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.’
He could see that she was making an effort to hold the tears back, but one spilled over and dragged its way down her skin. He wiped it away with his thumb. ‘Caz, don’t cry.’
‘You’re using my name again.’ Her voice was all shaky.
He stroked her hair back from her forehead. ‘Don’t read anything into it, Princess. And we’re not getting involved with each other. I wouldn’t be good for you.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just do.’ She’d want far more time than he’d be prepared to give her. She’d push him and push him—and if his control snapped, it would be a disaster.
She sighed. ‘And now you’re going to go all brooding again and shut me out.’
‘Not everyone wants to bare their soul to the world.’
She nodded. ‘That’s a guy thing. I get it.’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t be who you need me to be.’ He nuzzled her shoulder. ‘One thing I can do for you, though.’
‘Kiss it better?’ she asked, her eyes huge and vulnerable and pleading.
This was a bad idea. He needed to stop this, right now. But his body wasn’t listening to his head. ‘Yes.’
Dante’s mouth was warm and sweet and soothing; it felt like balm to her soul. As if he was trying to kiss the pain away.
She took his hand and led him to her bedroom.
His black cashmere sweater so soft under her fingertips, but better still was his skin when she’d peeled the sweater over his head. ‘You’re gorgeous,’ she said, stroking his pectoral muscles. There was a light dusting of hair on his chest; she loved the friction against her fingertips.
‘So are you.’ He peeled off her strappy top and traced the lacy edge of her bra.
Her hand was shaking as she reached for the zip of his jeans; he gave a sharp intake of breath as she eased the denim over his thighs.
It took him seconds to dispose of the rest of her clothes; then he carried her over to the bed, pushed the duvet aside and laid her against the pillows before climbing in next to her.
‘You’re such a princess,’ he said, smiling as he sprawled on the mattress.
She knew exactly what he was talking about. ‘Sheets with a high thread count are comfortable. What’s so bad about that?’
‘I knew your bed would be like this. Well, actually, no. I thought you’d have hundreds of cushions and this’d be a four-poster covered in voile.’
‘Silk ribbons.’ She curved her thumb and forefinger round his wrist.
‘Is that what you’re thinking, Princess?’ He licked his lower lip and gave her a smouldering look that turned her to mush. ‘I think I like how your mind works.’
She laughed. ‘If I was still in the art business, I’d so commission a painting of you.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘What kind of painting might that be?’
‘Naked. And for my eyes only,’ she said.
‘Good, because I think my mother would have a fit if there were naked paintings of me on display all over Naples—not to mention what your grandparents would say.’
‘Well, the décor in Tonielli’s does need a bit of updating,’ she teased.
‘Not with naked pictures of me, it doesn’t.’
‘It’d