CHAPTER TWELVE
New York hadn’t changed. Perhaps it was hotter than when Juliet had left it, but the traffic still pushed, the people still rushed and the noise still rang. As she stood at her window at the Harley, she absorbed it.
No, New York hadn’t changed, but she had.
Three weeks before, she’d looked out her office window at not so different a view. Her primary thought then had been the tour, to make a success of it. For herself, she admitted. She’d wanted the splash.
She realized she’d gotten it. At that moment, Carlo was in his suite, giving an interview to a reporter for the Times. She’d made a half-dozen excuses why she didn’t have time to sit in on it. He’d accepted her usual list of phone calls and details, but the truth had been, she’d needed to be alone.
Later, there’d be another reporter and a photographer from one of the top magazines on the stands. They had network coverage of his demonstration at Bloomingdale’s. The Italian Way had just climbed to number five on the bestsellers list. Her boss was ready to canonize her.
Juliet tried to remember when she’d ever been more miserable.
Time was running out. The next evening, Carlo would board a plane and she’d take the short cab ride back to her apartment. While she unpacked, he’d be thousands of miles above the Atlantic. She’d be thinking of him while he flirted with a flight attendant or a pretty seat companion. That was his way; she’d always known it.
It wasn’t possible to bask in success, to begin plans on her next assignment when she couldn’t see beyond the next twenty-four hours.
Wasn’t this exactly what she’d always promised herself wouldn’t happen? Hadn’t she always picked her way carefully through life so that she could keep everything in perfect focus? She’d made a career for herself from the ground up, and everything she had, she’d earned. She’d never considered it ungenerous not to share it, but simply practical. After all, Juliet had what she considered the perfect example before her of what happened when you let go the reins long enough to let someone else pick them up.
Her mother had blindly handed over control and had never guided her own life again. Her promising career in nursing had dwindled down to doctoring the scraped knees of her children. She’d sacrificed hunks of herself for a man who’d cared for her but could never be faithful. How close had she come to doing precisely the same thing?
If she was still certain of anything, Juliet was certain she couldn’t live that way. Exist, she thought, but not live.
So whether she wanted to or not, whether she thought she could or not, she had to think beyond the next twenty-four hours. Picking up her pad, she went to the phone. There were always calls to be made.
Before she could push the first button, Carlo strolled in. “I took your key,” he said before she could ask. “So I wouldn’t disturb you if you were napping. But I should’ve known.” He nodded toward the phone, then dropped into a chair. He looked so pleased with himself she had to smile.
“How’d the interview go?”
“Perfectly.” With a sigh, Carlo stretched out his legs. “The reporter had prepared my ravioli only last night. He thinks, correctly, that I’m a genius.”
She checked her watch. “Very good. You’ve another reporter on the way. If you can convince him you’re a genius—”
“He has only to be perceptive.”
She grinned, then on impulse rose and went to kneel in front of him. “Don’t change, Carlo.”
Leaning down, he caught her face in his hands. “What I am now, I’ll be tomorrow.”
Tomorrow he’d be gone. But she wouldn’t think of it. Juliet kissed him quickly then made herself draw away. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
Carlo glanced down at his casual linen shirt and trim black jeans. “Of course it’s what I’m wearing. If I wasn’t wearing this, I’d be wearing something else.”
“Hmm.” She studied him, trying to judge him with a camera’s eye. “Actually, I think it might be just right for this article. Something informal and relaxed for a magazine that’s generally starched collars and ties. It should be a unique angle.”
“Grazie,” he said dryly as he rose. “Now when do we talk about something other than reporters?”
“After you’ve earned it.”
“You’re a hard woman, Juliet.”
“Solid steel.” But she couldn’t resist putting her arms around him and proving otherwise. “After you’ve finished being a hit across the hall, we’ll head down to Bloomingdale’s.”
He nudged her closer, until their bodies fit. “And then?”
“Then you have drinks with your editor.”
He ran the tip of his tongue down her neck. “Then?”
“Then you have the evening free.”
“A late supper in my suite.” Their lips met, clung, then parted.
“It could be arranged.”
“Champagne?”
“You’re the star. Whatever you want.”
“You?”
She pressed her cheek against his. Tonight, this last night, there’d be no restriction. “Me.”
It was ten before they walked down the hall to his suite again. Juliet had long since lost the urge to eat, but her enthusiasm in the evening hadn’t waned.
“Carlo, it never ceases to amaze me how you perform. If you’d chosen show business, you’d have a wall full of Oscars.”
“Timing, innamorata. It all has to do with timing.”
“You had them eating your pasta out of your hand.”
“I found it difficult,” he confessed and stopped at the door to take her into his arms. “When I could think of nothing but coming back here tonight with you.”
“Then you do deserve an Oscar. Every woman in the audience was certain you were thinking only of her.”
