answering the phone and painting her nails. And it needled her that this man—a man she’d never even met before—clearly also thought that she was an airhead. Why wouldn’t he take her seriously?
Because she was blonde?
Or because she was a woman and Dante Romano was an Italian man, incredibly chauvinistic and still stuck in the attitudes of the nineteen fifties?
‘I’m going to run it,’ she said, keeping her voice ice-cool.
He leaned back in his chair. ‘How?’
She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Don’t be insulting.’
‘Signorina Tonielli, you have no experience and the business is in a mess,’ he said quietly. ‘It needs turning around—and I have the knowledge and the staff to do that.’
He was bluffing, she was sure. Things weren’t that bad. She shrugged. ‘There’s a recession on. Everyone’s feeling the bite.’
‘The business is in trouble, and I think it’s more than just the recession. And you don’t have the experience or the staff to fix things.’
‘Signor Romano, you know nothing about me.’ She folded her arms. ‘You’re assuming that I’m not capable of running the business my family started five generations ago.’
‘Not just running it. Taking it out of the red and moving it into this century.’
Red. Exactly what she was seeing, right now, after his smug, pompous remarks. ‘You think I’m too stupid to do that?’
‘Too inexperienced,’ he corrected.
‘And what makes you think I’m inexperienced?’ she shot back.
And then she realised what she’d said. How it could be interpreted. Especially as his gaze travelled over her very, very slowly, from the top of her head down to desk level—and then all the way back again. Assessing her. Appraising her. And he clearly liked what he saw.
To her mortification, she felt the colour seep into her cheeks.
Anyone would think she was sixteen, not twenty-eight. Sixteen, and experiencing her very first interested look from a man.
If Dante Romano had looked at her like that when she was sixteen, she would’ve been a complete puddle of hormones. As it was, her body was already reacting, and she was very glad she’d worn a business suit; the thick material of her jacket would hide the fact that her nipples were hardening.
This was so inappropriate, it was untrue. This was business. She shouldn’t even be thinking about sex. A year ago, she would’ve done more than just think about it. But she was putting that mixed-up part of her life behind her now. She had the chance to start all over again.
Then he spoke, and it was as if he’d thrown a bucket of icy water over her. ‘Have you ever done a real day’s work in your life?’
What? For a moment, she was too surprised and angry to speak. He thought she was the kind of woman who did nothing but party and live off the allowance her grandfather gave her? OK, she’d admit that it had been true enough, ten years ago. But she’d grown up a lot since then. And, until Amy had retired through ill health and sold the gallery, Carenza had most definitely had a job in London. She’d worked damned hard at it.
Striving to keep her voice cool, not wanting him to know how near she was to throwing her glass of water in his face, she drawled, ‘As a matter of fact, I have.’
‘In an art gallery.’
He knew that? Well, of course. If you were planning to buy out a business, you’d want to know exactly what you were getting for your money. He’d obviously done his research on the business—and on her. Except he hadn’t done it thoroughly enough, or he’d know that she was back for good and she wasn’t planning to sell.
In the second before he masked his expression, Carenza could see exactly what he thought. That her job in the art gallery wasn’t a real job—that it was a cushy number for a pampered girl from a wealthy family. That was what the new gallery owner had thought, too. And it wasn’t true. She lifted her chin. ‘All businesses are run the same way.’
‘Are they, now.’ It wasn’t a question.
He clearly believed she wasn’t up to running Tonielli’s. Well, he’d find out the hard way that he was wrong. She was going to do this. More than that, she was going to do this well.
‘I don’t think we have anything more to say to each other, Signor Romano.’ She stood up. ‘Thank you for the drink of water. Good morning.’ And she walked out of his office with her head held high.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS good to be home. Back in Naples after ten years away—one spent travelling the world, nine based in London. To live near the sea again, to see the harbour with the little fishing boats and yachts bobbing up and down on the water and the city stretching up the hill from the seafront. The pole by the white rocks in front of the Castel dell’Ovo, where lovers attached a lock with their names scrawled on it in marker pen, making a huge impromptu sculpture that grew and changed every week. The bandstand in the Villa Comunale with its pretty wrought-iron skeleton, orb lights and striped glass awning. The sun setting behind the island of Ischia, turning the sea a heathery purple and the sky a soft rose. And the brooding, broken peak of Vesuvius overshadowing everything.
Now she was back, Carenza realised how much she’d missed it all. Missed the taste of the sea air, missed the sight of the narrow alleyways festooned with flags and washing, missed the scent of proper pizza instead of the stuff that passed for it in London.
Home.
Except it wasn’t quite like before, when she’d been a carefree teen. Now she was in charge of Tonielli’s. The fifth generation—sixth, if you were being picky—with a whole load of responsibility.
She went through the figures for the fourth time that day, and she still couldn’t get them to add up. Her head was starting to throb, so she leaned her elbows on her desk, rested her chin in her hands and rubbed her temples with the tips of her fingers, trying to ease the ache. She was beginning to think that maybe Dante Romano had been right. She didn’t have the experience to deal with this.
But what option did she have?
Sure, she could go back to Nonno and tell him she couldn’t handle it. But that would feel like throwing his generosity back in his face. Her grandfather had believed in her enough to let her take over from him and run the business. And he was seventy-three, now. It was time he enjoyed his retirement, pottering around in the garden and meeting his friends in caffès instead of having all the stress of the business on his shoulders. Just as he would’ve done years ago, had her parents not been killed in that car crash. She sighed. No, handing Tonielli’s back wasn’t an option.
She couldn’t ask Amy for advice, either. Sure, her former boss would help—but Carenza knew that Amy had just gone through another course of chemotherapy. The last thing Amy needed right now was this kind of stress. So Carenza really couldn’t lean on her, either.
There was Emilio Mancuso, who, according to her grandfather, had been acting as the manager of the business for a
