Her Final Fling

2

CHRISTINE HATED to muck up her big exit by simply digging her hands right back in the dirt to continue working for a guy who saw her presence as pure fluff.

Then again, what choices did she have? Pausing in the middle of Vito Cesare’s driveway, she scanned her brain for more options. Her beat-up secondhand truck was parked in the carport, so she possessed the means to leave. But where would she go?

She had no ready cash, and she was between apartments. Actually, she hadn’t even thought about looking for a new apartment for another month since this job was supposed to have taken at least that long. And if she left now, she could kiss her dreams of owning her own landscaping business goodbye. If she went bankrupt, no one in their right mind would ever give her a loan to start up again.

Peering around the yard for inspiration, her gaze landed on the fire bush already wilting in the Florida heat. She couldn’t just let the plant die so she could make a great exit.

Swallowing her pride, she trudged across the tilled up ground that would one day be a lush flower garden. As she finished securing the bush into the ground and giving the shrub a nice long drink, she couldn’t help but think of the fat investment account her older brother had started in her name.

She had the money to finance this dream. But damn it, she didn’t want to start her own business with money someone else had earned. Her older brother Seth had worked long hours for years after their father walked out, slowly growing adept at reading the stock market and knowing where to invest. He’d made huge profits on his investments, funneling money to both Christine and their brother Jesse.

But she’d never been comfortable with the idea of someone else making money on her behalf. What kind of satisfaction would she take in owning her own business if the whole operation rode on the shoulders of Seth’s hard work and not her own?

The answer remained the same as it had been for the last six months she’d struggled to start All Natural.

None.

Rinsing her hands in the stream from the hose before tossing aside the nozzle, Christine prepared herself to go back and face Vito Cesare. To somehow eat humble pie and pretend it tasted good.

Definitely not her forte.

But as she straightened, he was already there in front of her, dressed in olive-colored shorts and a white knit collared shirt. He held two glasses of lemonade in his hands.

He stepped over the hose to offer her a drink, his feet now visible in black flip-flops. “I would have come out sooner to apologize for that whole misunderstanding, but I thought it might be better if I cooled off first.”

He looked far more approachable in flip-flops. The gold wristwatch was gone, as were the slick shades. She wholeheartedly approved of the more laid-back Vito. In fact, if she hadn’t seen a glimpse of Vito the worldly jet-setter, she could almost be attracted to him.

Gulping down the lemonade he handed her, she decided she was the one who needed cooling off. No way would she develop a thing for the man who held the future of her fledgling business in his hands. Too unprofessional. Too tacky.

“Actually, I was just about to come looking for you to apologize, too.” She pressed the bottom of her cool glass to her hot forehead, the icy cold condensation a welcome relief from the sultry temperature outdoors and her hot flashes inside. “I was sort of taken off guard to think your uncle didn’t care about having the yard look really great. I wanted to be impressive with the best landscaping job I could provide and not because I look better in shorts than my competition, you know?”

His eyes flicked south at the mention of her legs and Christine found herself wondering how many other women had fallen victim to that hooded stare. Been there. Done that. Lived the public humiliation of having been taken in by a pro.

She swigged the rest of her drink and kept her mind on business.

“I understand better than you think.” He nodded toward the house. “There are some chairs around back on the patio if you want to sit for a minute.”

Nodding, she followed him since they obviously had a few glitches to iron out together.

“So, are you suggesting you know what it’s like to be hired for your bod instead of your brains, Cesare?” She could hold her own with this guy as long as she kept things light, easy. She would put herself in the driver’s seat of this relationship and stay there.

“As a matter of fact, I do. Sort of.” He led them to the patio that she’d commandeered for peat moss.

Thankfully, she’d used all the bags of manure a week ago.

She couldn’t picture Vito hanging out around the fertilizer, even in his flip-flop guise. Settling into the wrought-iron chair across from him with a big glass-topped umbrella table between them, she placed her empty glass on the surface and was grateful the lawn wasn’t in full destruction mode back here. A tire swing still hung in an old banyan tree behind a big workshop in the backyard. “And how is it that you end up being judged on your looks? Are you an underwear model on the side?”