“I did receive two interesting offers.”
Her brow lifted. “Oh, really?”
Hopeful, he nuzzled her chin. “Are you jealous?”
She linked her fingers behind his neck. “I’m here and they’re not.”
“Such arrogance. I believe I still have one of the phone numbers in my pocket.”
“Reach for it, Franconi, and I’ll break your wrist.”
He grinned at her. He liked the flare of aggression in a woman with skin the texture of rose petals. “Perhaps I’ll just get my key then.”
“A better idea.” Amused, Juliet stood back as he opened the door. She stepped inside and stared.
The room was filled with roses. Hundreds of them in every color she’d ever imagined flowed out of baskets, tangled out of vases, spilled out of bowls. The room smelled like an English garden on a summer afternoon.
“Carlo, where did you get all these?”
“I ordered them.”
She stopped as she leaned over to sniff at a bud. “Ordered them, for yourself?”
He plucked the bud out of its vase and handed it to her. “For you.”
Overwhelmed, she stared around the room. “For me?”
“You should always have flowers.” He kissed her wrist. “Roses suit Juliet best.”
A single rose, a hundred roses, there was no in between with Carlo. Again, he moved her unbearably. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You like them.”
“Like them? Yes, of course, I love them, but—”
“Then you have to say nothing. You promised to share a late supper and champagne.” Taking her hand, he led her across the room to the table already set by the wide uncurtained window. A magnum of champagne was chilling in a silver bucket, white tapers were waiting to be lit. Carlo lifted a cover to show delicately broiled lobster tails. It was, Juliet thought, the most beautiful spot in the world.
“How did you manage to have all this here, waiting?”
“I told room service to have it here at ten.” He pulled out her chair. “I, too, can keep a schedule, my love.” When he’d seated her, Carlo lit the candles, then dimmed the lights so that the silver glinted. At another touch, music flowed out toward her.
Juliet ran her fingertip down the slim white column of a candle then looked at him when he joined her. He drew the cork on the champagne. As it frothed to the lip, he filled two glasses.
He’d make their last night special, she thought. It was so like him. Sweet, generous, romantic. When they parted ways, they’d each have something memorable to take with them. No regrets, Juliet thought again and smiled at him.
“Thank you.”
“To happiness, Juliet. Yours and mine.”
She touched her glass to his, watching him as she sipped. “You know, some women might suspect a seduction when they’re dined with champagne and candlelight.”
“Yes. Do you?”
She laughed and sipped again. “I’m counting on it.”
God, she excited him, just watching her laugh, hearing her speak. He wondered if such a thing would mellow and settle after years of being together. How would it feel, he wondered, to wake comfortably every morning beside the woman you loved?
Sometimes, he thought, you would come together at dawn with mutual need and sleepy passion. Other times you would simply lie together, secure in the night’s warmth. He’d always considered marriage sacred, almost mysterious. Now he thought it would be an adventure—one he intended to share with no one but Juliet.
“This is wonderful.” Juliet let the buttery lobster dissolve on her tongue. “I’ve been completely spoiled.”
Carlo filled her glass again. “Spoiled. How?”
“This champagne’s a far cry from the little Reisling I splurge on from time to time. And the food.” She took another bite of lobster and closed her eyes. “In three weeks my entire attitude toward food has changed. I’m going to end up fat and penniless supporting my habit.”
“So, you’ve learned to relax and enjoy. Is it so bad?”
“If I continue to relax and enjoy I’m going to have to learn how to cook.”
“I said I’d teach you.”
“I managed the linguini,” she reminded him as she drew out the last bite.
“One lesson only. It takes many years to learn properly.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to make do with the little boxes that say complete meal inside.”
“Sacrilege, caro, now that your palate is educated.” He touched her fingers across the table. “Juliet, I still want to teach you.”
She felt her pulse skid, and though she concentrated, she couldn’t level it. She tried to smile. “You’ll have to write another cookbook. Next time you tour, you can show me how to make spaghetti.” Ramble, she told herself. When you rambled, you couldn’t think. “If you write one book a year, I should be able to handle it. When you come around this time next year, I could manage the next lesson. By then, maybe I’ll have my own firm and you can hire me. After three bestsellers, you should think about a personal publicist.”
“A personal publicist?” His fingers tightened on hers then released. “Perhaps you’re right.” He reached in his pocket and drew out an envelope. “I have something for you.”
Juliet recognized the airline folder and took it with a frown. “Is there trouble on your return flight? I thought I’d…” She trailed off when she saw her own name on a departing flight for Rome.
“Come with me, Juliet.” He waited until her gaze lifted to his. “Come home with me.”
More time, she thought as she gripped the ticket. He was offering her more time. And more pain. It was time she accepted there’d be pain. She waited until she was certain she could control her voice, and her words. “I can’t, Carlo. We both knew the tour would end.”
