How Not To Mess With A Millionaire
AMAZON | BARNES & NOBLE | Apple Books | KOBO | GOOGLE PLAY
About the book
Interior decorator Zoe Ryan’s life resembles a bad country song. Her boyfriend dumped her, her car died, and she was recently handed a pink slip. What’s a girl to do? Leave everything behind for a bit....in Positano, Italy. And when she gets there, she finds a surprising extra—millionaire restaurateur Dante Sabbatini in the kitchen. In his underwear. Making coffee. It’s suddenly not only hot outside, but exactly what is he doing inside, in her temporary kitchen?
Dante’s plan was to escape to his family’s beach house for some quiet and privacy. What he didn’t know was that his meddling, matchmaking nonna rented the entire house to a sexy stranger at the exact same time as his stay. It took him months to clear his schedule—there’s no way he’s leaving now.
With both refusing to leave, Zoe and Dante agree to be temporary roomies, but secretly aim to try to drive the other out. He plays his music as loud as he wants and will wear as little clothing as possible, and she’ll just go ahead and adopt that pig she fell in love with in town. But suddenly their game of one-upmanship takes a very sexy detour, and they can’t believe what happens next.
praise for How Not to Mess with a Millionaire
“There were points where I had a giggle, and Houdini the mini pig was a great addition.”
“How Not to Mess with a Millionaire by Regina Kyle, is a sexy, steamy, and funny story set mostly in Italy. You get a sexy Italian Millionaire, and a spunky American interior designer, plus a pot-bellied pig, and you have fun, romance, and some laugh-out-loud moments.”
“This enemies to lovers, fling to forever romance was a fun and sexy read! A solitary getaway to Positano, Italy sounds like heaven.”
“I had to chuckle at most of this book. From half naked men, to adorable mini pigs. This book had me laughing at these two trying to outdo each other then falling for each other.”
“This romance hits all the emotions. There are laugh out loud moments, there’s also sadness, happiness, joy, fear, and love (not just sex, but there’s plenty of that too).”
“This book is sexy and fun, with moments that had me laughing out loud.”
“This was an enjoyable read that had a good balance of humor and angst, bitter and sweet, and definitely the beauty of Italy for the perfect backdrop.”
“Ms. Kyle has written a truly marvelous story with just the right amount of fun and lots of Hot romance. Loved it and would give it more than 5 stars if I could.”
“A cute read!”
“What a fun book. I laughed often and out loud! I found the characters to be fun, with great chemistry. Zoe and Dante sizzled.”
“Dante and Zoe are great. Loved it.”
“At times funny, at times emotional with plenty of steamy scenes, How Not To Mess With A Millionaire was a five star read for me.”
“This book was so worth the read with the steamy storyline that was so well-written and characters that were so well created that Dante and Zoe continued to pull me right into their journey as it unfolded! I was so engaged in this story that I read this book in one sitting!”
Read an Excerpt
Chapter one
It was a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman, recently dumped by her cheating scumbag of a boyfriend and fired by her two-faced, design-stealing boss, must blow a healthy portion of her life savings to run away from it all, preferably to some exotic, foreign shore like Italy’s Amalfi Coast.
Or if it wasn’t universally acknowledged, in Zoe Ryan’s opinion it damn well should be.
“Eccoci qui,” the taxi driver announced with a flourish as the car lurched to a stop. “We are here, signora.”
Here was Bella Vista, a palazzo clinging to a cliff above the clear, calm, cerulean waters of the Mediterranean, with thick, stone walls, wrought-iron accents, and bougainvillea-decked terraces. But it wasn’t the outside of the house Zoe was interested in. It was what was inside those walls. The work of the late, great interior designer Alberto Pinto. Zoe had done her senior thesis on him at CalArts, and she was going to spend the next four weeks surrounded by his brilliant, eclectic creations, getting a much-needed break from her dysfunctional family. Refilling her empty soul.
Her heart beating a little faster at the thought, Zoe pulled the Italian-English dictionary she’d had the foresight to pick up at the airport out of her backpack and flipped through it until she found what she was looking for.
“Quanto—” She leafed through it again. “—costa?”
The driver tapped the meter. “Sixty euros, per favore.”
She dug into her bag for her wallet, pulled out the requested amount plus what she hoped was a respectable tip—like many creative types, math wasn’t her strong suit—and handed it to him.
“Grazie.” He leafed through the bills, nodded, and stuffed them into his pocket.
She gave herself a mental pat on the back, relieved she’d gotten something right as a stranger in this strange land, and reached for the door handle. But the driver beat her to it, springing out of the car like he was one of the Guardians of the Galaxy and flinging the door open.
