A Moment on the Lips

‘Uh-huh.’

So he really did think it had been no more than a sinecure. ‘I wasn’t just sitting there filing my nails and fluttering my eyelashes. I was Amy’s PA. I organised things. I know how retail works.’

‘For luxury goods, maybe, but not food. It’s a completely different customer base,’ he pointed out.

‘Look, I’ve admitted that I need help. What more do you expect from me?’

‘Take the easy way out. Sell the business to me.’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m the fifth generation of Toniellis. It’s up to me to make this work.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I guess I would’ve been the sixth generation. Or maybe if my parents had lived, I’d have had a brother or sister to share the burden of the business with me.’ She shook herself. ‘But you can’t change the past, so it’s pointless brooding over it. You just have to get on with things.’

Dante looked at her. She wouldn’t sell because the business had been part of her family’s life for years. So she had family loyalty after all. Given how few times she’d been back to Italy in the last ten years, he’d thought she’d pretty much abandoned her grandparents, happy with a life of partying in London. And she’d gone seriously off the rails last year.

But maybe Carenza Tonielli was turning over a new leaf. Maybe she wasn’t quite what he’d thought she was.

And, if she really wanted to make the business work, then getting a mentor to teach her the ropes would be the best thing that she could do.

She’d chosen him. Ironic, as he’d planned to buy her out.

He could refuse—but, then again, he owed Gino. The old man had given him a break, all those years ago. Gino had given Dante solid advice, taught him things that had stood him in good stead in business. This was Dante’s chance for payback: to help Gino’s granddaughter and make sure that the gelati business didn’t go under.

And this had nothing to do with the fact that Carenza had the most beautiful mouth and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Or the fact that he could imagine that glorious blonde hair spread over his pillow, her lips parted and her body arched in pleasure as he touched her.

‘OK,’ he said abruptly.

She blinked. ‘What?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Pay attention, Princess.’ He wasn’t going to call her ‘Signorina Tonielli’, not if he was going to be her mentor. But he wasn’t going to call her by her given name, either. It would be too intimate. This way, he could keep some distance between them. Maybe it would keep his wayward thoughts under control, too. He wasn’t used to feeling anything less than in full control of himself, and it unnerved him slightly that Carenza Tonielli could have this effect on him. He pushed the unwanted attraction away. This was business. ‘I said OK, I’ll be your mentor.’

Her face was flooded with relief. ‘Thank you. But I meant it about paying you. I can’t expect you to do this for nothing. I mean, I’m taking your time.’

‘No payment required. I’ll give you guidance, where I can—but you’re going to be the one doing the work, not me.’

‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’ She sat up straight. ‘Where do we start?

‘You can start,’ he said, ‘by wearing something frumpy.’

Carenza could see from the shock on Dante’s face that he hadn’t actually meant to say that. So she wasn’t the only one with pictures in her head, then?

The room suddenly felt way, way too small—and it felt as if all the oxygen had just been sucked out of it, too, for good measure.

‘What’s wrong with my business suit?’ she asked, her voice only just above a whisper.

‘Nothing. The jacket and skirt are fine.’ There was a slash of colour over his cheekbones.

So what was bothering him? Her top? Her shoes? Anger flared. The woman she’d been last year wouldn’t have thought twice about taking off her jacket, strutting round to his side of the desk and teasing him, and she could see in his face that he thought he knew her type; his research must’ve dredged up a hell of a lot of dirt. No wonder he wasn’t taking her seriously. Well, let’s play your little game, Signor Romano, then I’ll show you just how wrong you are about me when I turn you down cold.

She stood up, slid the jacket off her shoulders and rested it over the back of her chair. ‘Is this the problem?’ She fingered the spaghetti straps.

His eyes were very, very dark. ‘You’re playing with fire, Princess.’

‘You started it,’ she pointed out. ‘So what’s the problem with my top?’

He swallowed hard. ‘You’re asking me?’

‘You’re the one with the problem.’

He raked a hand through his hair. ‘OK. If you really want to know … it’s distracting.’

