His Forbidden Conquest
‘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.
CHAPTER FIVE
I’D RATHER you called me with solutions than problems.
Dante had expected at least one email, if not a phone call. But Carenza was absolutely silent until Saturday. And he was shocked to discover that he was disappointed. He’d actually wanted to hear her voice.
Oh, this was ridiculous. They weren’t having a relationship, and he wasn’t going to let himself get involved with her.
And yet he found himself emailing her. Just to make sure that he was still seeing her tonight.
Still OK for mentor meeting this evening?
Her reply was short—and very, very sassy.
8. Don’t be late.
He couldn’t help a grin. And he only just stopped himself emailing her back, to say, ‘Or else … ?’
Funny, he’d never sparred with previous girlfriends like this.
Not that Carenza was his girlfriend. What was happening between them was just sex. Scratching an itch for both of them.
Though he still enjoyed sparring with her. Yes, she was a princess—but he was starting to realise that there was more to her than that. And the more he discovered about her, the more he was starting to like her. She saw life from a very different angle from his own; although it annoyed him at times, it also intrigued him.
No, he wasn’t finished with her yet. Not by a long way.
At exactly eight o’clock, there was a rap on the shop door. Carenza—who had sent her staff home early and had just finished tidying up the shop—let Dante in and locked the door behind him.
He was carrying a gorgeous confection of white roses and lilies. ‘For you.’
‘Dante, they’re lovely. I wasn’t expecting …’ She buried her face in them. The scent was glorious. These weren’t just any old flowers he’d picked up from a supermarket or market stall—these were seriously posh flowers. The kind you ordered from a florist.
He shrugged. ‘It’s usual to bring your hostess a gift when you’re invited to dinner.’
Mmm, and he wouldn’t be bringing wine, for obvious reasons. Which was probably why he’d gone so over the top with the flowers.
And she loved them.
‘It’s a business meeting,’ she said. Just so he knew she didn’t think this was a date.
He wasn’t a shark in a suit, tonight. He wasn’t dressed as a bad boy, either. He was something in between: black jeans, and a black cashmere sweater that made her itch to stroke it. Except that would lead to stroking his skin, and that would lead to kissing, and that would lead to …
Oh, she really had to stop letting her thoughts run away with her. ‘Come on up,’ she said, and ushered him up to her flat.
At the top of the stairs, she kicked off her shoes. ‘I’ll just put these gorgeous flowers in water.’
He followed her into the kitchen. ‘So how was your homework, Princess?’
So he was back to calling her that again, was he? And she had a pretty good idea why. ‘You’re right, doing all the jobs gave me more of an idea what my staff have to do.’ She gave him a level stare. ‘And, yes, I did clean the toilets.’
He laughed. ‘Good. So you’re not afraid of hard work.’
‘I told you I wasn’t.’ She contented herself with a brief glower at him, and arranged the flowers in a vase. ‘I’ll just put these in the living room. Stay here—we’re eating in here and my notes are in here.’
He looked faintly amused by her attempt at bossing him around, but he sat down at her kitchen table.
‘Coffee?’ she asked when she came back in.
‘It depends if you’re planning to spill it on me.’
She felt her skin heat. ‘Trust you to bring that up. It was an accident. I was nervous.’
‘And you’re not now?’
‘No.’ After what they’d shared together, she wasn’t nervous of him. There were times when he completely flummoxed her, but she wasn’t nervous. He intrigued her. And she wanted to learn from him—as well as take him straight to her bed.
‘Thank you, but I’ll pass on the coffee. So, homework. You know your customers?’
She nodded. ‘They’re mainly families. The most popular flavours are vanilla, chocolate and strawberry, in that order—which is pretty much the same as it is in the rest of Europe. And vanilla’s top in the States, too.’ Just so he’d know she was looking at the big picture and was capable of doing her own research. ‘And in my shops, they’re closely followed by hazelnut, coffee, lemon and stracciatella.’
‘I’m impressed. You know your product and you know your customers. So now you need to decide how you grow the business. Either you need to sell more things to your current customer base, or you need to increase your customer base.’
