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‘No, water’s fine by me.’ She placed her hand on his arm. ‘Dante, are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ he lied. ‘Coffee?’ He gave her his best professional smile.
‘I …’ For a moment, he thought she was going to argue. To push him. But then she gave in. ‘Thanks. That’d be good.’
He busied himself making coffee. ‘They’ll buzz me when the food’s ready. Come and sit down.’
Dante had just gone distant on her. And Carenza didn’t have a clue why. She thought it might be something to do with his comment about not drinking. Ever. Was he a reformed alcoholic? If so, it must be difficult owning a restaurant chain; he probably had to eat out as part of his job, and every business meal she’d ever attended had always involved wine.
Though, since his barriers were well and truly up, she didn’t feel that she could ask him.
This wasn’t a relationship, she reminded herself. They were too different for it to work. She simply took the mug of coffee he offered her and followed him into his living room.
It was incredibly minimalist. There was a small dining table with four chairs; the laptop sitting on the table told her that he used the room as another office. There was a comfortable-looking sofa—but no television or games console, she noticed. And the picture on the wall looked as if a designer had chosen it for him. Bland, bland, bland.
There were no ornaments on the mantelpiece. Just a clock—and two photographs.
Knowing she was intruding, but unable to stop herself, she went over to take a closer look. One was of Dante with an older woman who looked enough like him to be his mother, and the other was a woman who might’ve been a couple of years older or younger than him, holding a baby. His sister, maybe? A cousin? Or maybe his mother holding him as a baby?
‘Your family?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
He didn’t elaborate. And there was no sign of his father. Dead, like hers? Possibly not, or Dante would’ve had photographs, the precious last memories, as she did herself. Estranged? Never known him? Again, she couldn’t ask. Dante was sending out ‘off limits’ signals all over the place.
Dante could see his flat through Carenza’s eyes, and he didn’t like what he saw. Boring. Stuffy. Minimalist.
But he didn’t do ornaments. He’d seen his father smash too many of them in temper to want that kind of thing in his flat.
He wished she’d put the photographs down. He had a nasty feeling that she was going to start asking questions. If she did, he’d stonewall her. He didn’t want to talk about his mother or his sister. And as for why his father wasn’t there—he definitely wasn’t talking about that. The man who’d made his childhood a misery; the man whose shadow still haunted him. None of the fear had gone away; it had just refocused. Dante wasn’t scared any more that he’d be hurt; he was terrified that he’d be the one doing the hurting.
The silence between them stretched so long that it became painful.
And Dante was exceedingly relieved when his phone rang.
‘Thanks, Mario.’ He looked at her as he ended the call. ‘Back in a second.’
The swordfish with lemon and oregano was perfect, the fresh vegetables were al dente, just as he liked them, and her eyes widened in appreciation at the white chocolate cheesecake. ‘Wow. Your chef is brilliant. Please thank him—or her—for me.’
‘Him. Sure.’
She sighed. ‘You’ve gone all closed on me again.’
He shrugged. ‘I’m your business mentor.’
And her lover.
But what was happening between them was nothing to do with love. It was just sex. Lust. Desire. She supposed he was right: she didn’t need him to open up to her. This wasn’t a relationship.
‘All right. Your homework,’ he said.
‘Homework?’
‘The next three days, you do a stint in every single job. Get to know the business. And then on Saturday you can tell me about your customers. Who they are, what they want, what your best-sellers are and why.’
‘Got it.’ She paused. ‘So I don’t see you until Saturday.’
‘No.’
‘Can I call you if I get stuck?’
He’d rather she didn’t. He wanted a little distance between them. So he could get himself back into a more disciplined and controlled frame of mind. One where she didn’t tempt him so much. ‘If you absolutely have to. But I’d rather you called me with solutions than problems.’
‘Got it.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Can I do the washing up?’
‘Do you know how?’ The question was out before he could stop it.
She looked hurt. ‘I don’t believe you sometimes, Dante. Why do you always have to think the worst of me?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’ve got a chip on your shoulder a mile wide. I can’t help that I was born into a rich family. Or that my grandparents spoiled me because I was all they had left of their own child.’ Her eyes were suspiciously bright. ‘Just so you know, I’d have given up all that privilege to have my parents back.’
‘I’m sorry.’ And now he felt really bad. He knew she’d lost her parents at the age of six. Tough for any child—though he would’ve been more than happy to have lost his own father at that age. Or even earlier.
Awkwardly, he pushed his chair back, walked over to her and wrapped his arms round her. ‘I’m sorry, Caz.’ It was the first time he’d used her name. The diminutive she’d asked him to use. And he knew she’d noticed, because she gave the tiniest shiver. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. And I don’t have a chip on my shoulder.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘No. Well, maybe a little,’ he allowed. He pressed his mouth to her shoulder. ‘I’d better take you home.’
‘I’m perfectly capable of seeing myself home.’
‘I know. But I’m Italian. And so are your grandparents. They’re going to worry that you’re late home.’
‘Why?’
‘Did you tell them you were seeing me?’
‘No. Why would I tell them?’ She frowned. ‘I don’t live with them, Dante.’
‘You don’t?’ He was taken aback. He’d been so sure that she would’ve moved back in with her grandparents. Back to being spoiled.
‘No. I live in the flat above my office.’
Like him.