“Are you suggesting I’d have a future in the industry?”

“Just taking wild guesses.” She wished she hadn’t emptied her glass so quickly as she conjured images of Vito in his underwear. Was he a boxers or briefs kind of guy?

Considering his flashy clothes earlier, she’d have to go with silk boxers. But if ever a man had been built for tighty-whiteys…

“Christine?”

Her underwear daydreams faded at Vito’s voice. “Sorry. You were saying?”

“I’m a race-car driver.” The humor in his eyes suggested he knew the direction of her daydreams. “And sometimes people bet on a driver because he looks good in his racing suit instead of how well he drives. That bugs me, too, so I don’t blame you for being miffed that my uncle would be so superficial. If it makes you feel any better though, I’m sure he never would have hired you if he didn’t think you’d do a great job on the landscaping. He’s really excited about Giselle’s wedding.”

“You race cars?” Christine didn’t know squat about any sport. For that matter, was racing even considered a sport since it didn’t have a damn thing to do with being athletic?

“I’m a Formula One driver.” At her blank look, he continued. “It’s open-wheel racing. You know, as opposed to stock cars like NASCAR?”

“Don’t have a clue about any of those, actually. Although I’m sure you look very cute in the racing suit.” She’d flirt with him before he had the chance to flirt with her, putting herself firmly in control of the situation. No sense making herself seem like a novice when it came to men. She wouldn’t be taken advantage of again. “But back to the matter at hand, what do you suggest we do in relation to my work here?”

He peered around the yard, his square shoulders settling deeper into the wrought-iron patio chair. “I think you’d better keep working. No offense, Christine, but it looks like a natural disaster around here.”

“It’s a work in progress.” She wasn’t always the neatest person, even when she wasn’t involved in an extensive landscaping job. But she could see the potential for the yard and had every confidence it would be gorgeous by the time she finished. “Besides, I was operating under the impression that the house would be vacant except for me, so I’ll admit I’ve been a little more lax about daily cleanup just because I’m working such long hours on this job. It doesn’t make much sense for me to put away my tools in the garage every night when I’m only going to need them six hours later.”

“You’re putting in that much time on the yard?”

“Have you seen the property recently? It was in shambles. Not that it looked terrible from the street or anything, but from a professional perspective, it needed to be almost started from scratch. Just keeping up with all the watering is more than a full-time job for transplants in this heat.” She leaned closer, elbows on the table. “But you think I’ll be able to stay on here and finish up the job?”

She folded her hands inward so he wouldn’t see her crossing her fingers.

“Definitely. I sure as hell couldn’t have my baby sister come home with the house looking like this. Giuseppe told you it needs to be ready to go September first?”

“It won’t be a problem as long as I can continue to work at manic speed, which means I can’t take off many afternoons like this.” She plucked her T-shirt away from her damp skin in the hope of catching a breeze. “And I’d also need to be able to stay onsite so I can maximize my work hours. Do you have any family you can stay with for a few weeks while I finish up? Giuseppe, maybe, since he’s the one who assured me I’d have twenty-four-hour access to the property?”

“That could be a problem.” Vito drained his lemonade glass with one long swallow. The upturned glass dripped condensation down into the open neck of his collared shirt, drawing Christine’s eye to that dark expanse of skin glistening with a slight sheen.

She blinked fast before the underwear fantasy came back.

“How so? If you don’t want to stay with your uncle, maybe you could stay at a swanky hotel while you’re in town. Aren’t European race-car drivers practically made of money?”

“No. But money isn’t really the issue here—it’s more of a comfort concern. I like to stay at the house whenever I’m in the States. I grew up here, so it’s sort of…home.” He met her gaze, his hazel eyes dark and intense despite his relaxed tone.

Christine had the feeling he wouldn’t be changing his mind on the issue anytime soon.

“Well, we can’t both stay here.” What did he expect her to do—pitch a tent out front for the next month?

“Why can’t we?”

