A Moment on the Lips - By Kate Hardy Page 0,43

photograph of his niece. Something small. Not a big fuss.

Carenza wasn’t playing by the rules. And he had a feeling that, even if she did know his rules, she still wouldn’t play by them. She was going to do this her way.

‘What was that you were saying about “my way or the highway”?’ he asked.

‘You’re so damn difficult.’ She thrust the case at him. ‘Grab this and lock up behind you, otherwise we’re going to get stuck in traffic and miss our flight.’

The taxi took them to the airport, and when Carenza took her case from the back of the taxi he was surprised to see that it wasn’t any bigger than his own.

‘I’m a seasoned traveller,’ she said, following his look and interpreting it correctly. ‘I learned the hard way when I was eighteen that it’s much better to travel light.’

He followed her to the check-in desk. ‘We’re going to Paris?’

‘Yep.’ She smiled at him. ‘Happy birthday, Dante.’

‘I’ve never been to Paris before.’ The words slipped out, unguarded.

‘But you’ve been abroad?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Of course I have. I’m not that much of a country boy.’

‘Apart from on business, I mean.’

He didn’t have an answer to that. ‘Paris,’ he mused. ‘It might be useful for the second phase of my franchise. Once Dante’s is established in all the major Italian cities, I can move on to the rest of Europe. London, Paris, Vienna …’

‘Oh, no. You are not using this as a business trip, doing a recce on where you can expand your empire. We’re not working,’ she said firmly. ‘This is fun, frivolity and—’ she laughed ‘—probably a bit of excess. Especially when it comes to crêpes. I love crêpes.’

Gone was the needy woman who’d clung to him last week. Carenza Tonielli was all princess, completely sure of herself and comfortable in her own skin. And there was a sunniness and a sparkle about her that he just couldn’t resist.

‘So. No business. Pleasure only. Got it?’ she asked.

‘Got it.’

‘Good.’ She kissed him swiftly. ‘So tell me, why don’t you celebrate your birthday?’

‘I do celebrate it,’ he protested. ‘I have dinner with my family.’

‘But you spend the day working. Don’t you ever want to do something different, spoil yourself a bit? Even if it’s—I dunno—just taking the morning off and walking round the harbour, or window-shopping, or going to a gallery or a museum? Something to feed the soul?’

‘No. Though I’m not a miser. I do arrange a meal and drinks for all my staff.’

The Italian way: the birthday boy treated everyone else. But she’d just bet he didn’t join them. Not because he thought himself too good to socialise with them, but because he hated socialising. And she couldn’t for the life of her understand why. He had social skills and wasn’t awkward with people—otherwise he certainly wouldn’t be a successful restaurateur. She sighed. ‘Right. Consider the next two days as more reverse mentoring. If it kills me, I’m going to teach you to have fun.’

‘I’m not sure if that’s a threat or a promise.’

She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘It’s probably both.’

The flight was on time; from the airport in Paris, they took a taxi to the city centre. And Dante was stunned by his first glimpse of the city. It was so different from Naples; instead of the dense network of narrow streets he was used to in the historic quarter of Naples, the boulevards here were incredibly wide. The roads had three or four lanes each way, and the pavements either side were equally wide. Everything seemed to be made from white or cream stone, with tall, narrow windows and wrought-iron balconies. And he fell in love with Paris on sight.

‘The city of light,’ Carenza said softly, ‘so wide and open—this is why I love Paris. And it’s even better at night.’ She smiled. ‘Though I must admit, you can’t walk around and hear people singing, like we do in Naples, and I miss that.’

Their hotel was just off the Champs Elysées; as soon as they walked into the reception, Dante knew it was seriously expensive. The reception area was made from marble, the seating was plush leather, and the carpet on the stairs was thick enough to sink into. And he also discovered that Carenza spoke fluent French. Yet another hidden depth to her that he hadn’t even guessed existed.

Their room was luxuriously appointed, and he felt another flush of guilt. ‘Will you please let me pick up the bill for this?’ he asked as