So was he. Especially because tonight there was the faintest hint of stubble on his face—and it made her want to touch. It made her want to know how it would feel against her skin. ‘Distracting, how?’

‘I thought I was supposed to be the one asking the questions?’

‘Distracting, how?’ she repeated.

‘Because it’s designed to make a man wonder if you’re wearing anything underneath it.’

This time there was a definite challenge in his gaze. Hot. Sultry. She could see how much he wanted her. OK, so it was mutual. But she could keep her head. Push him that little bit further. She gave a half-shrug. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

His breathing was fast, shallow. Just like hers.

‘Show me,’ he whispered.

The words were soft, sweet as honey and sexy as sin. The ultimate temptation. Yeah. She could play this game. And then she’d stop—because she could.

She pushed one spaghetti strap down her shoulder. Then the other. Adrenalin throbbed through her veins. Would he make a move now?

But he was waiting.

Not patiently. The tension was coming off him in waves. Any second now his control would snap. Any second …

‘Show me,’ he repeated.

This was where she was supposed to switch it back to him. Beckon. Let him come and find out for himself.

But her body wasn’t paying any attention whatsoever to her head. She couldn’t think of a smart retort. All she could think of was how much she wanted him. Wanted this. So she found herself pulling the stretchy top down. Little by little. Every millimetre of skin she uncovered felt unbearably sensitive. Tingling. Worse still, she wanted him to touch her. Desperately. She needed to feel his hands on her skin. His mouth.

The top was pushed down round her waist, now, proving to him that she was wearing a bra. One without straps. Lacy and black, to match her top.

‘So now you know,’ she said shakily.

‘Yes.’ He moistened his lower lip. ‘We still have a problem.’

She knew that. Her breasts felt heavy. Aching. If he didn’t touch her right now, she was going to implode. ‘Dante,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’

A millisecond later, he was round her side of the desk and his mouth was jammed over hers. It felt less like a kiss than a declaration of war—and he wasn’t going to take any prisoners. Which was fine by her. She didn’t want him to. She needed this—and she needed it now.

His fingers dealt with the hook on her bra in a nanosecond, and she couldn’t help a moan of pleasure when he let it drop to the floor and cupped her breasts. Strong yet sensitive hands. Gorgeous hands. And she wanted more. His thumbs circled her nipples, teasing her and driving her just that little bit more crazy. Her breasts felt so tight; she really wanted his mouth there to ease the ache. She pushed against him, telling him with her body exactly what she needed.

He dragged his mouth from hers, then slowly kissed his way down her throat.

She really was going to go insane if he kept this up. If he made her wait a single second more. She pushed her fingers through his hair—so soft and silky against her skin—and dragged his head down to where she wanted it. She shuddered as his mouth closed over one nipple and sucked. ‘Dante. Yes.’ The word dragged out in a hiss of desire.

Then she felt his hand moving her skirt upwards. She changed her stance slightly to make it easier for him—and so he’d get there quicker, too, because she really needed this.

She sighed in pleasure as he stroked her inner thigh, and then his hand cupped her sex. Only the thin barrier of her knickers was between them now and that felt way, way too much. She needed to be skin to skin with him. Right here, right now.

As if he could read her mind, he hooked the material to one side. His finger stroked along the length of her sex, and she rocked against him. And then, oh, bliss, he pushed a finger inside her. She nearly cried with relief, it felt so good.

He was kissing her again, and she was kissing him back, pushing her tongue against his and rocking against his hand.

His thumb found her clitoris; as he touched her, it felt as if she were going up in flames.

And then, shockingly, she was coming. Harder and faster than she could ever remember.

The climax left her drained; all the tension and misery of the last few days were simply washed away in a rush of desire.

And then she became aware of just where they were. Standing next to her desk. Her top was pushed down round her waist, her skirt was hiked up to meet it, his hand was in her knickers … Whereas he was fully clothed. Not a thing out of place. Completely in control—while hers was in tiny, tiny shreds.

She closed her eyes. ‘Oh, God.’

He gently caught her lower lip between his teeth. ‘What’s the matter, Princess?’ he whispered against her mouth.

