His Forbidden Conquest: A Moment on the Lips / The Best Mistake of Her Life / Not Just Friends

And he’d just bet that his mother liked her, too.

Suddenly, it was hard to breathe. It felt as if someone had just dropped him into the gladiator’s den at the amphitheatre in Pompeii and told him he was going to fight a whole pack of lions, single-handed and with no kind of armour whatsoever.

Female lions. Scary ones. His mother, his secretary, and … Carenza. He’d had no idea that they’d been plotting together.

‘Relax. You’re going to enjoy this. Trust me.’ She stroked his face. ‘Don’t go all closed on me and shut me out, Dante. I want to spoil you a bit. What’s so wrong about wanting to make a fuss of someone on their birthday?’

He couldn’t even begin to tell her that.

‘And you’re so difficult to buy for. That’s why I wanted to give you—well, you’ll see.’

‘So where are we going?’

‘My favourite city in the world.’

Which told him absolutely nothing. Though there was one thing he did know. ‘Princess, you don’t have the money to take me away anywhere.’

‘Yes, I do.’

He remembered what she’d said about paying him for mentoring her; she’d planned to sell her jewellery. Given the way she’d crumbled over the cine film of her parents, he knew that she’d regret selling whatever it was. ‘What did you hock?’ he asked.

She lifted her chin. ‘That’s for me to know and you not to ask.’ Then she softened. ‘If you really want to know, I sold some of my shoes online.’

Her expensive designer shoes. Her big weakness. And she’d given them up for him.

As if the flood of guilt showed on his face, she said, ‘They weren’t my absolute favourites, I didn’t wear them that much and …’ She folded her arms. ‘Look, some things are just worth it, OK? I wanted to spoil you, Dante. I wanted to do something nice for you.’

And he really, really wasn’t used to this. Sure, his mother liked making a fuss of him, but Dante had trained her into keeping everything low-key nowadays. Ditto his sister. In his childhood, most of the time they hadn’t had enough money to spoil him—and the one occasion he could remember, when his mother had bought him a brand-new bike, had ended up in tears and mangled spokes. And not because he’d fallen off it. Since then, he’d hated the idea of having a big present and, even though money wasn’t anywhere near so tight now for his mother and sister, he insisted on nothing more than a card from them at birthdays and Christmas. Or a token gift. A framed 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 she started unpacking.

‘No. And anyway, I got a discount. I’m a frequent stayer,’ she said with a smile.

‘How come?’ He unpacked his own clothes—which his secretary had packed incredibly efficiently for him. He had a feeling that it had been under Carenza’s direction, too.

‘When I lived in London, it was so easy to get the train to Paris. I loved having a long weekend in here. Cafés, art galleries, crêpes … and this hotel is the perfect place to stay, because it’s so central. Less than five minutes from the Metro.’

‘Can I at least buy you dinner?’ He kissed her lightly. ‘It’s my birthday, so traditionally I’m the one who’s supposed to buy dinner.’

‘In Italy, it is. But we’re in Paris, and I’m half English—and I’m used to doing it differently. In England, everyone spoils the person with the birthday. So I’m treating you.’

‘Maybe I’d like to treat you, to say thank you for spoiling me?’

She flapped a hand dismissively. ‘We’ll discuss that later. It’s a gorgeous day out there, and I want to take you exploring, not waste time arguing in here.’

They ended up walking the whole length of the Champs Elysées down to the Tuileries, where the leaves on the trees were starting to turn and glinted all shades of copper and bronze and gold in the sunlight. ‘We’re only here for two days, so we don’t have time to do everything I’d like to do,’ she said. ‘So I’m taking you to some of my favourite bits.’

Maybe, Dante thought, he’d surprise her with a break here in the spring. Or the middle of winter—Paris and all its gardens would look so pretty, covered in snow.

He discovered that playing tourist with Carenza was fun. She made him pose for a photograph in the gardens of the Louvre with his hand cupped by his shoulder, as if he were holding the Eiffel Tower in his hand, and then they queued up for the museum and wandered through the galleries together. ‘As this is the biggest museum in the world, we could spend weeks in here,’ she said, ‘but we only have a couple of days, so we’re just to do the whistle-stop version.’ She smiled. ‘I can show you some art you might actually like.’

‘Pictures that look like what they’re supposed to be, you mean?’ he teased back.

She laughed. ‘Yes. I guarantee you’ll like La Joconde.’

It was surreal, walking through the museum and suddenly coming across really famous pieces of artwork that were recognised the whole world over. The Sphinx, the Venus de Milo, and of course the Mona Lisa. And then Carenza took him down to the lower floor and made him stand next to the inverted pyramid; the sunshine poured through the glass and cast rainbows everywhere.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said with a grin, and showed him the picture she’d taken on her mobile phone: himself, smiling, with his hair rainbow-coloured. ‘I might just have to send that to your web designer. It’d look great on the “About Dante’s” page on your website.’

