CHAPTER ELEVEN
By twelve the next day, there was absolutely nothing left to be done. Carlo’s remote control demonstration on the proper way to prepare linguini had gone far beyond Juliet’s hopes for success. She’d stayed glued to the television, listening to Carlo’s voice beside her and through the speakers. When her supervisor called personally to congratulate her, Juliet knew she had a winner. Relaxed and satisfied, she lay back on the bed.
“Wonderful.” She folded her arms, crossed her ankles and grinned. “Absolutely wonderful.”
“Did you ever doubt it?”
Still grinning, she shot a look at Carlo as he finished off the last of both shares of the late breakfast they’d ordered. “Let’s just say I’m glad it’s over.”
“You worry too much, mi amore.” But he hadn’t seen her dig for her little roll of pills in three days. It pleased him enormously to know that he relaxed her so that she didn’t need them. “When it comes to Franconi’s linguini, you have always a success.”
“After this I’ll never doubt it. Now we have five hours before flight time. Five full, completely unscheduled hours.”
Rising he sat on the end of the bed and ran his fingers along the arch of her foot. She looked so lovely when she smiled, so lovely when she let her mind rest. “Such a bonus,” he murmured.
“It’s like a vacation.” With a sigh, she let herself enjoy the little tingles of pleasure.
“What would you like to do with our vacation of five full, unscheduled hours?”
She lifted a brow at him. “You really want to know?”
Slowly, he kissed each one of her toes. “Of course. The day is yours.” He brushed his lips over her ankle. “I’m at your service.”
Springing up, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, hard. “Let’s go shopping.”
Fifteen minutes later, Juliet strolled with Carlo through the first tower of the enormous circular shopping center attached to the hotel. People huddled around the maps of the complex, but she breezed around the curve and bypassed one. No maps, no schedules, no routes. Today, it didn’t matter where they went.
“Do you know,” she began, “with all the department stores, malls and cities we’ve been through, I haven’t had a chance to shop?”
“You don’t give yourself time.”
“Same thing. Oh, look.” She stopped at a window display and studied a long evening dress covered with tiny silver bangles.
“Very dashing,” Carlo decided.
“Dashing,” Juliet agreed. “If I were six inches taller it might not make me look like a scaled-down pillar. Shoes.” She pulled him along to the next shop.
In short order, Carlo discovered Juliet’s biggest weakness. The way to her heart wasn’t through food, nor was it paved with furs and diamonds. Jewelry displays barely earned her glance. Evening clothes brought a brief survey while day wear and sports clothes won mild interest. But shoes were something different. Within an hour, she’d studied, fondled and critiqued at least fifty pairs. She found a pair of sneakers at 30 percent off and bought them to add to an already substantial collection. Then with a careful maneuver to pick and choose, she weeded her selection down to three pair of heels, all Italian.
“You show excellent taste.” With the patience of a man accustomed to shopping expeditions, Carlo lounged in a chair and watched her vacillate between one pair then the other. Idly, he picked up one shoe and glanced at the signature inside. “He makes an elegant shoe and prefers my lasagna.”
Wide-eyed, Juliet pivoted on the thin heels. “You know him?”
“Of course. Once a week he eats in Franconi’s.”
“He’s my hero.” When Carlo gave her his lifted brow look, she laughed. “I know I can put on a pair of his shoes and go eight hours without needing emergency surgery. I’ll take all three,” she said on impulse, then sat down to exchange the heels for her newly bought sneakers.
“You make me surprised,” he commented. “So many shoes when you have only two feet. This is not my practical Juliet.”
“I’m entitled to a vice.” Juliet pushed the Velcro closed. “Besides, I’ve always known Italians make the best shoes.” She leaned closer to kiss his cheek. “Now I know they make the best…pasta.” Without a blink at the total, she charged the shoes and pocketed the receipt.
Swinging the bag between them, they wandered from tower to tower. A group of women strolled by, earning Carlo’s appreciation. Shopping during lunch hour, he gauged as he tossed an extra look over his shoulder. One had to admire the American workforce.
“You’ll strain your neck that way,” Juliet commented easily. She couldn’t help but be amused by his blatant pleasure in anything female. He merely grinned.
“It’s simply a matter of knowing just how far to go.”
