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