‘What are you doing?’ he shouted back—matching her English—but his accent had an American tang.
He wrenched the hose from her but it twisted as he grabbed it, spraying a shockingly cold streak across her stomach before he flung it to the ground, the water gushing harmlessly across the lawn. Gasping, Gracie stared at her assailant.
He was stunning. Wet. Angry. Soaked to the skin, the tuxedo he was wearing was now ruined. Tuxedo. Her stunned feeble brain attempted some computations.
‘Why the water cannon?’ He wiped one hand over his face, the other down his front. Droplets of water splattered from his fingers.
That tux was saturated and this was no intruder. Instinctively—unthinkingly—she reached out to help sweep the streaming rivers of water from his suit. She brushed frantically, her hands sopping, until she realised that he was no longer attempting to do the same thing. He was standing utterly still. She froze too, mortification finally sinking in.
Slowly—reluctantly—she glanced up. She encountered glittering eyes so brown they were almost black and they were fringed with unfairly long lashes. Of course he had lashes like those. Superlative, to match the rest of him. As for the cheekbones? You could slice steak on them they were so high and sharp and, oh, goodness...
‘Sorry.’ She whipped her hands behind her back and wished for another cold shock of water from that hose, because now she was so hot it was amazing her blouse wasn’t steaming. She stared up at the masculine magnificence towering several inches above her. She knew who this was. Francesca had flashed her a picture printed in the local newsletter when she’d told her about the sale of the villa. Gracie hadn’t understood a word of the accompanying text but that quick glimpse of those cheekbones had been unforgettable. Rafael Vitale. The billionaire orgy man himself.
‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ she said shakily.
‘I think that’s my line. Again.’ He watched her coolly, decidedly unimpressed. ‘This is my house. You’re the invader.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ She pulled on a smile and hoped he’d forgive her. ‘Wasn’t expecting you to be home.’
‘Clearly not.’ He didn’t smile back. Definitely not seeing the funny side yet.
She was dying...and was...uh...stunned.
Rafael Vitale was so much more than anyone she’d ever met—more tall, more good looking, more well dressed, aside from—
‘You’re very wet. I’m so sorry.’ She glanced at the water still streaming from his muscular frame and died all over again. ‘Will it be...okay?’
‘No,’ he answered bluntly, and peeled off the sodden jacket.
Paralysed, Gracie stared, slack-jawed. His shirt was glued to his skin. Glued. She could see the ridges of his muscles—of which there were many. Hot, hard muscles. He was the most strapping man. Panty-dropping gorgeous but so intimidating that she actually giggled. He looked up from shaking out the jacket and shot her another less than impressed look.
She covered her mouth with her hand. She really needed to stop staring at him. But she couldn’t. Was this what instant attraction felt like? Lust at first sight? She inwardly squirmed at her unruly overheated reaction. No wonder he was a rake if all women had this reaction to his appearance. He’d have his pick of bedmates. Clearly he thought she was a complete fool. But, then, he must be completely used to getting this kind of reaction, which meant she was as much of a fool as any of them. Hell, she needed to pull herself together!
Quickly she moved to get away from him but she slipped on the wet grass. Her feet slithered out from under her and she went down awkwardly, smashing her knee hard.
This time he slammed his strong hand beneath her elbow. Without any apparent effort he hauled her to her feet. Only, she slipped in her stupid wet sandals again. She heard a muttered curse and the next thing she knew she was pressed against his body as he formed a literal pillar of support. His arm was firmly about her waist, holding her far, far too close. Those muscles were even harder than they’d looked. And hotter.
Blistering with embarrassment, she couldn’t bear to look up at him. Dimly she realised her knee was killing her, but her proximity to his physical perfection was providing the most amazing anaesthetic. The thought idly crossed her mind that his woodsy scent ought to be bottled and used in operations in every hospital theatre.
Another ferociously muttered curse made her blink.
‘Are you all right?’ he snapped.
He probably thought she was simple. Most definitely useless. She tried putting her weight on her foot and winced. A second later she was flying through the air into his arms. His arms, as she’d suspected, were very strong. And the chest she was now pressed against was very solid. Fortunately the contact kick-started her rational thinking processes.
‘Put me down,’ she said stiffly.
‘And have you slip again and break your neck?’ he snarled, stalking back towards the beautiful villa. ‘You’re a liability. Not just to yourself. The sooner you’re off my property, the better.’
‘You’re going to carry me all the way to the gate?’
He probably was strong enough. She could feel his muscles burning through the cold, wet fabric. The man was built. But he was also obviously unimpressed. Desperately she suppressed her appreciative shiver. So inappropriate and lamely predictable. He must get women literally throwing themselves at him all the time. She was not going to be another. But as he effortlessly strode over the manicured lawns towards that magnificently impressive building, she couldn’t hold in another giggle.
‘Are you hysterical?’
She heard the unmistakable note of horror in his question.
‘No.’ She breathed in and steadied herself. ‘I’m embarrassed. Laughing is my nervous release. I’m sorry.’ She peered up to try to see into his face and braved another smile. ‘At least it’s better than crying.’
‘Well, that’s true,’ he answered grimly. ‘Heaven forbid I have a tearful trespasser on my hands.’ He climbed the wide steps and entered through the open doorway into the glorious large lounge. ‘I’m Rafael Vitale.’
‘I figured.’
‘And you are?’
Now she was inside, it immediately struck her that the best way of minimising his insane effect on her was to scope out the amazing interior of the villa instead. But he didn’t stop in the eye-poppingly ornate lounge, rather he marched straight through it down a long corridor to a vast kitchen. He unceremoniously set her on the large table. Fascinated, Gracie gaped at the gleaming appliances.
‘Wow,’ she murmured as she stared at the elegance of the set-up. ‘State of the art.’ And that was an understatement.
He gave the kitchen a dismissive glance and turned back to her with businesslike seriousness. ‘Is it sore?’
‘What?’ Oh. Her knee. ‘My embarrassment has numbed my knee.’
She snatched a breath and tried to look anywhere but at him again. Except he was so close and so good looking, her attention was the iron filing to his magnetism.
‘How helpful,’ he commented dryly. ‘Ice will bring out the bruising.’ He strode over to the gleaming fridge and pushed some buttons.
‘Because I want a purple knee,’ she muttered.
He didn’t respond as he walked back, holding ice in a glass and a clean cloth.
‘That’s an impressive fridge. The whole place is impressive,’ she babbled. ‘This kitchen is bigger than our one at the bakery and that’s a commercial operation. You could cook enough in here to feed an army. Though you’d need an army