is different. It’s all about you as a child. And I think right now you need to see it with someone, rather than breaking your heart while you watch it all on your own.’
Carenza couldn’t believe how thoughtful Dante was being, how tender and how careful of her feelings. For a moment, she wondered if maybe he was actually falling for her, the way she was for him—but no, that was ridiculous. She was just in a state because of all the memories and all the loss coming back to her. Being overemotional, and clutching at straws. He was just being kind, that was all. Being strong. Being Dante.
In silence, she led him up to her flat. Once she’d set the disc in the player, Dante drew her over to the sofa with him and settled her on his lap, wrapping his arms round her. Right at that moment, she really needed the warmth of his body next to hers. And she really appreciated the fact that he could read her mood so well.
‘Your mother was beautiful, so like you,’ he said softly. ‘How old is she there?’
‘Twenty-two.’
‘She was very young.’
Carenza nodded. ‘She met my dad at university in Rome. He was doing business studies and she was doing history of art. They fell in love with each other, and then I came along. I wasn’t planned, but that didn’t matter because they loved each other and they loved me. My mum didn’t finish her degree, but Nonna says nobody minded because they had me—and she stayed in Italy because she wanted to be with my dad.’
‘They look really happy together.’
He sounded wistful—or was that just her imagination? Right at that moment, she couldn’t trust anything she was feeling.
‘They were.’ She dragged in a breath. ‘When I went to England, my grandparents said it was like seeing my mum’s ghost. I mean, Nonna always sent them school photographs and what have you, but it wasn’t the same as actually seeing me.’ She rubbed away the tears. ‘My birthday last year was a nightmare. Turning twenty-seven made me older than my mum was when she died.’
‘Tough to deal with,’ he said.
‘I went off the rails a bit,’ she confessed. ‘You know about that.’
‘Not everything.’ He stroked her hair. ‘You took drugs?’
She shook her head emphatically. ‘Absolutely not. It’s never appealed to me—especially after seeing the mess a couple of my friends were in before their family got them into rehab. No, I just partied a lot, danced until three in the morning, drank too much champagne, and went out for smoked salmon and scrambled egg breakfasts. I suppose I wanted to celebrate life, go over the top to prove to myself that I was still here.’ She sniffed. ‘And I should probably tell you that I slept with way too many men.’
‘I already knew that.’ Though there was no condemnation in his voice. ‘And now I know why.’ He shrugged. ‘I guess I would’ve reacted the same way.’
Her chest felt tight. ‘That’s the other reason I haven’t dated for the last year—because I wanted to get my self-respect back.’
‘And have you?’ His voice was gentle.
‘I don’t know.’
He kissed her lightly. ‘Your parents would be very proud of the woman you’ve become, Caz.’
The lump in her throat was so huge, she could barely get the words past it. ‘You think so?’
‘I know so,’ he said softly. ‘I look at what you’ve done over the last month or so, and I’m proud of you.’
It wasn’t just the words; it was his tone. He meant it. It was too much for her, and she ended up bawling all over him again.
By the time she’d stopped crying, his shirt was wet. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK. It’ll wash. Stay here.’ He kissed her swiftly, then moved her off his lap onto the sofa. She curled up in a ball, feeling miserable; when he came back, she realised he’d made her a mug of hot milk and cinnamon. Just like the drink she’d made him, the night he’d trusted her with some of his own shadows.
And that made her cry again. ‘You’re being so nice to me, Dante.’
‘Because you’re upset and you need comfort.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘I can be nice. Sometimes.’
‘When you’re not being a brooding business tycoon.’ She dragged in a breath. ‘Sorry. You didn’t sign up for this.’ Not as her mentor and not as her lover. And she still couldn’t hold the tears back. Surely she should be all cried out by now? But it felt as if there were a bottomless well and she’d never stop crying again.
You’re upset and you need comfort.
And he was here for her.
‘Dante, I know it’s a lot to ask, but will you—will you stay with me tonight? Please?’ she whispered.
Stay with her.
Dante knew it would be a bad move. If things carried on like this, he’d get involved with her.
Who was he trying to kid? He already was involved with her. Otherwise he would’ve made some excuse, told her he’d come back when she was feeling better and sort out the business stuff with her. But no. He’d held her close while she’d watched her childhood memories filter across the screen. When the loss had hit her and seared her soul, he’d been there to hold her. Just as she’d held him on Saturday night when his own past had come back to haunt him.
He didn’t want to make himself vulnerable to her. But how could he possibly leave her to it? Right now, she was upset and completely defenceless. She really needed him. It just wasn’t in him to leave her to it and walk away.
And, although he’d made it a rule never to spend the night with anyone, he’d break it for her. ‘Yes. I’ll stay.’
He switched off the television and, still holding her close, walked through to her bedroom. Gently, he undressed her. For once it wasn’t about needing to rip her clothes off and sate the desire between them, because desire wasn’t the uppermost feeling. What that feeling was, he didn’t want to examine that too closely—because he had a nasty feeling that he was falling for her. Her brightness, her sweetness, her relaxed and carefree attitude to life.
Bad, bad move. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them to make this into a proper relationship. Not when blood ran so deep and he could end up turning into his father. Hadn’t he already hurt her, albeit unintentionally? What would happen if he let her dismantle all the barriers and all his control, and they had a fight? Would he end up doing what he feared most—repeating his father’s mistakes? Hurting her, the way his father had hurt his mother? And she’d told him that she trusted him completely. How, when he couldn’t trust himself?
On the other hand, how could he walk away when she needed him so badly?
Between them, his head and his heart were ripping him apart.
He lay awake for a long time after she’d fallen asleep; the combination of the unfamiliar bed and the unfamiliar warmth against him meant he couldn’t just relax. And it felt as if something were cracking