She felt like a tart. ‘You know,’ she whispered back.

‘Mind-reading isn’t one of my skills, I’m afraid.’ There was an amused glitter in his eyes. ‘You’ll have to be a little more specific.’

He really wasn’t going to let her get away with this, was he? She’d just have to try to brazen it out. ‘It’s just a bit awkward. You’re fully dressed—and I’m …’ Practically naked.

‘You look pretty good to me, right now.’ He stole a kiss. ‘But you have a point. This isn’t what mentoring is supposed to be about.’ He removed his hand from her knickers, restored order to her skirt and slid the straps of her top back up her arms.

She grabbed her jacket and shoved it on—even though she knew that it was pretty much closing the stable door after the horse had bolted.

He knew it, too. Because he was smiling.

She glared at him. ‘Don’t you laugh at me.’

‘I’m not.’ His smile broadened. ‘OK. I admit, I’m laughing at you just a little bit. Putting on that jacket isn’t going to stop me remembering what you look like without it, Princess.’

It wasn’t doing anything to stop her remembering what it felt like to be practically naked in his arms, either. Or how he’d just stroked her to a quicker climax than she’d ever achieved in her entire life.

‘I’ll wear something frumpy, next time,’ she muttered. ‘And then we’ll both be able to concentrate.’

‘Sure.’ Though his expression was saying something else entirely. Don’t bet on it.

What the hell had she just started?

‘My office. Eight o’clock tomorrow night,’ he said. ‘Your email address?’

She had just enough brain cells working to let her scribble it down on a piece of paper.

‘Good. I’ll email you some things to work on before then.’

And then he was gone. Making her feel more like a tart than ever. He’d thought she was propositioning him, when she hadn’t been. And then … she’d thrown herself at him. Practically stripped for him. So much for thinking she could prove him wrong about her. She’d just reinforced every single prejudice he had about her.

Talk about a mistake. She hadn’t learned a thing. Dante Romano wasn’t even her type. She normally went for refined, arty, intellectual types. Not brooding men whose thought processes were so far away from her own that she didn’t have a clue what was going on in their heads.

OK, so he was drop-dead gorgeous. But that still didn’t mean she should’ve thrown herself at him like that. And the fact that she hadn’t dated anyone over the past year was no excuse at all.

She covered her face in her hands. Tomorrow, she’d have a cold shower before she went to his office. A very long cold shower. And maybe she’d be able to keep this damned attraction under control long enough to get him to take her seriously and save her grandfather’s business.

CHAPTER THREE

DANTE scowled at his computer.

His concentration was shot to pieces, and it was all Carenza Tonielli’s fault.

Well, maybe not all hers. He could’ve said no.

And he definitely shouldn’t have said that about her clothes being distracting. Because knowing exactly what she looked like under them—and what her skin felt like against his mouth—was a damn sight more distracting than what he’d imagined.

For pity’s sake. He didn’t have time for this. And he didn’t want to get involved with a high-maintenance woman who’d demand his time and his complete attention, and have hissy fits all over the place when she didn’t get her own way.

What had just happened between them definitely wasn’t going to be repeated.

And he wasn’t going to let himself wonder about how it would be to sink into her warm, sweet depths. To feel her body tightening round his. To …

‘Oh, just get on with it and focus,’ he told himself sharply, and opened up his email.

He dealt with the first three messages as economically as he could. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Carenza.

And it really annoyed him that he’d lost control like that, instead of keeping things businesslike.

OK. Obviously he needed to get this over with so he could get her out of his head. He opened a new email.

Tomorrow, bring your USP and competitor analysis.

That was better. To the point, businesslike—and mentorlike.

Right. Now he could go back to his business. Focused, the way he always was.

And then his computer beeped.

The email was from Carenza.

USP???

He rolled his eyes and hit the reply button.

Unique selling proposition. What makes you different from the competition.

He thought about it after he’d sent it. Clearly she wouldn’t have a clue about competitor analysis, either. He added another email.

Change of plan. I’ll pick you up at 4 p.m. tomorrow and do the first competitor analysis with you as a blueprint.

