CHAPTER FIVE
Colorado. The Rockies, Pike’s Peak, Indian ruins, aspens and fast-running streams. It sounded beautiful, exciting. But a hotel room was a hotel room after all.
They’d been busy in Washington State. For most of their three-day stay, Juliet had had to work and think on her feet. But the media had been outstanding. Their schedule had been so full her boss back in New York had probably done handstands. Her report on their run on the coast would be a publicist’s dream. Then there was Denver.
What coverage she’d managed to hustle there would barely justify the plane fare. One talk show at the ungodly hour of 7:00 A.M. and one miserly article in the food section of a local paper. No network or local news coverage of the autographing, no print reporter who’d confirm an appearance. Lousy.
It was 6:00 A.M. when Juliet dragged herself out of the shower and began to search through her unpacked garment bag for a suit and a fresh blouse. The cleaners was definitely a priority the minute they moved on to Dallas.
At least Carlo wasn’t cooking this morning. She didn’t think she could bear to look at food in any form for at least two hours.
With any luck she could come back to the hotel after the show, catch another hour’s sleep and then have breakfast in her room while she made her morning calls. The autographing wasn’t until noon, and their flight out wasn’t until early the next morning.
That was something to hold on to, Juliet told herself as she looked for the right shade of stockings. For the first time in a week, they had an evening free with no one to entertain, no one to be entertained by. A nice, quiet meal somewhere close by and a full night’s sleep. With that at the end of the tunnel, she could get through the morning.
With a grimace, she gulped down her daily dose of brewer’s yeast.
It wasn’t until she was fully dressed that she woke up enough to remember she hadn’t dealt with her make-up. With a shrug Juliet slipped out of her little green jacket and headed for the bathroom. She stared at the front door with a combination of suspicion and bad temper when she heard the knock. Peeking through the peephole, she focused on Carlo. He grinned at her, then crossed his eyes. She only swore a little as she pulled open the door.
“You’re early,” she began, then caught the stirring aroma of coffee. Looking down, she saw that he carried a tray with a small pot, cups and spoons. “Coffee,” she murmured, almost like a prayer.
“Yes.” He nodded as he stepped into the room. “I thought you’d be ready, though room service isn’t.” He walked over to a table, saw that her room could fit into one section of his suite and set down the tray. “So, we deliver.”
“Bless you.” It was so sincere he grinned again as she crossed the room. “How did you manage it? Room service doesn’t open for half an hour.”
“There’s a small kitchen in my suite. A bit primitive, but adequate to brew coffee.”
She took the first sip, black and hot, and she closed her eyes. “It’s wonderful. Really wonderful.”
“Of course. I fixed it.”
She opened her eyes again. No, she decided, she wouldn’t spoil gratitude with sarcasm. After all, they’d very nearly gotten along for three days running. With the help of her shower, the yeast and the coffee, she was feeling almost human again.
“Relax,” she suggested. “I’ll finish getting ready.” Expecting him to sit, Juliet took her cup and went into the bathroom to deal with her face and hair. She was dotting on foundation when Carlo leaned on the doorjamb.
“Mi amore, doesn’t this arrangement strike you as impractical?”
She tried not to feel self-conscious as she smoothed on the thin, translucent base. “Which arrangement is that?”
“You have this—broom closet,” he decided as he gestured toward her room. Yes, it was small enough that the subtle, feminine scent from her shower reached all the corners. “While I have a big suite with two baths, a bed big enough for three friends and one of those sofas that unfold.”
“You’re the star,” she murmured as she brushed color over the slant of her cheeks.
“It would save the publisher money if we shared the suite.”
She shifted her eyes in the mirror until they met his. She’d have sworn, absolutely sworn, he meant no more than that. That is, if she hadn’t known him. “He can afford it,” she said lightly. “It just thrills the accounting department at tax time.”
Carlo moved his shoulders then sipped from his cup again. He’d known what her answer would be. Of course, he’d enjoy sharing his rooms with her for the obvious reason, but neither did it sit well with him that her accommodations were so far inferior to his.
“You need a touch more blusher on your left cheek,” he said idly, not noticing her surprised look. What he’d noticed was the green silk robe that reflected in the mirror from the back of the door. Just how would she look in that? Carlo wondered. How would she look out of it?
After a narrowed-eyed study, Juliet discovered he’d been right. She picked up her brush again and evened the color. “You’re a very observant man.”
“Hmm?” He was looking at her again, but mentally, he’d changed her neat, high-collared blouse and slim skirt for the provocative little robe.
“Most men wouldn’t notice unbalanced blusher.” She picked up a grease pencil to shadow her eyes.
“I notice everything when it comes to a woman.” There was still a light fog near the top of the mirror from the steam of her shower. Seeing it gave Carlo other, rather pleasant mental images. “What you’re doing now gives you a much different look.”
