that brought out the best in her skin tones. After the near-miss with kissing her the night before, his body reacted as if he had a right to be interested, attracted, aroused by her innocent, girl-next-door sexiness.
He told his body to settle down. Yes, she was attractive and, yes, he was interested in her, but only sexually. In every other way they didn’t mesh. She had to be off-limits. “You don’t speak Italian?”
“No.”
Yet another thing added to the pile of reasons his attraction to her was ridiculous. “Well, don’t worry. Constanzo said his son was raised in the U.S., remember?”
Wind blew in through her open window and tossed strands of her hair across her face. Pulling them away, she asked, “Have you figured out what you’re going to say to him?”
“I’m going to flat out tell him who he is.”
She gaped at him. “I think that’s a mistake!”
And here was the real reason he wouldn’t kiss her, knew they’d never have a relationship, knew the taste of her lips that he longed for would only get him into trouble. If he wanted one route, she always wanted another. If that wasn’t proof his attraction to her was pointless, he didn’t know what was.
“I don’t think it’s a mistake. If my father had found me, that’s how I would want to be told. Up front and honest. I might be angry at first, but eventually I would mellow.”
“That just sounds wrong to me.”
“Of course it does.”
“What if Constanzo’s son’s not like you? What if he’s shy? Or quiet? Artistic types, as Constanzo’s file says his son is, aren’t like businessmen.”
“Oh, and you know a lot about this?”
She shrugged. “I know some. Everybody knows artists aren’t like businessmen. Otherwise, they’d be businessmen. They wouldn’t be artists.”
“Well, if he’s a shy starving artist who wears his heart on his sleeve, kick my shin and take over the conversation.”
“Me?”
“Hey, Constanzo wanted you here. Maybe this is why.” Which was the reason he couldn’t put her on his plane and send her back to the accounting department in the Inferno corporate offices in New York. Constanzo might pretend to be an easygoing, open book, but like any clever businessman he had his secrets, his ways of reading people. He’d seen something in Olivia that made him want her here. Tucker wouldn’t argue that. He’d use it.
She sighed and eased herself back to her seat. “I agree about kicking your shin, but if I do, you should just shift gears.”
“Let me assure you, Miss Prentiss—” he paused and sighed “—Vivi, if you kick my shin, you had better have a plan.”
The rest of the drive passed in silence until an isolated farmhouse came into view. Not renovated as Constanzo’s had been, Antonio’s run-down house had seen better days. The manicured grounds of Constanzo’s estate were replaced by fields teaming with tall grass and wildflowers.
“Obviously, the guy doesn’t own a lawn mower.”
“Or he likes nature.”
Tucker sniffed a laugh.
“What would you rather paint? A mowed lawn or a field of wildflowers against a blue, blue sky.”
Cutting the engine, Tucker rolled his eyes and shoved open his door. Vivi quickly followed suit. Behind Tucker, she picked her way up the loose stone walk. When they reached the door, he knocked three times in rapid succession.
Inhaling a big breath of fresh air, he glanced around. It really was quiet, peaceful, beautiful. He supposed he could understand why an artist would choose to live here. Especially if he’d come to Italy to get to know his mother’s country, to meet his extended family, and still have privacy.
The wooden door swung open. A man about as tall as Constanzo, wearing jeans and no shirt stood before them. “Yeah?”
“I’m Tucker Engle and this is my assistant, Olivia Prentiss.”
Vivi reached forward and extended her hand. “It’s nice to meet you. You can call me Vivi.”
The man cautiously took her hand, his dark eyes narrowing.
“Are you Antonio Signorelli?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
Tucker said, “Can we come in a minute?”
He started closing the door. “Actually, I’m very busy. And I don’t have time for sales people.”
Wedging his shoe between the door and its frame, Tucker laughed. “We’re not sales people. We’re here representing—”
Olivia kicked him in the shin. He yelped and jumped back.
She smiled sweetly at Antonio. “We’re representing a private collector who’s interested in sponsoring a showing of the artwork of someone new and fresh.”
Antonio visibly relaxed. “Really?”
“Look how he’s dressed?” She angled her thumb at Tucker and he glanced down at his suit coat and green tie. Sure he was a bit overdressed for the country. But he was a businessman not a hippie.
“I’m okay.” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “But he’s obviously not a tourist and his clothes are too expensive for him to be a salesman. As I said, we represent a private collector.”
“And you want to show my work?”
Vivi stepped forward. “Well, we haven’t seen your work. Our client is an art patron, but he’s not a sap. Your work would have to meet certain standards.” She smiled. “We’d love to see it.”
As they waited for Antonio to take Vivi’s hint and let them in, Tucker scowled. She’d made fun of his clothes? Antonio had no shirt. Bare feet. Jeans that hung low on his hips. Sheesh. With his black curly hair tousled, the guy was a walking cologne ad. At least Tucker was fully covered.
Finally, Antonio opened the door wide enough for them to enter. “The place is a mess.”
Vivi put her hand on his forearm. “We’re not here to see the place. We’re here to see your work.” She glanced around. “I understand your primary venue is painting.”
“Yes.”
They entered a house desperately in need of updating. Lines in the plaster and a cracked window were the highlights of the room Antonio led them to. A half-finished painting sat on an easel. But many canvases leaned against the back wall.
The paintings lured Tucker into the room. Vivid colors and stark images dominated. He turned his head slightly and caught Antonio’s gaze.
“You have a unique way of looking at the world.”
Antonio laughed. “I