“Grazie,” she echoed as she hitched her backpack over her shoulder and climbed out of the car.
The driver retrieved her suitcase from the trunk and set it down next to her, taking a business card from his pocket and holding it out to her. “If I can be of more service during your stay, please don’t hesitate to call.”
She plucked the card from his fingers and eyed him suspiciously. “I thought you didn’t speak English.”
He shrugged and gave her a sheepish smile. “A little game I like to play. A test of sorts.”
“Did I pass?”
“Si.” His smile widened to a full-on, toothy grin. “Your Italian is serviceable at best, but you tried. That’s half the battle. I think you’ll find we locals are very forgiving if you make the effort to speak our language.”
“Thanks for the advice.” She blew a lock of stringy, straw-colored hair off her cheek, slipped the card into the back pocket of her cutoffs, and reached for the handle of her suitcase, stifling a yawn. Great. Not only was she fighting motion sickness from all the tight turns and steep drop offs on the way from the train station to the villa, now jet lag was catching up to her. If there was a picture in the dictionary next to hot mess, it would be hers. She swallowed another yawn and telescoped the handle to its full height in one swift yank. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The driver—his card said his name was Bruno—lifted her free hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “Until we meet again, beautiful lady.”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Are all Italian men as forward as you?”
“No.” He winked. “They just wish they were.”
The mischievous sparkle in his gray eyes, the same shade as the streaks of silver in his salt and pepper hair, kept her from pulling away. “You know, if you were American, I’d have to slap you.”
“Bah.” He scoffed. “Americanos. Your men know nothing about love. They think pinching a woman’s ass is foreplay.”
“I didn’t come to Italy to find love.” Or foreplay, for that matter. Not that she was discussing her sex life—or lack thereof—with her cab driver.
“Ah, but perhaps love will find you.”
With those last, unlikely words of wisdom, he hopped into his taxi and sped off, leaving Zoe tired, queasy, and more than a little sore thanks to almost twenty hours of planes, trains, and one particularly nausea-inducing automobile. She dragged her suitcase to the front door and punched in the code the rental agency had given her to the keyless lock.
The door swung silently open to reveal a sight unlike anything she’d ever seen. An enormous, high-ceilinged, elaborately tiled foyer led directly into a sunken living room. A wall of windows flanked sliding glass doors that looked out over a stone patio with a lush,
vine-covered pergola and an in-ground swimming pool. Beyond the ornate, wrought-iron fence that rimmed the patio, sparks of late afternoon sunlight bounced off the Mediterranean.
But none of that was what had her heart pounding and her hand wavering between fanning herself and pulling out her cell phone to dial 9-1-1. Or whatever the Italian equivalent of 9-1-1 was. No, that honor went to the man standing just outside the wide-open sliders, naked as the day he was born, like a living, breathing statue of David, his firm, fine ass on full display as he toweled off his hair. Water sluiced down the sculpted muscles of his shoulders and back, over that bitable, olive-skinned behind, and down trim, toned legs, dripping onto the smooth stones.
Logic overtook lust and she backpedaled toward the main entrance, one hand hauling her suitcase, the other groping in her knapsack for her phone. She’d almost made it to the front door when the real-life sculpture slung the towel around his neck and turned, giving her a full-frontal view as magnificent as his backside. Well-defined pecs, washboard abs—was that an eight pack?—a narrow waist tapering to hips with that perfect, male vee that stunned women stupid, and between his legs . . .
Holy man meat, Batman. Even flaccid, his penis was impressive. Erect it must be intimidating as hell. Not that she was picturing him rigid and swollen with arousal. Much.
She dragged her gaze up his torso and met his eyes, storm cloud gray and brooding, framed by the kind of lashes women paid top dollar for—long and lush, with just the right amount of curl. Dark hair, still damp and sexily mussed, flopped over one brow, and his lips pressed into a thin, harsh line beneath a patrician nose.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” she stammered, willing her eyes not to drift south.
Wait, why was she apologizing? He was the one trespassing, not her. If anyone owed anyone an apology, it was him to her, not vice versa. She stood her suitcase on its end and folded her arms across her chest, trying her best to look as menacing as her five feet four inches would allow. “I mean, who are you, and what are you doing here?”
His lips curled into a smirk and he matched her pose, making no attempt whatsoever to cover himself. And why should he? He sure as hell didn’t have anything to be ashamed of. Maybe he was some sort of exhibitionist, breaking into homes, stripping down to his birthday suit, and lying in wait to surprise unsuspecting residents.
“I’m Dante Sabbatini, the owner of this villa.” His perfect English was laced with a lilting Italian accent that almost—but not quite—softened the blow of his words. “And I could ask the same thing of you.”