Comfortable, Juliet enjoyed the feel of his fingers laced with hers. “I’d never argue with the expert.”
Carlo stopped once, intrigued by a choker in amethysts and diamonds. “This is lovely,” he decided. “My sister, Teresa, always preferred purple.”
Juliet leaned closer to the glass. The small, delicate jewels glimmered, hot and cold. “Who wouldn’t? It’s fabulous.”
“She has a baby in a few weeks,” he murmured, then nodded to the discreetly anxious clerk. “I’ll see this.”
“Of course, a lovely piece, isn’t it?” After taking it out of the locked case, he placed it reverently in Carlo’s hand. “The diamonds are all superior grade, naturally, and consist of one point three carat. The amethyst—”
“I’ll have it.”
Thrown off in the middle of his pitch, the clerk blinked. “Yes, sir, an excellent choice.” Trying not to show surprise, he took the credit card Carlo handed him along with the choker and moved farther down the counter.
“Carlo.” Juliet edged closer and lowered her voice. “You didn’t even ask the price.”
He merely patted her hand as he skimmed the other contents in the case. “My sister’s about to make me an uncle again,” he said simply. “The choker suits her. Now emeralds,” he began, “would be your stone.”
She glanced down at a pair of earrings with stones the color of dark, wet summer grass. The momentary longing was purely feminine and easily controlled. Shoes she could justify; emeralds, no. She shook her head and laughed at him. “I’ll just stick with pampering my feet.”
When Carlo had his present nicely boxed and his receipt in hand they wandered back out. “I love to shop,” Juliet confessed. “Sometimes I’ll spend an entire Saturday just roaming. It’s one of the things I like best about New York.”
“Then you’d love Rome.” He’d like to see her there, he discovered. By the fountains, laughing, strolling through the markets and cathedrals, dancing in the clubs that smelled of wine and humanity. He wanted to have her there, with him. Going back alone was going back to nothing. He brought her hand to his lips as he thought of it, holding it there until she paused, uncertain.
“Carlo?” People brushed by them, and as his look became more intense, she swallowed and repeated his name. This wasn’t the mild masculine appreciation she’d seen him send passing women, but something deep and dangerous. When a man looked at a woman this way, the woman was wise to run. But Juliet didn’t know if it were toward him or away.
He shook off the mood, warning himself to tread carefully with her, and himself. “If you came,” he said lightly, “I could introduce you to your hero. Enough of my lasagna and you’d have your shoes at cost.”
Relieved, she tucked her arm through his again. “You tempt me to start saving for the airfare immediately. Oh, Carlo, look at this!” Delighted, she stopped in front of a window and pointed. In the midst of the ornate display was a three-foot Indian elephant done in high-gloss ceramic. Its blanket was a kaleidoscope of gilt and glitter and color. Opulent and regal, its head was lifted, its trunk curled high. Juliet fell in love. “It’s wonderful, so unnecessarily ornate and totally useless.”
He could see it easily in his living room along with the other ornate and useless pieces he’d collected over the years. But he’d never have imagined Juliet’s taste running along the same path. “You surprise me again.”
A bit embarrassed, she moved her shoulders. “Oh, I know it’s awful, really, but I love things that don’t belong anywhere at all.”
“Then you must come to Rome and see my house.” At her puzzled look, he laughed. “The last piece I acquired is an owl, this high.” He demonstrated by holding out a palm. “It’s caught a small, unfortunate rodent in its talons.”
“Dreadful.” With something close to a giggle, she kissed him. “I’m sure I’d love it.”
“Perhaps you would at that,” he murmured. “In any case, I believe the elephant should have a good home.”
“You’re going to buy it?” Thrilled, she clasped his hand as they went inside. The shop smelled of sandalwood and carried the tinkle of glass from wind chimes set swaying by a fan. She left him to make arrangements for shipping while she poked around, toying with long strings of brass bells, alabaster lions and ornamental tea services.
All in all, Juliet mused, it had been the easiest, most relaxing day she’d had in weeks, maybe longer. She’d remember it, that she promised herself, when she was alone again and life wound down to schedules and the next demand.
Turning, she looked at Carlo as he said something to make the clerk laugh. She hadn’t thought there were men like him—secure, utterly masculine and yet sensitive to female moods and needs. Arrogant, he was certainly that, but generous as well. Passionate but gentle, vain but intelligent.