A very humble reply arrived:

Thank you very much.

Strictly speaking, he already had enough on his plate.

Franchising Dante’s was going to take all his time, and then some. Carenza Tonielli and sorting out the gelati business were distractions he really didn’t need.

But he felt he owed Gino, for giving him that first break.

He pushed away the thought that it wasn’t the only reason he’d agreed to mentor her, and sent her another email.

Dress like a tourist. See you at 4.

Dress like a tourist. Which meant … what? Carenza wondered, the following morning. Last night, he’d said he wanted her to dress like a frump.

Just before his hand had been in her knickers.

At her instigation. Even though she’d intended to stop well before then.

This was bad. Really bad. She needed to clear things up before she could face him again. And she couldn’t possibly ring him. It was too, too embarrassing to speak about. She took refuge in the distance of an email.

About last night … I don’t normally do that sort of thing. Can we please pretend it didn’t happen?

He made her wait for an hour before he replied.

Which bit?

Oh, now that was unfair. He knew very well what she meant. Clearly he was going to extract every gram of humiliation out of this.

Not the mentoring. The other bit.

And she wasn’t going to write that down.

O. Sure.

Her face flamed. She knew he’d deliberately missed off the h. A big O, indeed. He was obviously enjoying this. She’d just bet there’d been a big, fat, mocking grin on his face as he’d typed that, and it made her want to punch him.

At the same time, she was aware that last night had been really one-sided. That she’d been the only one who’d climaxed. She’d simply taken everything he was prepared to give.

And she didn’t normally act like that. She hadn’t even dated since last year—since those terrible few months where she’d gone completely off the rails and slept with way too many Mr Wrongs. Her friends all said she’d gone too far the other way now and was too picky, but the men who’d asked her out had bored her. They’d been too fond of their own reflections in the mirror. And she was tired of getting involved with men who didn’t meet her needs. It was easier just to have fun with her friends and forget about relationships. Besides, she had a feeling that Tonielli’s was going to take up all her energies for the foreseeable future.

And Dante Romano was her mentor. Just her mentor. This was business. They’d agreed to forget about last night.

So just what did tourists wear? Frumpy ones, in particular? She didn’t actually own anything frumpy—and, given the state of the books, it wasn’t a good idea to go anywhere near a clothes shop to buy something especially for this afternoon. Not even a charity shop. In the end, she compromised with jeans and a little cardigan over one of her favourite strappy tops, and pulled her hair back into a neat ponytail. She thought about the shoes, then slid on a pair of her favourite designer heels. Being a tourist didn’t mean that you had to wear flip-flops or scuzzy trainers, did it?

Dante called for her at four on the dot, and she had to fight to keep her jaw closed. When he was a shark in a suit, she could just about cope with him. But what he was wearing made her want to rip his clothes off him right there and then. A black vest T-shirt, a pair of faded denims that looked incredibly soft and touchable, a black leather jacket and a pair of suede desert boots—topped off with a pair of dark glasses. He hadn’t shaved since yesterday. His hair was slightly rumpled—enough to tell her that it curled when it was wet.

And the bad boy look really, really suited him.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

‘Uh.’ She couldn’t actually get a word out. Getting air back in her lungs was a bit of a problem, too.

‘Uh?’ He gave her a mocking smile. ‘Does that mean yes or no, Princess?’

‘It means we have a problem,’ she mumbled.

‘What?’

‘The way you’re dressed.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Too scruffy for you, Princess?’

No. Too damn sexy. And she didn’t dare answer him—just in case she ended up admitting that she wanted to lock her office door, tear his clothes off, and do him. On her desk. That very second.

How had she ever thought that she could cope with Dante Romano being just her mentor?

Instead, she chickened out. ‘Why do we have to dress like tourists?’

‘Because people in business suits don’t go for ice cream at four p.m. They’re too busy working.’

‘Oh.’

He took pity on her. ‘We can hardly visit one of your competitors and make notes while we’re sitting there, Princess.’

‘Why not? They won’t know the notes are about them.’