She frowned. ‘Who buys ice cream, apart from families?’
He coughed. ‘I thought I was supposed to be the one who asks the questions? Think about it.’ He shrugged. ‘Or think about where families buy ice cream.’
‘From a gelateria, a stall or a kiosk …’ She thought about it. ‘Actually, one of my friends in London was a wedding planner. She did a summer wedding once with an ice cream cart for the guests, and apparently the kids absolutely loved it.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘London’s a bit far to ship ice cream from Naples.’
‘Very funny. I meant maybe I could offer something to local wedding planners. Maybe we could produce tubs to the bride and groom’s specifications, with their name on it and the date of the wedding or something.’
‘That’s a good thought. Where else do you buy ice cream?’
He pushed her until she’d come up with a list including supermarkets, cinemas, hotels and restaurants. And although he was asking questions, he wasn’t leading her—the ideas were all hers. He knew it, too, because he actually looked pleased. ‘You’re a quick learner and you can think on your feet. That’s going to be good for Tonielli’s.’
His praise warmed her. ‘I’ll research the openings, see where I can do some deals. The local deli, the cinemas …’
She paused. ‘Or a restaurant chain. How about yours? Do you offer ice cream as a dessert?’
‘I do.’
‘Tonielli’s?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘But that’s what you were planning.’
‘What I planned is irrelevant, because you’re running the business now.’
‘So would you stock my ice cream in your restaurants?’
‘That depends what you offer me.’ He held his hand up to stop her talking. ‘Don’t rush into it, Princess—or into any other deal. You need to cost everything first and work out your strategy. I’ll get you a marketing primer so you can work it out for yourself, then I’ll go over the figures with you to see if I can add anything you haven’t thought of. It’s a bit of a conflict of interest, but between us we’ll come up with something that’s fair to both of us.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled at him. ‘Can we have a dinner break, now?’
‘That’d be good.’
She walked over to the fridge. ‘I did think about giving you nothing but ice cream.’
‘Did you now?’
‘I had a whole menu planned out. Tomato and basil sorbet, to start with. Like an iced soup.’
He sighed. ‘If that’s your idea of growing the business, I have to say it’s an epic fail.’
‘No, it was just a thought. But I couldn’t come up with a reasonable flavour for the main course,’ she admitted, ‘except maybe parmesan, served on a waffle with salad, so I gave up on it.’
‘Good. Because nothing but ice cream for dinner is just …’ He grimaced. ‘Well, it’s too gimmicky. It wouldn’t suit your customer base.’
‘So you’re telling me you’ve never eaten just ice cream for a meal?’
‘No.’ Dante pushed back the memories of the times when he’d had nothing at all for a meal. Because his father had drunk away the housekeeping budget yet again, and the local shopkeepers refused to give them credit because they knew his family was a bad risk.
‘You’re missing a trick. Having a duvet day and a tub of really good ice cream for lunch …’
‘Is that an offer?’ he drawled.
She backtracked fast. ‘Time for dinner.’ She took the plates she’d carefully arranged earlier from the fridge, a simple tricolore salad. ‘And yes, I know this isn’t proper cooking. It’s just arranging things on a plate.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re defensive tonight, Princess.’
‘That’s because you make me defensive.’
He shrugged. ‘Do you have something to be defensive about?’
How did he manage to wrongfoot her all the time? Just when she thought she knew what she was doing, everything shifted, and she found herself in the wrong. ‘I guess not,’ she muttered.
‘It’s good,’ he said after the first mouthful. ‘Fresh and simple, good quality ingredients, and nicely presented. It works for me.’
‘Was that a compliment?’
He smiled. ‘Don’t push it, Princess.’
When they’d eaten the antipasti, she cooked some fresh pasta, drained it, and stirred in a simple pesto sauce. ‘Go on, then. Ask me if I bought it from a shop,’ she challenged when she put the plate in front of him.
He tasted it. ‘No, this is definitely home-made.’ The lines round his eyes crinkled. ‘Though I could ask you if your grandmother made it. Or her cook.’
She held out her left hand so he could see the plaster on her thumb. ‘All my own work. See? I cut myself chopping the basil for the pesto.’