If she could have conjured up a man to fall in love with…oh no, Juliet warned herself with something like desperation. It wouldn’t be Carlo Franconi. Couldn’t be. He wasn’t a man for one woman, and she wasn’t a woman for any man. They both needed their freedom. To forget that would be to forget the plans she’d made and had been working toward for ten years. It was best to remember that Carlo was a ride on a carousel, and that the music only played so long.
She took a deep breath and waited for her own advice to sink in. It took longer than it should have. Determined, she smiled and walked to him. “Finished?”
“Our friend will be home soon, very soon after we are.”
“Then we’ll wish him bon voyage. We’d better start thinking airport ourselves.”
With his arm around her shoulders, they walked out. “You’ll give me our Philadelphia schedule on the plane.”
“You’re going to be a smash,” she told him. “Though you might want to try my brewer’s yeast before it’s done.”
* * *
“I can’t believe it.” At eight o’clock, Juliet dropped down into a chair outside customer service. Behind her, the conveyor belt of baggage was stopped. “The luggage went to Atlanta.”
“Not so hard to believe,” Carlo returned. He’d lost his luggage more times than he cared to remember. He gave his leather case a pat. His spatulas were safe. “So, when do we expect our underwear?”
“Maybe by ten tomorrow morning.” Disgusted, Juliet looked down at the jeans and T-shirt she’d worn on the flight. She carried her toiletries and a few odds and ends in her shoulder bag, but nothing remotely resembling a business suit. No matter, she decided. She’d be in the background. Then she took a look at Carlo.
He wore a short-sleeved sweatshirt with the word Sorbonne dashed across it, jeans white at the stress points and a pair of sneakers that weren’t nearly as new as hers. How the hell, she wondered, was he supposed to go on the air at 8:00 A.M. dressed like that?
“Carlo, we’ve got to get you some clothes.”
“I have clothes,” he reminded her, “in my bags.”
“You’re on Hello, Philadelphia in the morning at eight, from there we go directly to breakfast with reporters from the Herald and the Inquirer. At ten, when our bags may or may not be back, you’re on Midmorning Report. After that—”
“You’ve already given me the schedule, my love. What’s wrong with this?”
When he gestured toward what he wore, Juliet stood up. “Don’t be cute, Carlo. We’re heading for the closest department store.”
“Department store?” Carlo allowed himself to be pulled outside. “Franconi doesn’t wear department store.”
“This time you do. No time to be choosey. What’s in Philadelphia?” she muttered as she hailed a cab. “Wannamaker’s.” Holding the door open for him, she checked her watch. “We might just make it.”
They arrived a half hour before closing. Though he grumbled, Carlo let her drag him through the old, respected Philadelphia institution. Knowing time was against them, Juliet pushed through a rack of slacks. “What size?”
“Thirty-one, thirty-three,” he told her with his brow lifted. “Do I choose my own clothes?”
“Try this.” Juliet held out a pair of dun-colored pleated slacks.
“I prefer the buff,” he began.
“This is better for the camera. Now shirts.” Leaving him holding the hanger, she pounced on the next rack. “Size?”
“What do I know from American sizes?” he grumbled.
“This should be right.” She chose an elegant shade of salmon in a thin silk that Carlo was forced to admit he’d have looked twice at himself. “Go put these on while I look at the jackets.”
“It’s like shopping with your mother,” he said under his breath as he headed for the dressing rooms.
She found a belt, thin and supple with a fancy little buckle she knew he wouldn’t object to. After rejecting a half dozen jackets she came across one in linen with a casual, unstructured fit in a shade between cream and brown.
When Carlo stepped out, she thrust them at him, then stood back to take in the entire view. “It’s good,” she decided as he shrugged the jacket on. “Yes, it’s really good. The color of the shirt keeps the rest from being drab and the jacket keeps it just casual enough without being careless.”
“The day Franconi wears clothes off the rack—”
“Only Franconi could wear clothes off the rack and make them look custom-tailored.”
He stopped, meeting the laughter in her eyes. “You flatter me.”
“Whatever it takes.” Turning him around, she gave him a quick push toward the dressing room. “Strip it off, Franconi. I’ll get you some shorts.”