‘Sure it would,’ he said, knowing that she was teasing. Or hoping she was. If that photograph went anywhere near his website, he’d be having strong words with his designer.

From there, she took him on the Metro to the Eiffel Tower. ‘Queues,’ she said with a sigh. ‘We’re going to be stuck here for at least half an hour. Right. I know what we need. Go and stand in the queue, and I’ll come and find you.’

She reappeared a few minutes later carrying two paper bags and two paper cups of coffee.

‘Dare I ask what’s in the bags?’ he asked.

‘The best fast food ever.’ She handed one over.

He bit into the crêpe. ‘Wow. I wasn’t expecting it to be this good.’ Light, yet lush; sweet, yet spicy. Like Carenza herself.

‘Perfect for a chilly autumn day,’ she said. ‘And don’t worry about the carbs, because you’re going to burn all that sugar off. We’re walking up to the second stage—that way, you have to work for the view and you appreciate it more.’

Dante had thought himself reasonably fit, but he was glad when they finally reached the second stage and were able to look out over the city. And from there they took the lift to the very top, He stood behind her on the observation platform, looking out over Paris, with his arms wrapped round her middle. ‘Thank you,’ he said softly, kissing the curve of her neck. ‘You’ve given me a special day.’ A day like he’d never had in his life. And, although he usually hated surprises and even more than that he hated not being in charge, to his surprise he was enjoying this hugely. He hadn’t expected Carenza’s idea of a good time to mesh with his, but every moment in Paris had been magical.

She turned round to face him. ‘We haven’t finished yet, not by a long way.’

And the promise in her eyes made his heart beat that much faster.

They took the lift back to ground level, and headed back to the hotel to change for dinner.

‘Dinner’s on me,’ Dante said. ‘Where do you recommend?’

‘Actually, we already have a reservation,’ she said. ‘It’s a tasting menu. And I paid up front, so you can’t argue over the bill.’

It turned out that she’d booked a table at one of the best restaurants in Paris, and once Dante had tried the first dish he wasn’t surprised to learn that the chef had two Michelin stars. The restaurant itself was incredibly romantic, with plush chairs and damask tablecloths and real orchids decorating the tables. And he’d never seen Carenza look more beautiful, in a little black dress and a pearl choker and her hair in a swish updo. It made his heart skip a beat every time he looked at her.

And then, just before coffee, the waiter brought over a cone made out of tiny Parisian macarons, with a sparkler coming out of the top.

‘It’s not actually part of the menu. I told the maître d’ it was your birthday and sweet-talked him into asking the chef to do this especially for you,’ Carenza whispered.

Why wasn’t he surprised that Carenza would have the nerve to ask a Michelin-starred chef for a special addition to the menu? Or that the chef would be perfectly happy to do it for her?

‘This is my idea of a Parisian birthday cake,’ she said with a grin. ‘Happy birthday, Dante.’

‘Thank you.’ He reached across the table, took her hand and drew it to his lips. ‘This is definitely a first.’ He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had a birthday cake.

‘I’m glad you like it.’ Her eyes were sparkling; she was clearly thrilled that he liked her little surprise.

‘I more than like it. You’re amazing,’ he said softly.

The macarons—two smooth, soft, flat-topped almond meringues sandwiched together with buttercream in the same pastel colours as the meringues, with a dash of dark chocolate ganache in the centre—were a little too rich for his taste, but no way was he going to spoil her pleasure in this. He knew the bitter coffee would take the cloying taste away.

She checked her watch when they’d finished the macarons. ‘Righty, let’s go for a stroll.’

‘You’re OK to walk in those shoes?’

She laughed. ‘Just because they’re designer, it doesn’t mean they’re uncomfortable, you know.’

Though he could see in her eyes that she was remembering the night they went dancing. When she’d worn shoes she couldn’t walk in.

They strolled hand in hand to the Champs Elysées, the wide avenues flanked with clipped trees and lit by wrought-iron lanterns. Carenza led him under the subway and into the middle of the Arc de Triomphe, with the huge French flag billowing from the centre of the arch and the flame burning steadily on the tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

‘You’re going to have to work for the view again, I’m afraid,’ she said with a grin.

There were literally hundreds of narrow spiral stairs; but at last they were at the top and could look down at the traffic, each lane a blaze of white or red from the car lights. Carenza pointed out the buildings illuminated across the city: the Sacré Coeur in the distance on the hill at Montmartre, and the Eiffel Tower lit up and with a huge beam sweeping across the night from the top of the tower.

‘I told you Paris by night was something else,’ she said softly.

‘You’re right. It is.’ And sharing this with her felt special. There were plenty of other people on top of the arch, but it still managed to feel intimate, as if they were the only two people there.

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