For a moment she thought he really wanted her to get to work on the tent, until she realized she’d never said that part out loud. “You mean both of us in the house?”

“It housed a family of seven before my parents died. Later it accommodated five kids, most of them teenagers. I think it ought to be able to handle two of us.” He grinned. “You don’t look like you take up much room.”

Did she understand this man correctly? “I’m sorry, I must be out of mind, because I could have sworn you suggested that I take it on blind faith you aren’t some kind of psychopath and should share the house with a virtual stranger.”

His grin faded. “You’ve got a point. If my sister pulled a stunt like that, I’d—Well let’s just say I’d be mad and leave it at that.”

“See? You making vague threats of hypothetical retribution isn’t convincing me you’re not a psychopath, that’s for sure.” Damn it, why did he have to show up today and throw a huge wrench in her plans? She needed this job, needed to work things out with him.

“If you could convince Giuseppe to foot the hotel bill for me, I suppose I could make the trip back and forth. I just don’t like to drive when I’m tired.” And by the time she was done with the physically demanding work this job entailed, she was usually so bone-weary she was cross-eyed. What if she knocked herself out to make her business work, only to wrap her piece-of-junk truck around a telephone pole because she fell asleep at the wheel?

“No. You’re working too hard already. Don’t you have any other employees or co-workers who could help you out with this job?”

How could she afford to hire anyone when she could barely keep herself afloat? Of course, she wouldn’t tell him that. “I’m giving your uncle a cut-rate price. There’s no budget for anyone else.”

“I can increase your budget.” He looked ready to whip out a checkbook then and there.

And she definitely didn’t want to get roped into that discussion.

“Look. I appreciate the offer, but I’m not trying to bleed more money from you. I just want to be able to fulfill my end of the bargain with your uncle.” Was it her fault the guy had had more than gardening on his mind when he’d hired her?

“Okay. How about this—I’ll haul a few neighbors over here to vouch for me. For that matter, you can have my license and check me out.”

Vito had to admit he respected a woman who looked out for herself. How could he have suggested for a minute that she stay in the house with him when for all she knew he was a wanted man in ten states? She hadn’t even recognized his name from his racing career, so she wouldn’t know the first thing about him.

“What do I look like, a private eye? I don’t want your 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 kids loved the event so much they made it an annual thing for the next four years, and after that Vito never lost, did you, hon?” She reached over the kitchen island to pat Vito’s cheek as if he was still ten years old, then turned her mixer back off. “It’s good to have you home. And I’m so glad we’ve got a couple of months to work on keeping you here. I can’t wait for your sister’s wedding.”

Vito slid off the tall chair perched at the kitchen island. “It’s going to be great to have the family together again. I couldn’t stay in town long after Renzo’s wedding this spring, so it will be nice to have more time to see friends this trip.”

Christine finished her tea and licked her lips as she rose, wondering if she could find an excuse to drop in on Mary Jo again. The food she normally ate on her work break was more in the peanut-butter-and-jelly vein.

Moving the lemon cookies to a cooling rack with the smooth efficiency of a seasoned pro, Mary Jo winked at Vito. “I can’t wait to meet the man you finally deemed good enough for your little sister. Did you tell your friend Christine about the time you followed Giselle to her prom and then hid in the bushes when she went parking with her date?”

“That story got really blown out of proportion.” Vito backed toward the door as if to flee, but Christine thought she had time for a final Vito story.

She remained rooted to the spot.

“Apparently he neglected to tell me that one. Can you possibly spare another cookie, Mary Jo?” Even after the plateful of scallops, she was dying for a sweet. And the kitchen smelled so lemony good.

“I always have plenty,” she insisted, dealing out another red ceramic plate and three cookies faster than a Vegas card sharp. “In fact I’ll pack up a box for you to take home while I tell you about poor Giselle’s prom night.”

Christine snagged one of the warm cookies while Vito groaned behind her. She was finding it increasingly difficult to reconcile her initial impression of him as Mr. Flashy in his European suit and expensive gold watch with the same person Mary Jo Kowolski kept talking about.