Relaxed again, she laughed. “That’s the idea.”
“But, no.” He stepped in closer so he could watch over her shoulder. The small, casual intimacy was as natural for him as it was uncomfortable for her. “Without the pots of paint, your face is younger, more vulnerable, but no less attractive than it is with them. Different…” Easily, he picked up her brush and ran it through her hair. “It’s not more, not less, simply different. I like both of your looks.”
It wasn’t easy to keep her hand steady. Juliet set down the eye-shadow and tried the coffee instead. Better to be cynical than be moved, she reminded herself and gave him a cool smile. “You seem right at home in the bathroom with a woman fixing her face.”
He liked the way her hair flowed as he brushed it. “I’ve done it so often.”
Her smile became cooler. “I’m sure.”
He caught the tone, but continued to brush as he met her eyes in the glass. “Take it as you like, cara, but remember, I grew up in a house with five women. Your powders and bottles hold no secrets from me.”
She’d forgotten that, perhaps because she’d chosen to forget anything about him that didn’t connect directly with the book. Yet now it made her wonder. Just what sort of insight did a man get into women when he’d been surrounded by them since childhood? Frowning a bit, she picked up her mascara.
“Were you a close family?”
“We are a close family,” he corrected. “My mother’s a widow who runs a successful dress shop in Rome.” It was typical of him not to mention that he’d bought it for her. “My four sisters all live within thirty kilometers. Perhaps I no longer share the bathroom with them, but little else changes.”
She thought about it. It sounded cozy and easy and rather sweet. Juliet didn’t believe she could relate at all. “Your mother must be proud of you.”
“She’d be prouder if I added to her growing horde of grandchildren.”
She smiled at that. It sounded more familiar. “I know what you mean.”
“You should leave your hair just like this,” he told her as he set down the brush. “You have a family?”
“My parents live in Pennsylvania.”
He struggled with geography a moment. “Ah, then you’ll visit them when we go to Philadelphia.”
“No.” The word was flat as she recapped the tube of mascara. “There won’t be time for that.”
“I see.” And he thought he was beginning to. “You have brothers, sisters?”
“A sister.” Because he was right about her hair, Juliet let it be and slipped out for her jacket. “She married a doctor and produced two children, one of each gender, before she was twenty-five.”
Oh yes, he was beginning to see well enough. Though the words had been easy, the muscles in her shoulders had been tight. “She makes an excellent doctor’s wife?”
“Carrie makes a perfect doctor’s wife.”
“Not all of us are meant for the same things.”
“I wasn’t.” She picked up her briefcase and her purse. “We’d better get going. They said it would take about fifteen minutes to drive to the studio.”
Strange, he thought, how people always believed their tender spots could go undetected. For now, he’d leave her with the illusion that hers had.
* * *
Because the directions were good and the traffic was light, Juliet drove the late model Chevy she’d rented with confidence. Carlo obliged by navigating because he enjoyed the poised, skilled way she handled the wheel.
“You haven’t lectured me on today’s schedule,” he pointed out. “Turn right here at this light.”
Juliet glanced in the mirror, switched lanes, then made the turn. She wasn’t yet sure what his reaction would be to the fact that there barely was one. “I’ve decided to give you a break,” she said brightly, knowing how some authors snarled and ranted when they had a dip in exposure. “You have this morning spot, then the autographing at World of Books downtown.”
He waited, expecting the list to go on. When he turned to her, his brow was lifted. “And?”
“That’s all.” She heard the apology in her voice as she stopped at a red light. “It happens sometimes, Carlo. Things just don’t come through. I knew it was going to be light here, but as it happens they’ve just started shooting a major film using Denver locations. Every reporter, every news team, every camera crew is covering it this afternoon. The bottom line is we got bumped.”
“Bumped? Do you mean there is no radio show, no lunch with a reporter, no dinner engagement?”
“No, I’m sorry. It’s just—”
“Fantastico!” Grabbing her face with both hands he kissed her hard. “I’ll find out the name of this movie and go to its premiere.”
The little knot of tension and guilt vanished. “Don’t take it so hard, Carlo.”
He felt as though he’d just been paroled. “Juliet, did you think I’d be upset? Dio, for a week it’s been nothing but go here, rush there.”
She spotted the TV tower and turned left. “You’ve been wonderful,” she told him. The best time to admit it, she decided, was when they only had two minutes to spare. “Not everyone I’ve toured with has been as considerate.”
She surprised him. He preferred it when a woman could do so. He twined a lock of the hair he’d brushed around his finger. “So, you’ve forgiven me for the basil?”
She smiled and had to stop herself from reaching up to touch the heart on her lapel. “I’d forgotten all about it.”
He kissed her cheek in a move so casual and friendly she didn’t object. “I believe you have. You’ve a kind heart, Juliet. Such things are beauty in themselves.”
