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