The look he sent her was cool, with very little patience. “There’s a limit, Juliet.”
“Don’t worry about a thing,” she said breezily. “The publisher’ll pick up the tab. Make it fast; we’ve got just enough time to buy your shoes.”
She signed the last receipt five minutes after the PA system announced closing. “You’re set.” Before he could do so himself, she bundled up his packages. “Now, if we can just get a cab to the hotel, we’re in business.”
“I wear your American shoes in protest.”
“I don’t blame you,” she said sincerely. “Emergency measures, caro.”
Foolishly, he was moved by the endearment. She’d never lowered her guard enough to use one before. Because of it, Carlo decided to be generous and forgive her for cracking the whip. “My mother would admire you.”
“Oh?” Distracted, Juliet stood at the curb and held out her hand for a cab. “Why?”
“She’s the only one who’s ever poked and prodded me through a store and picked out my clothes. She hasn’t done so in twenty years.”
“All publicists are mothers,” she told him and switched to her other arm. “We have to be.”
He leaned closer and caught her earlobe between his teeth. “I prefer you as a lover.”
A cab screeched to a halt at the curb. Juliet wondered if it was that which had stolen her breath. Steadying, she bundled Carlo and the packages inside. “For the next few days, I’ll be both.”
It was nearly ten before they checked into the Cocharan House. Carlo managed to say nothing about the separate rooms, but he made up his mind on the spot that she’d spend no time in her own. They had three days and most of that time would be eaten up with business. Not a moment that was left would be wasted.
He said nothing as they got into the elevator ahead of the bellman. As they rode up, he hummed to himself as Juliet chatted idly. At the door of his suite, he took her arm.
“Put all the bags in here, please,” he instructed the bellman. “Ms. Trent and I have some business to see to immediately. We’ll sort them out.” Before she could say a word, he took out several bills and tipped the bellman himself. She remained silent only until they were alone again.
“Carlo, just what do you think you’re doing? I told you before—”
“That you wanted a room of your own. You still have it,” he pointed out. “Two doors down. But you’re staying here, with me. Now, we’ll order a bottle of wine and relax.” He took the packages she still carried out of her hands and tossed them on a long, low sofa. “Would you prefer something light?”
“I’d prefer not to be hustled around.”
“So would I.” With a grin, he glanced over at his new clothes. “Emergency measures.”
Hopeless, she thought. He was hopeless. “Carlo, if you’d just try to understand—”
The knock on the door stopped her. She only muttered a little as he went to answer.
“Summer!” She heard the delight in his voice and turned to see him wrapped close with a stunning brunette.
“Carlo, I thought you’d be here an hour ago.”
The voice was exotic, hints of France, a slight touch of British discipline. As she stepped away from Carlo, Juliet saw elegance, flash and style all at once. She saw Carlo take the exquisite face in his hands, as he had so often with hers, and kiss the woman long and hard.
“Ah, my little puff pastry, you’re as beautiful as ever.”
“And you, Franconi, are as full of…” Summer broke off as she spotted the woman standing in the center of the room. She smiled, and though it was friendly enough, she didn’t attempt to hide the survey. “Hello. You must be Carlo’s publicist.”
“Juliet Trent.” Odd, Carlo felt as nervous as a boy introducing his first heartthrob to his mother. “This is Summer Cocharan, the finest pastry chef on either side of the Atlantic.”
Summer held out a hand as she crossed into the room. “He’s flattering me because he hopes I’ll fix him an éclair.”
“A dozen of them,” Carlo corrected. “Beautiful, isn’t she, Summer?”
While Juliet struggled for the proper thing to say, Summer smiled again. She’d heard something in Carlo’s voice she’d never expected to. “Yes, she is. Horrid to work with, isn’t he, Juliet?”
Juliet felt the laugh come easily. “Yes, he is.”
“But never dull.” Angling her head, she gave Carlo a quick, intimate look. Yes, there was something here other than business. About time, too. “By the way, Carlo, I should thank you for sending young Steven to me.”
Interested, Carlo set down his leather case. “He’s working out then?”
“Wonderfully.”
“The young boy who wanted to be a chef,” Juliet murmured and found herself incredibly moved. He hadn’t forgotten.