He could soften her so effortlessly. She felt it, fought it and, for the moment, surrendered to it. In an impulsive, uncharacteristic move, she brushed the hair on his forehead. “Let’s go in. You’ve got to wake up Denver.”
* * *
Professionally, Juliet should’ve been cranky at the lack of obligations and exposure in Denver. It was going to leave a few very obvious blanks on her overall report. Personally, she was thrilled.
According to schedule, she was back in her room by eight. By 8:03, she’d stripped out of her suit and had crawled, naked and happy, into her still-rumpled bed. For exactly an hour she slept deeply, and without any dreams she could remember. By ten-thirty, she’d gone through her list of phone calls and an enormous breakfast. After freshening her makeup, she dressed in her suit then went downstairs to meet Carlo in the lobby.
It shouldn’t have surprised her that he was huddled in one of the cozy lounging areas with three women. It shouldn’t have irked her. Pretending it did neither, Juliet strolled over. It was then she noticed that all three women were built stupendously. That shouldn’t have surprised her, either.
“Ah, Juliet.” He smiled, all grace, all charm. She didn’t stop to wonder why she’d like to deck him. “Always prompt. Ladies.” He turned to bow to all three of them. “It’s been a pleasure.”
“Bye-bye, Carlo.” One of them sent him a look that could have melted lead. “Remember, if you’re ever in Tucson…”
“How could I forget?” Hooking his arm with Juliet’s, he strolled outside. “Juliet,” he murmured, “where is Tucson?”
“Don’t you ever quit?” she demanded.
“Quit what?”
“Collecting women.”
He lifted a brow as he pulled open the door on the driver’s side. “Juliet, one collects matchbooks, not women.”
“It would seem there are some who consider them on the same level.”
He blocked her way before she could slip inside. “Any who do are too stupid to matter.” He walked around the side of the car and opened his own door before she spoke again.
“Who were they anyhow?”
Soberly, Carlo adjusted the brim of the buff-colored fedora he wore. “Female bodybuilders. It seems they’re having a convention.”
A muffled laugh escaped before she could prevent it. “Figures.”
“Indeed yes, but such muscular ones.” His expression was still grave as he lowered himself into the car.
Juliet remained quiet a moment, then gave up and laughed out loud. Damn, she’d never had as much fun on tour with anyone. She might as well accept it. “Tucson’s in Arizona,” she told him with another laugh. “And it’s not on the itinerary.”
They would have been on time for the autographing if they hadn’t run into the detour. Traffic was clogged, rerouted and bad tempered as roads were blocked off for the film being shot. Juliet spent twenty minutes weaving, negotiating and cursing until she found she’d done no more than make a nice big circle.
“We’ve been here before,” Carlo said idly and received a glowering look.
“Oh, really?” Her sweet tone had an undertone of arsenic.
He merely shifted his legs into a less cramped position. “It’s an interesting city,” he commented. “I think perhaps if you turn right at the next corner, then left two corners beyond, we’ll find ourselves on the right track.”
Juliet meticulously smoothed her carefully written directions when she’d have preferred to crumple them into a ball. “The book clerk specifically said—”
“I’m sure she’s a lovely woman, but things seem a bit confused today.” It didn’t particularly bother him. The blast of a horn made her jolt. Amused, Carlo merely looked over. “As someone from New York City, you should be used to such things.”
Juliet set her teeth. “I never drive in the city.”
“I do. Trust me, innamorata.”
Not on your life, Juliet thought, but turned right. It took nearly ten minutes in the crawling traffic to manage the next two blocks, but when she turned left she found herself, as Carlo had said, on the right track. She waited, resigned, for him to gloat.
“Rome moves faster” was all he said.
How could she anticipate him? she wondered. He didn’t rage when you expected, didn’t gloat when it was natural. With a sigh, she gave up. “Anything moves faster.” She found herself in the right block, but parking space was at a premium. Weighing the ins and outs, Juliet swung over beside a car at the curb. “Look, Carlo, I’m going to have to drop you off. We’re already running behind. I’ll find a place to park and be back as soon as I can.”
“You’re the boss,” he said, still cheerful after forty-five minutes of teeth-grinding traffic.
“If I’m not there in an hour, send up a flare.”
“My money’s on you.”
Still cautious, she waited until she saw him swing into the bookstore before she fought her way into traffic again.
Twenty frustrating minutes later, Juliet walked into the dignified little bookstore herself. It was, she noted with a sinking stomach, too quiet and too empty. A clerk with a thin-striped tie and shined shoes greeted her.
“Good morning. May I help you?”
“I’m Juliet Trent, Mr. Franconi’s publicist.”
“Ah yes, right this way.” He glided across the carpet to a set of wide steps. “Mr. Franconi’s on the second level. It’s unfortunate that the traffic and confusion have discouraged people from coming out. Of course, we rarely do these things.” He gave her a smile and brushed a piece of lint from the sleeve of his dark blue jacket. “The last time was…let me see, in the fall. J. Jonathan Cooper was on tour. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. He wrote Metaphysical Force and You.”
