‘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.
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