Though he’d just bet that her flat was filled with fripperies. Cushions. Girly, princessy stuff. And he held himself in check: he didn’t need to know what her flat was like. This wasn’t going to be a relationship.
‘OK. I know where it is.’ He ushered her out of the kitchen, then slid his leather jacket round her shoulders. ‘Better wear this.’
‘Why? Doesn’t your car have a roof, or something?’
‘I don’t have a car.’
She frowned, and then her eyes widened when he took her into the garage. ‘A motorbike?’
‘Top of the range, actually.’ His one indulgence. ‘And a bike’s the most efficient form of transport through Naples. Why sit in a queue in a car, wasting time, when you can cut through it on one of these?’
‘Good point.’ Though she looked slightly nervous. ‘I’ve never been on a motorbike.’
‘It’s OK. I’m a safe driver. Well. I am when I have a passenger,’ he amended. ‘On my own, I sometimes drive too fast.’
‘Now there’s a surprise,’ she drawled.
He loved it when she was sassy with him, like this. And he almost, almost kissed her. But he held himself back, and instead handed her his spare motorbike helmet. ‘The shoes aren’t exactly what you should wear on a bike, but I can’t do anything about that.’
She grinned. ‘You love my shoes really.’
‘Yeah, right.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Put the jacket on properly.’
She did as he asked, and he climbed onto the bike. ‘Get on behind me. And hold on,’ he directed.
Dante Romano was full of surprises. Carenza would never have guessed that he had a motorbike. She’d expected him to have some kind of executive car. In dark grey. To go with his shark suit.
The bike was more of a bad boy thing. The bad boy in the leather jacket who’d taken her home, pinned her against the wall and kissed her stupid, before taking off all her clothes and making her burst into flames. The bad boy who’d gone all brooding on her. The bad boy whose washboard abs felt absolutely wonderful against her arms.
He was as good as his word, not taking it too fast as he drove her home.
And Carenza was sorry to give him back his jacket. Wearing it had felt like being held by him. Though that was crazy. She didn’t need to be held by him. Didn’t need a man in her life to make her feel worthwhile. She could stand on her own two feet. And she was going to make a success of her family business, really make everyone proud of her. Including herself.
‘Do you want to come up for coffee?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘I have work to do. So have you.’
‘Yeah. Homework.’ She paused. ‘You have to eat on Saturday, right?’
‘Right.’ He looked wary.
‘Then let’s save time and talk about my homework over dinner. I’ll cook for us. It won’t be up to your chef’s standards, but I can boil water without burning it.’
He gave her a smile that made desire lick all the way up her spine. ‘Said it before I could, hmm?’
‘Something like that. Saturday, eight o’clock, here,’ she said.
Was he going to kiss her goodnight?
Even the thought took her breath away.
But he didn’t. He simply sketched a salute. ‘Saturday, eight o’clock. Ciao.’
‘Ciao,’ she said, and watched him slide the jacket on and drive away.
Dante Romano was the most complex man she’d ever met. Half the time she wanted to slap him; the other half, she wanted to kiss him. He confused her and irritated her and—and he was so damn sexy that he made her bones melt.
But he’d made it very, very clear that as far as he was concerned this thing between them was just sex. That he could compartmentalise work and pleasure. And it looked as if she’d better learn to do the same.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_31e4514c-bc11-58c0-b47e-a752346d9634)
I’D RATHER you called me with solutions than problems.
Dante had expected at least one email, if not a phone call. But Carenza was absolutely silent until Saturday. And he was shocked to discover that he was disappointed. He’d actually wanted to hear her voice.
Oh, this was ridiculous. They weren’t having a relationship, and he wasn’t going to let himself get involved with her.
And yet he found himself emailing her. Just to make sure that he was still seeing her tonight.
Still OK for mentor meeting this evening?
Her reply was short—and very, very sassy.
8. Don’t be late.
He couldn’t help a grin. And he only just stopped himself emailing her back, to say, ‘Or else … ?’
Funny, he’d never sparred with previous girlfriends like this.
Not that Carenza was his girlfriend. What was happening between them was just sex. Scratching an itch for both of them.
Though he still enjoyed sparring with her. Yes, she was a princess—but he was starting to realise that there was more to her than that. And the more he discovered about her, the more he was starting to like her. She saw life from a very different angle from his own; although it annoyed him at times, it also intrigued him.
No, he wasn’t finished with her yet. Not by a long way.
At exactly eight o’clock, there was a rap on the shop door. Carenza—who had sent her staff home early and had just finished tidying up the shop—let Dante in and locked the door behind him.
He was carrying a gorgeous confection of white roses and lilies. ‘For you.’
‘Dante, they’re lovely. I wasn’t expecting …’ She buried her face in them. The scent was glorious. These weren’t just any old flowers he’d picked up from a supermarket or market stall—these were seriously posh flowers. The kind you ordered from a florist.
He shrugged. ‘It’s usual to bring your hostess a gift when you’re invited to dinner.’
Mmm, and he wouldn’t be bringing wine, for obvious reasons. Which was probably why he’d gone so over the top with the flowers.
And she loved them.
‘It’s a business meeting,’ she said. Just so he knew she didn’t think this was a date.
He wasn’t a shark in a suit, tonight. He wasn’t dressed as a bad boy, either. He was something in between: black jeans, and a black cashmere sweater that made her itch to stroke it. Except that would lead to stroking his skin, and that would lead to kissing, and that would lead to …