Juliet bit back a sigh. When you hit dry ground, you just had to wait for the tide.
She spotted Carlo in a lovely little alcove on a curvy love seat. Beside him was a woman of about forty with a neat suit and pretty legs. Such things didn’t warrant even a raised brow. But to Juliet’s surprise, Carlo wasn’t busy charming her. Instead, he was listening intently to a young boy who sat across from him.
“I’ve worked in the kitchens there for the last three summers. I’m not allowed to actually prepare anything, but I can watch. At home, I cook whenever I can, but with school and the job, it’s mostly on weekends.”
“Why?”
The boy stopped in midstream and looked blank. “Why?”
“Why do you cook?” Carlo asked. He acknowledged Juliet with a nod, then gave his attention back to the boy.
“Because…” The boy looked at his mother, then back at Carlo. “Well, it’s important. I like to take things and put them together. You have to concentrate, you know, and be careful. But you can make something really terrific. It looks good and it smells good. It’s…I don’t know.” His voice lowered in embarrassment. “Satisfying, I guess.”
“Yes.” Pleased, Carlo smiled at him. “That’s a good answer.”
“I have both your other books,” the boy blurted out. “I’ve tried all your recipes. I even made your pasta al tre formaggi for this dinner party at my aunt’s.”
“And?”
“They liked it.” The boy grinned. “I mean they really liked it.”
“You want to study.”
“Oh yeah.” But the boy dropped his gaze to where his hands rubbed nervously over his knees. “Thing is we can’t really afford college right now, so I’m hoping to get some restaurant work.”
“In Denver?”
“Any place where I could start cooking instead of wiping up.”
“We’ve taken up enough of Mr. Franconi’s time.” The boy’s mother rose, noting there was now a handful of people milling around on the second level with Carlo’s books in hand. “I want to thank you.” She offered her hand to Carlo as he rose with her. “It meant a great deal to Steven to talk with you.”
“My pleasure.” Though he was gracious as always, he turned back to the boy. “Perhaps you’d give me your address. I know of some restaurant owners here in the States. Perhaps one of them needs an apprentice chef.”
Stunned, Steven could do nothing but stare. “You’re very kind.” His mother took out a small pad and wrote on it. Her hand was steady, but when she handed the paper to Carlo and looked at him, he saw the emotion. He thought of his own mother. He took the paper, then her hand.
“You have a fortunate son, Mrs. Hardesty.”
Thoughtful, Juliet watched them walk away, noting that Steven looked over his shoulder with the same, blank, baffled expression.
So he has a heart, Juliet decided, touched. A heart that wasn’t altogether reserved for amore. But she saw Carlo slip the paper into his pocket and wondered if that would be the end of it.
The autographing wasn’t a smashing success. Six books by Juliet’s count. That had been bad enough, but then there’d been The Incident.
Looking at the all but empty store, Juliet had considered hitting the streets with a sign on her back, then the homey little woman had come along bearing all three of Carlo’s books. Good for the ego, Juliet thought. That was before the woman had said something that caused Carlo’s eyes to chill and his voice to freeze. All Juliet heard was the name LaBare.
“I beg your pardon, Madame?” Carlo said in a tone Juliet had never heard from him. It could’ve sliced through steel.
“I said I keep all your books on a shelf in my kitchen, right next to André LaBare’s. I love to cook.”
“LaBare?” Carlo put his hand over his stack of books as a protective parent might over a threatened child. “You would dare put my work next to that—that peasant’s?”
Thinking fast, Juliet stepped up and broke into the conversation. If ever she’d seen a man ready to murder, it was Carlo. “Oh, I see you have all of Mr. Franconi’s books. You must love to cook.”
“Well, yes I—”
“Wait until you try some of his new recipes. I had the pasta con pesto myself. It’s wonderful.” Juliet started to take the woman’s books from under Carlo’s hand and met with resistance and a stubborn look. She gave him one of her own and jerked the books away. “Your family’s going to be just thrilled when you serve it,” Juliet went on, keeping her voice pleasant as she led the woman out of the line of fire. “And the fettuccine…”
“LaBare is a swine.” Carlo’s voice was very clear and reached the stairs. The woman glanced back nervously.
“Men.” Juliet made her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Such egos.”
“Yes.” Gathering up her books, the woman hurried down the stairs and out of the store. Juliet waited until she was out of earshot before she pounced on Carlo.
“How could you?”
“How could I?” He rose, and though he skimmed just under six feet, he looked enormous. “She would dare speak that name to me? She would dare associate the work of an artist with the work of a jackass? LaBare—”
“At the moment, I don’t give a damn who or what this LaBare is.” Juliet put a hand on his shoulder and shoved him back onto the love seat. “What I do care about is you scaring off the few customers we have. Now behave yourself.”