‘Trust me, it’s easier this way. It’s called “mystery shopping”. They do it all the time in the retail trade—to check out the competition as well as making sure that their own staff are doing the right thing. We go as ordinary customers, we get treated like ordinary customers—and then you’ll know what their service standards are like.’

‘Isn’t that spying?’

‘No. You’re looking at what they offer, what they do better than you, and what they do worse than you, so you can tweak your own business and offer your customers more.’

‘Uh-huh.’ And that was another problem.

It must’ve shown on her face, because he sighed. ‘You haven’t analysed your own business, have you?’

‘Not yet. I’ve only been back in Italy for a few weeks. But I can do it.’ She folded her arms. ‘I’m not an airhead.’

‘No, Princess.’

She heard the sarcasm in his tone, and glowered at him. ‘You’re judging me when you hardly know me.’

‘Look, we don’t have time to arg—oh, forget it. We’ll do this the quick way.’ He yanked her into his arms and kissed her. Hard. Hot. Demanding. To the point where she ended up kissing him back and pressing herself against him, with her arms wrapped round his neck.

When he broke the kiss, her pulse rate had practically doubled and her thoughts were completely scrambled. Hadn’t they agreed earlier that they were going to forget last night? He’d just—just … She dragged in a breath. Her body was definitely happy about this, but her head wasn’t. ‘What the hell was that for?’ she demanded.

‘Right now, we’re tourists. You’re my girlfriend.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought I’d help you get into the part.’

Get into the part? How the hell did he expect her to concentrate after he’d just kissed her like that and turned her brain to mush?

It got worse when they were halfway down the street, because he took her hand. Exactly as if she really were his girlfriend and they were just out for a stroll, exploring the sights of Naples.

Her skin tingled where he touched her. Was it the same for him? Or was he mentally totting up balance sheets and working on business plans? Not that she was going to ask—even if she’d been able to get the words out—because she didn’t want him knowing just how much he distracted her. Especially as she had a nasty feeling that she didn’t distract him at all.

‘Pay attention, Princess,’ he said, as if he’d guessed anyway, and held the door of an ice cream parlour open for her.

And then things got even worse. She knew she was supposed to be making mental notes about the gelateria. What was good about it, what wasn’t so good, where it was different from her own shops. But for the life of her she couldn’t concentrate when he insisted on feeding her a spoonful of the ice cream sundae he’d ordered—because she could imagine him feeding her ice cream like this somewhere else.

Naked.

In her bed.

‘You’re supposed to return the favour, Princess,’ he murmured, and her skin heated.

Did he mean favour as in what he’d done for her last night? Or as in the ice cream?

Taking the cowardly option, she fed him a spoonful of ice cream.

‘Gorgeous,’ he purred, giving her the sexiest smile she’d ever seen. Hinting that she was gorgeous, not just the ice cream.

If he kept this up, she was going to need oxygen therapy.

And she was pretty sure he was doing this on purpose. To tease her. Or maybe to prove that she was an airhead who couldn’t concentrate—just as she’d been last night.

She gritted her teeth, and forced herself to focus on the shop. On the menu. The décor. The service.

The waitress brought the bill over to them; her smile was all for Dante, and Carenza was truly shocked to feel a flicker of jealousy.

For pity’s sake. She had no call on Dante Romano at all. He was her business mentor. For all she knew, he could be involved with someone.

Though she didn’t think he was. Otherwise last night wouldn’t have happened. One thing she’d already worked out about Dante Romano was that he had a strict code of honour. He’d never cheat.

‘My bill.’ She scooped it up.

He shook his head. ‘You might do this kind of thing in England, but this is Italy. I’m paying.’

‘And I’m half English,’ she reminded him. ‘This is the twenty-first century. I’m paying.’

She won by the simple expedient of taking the bill and going up to the counter before he could grab the bill back from her.

‘You’re difficult,’ he said, when she returned.

And he wasn’t? She shrugged. ‘You’re the one who calls me “Princess”.’

‘Let’s go for a stroll.’ He held the door open for her, and they walked in silence to railings overlooking the sea.