“The tour, yes. But not us.” He’d thought he’d feel confident, assured, even cheerful. He hadn’t counted on desperation. “I want you with me, Juliet.”
Very carefully, she set the ticket aside. It hurt, she discovered, to take her hand from it. “It’s impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible. We belong with each other.”
She had to deflect the words, somehow. She had to pretend they didn’t run deep inside her and swell until her heart was ready to burst. “Carlo, we both have obligations, and they’re thousands of miles apart. On Monday, we’ll both be back at work.”
“That isn’t something that must be,” he corrected. “It’s you and I who must be. If you need a few days to tidy your business here in New York, we’ll wait. Next week, the week after, we fly to Rome.”
“Tidy my business?” She rose and found her knees were shaking. “Do you hear what you’re saying?”
He did, and didn’t know what had happened to the words he’d planned. Demands were coming from him where he’d wanted to show her need and emotion. He was stumbling over himself where he’d always been surefooted. Even now, cursing himself, he couldn’t find solid ground.
“I’m saying I want you with me.” He stood and grabbed her arms. The candlelight flickered over two confused faces. “Schedules and plans mean nothing, don’t you see? I love you.”
She went stiff and cold, as though he’d slapped her. A hundred aches, a multitude of needs moved through her, and with them the knowledge that he’d said those words too many times to count to women he couldn’t even remember.
“You won’t use that on me, Carlo.” Her voice wasn’t strong, but he saw fury in her eyes. “I’ve stayed with you until now because you never insulted me with that.”
“Insult?” Astonished, then enraged, he shook her. “Insult you by loving you?”
“By using a phrase that comes much too easily to a man like you and doesn’t mean any more than the breath it takes to say it.”
His fingers loosened slowly until he’d dropped her arms. “After this, after what we’ve had together, you’d throw yesterdays at me? You didn’t come to me untouched, Juliet.”
“We both know there’s a difference. I hadn’t made my success as a lover a career.” She knew it was a filthy thing to say but thought only of defense. “I told you before how I felt about love, Carlo. I won’t have it churning up my life and pulling me away from every goal I’ve ever set. You—you hand me a ticket and say come to Rome, then expect me to run off with you for a fling, leaving my work and my life behind until we’ve had our fill.”
His eyes frosted. “I have knowledge of flings, Juliet, of where they begin and where they end. I was asking you to be my wife.”
Stunned, she took a step back, again as if he’d struck her. His wife? She felt panic bubble hot in her throat. “No.” It came out in a whisper, terrified. Juliet ran to the door and across the hall without looking back.
* * *
It took her three days before she’d gathered enough strength to go back to her office. It hadn’t been difficult to convince her supervisor she was ill and needed a replacement for the last day of Carlo’s tour. As it was, the first thing he told her when she returned to the office days later was that she belonged in bed.
She knew how she looked—pale, hollow-eyed. But she was determined to do as she’d once promised herself. Pick up the pieces and go on. She’d never do it huddled in her apartment staring at the walls.
“Deb, I want to start cleaning up the schedule for Lia Barrister’s tour in August.”
“You look like hell.”
Juliet glanced up from her desk, already cluttered with schedules to be photocopied. “Thanks.”
“If you want my advice, you’ll move your vacation by a few weeks and get out of town. You need some sun, Juliet.”
“I need a list of approved hotels in Albuquerque for the Barrister tour.”
With a shrug, Deb gave up. “You’ll have them. In the meantime, look over these clippings that just came in on Franconi.” Looking up, she noted that Juliet had knocked her container of paperclips on the floor. “Coordination’s the first thing to go.”
“Let’s have the clippings.”
“Well, there’s one I’m not sure how to deal with.” Deb slipped a clipping out of the folder and frowned at it. “It’s not one of ours, actually, but some French chef who’s just starting a tour.”
“LaBare?”
Impressed, Deb looked up. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
“Just a sick feeling.”
“Anyway, Franconi’s name was brought up in the interview because the reporter had done a feature on him. This LaBare made some—well, unpleasant comments.”
Taking the clipping, Juliet read what her assistant had highlighted. “Cooking for peasants by a peasant,” she read in a mumble. “Oil, starch and no substance…” There was more, but Juliet just lifted a brow. She hoped Summer’s plan of revenge went perfectly. “We’re better off ignoring this,” she decided, and dropped the clipping in the trash. “If we passed it on to Carlo, he might challenge LaBare to a duel.”
“Skewers at ten paces?”
Juliet merely sent her a cool look. “What else have you got?”
“There might be a problem with the Dallas feature,” she said as she gave Juliet a folder. “The reporter got carried away and listed ten of the recipes straight out of the book.”
Juliet’s head flew back. “Did you say ten?”
“Count ’em. I imagine Franconi’s going to blow when he sees them.”