He sat where he was only because he admired the way she’d ordered him to. Fascinating woman, Carlo decided, finding it wiser to think of her than LaBare. It was wiser to think of flood and famine than of LaBare.
The afternoon had dragged on and on, except for the young boy, Carlo thought and touched the paper in his pocket. He’d call Summer in Philadelphia about young Steven Hardesty.
But other than Steven and the woman who upped his blood pressure by speaking of LaBare, Carlo had found himself perilously close to boredom. Something he considered worse than illness.
He needed some activity, a challenge—even a small one. He glanced over at Juliet as she spoke with a clerk. That was no small challenge. The one thing he’d yet to be in Juliet’s company was bored. She kept him interested. Sexually? Yes, that went without saying. Intellectually. That was a plus, a big one.
He understood women. It wasn’t a matter of pride, but to Carlo’s thinking, a matter of circumstance. He enjoyed women. As lovers, of course, but he also enjoyed them as companions, as friends, as associates. It was a rare thing when a man could find a woman to be all of those things. That’s what he wanted from Juliet. He hadn’t resolved it yet, only felt it. Convincing her to be his friend would be as challenging, and as rewarding, as it would be to convince her to be his lover.
No, he realized as he studied her profile. With this woman, a lover would come easier than a friend. He had two weeks left to accomplish both. With a smile, he decided to start the campaign in earnest.
Half an hour later, they were walking the three blocks to the parking garage Juliet had found.
“This time I drive,” he told Juliet as they stepped inside the echoing gray building. When she started to object, he held out his hand for the keys. “Come, my love, I’ve just survived two hours of boredom. Why should you have all the fun?”
“Since you put it that way.” She dropped the keys in his hand, relieved that whatever had set him off before was forgotten.
“So now we have a free evening.”
“That’s right.” With a sigh she leaned back in her seat and waited for him to start the engine.
“We’ll have dinner at seven. Tonight, I make the arrangements.”
A hamburger in her room, an old movie and bed. Juliet let the wish come and go. Her job was to pamper and entertain as much as possible. “Whatever you like.”
Carlo pulled out of the parking space with a squeal of tires that had Juliet bolting up. “I’ll hold you to that, cara.”
He zoomed out of the garage and turned right with hardly a pause. “Carlo—”
“We should have champagne to celebrate the end of our first week. You like champagne?”
“Yes, I—Carlo, the light’s changing.”
He breezed through the amber light, skimmed by the bumper of a battered compact and kept going. “Italian food. You have no objection?”
“No.” She gripped the door handle until her knuckles turned white. “That truck!”
“Yes, I see it.” He swerved around it, zipped through another light and cut a sharp right. “You have plans for the afternoon?”
Juliet pressed a hand to her throat, thinking she might be able to push out her voice. “I was thinking of making use of the hotel spa. If I live.”
“Good. Me, I think I’ll go shopping.”
Juliet’s teeth snapped together as he changed lanes in bumper-to-bumper traffic. “How do I notify next of kin?”
With a laugh, Carlo swung in front of their hotel. “Don’t worry, Juliet. Have your whirlpool and your sauna. Knock on my door at seven.”
She looked back toward the street. Pamper and entertain, she remembered. Did that include risking your life? Her supervisor would think so. “Maybe I should go with you.”
“No, I insist.” He leaned over, cupping her neck before she’d recovered enough to evade. “Enjoy,” he murmured lightly against her lips. “And think of me as your skin grows warm and your muscles grow lax.”
In self-defense, Juliet hurried out of the car. Before she could tell him to drive carefully, he was barreling back out into the street. She offered a prayer for Italian maniacs, then went inside.
By seven, she felt reborn. She’d sweated out fatigue in the sauna, shocked herself awake in the pool and splurged on a massage. Life, she thought as she splashed on her scent, had its good points after all. Tomorrow’s flight to Dallas would be soon enough to draft her Denver report. Such as it was. Tonight, all she had to worry about was eating. After pressing a hand to her stomach, Juliet admitted she was more than ready for that.
With a quick check, she approved the simple ivory dress with the high collar and tiny pearly buttons. Unless Carlo had picked a hot dog stand it would suit. Grabbing her evening bag, she slipped across the hall to knock on Carlo’s door. She only hoped he’d chosen some place close by. The last thing she wanted to do was fight Denver’s downtown traffic again.
The first thing she noticed when Carlo opened his door were the rolled up sleeves of his shirt. It was cotton, oversized and chic, but her eyes were drawn to the surprising cord of muscles in his forearms. The man did more than lift spoons and spatulas. The next thing she noticed was the erotic scents of spices and sauce.
“Lovely.” Carlo took both hands and drew her inside. She pleased him, the smooth, creamy skin, the light, subtle scent, but more, the confused hesitation in her eyes as she glanced over to where the aroma of food was strongest.
