to be dead to the world after all the hours she’d been putting in this week.

Then again, he didn’t want to risk scaring her.

“Christine?” he called her name a little louder, looping an arm around her waist to test her reaction.

“Vi-to.” She moaned his name in her sleep, stretching out the word into extra syllables as if savoring the taste of it on her tongue.

His name had never sounded more provocative. And although she still seemed to sleep deeply, with her chin resting on the back of her hand curved around the tire, Vito suddenly felt very, very awake.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.