A Moment on the Lips - By Kate Hardy Page 0,54

said softly. ‘I can’t believe you bought this for me and got it sent from Paris.’

‘That was the phone call you nearly caught me making,’ he said.

She bit her lip. ‘And I nagged you because I thought you were working. I’m sorry.’

He shrugged. ‘No problem. Now you know what I was doing.’

‘It’s beautiful.’ She looked at it again, then laid it carefully on the table and walked round to his chair so she could kiss him. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘Prego.’

And now she’d made him uncomfortable again, making a fuss. She’d noticed that in his family’s home, too—if his mother or his sister made a fuss of him, he wriggled away. But Fiorella … he was putty in his tiny niece’s hands. And she’d just bet that he would read stories to Fiorella, sing songs to her, and sit on the floor and play as many games with the little girl as she wanted.

Which gave her hope that maybe she, too, could reach him. There was definitely a chink in his armour; she just had to find the right way to reach it. ‘Dante. Stay tonight,’ she said softly.

He shook his head. ‘I can’t.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

‘Both.’

‘Why?’

He stroked her face. ‘It’s not you: it’s me.’

She went cold. Suddenly, everything had changed. Was the painting his idea of a Dear Jane letter, rather than his way of saying ‘I love you’? And she’d heard that phrase before, from several Mr Wrongs. It’s not you: it’s me. Just before they’d dumped her.

And when Dante distanced himself slightly over the next few days, missing two mentor sessions because he was up to his eyes in work—that was when she knew he was planning to end it between them.

The week got worse, because then her period started: she felt the familiar dragging sensation, low in her belly, and knew exactly what it meant. She should’ve been relieved that she’d been right and that night of sleepy, unprotected sex in Paris hadn’t left her pregnant.

Except she wasn’t relieved.

Because she realised then exactly what was missing from her life. What she wanted. Why she’d really come back home to Italy.

She wanted a family.

Specifically, she wanted to make a family with Dante. To have his children. To have everything that had been taken from her as a child.

But would Dante take a chance on her? Given the way he seemed to be avoiding her, she doubted it.

She brooded about it all day, her mood growing darker and darker. And then she pulled herself together. She was a Tonielli. She didn’t wait to see what life dealt her; she went after what she wanted. And she wanted Dante. She sent him a text. Can I see you tonight? Need a quick chat. She deliberately didn’t tell him the subject, knowing that he’d assume it would be about the business. Which was possibly a little devious, but if she told him why she really wanted to talk to him, she knew he’d run a mile.

It was two hours before she got a reply. I’m working late. Tomorrow?

It looked as if she’d have to learn to be patient. Tomorrow’s fine. Half-past seven, here?

OK.

The next day dragged. And then finally it was half-past seven, and Dante rapped on the door of her office.

‘Hi. Coffee?’

‘No, I’m fine. So what’s up? Problem with the figures?’

‘No.’ She indicated the chair opposite hers, and he sat down. ‘I thought you’d like to know, my period started yesterday.’

His expression was absolutely unreadable, and his voice gave nothing away when he said, ‘That’s probably for the best.’

No, it wasn’t. Not in her book. Though she couldn’t tell him that just yet. She had to work up to it.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said. ‘This thing between you and me, it isn’t what it started out being.’

He frowned. ‘How do you mean?’

‘It’s not just about hot sex and mentoring. Not any more.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You’re a workaholic, you’re difficult and half the time I don’t have a clue what’s going on in your head. But since I’ve got to know you, I’ve realised …’ Once she’d said it, there was no going back from here. But she knew Dante wouldn’t say it first. She had to be brave.

Take the risk that he’d reject her. And hope to hell that he wouldn’t. ‘I love you.’

Emotion flickered across his face, too fast for her to read it: and then he was back to being inscrutable again.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t feel the same way.’

But there was a tiny flicker