“An interesting cologne,” she managed after a moment. “But don’t you think you’ve gotten a bit carried away?”
“Innamorata, you don’t wear Franconi’s spaghetti sauce, you absorb it.” He kissed the back of her hand. “Anticipate it.” Then the other. “Savor it.” This time her palm.
A smart woman wasn’t aroused by a man who used such flamboyant tactics. Juliet told herself that as the chills raced up her arms and down again. “Spaghetti sauce?” Slipping her hands from his, she linked them behind her back.
“I found a wonderful shop. The spices pleased me very much. The burgundy was excellent. Italian, of course.”
“Of course.” Cautious, she stepped farther into the suite. “You spent the day cooking?”
“Yes. Though you should remind me to speak to the hotel owner about the quality of this stove. All in all, it went quite well.”
She told herself it wasn’t wise to encourage him when she had no intention of eating alone with him in his suite. Perhaps if she’d been made out of rock she could have resisted wandering toward the little kitchenette. Her mouth watered. “Oh, God.”
Delighted, Carlo slipped an arm around her waist and led her to the stove. The little kitchen itself was in shambles. She’d never seen so many pots and bowls and spoons jammed into a sink before. Counters were splattered and streaked. But the smells. It was heaven, pure and simple.
“The senses, Juliet. There’s not one of us who isn’t ruled by them. First, you smell, and you begin to imagine.” His fingers moved lightly over her waist. “Imagine. You can almost taste it on your tongue from that alone.”
“Hmm.” Knowing she was making a mistake, she watched him take the lid off the pot on the stove. The tang made her close her eyes and just breathe. “Oh, Carlo.”
“Then we look, and the imagination goes one step further.” His fingers squeezed lightly at her waist until she opened her eyes and looked into the pot. Thick, red, simmering, the sauce was chunky with meat, peppers and spice. Her stomach growled.
“Beautiful, yes?”
“Yes.” She wasn’t aware that her tongue slid out over her lips in anticipation. He was.
“And we hear.” Beside the sauce a pot of water began to boil. In an expert move, he measured pasta by sight and slid it in. “Some things are destined to be mated.” With a slotted spoon, he stirred gently. “Without each other, they are incomplete. But when merged…” he adjusted the flame, “a treasure. Pasta and the sauce. A man and a woman. Come, you’ll have some burgundy. The champagne’s for later.”
It was time to take a stand, even though she took it by the stove. “Carlo, I had no idea this was what you intended. I think—”
“I like surprises.” He handed her a glass half filled with dark, red wine. “And I wanted to cook for you.”
She wished he hadn’t put it quite that way. She wished his voice wasn’t so warm, so deep, like his eyes. Like the feelings he could urge out of her. “I appreciate that Carlo, it’s just that—”
“You had your sauna?”
“Yes, I did. Now—”
“It relaxed you. It shows.”
She sighed, sipping at the wine without thinking. “Yes.”
“This relaxes me. We eat together tonight.” He tapped his glass to hers. “Men and women have done so for centuries. It has become civilized.”
Her chin tilted. “You’re making fun of me.”
“Yes.” Ducking into the refrigerator, he pulled out a small tray. “First you’ll try my antipasto. Your palate should be prepared.”
Juliet chose a little chunk of zucchini. “I’d think you’d prefer being served in a restaurant.”
“Now and then. There are times I prefer privacy.” He set down the tray. As he did, she took a small step back. Interested, he lifted a brow. “Juliet, do I make you nervous?”
She swallowed zucchini. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Am I?” On impulse, he set his wine down as well and took another step toward her. Juliet found her back pressed into the refrigerator.
“Carlo—”
“No, shh. We experiment.” Gently, watching her, he brushed his lips over one cheek, then the other. He heard her breath catch then shudder out. Nerves—these he accepted. When a man and woman were attracted and close, there had to be nerves. Without them, passion was bland, like a sauce without spice.
But fear? Wasn’t that what he saw in her eyes? Just a trace of it, only briefly. Nerves he’d use, play on, exploit. Fear was something different. It disturbed him, blocked him and, at the same time, moved him.
“I won’t hurt you, Juliet.”
Her eyes were direct again, level, though her hand was balled into a fist. “Won’t you?”
He took her hand, slowly working it open. “No.” In that moment, he promised both of them. “I won’t. Now we’ll eat.”
Juliet held off the shudder until he’d turned around to stir and drain his pasta. Perhaps he wouldn’t hurt her, she thought and recklessly tossed back her wine. But she might hurt herself.
He didn’t fuss. He merely perfected. It occurred to Juliet, as she watched him put the last touches on the meal, that he was no different here in the little hotel kitchen than he’d been before the camera. Juliet added her help in the only way she’d have dared. She set the table.
