A Moment on the Lips - By Kate Hardy Page 0,49

smile and nod approval at what the artist was capturing on paper.

It was only a few short minutes before the artist showed them the portrait, pastels on rose-grey paper.

And it scared Dante witless.

The way he was looking at Carenza, it was obvious to the whole world that he was in love with her. Oh, hell. Hopefully she’d just think that the artist had taken a bit of—well, artistic licence.

He paid the artist, then on the artist’s recommendation went into one of the souvenir shops and bought a tube so they could roll up the picture and keep it protected on the way back to Naples.

Carenza stood on tiptoe and brushed her mouth against his. ‘Thank you.’

‘Prego,’ he said automatically. But he couldn’t get the portrait out of his head. Did he really look at her like that? And, if so, had she noticed? Because it really wasn’t fair to raise her expectations—to make her hope that he could be something he knew he just couldn’t be.

They stopped in a café for a croque monsieur and a coffee, and then Carenza took him to the Pompidou Centre.

‘It’s really impressive, isn’t it?’ she asked.

He looked at the huge steel-and-glass structure. ‘Yes.’ Though he didn’t like it anywhere near as much as he’d liked the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower. And it didn’t even begin to compare to the beautiful white stone buildings across the other side of the city, the ones he’d fallen in love with on sight.

‘This is one of my favourite places in Paris.’

The second they walked in, he realised why. It was filled with modern art. And he just didn’t get it. The more he walked round, the more he saw, the less he understood. Half the stuff looked as if it had been drawn by a child in kindergarten, and the other half were just random splodges of colour. What was so special about all this? Why did she love it so much? Was it an ‘emperor’s new clothes’ kind of thing, or was he just missing the gene that made him appreciate it?

‘If you didn’t have Tonielli’s, what would you do?’ he asked.

She looked surprised by the question; then she smiled. ‘That’s an easy one. I’d like my own art gallery.’

Just as he’d guessed. ‘And you’d sell this kind of stuff?’ He looked at the painting of squares in front of him, and others that just seemed a chaotic mess of colour.

‘Yes. It’s the vibrancy and the energy of the pieces that I like.’

Vibrancy and energy. She could’ve been describing herself. But he couldn’t see it in the works of art. ‘I don’t get it,’ he admitted. ‘To me, you could hang this stuff any which way and it still wouldn’t make any sense. It’s all random.’

She shrugged. ‘That’s probably what the artist wants you to feel. That the world’s mixed up and random.’

He wasn’t convinced.

‘Art’s a personal thing. It’s better to go for the stuff that you like—the stuff that makes you feel something.’ She gave him a rueful smile. ‘I guess I was hoping that seeing it all together here would make you see what I see in it.’ She sighed. ‘I really should’ve taken you to the Musée D’Orsay instead of here. I think you would’ve liked the Impressionists more. And Van Gogh.’

‘Probably,’ he said. ‘Sorry. I’m a philistine. I like art to look like what it’s meant to be.’

She nodded. ‘And this doesn’t. OK. Let’s go.’

‘If you want to stay, I don’t mind,’ he fibbed.

‘Yes, you do—and there’s no point in staying if you’re not enjoying it. I want you to love Paris as much as I do. And there’s somewhere else near here I want to show you—somewhere I think you’ll like.’

She led him through the Marais district to the Place des Vosges. ‘This is the oldest square in Paris.’

It was a beautifully laid out square with gorgeous buildings, and he liked this a lot more than the modern building she’d just taken him to.

They wandered through the arcaded walkways together; he noticed that there were an awful lot of art galleries among the shops. Carenza was clearly enjoying window-shopping; and then she went very still and gave a sharp intake of breath.

‘What have you spotted?’ he asked.

‘That’s gorgeous.’ She pointed out a tall, narrow canvas with five wide bands of jewel-bright colours across it. ‘But unfortunately the price tag would blow my fritter budget for years.’

‘Fritter budget?’ It wasn’t a term he was familiar with.

‘Spending money, for little pleasures. Though some