A Moment on the Lips(17)

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.’