Her Final Fling. Joanne Rock
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