A Moment on the Lips(21)

‘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.