“Yes, did you meet him? He’s very dedicated,” Summer went on when Juliet nodded. “I think your idea of sending him to Paris for training will pay off. He’s going to be excellent.”
“Good.” Satisfied, Carlo patted her hand. “I’ll speak with his mother and make the arrangements.”
Brows knit, Juliet stared at him. “You’re going to send him to Paris?”
“It’s the only place to study cordon bleu properly.” Carlo gave a shrug as though the matter were everyday. “Then, when he’s fully trained, I’ll simply steal him away from Summer for my own restaurant.”
“Perhaps you will,” Summer smiled. “Then again, perhaps you won’t.”
He was going to pay for the education and training of a boy he’d met only once, Juliet thought, baffled. What sort of a man was it who could fuss for twenty minutes over the knot of his tie and give with such total generosity to a stranger? How foolish she’d been to think, even for a minute, that she really knew him.
“It’s very kind of you, Carlo,” she murmured after a moment.
He gave her an odd look, then shrugged it off. “Dues are meant to be paid, Juliet. I was young once and had only a mother to provide for me. Speaking of mothers,” he went on smoothly, changing the topic. “How is Monique?”
“Gloriously happy still,” Summer told him, and smiled thinking of her mother. “Keil was obviously the man she’d been looking for.” With a laugh, she turned back to Juliet. “I’m sorry, Carlo and I go back a long way.”
“Don’t be. Carlo tells me you and he were students together.”
“A hundred years ago, in Paris.”
“Now Summer’s married her big American. Where’s Blake, cara? Does he trust you with me?”
“Not for long.” Blake came through the open doorway, still elegant after a twelve-hour day. He was taller than Carlo, broader, but Juliet thought she recognized a similarity. Power, both sexual and intellectual.
“This is Juliet Trent,” Summer began. “She’s keeping Carlo in line on his American tour.”
“Not an easy job.” A waiter rolled in a bucket of champagne and glasses. Blake dismissed him with a nod. “Summer tells me your schedule in Philadelphia’s very tight.”
“She holds the whip,” Carlo told him with a gesture toward Juliet. But when his hand came down, it brushed her shoulder in a gesture of casual and unmistakable intimacy.
“I thought I might run over to the studio in the morning and watch your demonstration.” Summer accepted the glass of champagne from her husband. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you cook.”
“Good.” Carlo relaxed with the first sip of frosty wine. “Perhaps I’ll have time to give your kitchen an inspection. Summer came here to remodel and expand Blake’s kitchen, then stayed on because she’d grown attached to it.”
“Quite right.” Summer sent her husband an amused look. “In fact, I’ve grown so attached I’ve decided to expand again.”
“Yes?” Interested, Carlo lifted his brow. “Another Cocharan House?”
“Another Cocharan,” Summer corrected.
It took him a moment, but Juliet saw the moment the words had sunk in. Emotion she’d always expected from him, and it was there now, in his eyes as he set down his glass. “You’re having a child.”
“In the winter.” Summer smiled and stretched out her hand. “I haven’t figured out how I’m going to reach the stove for Christmas dinner.”
He took her hand and kissed it, then kissed her cheeks, one by one. “We’ve come a long way, cara mia.”
“A very long way.”
“Do you remember the merry-go-round?”
She remembered well her desperate flight to Rome to flee from Blake and her feelings. “You told me I was afraid to grab the brass ring, and so you made me try. I won’t forget it.”
He murmured something in Italian that made Summer’s eyes fill. “And I’ve always loved you. Now make a toast or something before I disgrace myself.”
“A toast.” Carlo picked up his glass and slipped his free arm around Juliet. “To the carousel that doesn’t end.”
Juliet lifted her glass and, sipping, let the champagne wash away the ache.
* * *
Cooking before the camera was something Summer understood well. She spent several hours a year doing just that while handling the management of the kitchen in the Philadelphia Cocharan House, satisfying her own select clients with a few trips a year if the price and the occasion were important enough, and, most important of all, learning to enjoy her marriage.
Though she’d often cooked with Carlo, in the kitchen of a palace, in the less expensive area of the flat she still kept in Paris and dozens of other places, she never tired of watching him in action. While she was said to create with the intensity of a brain surgeon, Carlo had the flair of an artist. She’d always admired his expansiveness, his ease of manner, and especially his theatrics.
