A Moment on the Lips - By Kate Hardy Page 0,48

and months and months without conceiving. We had unprotected sex once. What are the chances?’

‘And how many people have been caught out by “just the once”?’ he countered.

‘Nothing’s going to happen,’ she said firmly. ‘And I’m starving. I need a shower before breakfast.’ And she tried not to mind when he didn’t offer to join her in the shower.

Dante could barely breathe. The prospect of Carenza being pregnant … He could just imagine her, exhausted after labour and yet radiant, with a newborn baby in her arms.

Their newborn baby.

And the longing that surged through him horrified him. How stupid could he get? Given that his sister had made exactly the same mistakes as his mother—believing that her partner would change for her when he couldn’t, and that her love would be enough to overcome the violence when it wasn’t—it was a fair bet that Dante would make the same mistakes as his father. For Carenza’s sake, he couldn’t risk his past repeating itself. Couldn’t risk hurting their child through impatience.

When it was his turn to shower, he turned the water down to cold, in the hope that it would shock some common sense back into him. His life was fine as it was. Just himself and the business. He didn’t need anything else.

And he’d make damn sure he never spent another night with Carenza. Because now he knew just how dangerous it could be for his peace of mind.

‘So what are the plans for today?’ he asked over breakfast.

‘Our flight back to Naples isn’t until early this evening, so we can spend the day in the city. The hotel’s agreed to keep our luggage in storage until we’re ready to pick it up—and our taxi’s booked to take us to the airport. So I thought I’d show you the other side of the city.’

‘That’d be great.’ And as long as they talked about Paris or business, and nothing in the slightest bit emotional, everything would be absolutely fine, Dante thought.

It didn’t take long to pack after breakfast; and then they took the Metro through to Montmartre. He looked up the incline of the street to the Sacré Coeur, the white domes of the church and the green hill on which it stood standing out against the blue, blue sky. ‘That’s beautiful,’ he said.

She looked pleased. ‘Wait until you get to the top. The view of the city from the steps is stunning.’

He discovered that she was absolutely right. And, just round the corner from the Basilica, the streets were narrow and bustling, just as they were in Naples, filled with souvenir shops and delis and cafés—a sharp contrast to the wide boulevards around the Champs Elysées, but this part of Paris felt more like home to him.

She dragged him over to a gelati shop.

‘Princess, this is an Italian artisan ice cream shop,’ he pointed out.

She smiled. ‘I know, and Italian ice cream is the best.’ When they came out, he was amused when she rattled off a quick assessment, saying where it was better than Tonielli’s and where it could learn from her. ‘Having said that, this crème brûlée gelato is pretty good.’ She looked enquiringly at him. ‘How’s the blueberry and white chocolate?’

He held out his cone so she could taste it.

‘Not bad,’ she said. ‘But I think it’d be better still if you had the blueberry and the white chocolate flavours separate, then rippled them together.’

They strolled through the streets to the historic Place du Tertre, full of cafés and artists selling their work from stalls; Dante could hardly believe how much they’d managed to cram into the centre of the square. People around the edges were performing street theatre and juggling; tourists were sitting quietly while artists drew caricatures and portraits of them.

‘Your picture, sir, madam?’ an artist asked. ‘I can do a special price for the two of you.’

Carenza’s eyes lit up and she turned to Dante. ‘Can we?’

Had he been on his own, he would’ve made a polite excuse and walked on; but he could see how much Carenza wanted to do it. The whole Parisian experience. And, since she’d given him so much over the last two days, who was he to deny her something so small? ‘Sure we can,’ he said.

They sat down on a nearby wall. ‘Your arm round the lady,’ the artist directed. ‘Smile at each other.’

Dante felt awkward and exposed—particularly when other tourists came to look over the artist’s shoulder at the picture he hadn’t yet seen—but everyone seemed to