A Moment on the Lips

chapter FOUR

THEY walked back towards his place in silence. Dante’s head was telling him that this was a seriously bad plan, but his body was insistent that it was the best idea he’d had in years.

He realised that he was walking a bit too fast, given how high Carenza’s heels were, and slowed his pace a bit to accommodate her. She gave him a grateful look.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered. And he had to look away from her before he did something really stupid. Like pinning her against the nearest wall and kissing her until they were both dizzy. The way he was feeling right now, they’d end up getting arrested for public indecency.

What was it about Carenza Tonielli that made him lose control like this?

And that made her the worst possible person he could be with. Because losing control absolutely wasn’t an option for him. Not with his background. He couldn’t afford to take that risk.

He still hadn’t got himself completely back in control when she stopped him outside a pharmacy.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘Supplies,’ she said. ‘Unless you already have some.’

Supplies? Then he realised what she meant. How the hell had that slipped his mind? ‘Uh. No. I haven’t. Wait here.’

He emerged with a pack of condoms in his pocket. It made him feel a bit like a schoolboy. Then he shook himself. This was simply getting rid of a distraction that was annoying both of them. Sex. Nothing more, nothing less. Once they’d got that out of the way, everything was going to be just fine. His head would be clear. So would hers. He’d help her fix her business and she’d be out of his life. No more complications.

The nearer they got to the restaurant, the more tense his muscles became.

Well, this had been his suggestion. Good or bad, he had to live with the consequences.

He went round to the side entrance and unlocked the door to let her in. It slammed behind them—and then everything bubbled over and his control snapped. He pinned her against the wall, kissing her hard. God, she was so soft, smelled so sweet …

And she was matching him kiss for kiss, bite for bite, hunger for hunger.

Dante wasn’t sure how or when he’d done it, but he’d lifted Carenza and her legs were wrapped round his waist. He rocked his pelvis against hers and she moaned against his mouth. He could feel the heat of her sex through her jeans, and he just couldn’t wait any more. He walked up the stairs with her still wrapped round him, not letting her go until he’d reached his bedroom; then slowly he let her slide to the floor, keeping her close to him so she’d be able to feel just how ready he was for her.

The next few moments were a blur. He had no idea who ripped whose clothes off, but at last they were naked. Skin to skin. As he’d wanted to be ever since she’d opened her mouth in the gelateria and let him feed her a spoonful of ice cream.

‘Loosen your hair,’ he said hoarsely.

She put one hand behind her head, took out the band holding her hair back, and shook her head so her hair fell over her shoulders.

‘Dio, you’re beautiful,’ he said, the words torn from him. She transfixed him. He cupped her face and kissed her very, very softly before letting his hands mould to her shape, stroking down over her shoulders, pausing to cup her breasts and feel their weight in his hands, then slowly discovering the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips.

‘Dante, I …’ She licked her lower lip.

‘What, Princess?’ he asked softly.

Her breathing was fast and shallow, much like his own—and he could see it was an effort for her to speak. ‘Do it now,’ she begged. ‘Before I go crazy.’

‘Me, too,’ he whispered. He had just enough sense left to grab the box of condoms from his pocket and rip open one of the foil packets.

‘My job,’ she said, taking it from him and sliding the condom over his erection.

He nearly yelped when she touched him, it felt so good.

She clearly guessed, because her smile was pure satisfaction. Smug, that she could have that effect on him.

Ha. Considering she’d been the one to come apart under his touch last night …

He kissed her hard, burying his hands in her hair. She kissed him back and rocked her pelvis against him. Impatient? Yeah, he knew how that felt. He needed to be inside her. He needed that more than he’d ever needed anything in his entire life.

At last she was lying beneath him on his bed, her hair spread out on his pillow, and he was inside her. Hot and wet and … pure heaven. He stayed still for a moment, letting her body adjust to him, and then began to move. Taking it slow and easy. Letting it build.

Her fingernails were running down his back, just hard enough for pleasure.

He shifted so that he could push deeper inside her.

‘Oh, God, Dante, yes,’ she murmured. ‘More. More.’ She pushed against him, increasing the pace and the pressure.

He felt her body start to ripple round him, and it tipped him into his own release. When he came, it was like seeing stars. Everything seemed to sparkle in his head. When he opened his eyes, he could see his feelings reflected in her eyes, that same sense of wonder. The whole world felt as if it had shifted.

He rolled off her and lay there beside her, utterly stunned. He’d thought they’d be good together, but not this good. Especially the first time.

Unless you counted last night as the first time.

But through the whole thing he’d felt completely in tune with her—and that worried him. He walked to the beat of his own drum. Nobody else’s.

And then her hand found his; her fingers laced through his.

No, no, no. This was meant to be just sex. Not a relationship.

‘I’d better deal with the condom,’ he muttered, pulling his hand away from hers before he did something stupid. Like holding her hand right back.

When he came back from the bathroom, Carenza hadn’t moved, other than to pull the sheet over her up to her waist. She really was gorgeous; he could feel his body stirring again at the sight of her.

And he didn’t have a clue what to say. What she expected from him.

But then she smiled, shifted onto her side and patted the bed next to her.

