Kate Hardy - His Forbidden Conquest

Oh, help. She really needed to get a grip. This was about business .

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘Why?’ Think, Caz, think. Except she didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. The circuits in her brain had just scrambled.

‘Why do you want me to mentor you?’

Oh. Yes. The reason she’d asked him here in the first place. The reason that should’ve been uppermost in her mind. Except that picture in her head had got in the way. Big time. She took a deep breath. ‘I’m asking you to mentor me because you have experience at turning businesses round.’ She listed the last three restaurants he’d bought, and the dates.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Done your homework, then, Princess?’

‘Don’t call me that!’ She glared at him.

Then she remembered. She was asking him a favour. She had to play nice. ‘Please,’ she added belatedly. ‘My name’s Carenza.’

‘Carenza.’ It sounded like a caress, the way he said it. All deep and husky and sexy as hell.

No. She had to focus.

‘You were right, Signor Romano. I don’t have the experience to turn the business round.’

‘And you’re eating humble pie.’ He inclined his head. ‘Interesting.’

‘Why do you have such a low opinion of me?’ she asked.

‘Because I know your type.’ He paused, giving her a measured look. ‘Princess.’

It took all her effort not to glower at him. ‘I’m not a princess,’ she said coolly.

‘Put your feet on the desk.’

She frowned. ‘What?’

‘Put your feet on the desk,’ he repeated.

She had no idea what he was driving at, but she did as he requested.

‘Look at your shoes. High-end designer brand. They’d cost almost a month’s wages for most of your staff,’ he said softly. ‘So are you going to tell me now that you’re not a princess?’

Put like that, it sounded bad. She took her feet off the desk. ‘I had a job in England,’ she said, knowing that she sounded defensive.

‘Uh-huh.’

So he really did think it had been no more than a sinecure. ‘I wasn’t just sitting there filing my nails and fluttering my eyelashes. I was Amy’s PA. I organised things. I know how retail works.’

‘For luxury goods, maybe, but not food. It’s a completely different customer base,’ he pointed out.

‘Look, I’ve admitted that I need help. What more do you expect from me?’

‘Take the easy way out. Sell the business to me.’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m the fifth generation of Toniellis. It’s up to me to make this work.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I guess I would’ve been the sixth generation. Or maybe if my parents had lived, I’d have had a brother or sister to share the burden of the business with me.’ She shook herself. ‘But you can’t change the past, so it’s pointless brooding over it. You just have to get on with things.’

Dante looked at her. She wouldn’t sell because the business had been part of her family’s life for years. So she had family loyalty after all. Given how few times she’d been back to Italy in the last ten years, he’d thought she’d pretty much abandoned her grandparents, happy with a life of partying in London. And she’d gone seriously off the rails last year.

But maybe Carenza Tonielli was turning over a new leaf. Maybe she wasn’t quite what he’d thought she was.

And, if she really wanted to make the business work, then getting a mentor to teach her the ropes would be the best thing that she could do.

She’d chosen him. Ironic, as he’d planned to buy her out.

He could refuse—but, then again, he owed Gino. The old man had given him a break, all those years ago. Gino had given Dante solid advice, taught him things that had stood him in good stead in business. This was Dante’s chance for payback: to help Gino’s granddaughter and make sure that the gelati business didn’t go under.

And this had nothing to do with the fact that Carenza had the most beautiful mouth and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Or the fact that he could imagine that glorious blonde hair spread over his pillow, her lips parted and her body arched in pleasure as he touched her.

‘OK,’ he said abruptly.

She blinked. ‘What?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Pay attention, Princess.’ He wasn’t going to call her ‘Signorina Tonielli’, not if he was going to be her mentor. But he wasn’t going to call her by her given name, either. It would be too intimate. This way, he could keep some distance between them. Maybe it would keep his wayward thoughts under control, too. He wasn’t used to feeling anything less than in full control of himself, and it unnerved him slightly that Carenza Tonielli could have this effect on him. He pushed the unwanted attraction away. This was business . ‘I said OK, I’ll be your mentor.’

Her face was flooded with relief. ‘Thank you. But I meant it about paying you. I can’t expect you to do this for nothing. I mean, I’m taking your time.’

‘No payment required. I’ll give you guidance, where I can—but you’re going to be the one doing the work, not me.’

‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’ She sat up straight. ‘Where do we start?

‘You can start,’ he said, ‘by wearing something frumpy.’

Carenza could see from the shock on Dante’s face that he hadn’t actually meant to say that. So she wasn’t the only one with pictures in her head, then?

The room suddenly felt way, way too small—and it felt as if all the oxygen had just been sucked out of it, too, for good measure.

‘What’s wrong with my business suit?’ she asked, her voice only just above a whisper.

‘Nothing. The jacket and skirt are fine.’ There was a slash of colour over his cheekbones.

So what was bothering him? Her top? Her shoes? Anger flared. The woman she’d been last year wouldn’t have thought twice about taking off her jacket, strutting round to his side of the desk and teasing him, and she could see in his face that he thought he knew her type; his research must’ve dredged up a hell of a lot of dirt. No wonder he wasn’t taking her seriously. Well, let’s play your little game, Signor Romano, then I’ll show you just how wrong you are about me when I turn you down cold.

She stood up, slid the jacket off her shoulders and rested it over the back of her chair. ‘Is this the problem?’ She fingered the spaghetti straps.

His eyes were very, very dark. ‘You’re playing with fire, Princess.’

‘You started it,’ she pointed out. ‘So what’s the problem with my top?’

He swallowed hard. ‘You’re asking me?’

‘You’re the one with the problem.’

He raked a hand through his hair. ‘OK. If you really want to know … it’s distracting.’

So was he. Especially because tonight there was the faintest hint of stubble on his face—and it made her want to touch. It made her want to know how it would feel against her skin. ‘Distracting, how?’

‘I thought I was supposed to be the one asking the questions?’

‘Distracting, how?’ she repeated.

‘Because it’s designed to make a man wonder if you’re wearing anything underneath it.’

This time there was a definite challenge in his gaze. Hot. Sultry. She could see how much he wanted her. OK, so it was mutual. But she could keep her head. Push him that little bit further. She gave a half-shrug. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

His breathing was fast, shallow. Just like hers.

‘Show me,’ he whispered.

The words were soft, sweet as honey and sexy as sin. The ultimate temptation. Yeah. She could play this game. And then she’d stop—because she could.

She pushed one spaghetti strap down her shoulder. Then the other. Adrenalin throbbed through her veins. Would he make a move now?