Yes, it was a mistake, she told herself as she arranged plates. But no one but a fool would walk away from anything that smelled like that sauce. She wasn’t a fool. She could handle herself. The moment of weak fear she’d felt in the kitchen was past. She’d enjoy a take-your-shoes-off meal, drink two glasses of really excellent burgundy, then go across the hall and catch eight hours’ sleep. The merry-go-round would continue the next day.
She selected a marinated mushroom as Carlo brought in the platter of spaghetti. “Better,” he said when she smiled at him. “You’re ready to enjoy yourself.”
With a shrug, Juliet sat. “If one of the top chefs in the world wants to cook me dinner, why should I complain?”
“The top,” he corrected and gestured for her to serve herself. She did, barely conquering greed.
“Does it really relax you to stand in a kitchen?”
“It depends. Sometimes it relaxes, sometimes it excites. Always it pleases. No, don’t cut.” With a shake of his head, he reached over. “Americans. You roll it onto the fork.”
“It falls off when I do.”
“Like this.” With his hands on her wrists, he guided her. Her pulse was steady, he noted, but not slow. “Now.” Still holding her hand, he lifted the fork toward her mouth. “Taste.”
As she did, he had the satisfaction of watching her face. Spices exploded on her tongue. Heat seeped through, mellowing to warmth. She savored it, even as she thought of the next bite. “Oh, this is no little sin.”
Nothing could have delighted him more. With a laugh, he sat back and started on his own plate. “Small sins are only small pleasures. When Franconi cooks for you, food is not a basic necessity.”
She was already rolling the next forkful. “You win that one. Why aren’t you fat?”
“Prègo?”
“If I could cook like this…” She tasted again and sighed. “I’d look like one of your meatballs.”
With a chuckle, he watched her dig in. It pleased him to see someone he cared for enjoying what he’d created. After years of cooking, he’d never tired of it. “So, your mother didn’t teach you to cook?”
“She tried.” Juliet accepted a piece of the crusty bread he offered but set it aside as she rolled more spaghetti. First things first. “I never seemed to be very good at the things she wanted me to be good at. My sister plays the piano beautifully; I can barely remember the scales.”
“So, what did you want to do instead of taking piano lessons?”
“Play third base.” It came out so easily, it stunned her. Juliet had thought she’d buried that along with a dozen other childhood frustrations. “It just wasn’t done,” she said with a shrug. “My mother was determined to raise two well rounded ladies who would become two well rounded, successful wives. Win some, lose some.”
“You think she’s not proud of you?”
The question hit a target she hadn’t known was exposed. Juliet reached for her wine. “It’s not a matter of pride, but of disappointment, I suppose. I disappointed her; I confused my father. They still wonder what they did wrong.”
“What they did wrong was not to accept what you are.”
“Maybe,” she murmured. “Or maybe I was determined to be something they couldn’t accept. I’ve never worked it out.”
“Are you unhappy with your life?”
Surprised, she glanced up. Unhappy? Sometimes frustrated, harassed and pressured. But unhappy? “No. No, I’m not.”
“Then perhaps that’s your answer.”
Juliet took a moment to study him. He was more than gorgeous, more than sexy, more than all those qualities she’d once cynically attributed to him. “Carlo.” For the first time she reached out to touch him, just his hand, but he thought it a giant step. “You’re a very nice man.”
“But of course I am.” His fingers curled over hers because he couldn’t resist. “I could give you references.”
With a laugh, Juliet backed off. “I’m sure you could.” With concentration, dedication and just plain greed, she cleared off her plate.
“Time for dessert.”
“Carlo!” Moaning, Juliet pressed a hand to her stomach. “Please, don’t be cruel.”
“You’ll like it.” He was up and in the kitchen before she found the strength to refuse again. “It’s an old, old, Italian tradition. Back to the empire. American cheesecake is sometimes excellent, but this…” He brought out a small, lovely cake with cherries dripping lavishly over it.
“Carlo, I’ll die.”
“Just a taste with the champagne.” He popped the cork with an expert twist and poured two fresh glasses. “Go, sit on the sofa, be comfortable.”
As she did, Juliet realized why the Romans traditionally slept after a meal. She could’ve curled up in a happy little ball and been unconscious in moments. But the champagne was lively, insistent.
“Here.” He brought over one plate with a small slice. “We’ll share.”
“One bite,” she told him, prepared to stand firm. Then she tasted. Creamy, smooth, not quite sweet, more nutty. Exquisite. With a sigh of surrender, Juliet took another. “Carlo, you’re a magician.”
“Artist,” he corrected.
“Whatever you want.” Using all the willpower she had left, Juliet exchanged the cake for champagne. “I really can’t eat another bite.”
“Yes, I remember. You don’t believe in overindulgence.” But he filled her glass again.
“Maybe not.” She sipped, enjoying that rich, luxurious aura only champagne could give. “But now I’ve gotten a different perspective on indulgence.” Slipping out of her shoes, she laughed over the rim of her glass. “I’m converted.”
