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Her gaze dropped to the black lettering stretching across his biceps. The tattoo . Damn if it didn’t give the whole package some serious edge.
    Exactly what it didn’t need. Her husband had been a pretty boy, the Ivy League son of a high-powered lawyer Warren had admired. Not Quinn’s choice. His ego had required the kind of massive stroking it was impossible for one woman to administer. Unlike Matteo De Campo. He had it all built in. She doubted he’d had an uncertain day in his entire life.
    The glitter in his gray eyes as he stopped in front of her said he hadn’t missed her lustful look. She yanked in a breath of the fragrant, rose-scented Tuscan air. She needed to squash the physical attraction between them like a bug. Fast.
    “You didn’t need to come yourself,” she murmured, caught off guard when he bent and pressed his lips first to one cheek, then the other. It was like being branded by a force she had no ability to cope with.
    He drew back, his mocking glance sliding across her flushed face. “You’re in Italy now, Quinn. We don’t shake hands. We kiss.”
    She stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself. “You’ll have to excuse my appearance. It’s been a long day. I’m a mess.”
    “If that’s a bad day,” he murmured, his lazy gaze taking her in, “most women would kill to have more of them.”
    Her breath jammed in her throat. “You just can’t help it, can you?”
    “No,” he agreed, smoky eyes laughing at her. “That’s what playboys do, Quinn. Play. However,” he drawled, picking up her bags and tossing them into the pitifully small backseat of the car, “I will endeavor to keep it to a bare minimum, just for you.”
    “You are too kind.”
    He held his hands up in a typically Italian gesture, then opened the passenger door for her. She slid in, absorbing the butter-soft interior of the car. “Fits the bad-boy image don’t you think?”
    The exotic car growled as he brought it roaring to life. She had to agree as he gunned it and they sped out of the airport that yes, it was sexy and so was the tattoo, which close-up, she could now see was in Latin, the beautifully scripted symbols set in a perfectly straight line across the hard muscles of his biceps. Unfortunately the Latin was mumbo jumbo to her. She was about to ask him what it meant when she clamped her jaw shut. Deciphering Matteo De Campo’s tattoo was an activity better left for those actresses and models who were happy to let themselves fall for that type of meaningless charisma. She, on the other hand, knew better.
    Matteo flicked her a sideways glance. “The castello is about an hour’s drive. Feel free to relax and nap on the way. You look tired.”
    She grimaced. “I don’t sleep on planes.”
    His mouth curved. “Don’t tell me, you’d prefer to be flying it?”
    “However did you know?”
    “Just a wild guess. If you aren’t going to sleep I’ll pick your brain.”
    Pick her brain he did during the drive along the windy autostrada toward Siena. Commanding the powerful car along the highway’s twists and turns with a fearless abandon that made her heart pound, he asked a series of excellent questions about Luxe’s operations and mandate while at the same time managing to act as tour guide. His multitasking, expressive hand movements and excessive speed had Quinn grabbing for the door handle more than once.
    “Any chance you can slow down?” she muttered after one particularly terrifying turn. “Or is that too much to ask of your playboy persona?”
    His smile flashed white against his olive skin. “Too much. Driving in Italy is a blood sport. You’d be asking me to emasculate myself.”
    Not a chance, she thought grimly. It wasn’t possible. Not with those mouthwateringly muscled thighs flexing beside her, drawing her attention every time he shifted gears. Or his big, beautifully tapered hands that looked as if they’d be masterful at any activity he pursued.... He was the type of