now, a month after his father’s death, Rio knew he’d been right to reject him. To reject any overtures at reconciliation.
He wanted nothing to do with the powerful Italian tycoon—never had, never would. And as soon as he’d offloaded this damned island he’d never think of the man again.
‘CRESSIDA WYNDHAM?’
This was the time to correct the lie. To be honest. If she wanted to back out of this whole damned mess, then she should just say so here.
No, I’m Matilda Morgan. I work for Art Wyndham.
But her back was well and truly against the wall this time. What had started out as an occasional favour for the high-maintenance heiress had turned into an obligation she couldn’t really escape. Especially not having accepted thirty thousand pounds for this particular ‘favour’. She’d been bought and paid for, and the consequences would be dire if she didn’t go through with the plan.
Besides, it was only for a week. What could go wrong in seven sunny days?
‘Yes...’ she heard herself murmur, before recalling that she was supposed to be acting the part of an heiress to a billion-pound fortune. Mumbling into her cleavage wasn’t really going to cut it.
She lifted her head, forcing herself to meet the man’s eyes with a bright smile. It froze on her face as recognition dawned.
‘You’re Rio Mastrangelo.’
His expression gave nothing away. That wasn’t surprising, though. Illario Mastrangelo was somewhat renowned for his ruthless dynamism. He was reputed to have a heart of ice and stone—he walked away from any deal unless he could get it on his terms. Or so the stories went.
‘Yes.’
The speedboat was rocking rhythmically beneath her. Was that why she felt all lurching and odd? She looked to the driver of the boat—a short man with a gappy smile and weathered skin—but he was engrossed in his newspaper. No help there.
‘I had expected to meet with an estate agent,’ she said, because the silence was thick and she needed to break it.
‘No. No agent.’ He stepped into the shallow water—uncaring, apparently, that his jeans got wet to just below his knees.
No agent. Great.
Cressida had been explicit that there would be.
‘It’s going to be you, some man from an estate agency, and whatever servants come with the island. Just tell them all that you want to spend time on your own to really get a sense of the place and then relax! You’ll get to chill all day, get fed gourmet meals—perfect holiday. Right? It’s no big deal.’
No big deal.
Only, looking at Rio Mastrangelo, Tilly thought the exact opposite was true. He was both a big deal and a big deal-maker, and she was hopelessly out of her depth even in the crystal-clear shallows that lapped against the side of the beautiful boat.
‘Have you got a bag?’
‘Oh, right...’ She nodded, reaching for the Louis Vuitton duffle Cressida had insisted on Tilly bringing.
Rio took it and lifted his eyes to her, a look of glinting curiosity in his expression.
Her stomach rolled in time with the waves. He was far more handsome in person. Or maybe she’d never really paid proper attention.
She knew bits and pieces about him. He was a self-made real estate tycoon. He’d been on the news about a year earlier, interviewed because he had bought a large parcel of land in the south of London to develop. She remembered because she’d been glad; there was a beautiful old pub there—one of the oldest in London, with wonky floors and leaning walls—and she’d worked there for a summer after she’d left school. The idea of it being knocked down had saddened her, and Rio had said in the interview that he intended to rejuvenate it.
‘You travel light,’ he remarked.
Tilly nodded. She’d thrown a few bikinis into the bag, along with a pair of flip-flops, a few books, and some of her go-to summer dresses. Perfect for a week alone on a tropical island.
He slung the bag over his shoulder and then lifted a hand towards her. She stared at it as though he’d turned into a frog.
‘I can manage,’ she said stiffly, wincing inwardly at the prim intonation of her words.
Cressida was definitely not prim. A snob of the first order, yes, but prim...?
Please. Cressida’s antics generally made a trip to Ibiza look like a visit to a retirement village. Cressida’s father—Tilly’s boss—had been thrilled that Cressida had shown a little interest in the business finally, and agreed to visit this island and scout it as a potential hotel site.
Rio Mastrangelo wasn’t Hollywood handsome, Tilly mused as she moved towards the dark stairs that dipped into the back of the boat. Not in that boy-next-door, blond, blue-eyed way that she usually found impossible to resist. Nor was he corporate and conventional, as she would have expected. He was...wild. Untamed.
The words came to her out of nowhere, but as she risked a sidelong glance at him she knew instantly that she was right.
His skin was a dark brown all over, and his lower face was covered in a thick stubble that spoke of having not shaved for days, rather than an attempt to cultivate a fashionable facial hair situation. His eyes were wide-set and a dark grey that would match the ocean at its deepest point. They were rimmed with thick charcoal lashes, long and spiked in curling clumps. His hair was jet-black and it turned outwards at the ends, where it brushed the collar of his shirt.
He had the kind of physique that spoke of an easy athleticism. He was tall, broad-shouldered and leanly muscled. His forearms flexed even as he held her bag.
It was those eyes, though, she thought, turning her attention back to the twin masterpieces in his face.
She felt as though she’d been slapped. They locked to hers: grey warring with green. The boat lurched again. She reached down to the polished timber rail to steady herself, her manicured fingers running over it for strength.
She’d chosen a simple dress for the flight to Italy. It was a designer brand, but she’d picked it up in a charity shop a long time ago—before this crazy plan had even been hatched. It was turquoise—her favourite colour. It complemented her eyes and set off the auburn highlights in her long cherry-red hair. And her skin, though nowhere near as deep a tan as Rio’s, looked golden all over. She’d chosen the dress because it looked good on her and she’d wanted to look good. But not for Rio.
She’d chosen it for the photographers who might snap her passing through Rome’s airport, or travelling on the ferry to Capri. For the tourists with cell phones who would recognise Cressida Wyndham, her doppelgänger, en route to a luxurious Mediterranean holiday. She’d kept her head bent, as though she really was an heiress avoiding attention, but she’d courted it at the same time.
She’d chosen to wear the dress for those reasons.
For Rio, she suspected, she would be safer wearing a nun’s habit.
Anything to discourage his eyes from drifting over her in that slow, curious way they had.
She understood the speculation in them; she’d met enough men in her twenty-four years to know what interest looked like. Cursed, in many ways, with the kind of curves most women would kill for, Tilly had long ago come to despise her generous cleavage, neat waist and rounded bottom. There was something about her figure that seemed to signal to men that she wanted to strip naked and jump into their bed.
The boat shifted again, as a wave rolled beneath it, and she paused, reaching for the rail once more. The driver had backed it as close as possible to the shore but even so it wouldn’t be possible to disembark from the