When he’d put the finishing touches on the pasta dish he’d named, not immodestly, after himself, she applauded with the rest of the audience. But she’d hitched a ride to the studio with him and Juliet for more reason than to feed an old friend’s ego. If Summer knew anyone in the world as well as she did herself, it was Carlo. She’d often thought, in many ways, they’d risen from the same dough.
“Bravo, Franconi.” As the crew began to serve his dish to the audience, Summer went up to give him a formal kiss on the cheek.
“Yes.” He kissed her back. “I was magnificent.”
“Where’s Juliet?”
“On the phone.” Carlo rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Dio, that woman spends more time on the phone than a new bride spends in bed.”
Summer checked her watch. She’d noted Carlo’s schedule herself. “I don’t imagine she’ll be long. I know you’re having a late breakfast at the hotel with reporters.”
“You promised to make crêpes,” he reminded her, thinking unapologetically of his own pleasure.
“So I did. In return, do you think you could find a small, quiet room for the two of us?”
He grinned and wiggled his brows. “My love, when Franconi can’t oblige a lady with a quiet room, the world stops.”
“My thoughts exactly.” She hooked her arm through his and let him lead her down a corridor and into what turned out to be a storage room with an overhead light. “You’ve never lacked class, caro.”
“So.” He made himself comfortable on a stack of boxes. “Since I know you don’t want my body, superb as it is, what’s on your mind?”
“You, of course, chérie.”
“Of course.”
“I love you, Carlo.”
Her abrupt seriousness made him smile and take her hands. “And I you, always.”
“You remember, not so long ago when you came through Philadelphia on tour for another book?”
“You were wondering how to take the job redoing the American’s kitchen when you were attracted to him and determined not to be.”
“In love with him and determined not to be,” she corrected. “You gave me some good advice here, and when I visited you in Rome. I want to return the favor.”
“Advice?”
“Grab the brass ring, Carlo, and hold on to it.”
“Summer—”
“Who knows you better?” she interrupted.
He moved his shoulders. “No one.”
“I saw you were in love with her the moment I stepped into the room, the moment you said her name. We understand each other too well to pretend.”
He sat a moment, saying nothing. He’d been skirting around the word, and its consequences, very carefully for days. “Juliet is special,” he said slowly. “I’ve thought perhaps what I feel for her is different.”
“Thought?”
He let out a small sound and gave up. “Known. But the kind of love we’re speaking of leads to commitment, marriage, children.”
Instinctively Summer touched a hand to her stomach. Carlo would understand that she still had small fears. She didn’t have to speak of them. “Yes. You told me once, when I asked you why you’d never married, that no woman had made your heart tremble. Do you remember what you told me you’d do if you met her?”
“Run for a license and a priest.” Rising, he slipped his hands into the pockets of the slacks Juliet had selected for him. “Easy words before the heart trembles. I don’t want to lose her.” Once said, he sighed. “It’s never mattered before, but now it matters too much to make the wrong move. She’s elusive, Summer. There are times I hold her and feel part of her pull away. I understand her independence, her ambition, and even admire them.”
“I have Blake, but I still have my independence and my ambition.”
“Yes.” He smiled at her. “Do you know, she’s so like you. Stubborn.” When Summer lifted a brow, he grinned. “Hard in the head and so determined to be the best. Qualities I’ve always found strangely appealing in a beautiful woman.”
“Merci, mon cher ami,” Summer said dryly. “Then where’s your problem?”
“You’d trust me.”
She looked surprised, then moved her shoulders as though he’d said something foolish. “Of course.”
“She can’t—won’t,” Carlo corrected. “Juliet would find it easier to give me her body, even part of her heart than her trust. I need it, Summer, as much as I need what she’s already given me.”
Thoughtful, Summer leaned against a crate. “Does she love you?”
“I don’t know.” A difficult admission for a man who’d always thought he understood women so well. He smiled a little as he realized a man never fully understood the woman most important to him. With any other woman he’d have been confident he could guide and mold the emotions to his own preference. With Juliet, he was confident of nothing.
“There are times she seems very close and times she seems very detached. Until yesterday I hadn’t fully begun to know my own mind.”