He took her hand and kissed her thumb. His mouth was warm and soothing, and at the same time it made her ache for him.
She sucked in a breath. ‘What was that for?’
‘Didn’t you show me so I could kiss it better?’
Well, yes. Except whenever his mouth touched her skin, even if it wasn’t overtly sexual, her body went into overdrive.
She managed to concentrate for long enough to serve up the simple chicken dish with vegetables for the main course, which he ate without comment—just an appreciative smile.
And then she took the pudding from the freezer.
‘Oh, now this is a definite cheat,’ he said. ‘Brought from downstairs, was it?’
‘No. I’ll have you know, I made this myself, this afternoon.’ She paused. ‘You know what you were saying about selling more products to the same customers? I’d already started to think about that and I was trying out a different idea.’
‘Different?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘It looks like ordinary strawberry, to me.’
‘Try it.’
He did. ‘Strawberry. Though it’s very light for ice cream.’
‘I admit, it’s a slight cheat—it’s yoghurt-based. I didn’t have time to make custard-based ice cream tonight,’ she said.
‘It’s good. Very clean.’
‘I wanted to appeal to customers who want all of the taste but less saturated fat in their diet.’
‘That’d be good for the tourist market.’
Strange how his praise made her feel so good. ‘I have plans for another, but that’ll be at the opposite end of the spectrum. A custard-based one. Really rich. My favourite.’ She licked her lower lip. ‘Gianduja.’
‘Chocolate.’
Cocoa butter and ground hazelnuts. ‘Better-than-sex chocolate,’ she corrected. ‘And it drove me crazy that it was so hard to find in London. It’s one of the nice things about coming home—you can buy gianduja everywhere.’
‘Better-than-sex chocolate.’ He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Is that a challenge, Princess?’
‘What do you think?’ She threw the question back at him.
He smiled. ‘I think I’m going to buy some gianduja before I see you next. And then …’ His eyes held the wickedest gleam. ‘I’m going to make you beg.’
‘In your dreams.’
He leaned across the table and kissed her. And even though only his mouth touched hers and he didn’t so much as lay a finger on her, by the time he’d finished her knees were completely weak.
He didn’t say a word to celebrate his triumph. He simply stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers, as if to say that he knew this thing was bigger than both of them and it made him feel the same way. Upside down and inside out.
She dragged in a breath. ‘Coffee? If I promise not to throw it over you?’
‘That’d be lovely.’ He nodded at the dirty pots and crockery stacked by the sink. ‘Shall I sort that for you?’
‘No, I’ll do it later.’
‘I don’t mind.’
The idea of him being domesticated in her kitchen was a bit too much for her to handle. ‘No. Go and sit in the living room. I’ll bring coffee through.’
Dante couldn’t just sit down and wait. And Carenza’s living room was even more girly than he’d expected. Cushions. Lots of cushions. Ornaments everywhere, a mixture of the kitsch and the stylish. And the art on the walls was atrocious—brash abstracts that didn’t even begin to tell him what they meant. Not his kind of thing at all.
There were photographs on the mantelpiece. OK, so it was prying—but she’d looked at his photos, so she could hardly complain if he followed her lead. He picked them up and studied them, one by one. Some were relatively recent, of herself with people he assumed were friends; there was one of herself with her grandparents that had obviously been taken at a family occasion, and another with them when she was really small. And the one that intrigued him most was of her with a younger couple, when she wasn’t much more than a toddler.
‘Are these your parents?’ he asked when she walked in.
She nodded and set the tray of coffee down on the low table. ‘I wish I’d had the chance to know them better. Everything Nonna, Nonno and my English grandparents told me about them—they were nice people. Kind. Good to be with.’
‘What happened?’ he asked softly.
‘Car crash. Nonna and Nonno were looking after me for the weekend and my parents were going to celebrate their seventh wedding anniversary in Rome. A special treat, just the two of them—I mean, they loved me to bits, and I loved them, but time on your own with the love of your life is special.’ She dragged in a breath. ‘Except … They didn’t come back.’