“You’re lovely.” The lights were low, the music soft, the scents lingering and rich. He thought of resisting. The fear that had been in her eyes demanded he think of it. But just now, she was relaxed, smiling. The desire he’d felt tug the moment he’d seen her had never completely gone away.
Senses were aroused, heightened, by a meal. That was something he understood perfectly. He also understood that a man and a woman should never ignore whatever pleasure they could give to each other.
So he didn’t resist, but took her face in his hands. There he could watch her eyes, feel her skin, nearly taste her. This time he saw desire, not fear but wariness. Perhaps she was ready for lesson two.
She could have refused. The need to do so went through her mind. But his hands were so strong, so gentle on her skin. She’d never been touched like that before. She knew how he’d kiss her and the sense of anticipation mixed with nerves. She knew, and wanted.
Wasn’t she a woman who knew her own mind? She took her hands to his wrists, but didn’t push away. Her fingers curled around and held as she touched her mouth to his. For a moment they stayed just so, allowing themselves to savor that first taste, that first sensation. Then slowly, mutually, they asked for more.
She seemed so small when he held her that a man could forget how strong and competent she was. He found himself wanting to treasure. Desire might burn, but when she was so pliant, so vulnerable, he found himself compelled to show only gentleness.
Had any man ever shown her such care? Juliet’s head began to swim as his hands moved into her hair. Was there another man so patient? His heart was pounding against hers. She could feel it, like something wild and desperate. But his mouth was so soft, his hands so gentle. As though they’d been lovers for years, she thought dimly. And had all the time left in the world to continue to love.
No hurry, no rush, no frenzy. Just pleasure. Her heart opened reluctantly, but it opened. He began to pour through. When the phone shrilled, he swore and she sighed. They’d both been prepared to take all the chances.
“Only a moment,” he murmured.
Still dreaming, she touched his cheek. “All right.”
As he went to answer, she leaned back, determined not to think.
“Cara!” The enthusiasm in his voice, and the endearment had her opening her eyes again. With a warm laugh, Carlo went into a stream of Italian. Juliet had no choice but to think.
Affection. Yes, it was in his voice. She didn’t have to understand the words. She looked around to see him smiling as he spoke to the woman on the other end. Resigned, Juliet picked up her champagne. It wasn’t easy for her to admit she’d been a fool. Or for her to admit she’d been hurt.
She knew who he was. What he was. She knew how many women he’d seduced. Perhaps she was a woman who knew her own mind, and perhaps she wanted him. But she would never be eased into a long line of others. Setting down the champagne, she rose.
“Sì, sì. I love you.”
Juliet turned away at the phrase I love you. How well it slid off his tongue, in any language. How little it meant, in any language.
“Interruptions. I’m sorry.”
Juliet turned back and gave him her uncompromising look. “Don’t be. The dinner was marvelous, Carlo, thank you. You should be ready to check out by eight.”
“A moment,” he murmured. Crossing over, he took her by the arms. “What’s this? You’re angry.”
“Of course not.” She tried to back away and failed. It was easy to forget just how strong he was. “Why should I be?”
“Reasons aren’t always necessary for a woman.”
Though he’d said it in a simple tone that offered no insult, her eyes narrowed. “The expert. Well, let me tell you something about this woman, Franconi. She doesn’t think much of a man who makes love to her one minute then pushes another lover in her face the next.”
He held up his hand as he struggled to follow her drift. “I’m not following you. Maybe my English is failing.”
“Your English is perfect,” she spit at him. “From what I just heard, so’s your Italian.”
“My…” His grin broke out. “The phone.”
“Yes. The phone. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
He let her get as far as the door. “Juliet, I admit I’m hopelessly enamored of the woman I was speaking to. She’s beautiful, intelligent, interesting and I’ve never met anyone quite like her.”
Furious, Juliet whirled around. “How marvelous.”
“I think so. It was my mother.”
She walked back to snatch up the purse she’d nearly forgotten. “I’d think a man of your experience and imagination could do better.”
“So I could.” He held her again, not so gently, not so patiently. “If it was necessary. I don’t make a habit to explain myself, and when I do, I don’t lie.”
She took a deep breath because she was abruptly certain she was hearing the truth. Either way, she’d been a fool. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business in any case.”
“No, it’s not.” He took her chin in his hand and held it. “I saw fear in your eyes before. It concerned me. Now I think it wasn’t me you were afraid of, but yourself.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“No, it’s not,” he said again. “You appeal to me, Juliet, in many ways, and I intend to take you to bed. But we’ll wait until you aren’t afraid.”
She wanted to rage at him. She wanted to weep. He saw both things clearly. “We have an early flight in the morning, Carlo.”
He let her go, but stood where he was for a long time after he’d heard her door shut across the hall.