“Which is?”
“I want her with me,” he said simply. “When I’m an old man sitting by the fountains watching the young girls, I’ll still want her with me.”
Summer moved over to put her hands on his shoulders. “Frightening, isn’t it?”
“Terrifying.” Yet somehow, he thought, easier now that he’d admitted it. “I’d always thought it would be easy. There’d be love, romance, marriage and children. How could I know the woman would be a stubborn American?”
Summer laughed and dropped her forehead to his. “No more than I could know the man would be a stubborn American. But he was right for me. Your Juliet is right for you.”
“So.” He kissed Summer’s temple. “How do I convince her?”
Summer frowned a moment, thinking. With a quick smile, she walked over to a corner. Picking up a broom, she held it out to him. “Sweep her off her feet.”
* * *
Juliet was close to panic when she spotted Carlo strolling down the corridor with Summer on his arm. They might’ve been taking in the afternoon sun on the Left Bank. The first wave of relief evaporated into annoyance. “Carlo, I’ve turned this place upside down looking for you.”
He merely smiled and touched a finger to her cheek. “You were on the phone.”
Telling herself not to swear, she dragged a hand through her hair. “Next time you wander off, leave a trail of bread crumbs. In the meantime, I’ve got a very cranky cab driver waiting outside.” As she pulled him along, she struggled to remember her manners. “Did you enjoy the show?” she asked Summer.
“I always enjoy watching Carlo cook. I only wish the two of you had more time in town. As it is, your timing’s very wise.”
“Yes?” Carlo pushed open the door and held it for both women.
“The French swine comes through next week.”
The door shut with the punch of a bullet. “LaBare?”
Juliet turned back. She’d heard him snarl that name before. “Carlo—”
He held up a hand, silencing any interruption. “What does the Gallic slug do here?”
“Precisely what you’ve done,” Summer returned. Tossing back her hair, she scowled at nothing. “He’s written another book.”
“Peasant. He’s fit to cook only for hyenas.”
“For rabid hyenas,” Summer corrected.
Seeing that both of her charges were firing up, Juliet took an arm of each. “I think we can talk in the cab.”
“He will not speak to you,” Carlo announced, ignoring Juliet. “I will dice him into very small pieces.”
Though she relished the image, Summer shook her head. “Don’t worry. I can handle him. Besides, Blake finds it amusing.”
Carlo made a sound like a snake. Juliet felt her nerves fraying. “Americans. Perhaps I’ll come back to Philadelphia and murder him.”
Trying her best, Juliet nudged him toward the cab. “Come now, Carlo, you know you don’t want to murder Blake.”
“LaBare,” he corrected with something close to an explosion.
“Who is LaBare?” Juliet demanded in exasperation.
“Swine,” Carlo answered.
“Pig,” Summer confirmed. “But I have plans of my own for him. He’s going to stay at the Cocharan House.” Summer spread her hands and examined her nails. “I’m going to prepare his meals personally.”
With a laugh, Carlo lifted her from the ground and kissed her. “Revenge, my love, is sweeter than even your meringue.” Satisfied, he set her down again. “We were students with this slug.” Carlo explained to Juliet. “His crimes are too numerous to mention.” With a snap, Carlo adjusted his jacket. “I refuse to be on the same continent as he.”
Running out of patience, Juliet glanced at the scowling cab driver. “You won’t be,” she reminded him. “You’ll be back in Italy when he’s here.”
Carlo brightened and nodded. “You’re right. Summer, you’ll call me and tell me how he fell on his face?”
“Naturally.”
“Then it’s settled.” His mood altered completely, he smiled and picked up the conversation as it ended before the mention of the Frenchman’s name. “Next time we come to Philadelphia,” Carlo promised. “You and I will make a meal for Blake and Juliet. My veal, your bombe. You haven’t sinned, Juliet, until you’ve tasted Summer’s bombe.”
There wouldn’t be a next time, Juliet knew, but she managed to smile. “I’ll look forward to it.”
Carlo paused as Juliet opened the door of the cab. “But tonight, we leave for New York.”
Summer smiled as she stepped inside. “Don’t forget to pack your broom.”
Juliet started to climb into the front seat. “Broom?”
Carlo took Summer’s hand in his and smiled. “An old French expression.”