Oh, hell. Now he knew exactly what she wanted. A cuddle. And to talk.

Well, he didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to spill his guts to her. That wasn’t who he was.

‘Dante.’ Her voice was very soft. ‘You don’t think I’ve finished with you yet, do you?’ And in that split second she changed from princess to vamp.

Irresistible.

He climbed back onto the bed. ‘OK, Princess, I’m in your hands.’

A flicker of hurt passed over her face. ‘My friends call me Caz.’

‘We’re not exactly friends,’ he pointed out.

‘Let me rephrase that. People who are close to me.’ She gave him a wry smile. ‘And I don’t think you can get much closer than you’ve just been.’

‘No.’ But physical closeness was where he drew the line. He didn’t want emotional closeness. Didn’t need it. He was fine just how he was, working hard and growing his business. Making his world secure. Emotional closeness was the quickest way to let the cracks grow and break that security. And no way was he ever going to let that happen.

‘Am I that scary?’ she asked.

‘How do you mean, scary?’

‘For a moment, there, you looked utterly terrified.’

Oh, hell. He always managed to mask his feelings. The fact that she could see right through him was worrying. In the extreme. ‘It must’ve been your imagination,’ he said coolly. ‘I’m scared of nothing.’ Not any more. His days of being scared were long behind him, left in the miseries of his childhood. ‘I was thinking, as you’re here I might as well feed you.’

‘You’re going to cook for me?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘When I have excellent chefs working for me downstairs? What’s the point?’

‘Oh.’ She looked slightly crestfallen; then she glanced over at the crumpled trail of clothes across his bedroom.

He took pity on her. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to drag you down there.’

‘Actually, I’d like to see your restaurant.’

‘Not sitting with me, you won’t—I don’t want my staff talking about me.’ The words were out before he could stop them.

To his relief, she didn’t pick up on it. Because he sure as hell wasn’t going to explain to her why he hated people talking about him.

‘So what are you intending?’ she asked.

‘Room service. Kind of.’

She frowned. ‘Surely that’ll make them talk more?’

‘I’m having a business discussion with a colleague and it ran a bit late, so we decided to take a break for dinner. It happens.’

‘So what’s the difference between them knowing I’m up here and seeing me downstairs with you?’

All the difference in the world. ‘There just is, OK?’

‘Dante, you’re being completely illogical.’

He ignored her. ‘Is there anything you’re allergic to or hate eating, or shall we just have the special?’

‘Special?’

‘Dante’s menu is the same, regardless of where the restaurant is, but then the chef at each restaurant has a corner of the menu that’s just his or hers, a dish that’s a local speciality or what have you,’ he explained. ‘It changes whenever the chef feels like it. That way my chef gets to enjoy the creative side and feels that he or she has an input to the menu.’

‘Your staff really matter to you, don’t they?’ she asked.

‘This is a service industry. Without your staff, you’re nothing. You can produce the best food in the world, but if the service is poor the customer won’t come back. So it’s important that your staff feel they have a stake.’

She said nothing.

‘You know nothing about your staff, do you?’ he asked softly.

‘Not yet,’ she admitted.

‘You need to know who works for you and what their job involves. The best way to do that is to spend a few hours doing every single job in your business, so you know the challenges your staff face and can empathise with them.’

‘Is that what you did?’

He nodded. ‘I still do it, every so often. It keeps me in touch with the staff and the business, and they respect me for it.’

‘Every job?’ she tested.

‘Every job,’ he emphasised, ‘from waiting tables to pot-washing to cashing up last thing at night to peeling vegetables. And, yes, I clean toilets as well.’

‘Right.’ She looked utterly shocked.

Ha. He’d just bet she’d never cleaned a toilet in her life. And even when she’d been living in London, he was pretty sure that she hadn’t cleaned her own flat. She would’ve paid someone to do it. Princesses didn’t soil their hands.

‘The special will be fine, thank you.’ She paused. ‘Um, would it be OK for me to have a shower?’

‘Sure.’ Dante had to hold back the idea of joining her in there. ‘The bathroom’s next door. There are clean towels in the airing cupboard. Help yourself to what you need.’

‘Thank you.’

He scooped up his own crumpled clothes and headed for the kitchen to give her some privacy. While she was in the shower, he rang the restaurant and ordered the special.

He’d just switched the kettle on to make coffee when she walked in. She hadn’t pulled her hair back again and his heart skipped a beat; like this, she looked younger than her twenty-eight years, slightly vulnerable.

And the thought hardened his heart. She didn’t need his protection. She already had people looking out for her. Always had. Not like the way he’d been, half a lifetime ago.

‘I’ve ordered the special. It should be with us in twenty minutes.’

‘That’d be good. So does your chef recommend red or white?’

He shrugged. ‘No idea. I don’t drink.’

She blinked. ‘What, not ever? Not even on your birthday or at Christmas?’

He thought back to his childhood. Christmases, his father’s birthday. Grappa, followed by the anger and the pain and the tears. ‘Not ever.’ He forced himself to relax. It wasn’t her fault that his father had been a mean drunk. ‘But if you want wine, sure, I can order some.’

‘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.