Her brow knotted.
‘I own the building,’ he clarified.
‘I thought you owned vineyards.’
‘I do. Didn’t you know variety is the spice of life?’
She sniffed pointedly, and hugged her wrap closer around her chest, wishing she had worn the thick designer coat Pepe had bought her. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t turned it into a high-tech hotel.’
He pulled a face. ‘And rip it of its charm? This street is old-style Montmartre, unaffected and barely known by the tourists that have infected much of the rest of this glorious place. I intend to keep it that way.’
‘You own the entire street?’
He inclined his head in affirmation then looked back to the iron stairs. ‘Shall we?’
‘I don’t know...’
‘Do you suffer from vertigo?’
‘No.’
‘Then where’s your sense of adventure?’
‘I’ve never had one.’
‘Liar. You spent a year travelling Europe with Grace, so don’t tell me you have no sense of adventure.’
‘I’m pregnant.’
‘Are pregnant women not able to climb stairs?’
‘Don’t be silly.’
His features softened. ‘Cara, I promise I would never allow anything to happen to you or your baby. This staircase is only a couple of years old—I oversaw its construction myself. I’ll be right behind you—I promise you’ll be safe.’
Much as she knew she must be a fool to believe him, she found herself putting a foot onto the bottom step, half expecting the whole thing to come crashing down on them.
It was a lot sturdier than she anticipated. And, she had to admit, knowing he would be there to catch her if she should trip was...comforting. Pepe’s strength and assurance were more than a little comforting.
‘Which floor are we going to?’ she asked, turning her head to look at him.
The grin that spread across his face made her stomach flip over. ‘You and I, cucciola mia, are going all the way.’
Her cheeks burning at the suggestion in his tone, she climbed up, slowly at first until she became aware that Pepe, being a couple of paces behind her, had an excellent view of her derrière. Yep, knowing he had a face full of her backside certainly acted as rocket fuel and she reached the top in no time.
She had no idea what she’d been expecting: from the general dilapidation of the café below, she’d half assumed Pepe had made her dress up as a joke, but she certainly hadn’t been expecting this.
The party was being held in a loft conversion. Except it was nothing like any loft she’d ever been in. Extremely large and airy, simply decorated with what she would refer to as faux shabby chic, it must have covered the length of the entire terrace.
‘So do you own this loft too?’
He raised a brow.