Juliet flipped through the clippings until she came to it. The feature was enthusiastic and flattering. The timid Ms. Tribly had used the angle of preparing an entire meal from antipasto to dessert. Carlo’s recipes from The Italian Way were quoted verbatim. “What was she thinking of?” Juliet muttered. “She could’ve used one or two without making a ripple. But this…”
“Think Franconi’s going to kick up a storm?”
“I think our Ms. Tribly’s lucky she’s a few thousand miles away. You’d better get me legal. If he wants to sue, we’ll be better off having all the facts.”
After nearly two hours on the phone, Juliet felt almost normal. If there was a hollowness, she told herself it was a skipped lunch—and breakfast. If she tended to miss whole phrases that were recited to her, she told herself it was hard to keep up with legalese.
They could sue, or put Ms. Tribly’s neck in a sling, both of which would create a miserable mess when she had two other authors scheduled for Dallas that summer.
Carlo would have to be told, she reflected as she hung up. It wouldn’t be possible, or at least ethical, to crumple up the clipping and pretend it didn’t exist as she had with the one from LaBare. The problem was whether to let legal inform him, pass it off through his editor or bite the bullet and write him herself.
It wouldn’t hurt to write him, she told herself as she toyed with her pen. She’d made her decision, said her piece and stepped off the carousel. They were both adults, both professionals. Dictating his name on a letter couldn’t cause her any pain.
Thinking his name caused her pain.
Swearing, Juliet rose and paced to the window. He hadn’t meant it. As she had consistently for days, Juliet went over and over their last evening together.
It was all romance to him. Just flowers and candlelight. He could get carried away with the moment and not suffer any consequences. I love you—such a simple phrase. Careless and calculating. He hadn’t meant it the way it had to be meant.
Marriage? It was absurd. He’d slipped and slid his way out of marriage all of his adult life. He’d known exactly how she’d felt about it. That’s why he’d said it, Juliet decided. He’d known it was safe and she’d never agree. She couldn’t even think about marriage for years. There was her firm to think of. Her goals, her obligations.
Why couldn’t she forget the way he’d made her laugh, the way he’d made her burn? Memories, sensations didn’t fade even a little with the days that had passed. Somehow they gained in intensity, haunted her. Taunted her. Sometimes—too often—she’d remember just the way he’d looked as he’d taken her face in his hand.
She touched the little heart of gold and diamonds she hadn’t been able to make herself put away. More time, she told herself. She just needed more time. Perhaps she’d have legal contact him after all.
“Juliet?”
Turning from the window, Juliet saw her assistant at the door. “Yes?”
“I rang you twice.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There’s a delivery for you. Do you want them to bring it in here?”
An odd question, Juliet thought and returned to her desk. “Of course.”
Deb opened the door wider. “In here.”
A uniformed man wheeled a dolly into the room. Confused, Juliet stared at the wooden crate nearly as big as her desk. “Where do you want this, Miss?”
“Ah—there. There’s fine.”
With an expert move, he drew the dolly free. “Just sign here.” He held out a clipboard as Juliet continued to stare at the crate. “Have a nice day.”
“Oh—yes, thank you.” She was still staring at it when Deb came back in with a small crowbar.
“What’d you order?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, open it.” Impatient, Deb handed her the crowbar. “I’m dying.”
“I can’t think what it might be.” Slipping the crowbar under the lid, Juliet began to pry. “Unless my mother sent on my grandmother’s china like she’s been threatening for the last couple of years.”
“This is big enough to hold a set for an army.”
“Probably all packing,” Juliet muttered as she put her back into it. When the lid came off, she began to push at the heaps of Styrofoam.
“Does your grandmother’s china have a trunk?”
“A what?”
“A trunk.” Unable to wait, Deb shoved through the styrofoam herself. “Good God, Juliet, it looks like an elephant.”
Juliet saw the first foolish glitter and stopped thinking. “Help me get it out.”
Between the two of them, they managed to lift the big, bulky piece of ceramic out of the crate and onto her desk. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen,” Deb said when she caught her breath. “It’s ugly, ostentatious and ridiculous.”
“Yes,” Juliet murmured, “I know.”
“What kind of madman would send you an elephant?”
“Only one kind,” Juliet said to herself and ran her hand lovingly down the trunk.
“My two-year-old could ride on it,” Deb commented and spotted the card that had come out with the packing. “Here you are. Now you’ll know who to press charges against.”
She wouldn’t take the card. Juliet told herself she wouldn’t look at it. She’d simply pack the elephant back up and ship it away. No sensible woman became emotional about a useless piece of glass three feet high.
She took the card and ripped it open.
Don’t forget.
* * *
She started to laugh. As the first tears fell, Deb stood beside her without a clue. “Juliet—are you all right?”
“No.” She pressed her cheek against the elephant and kept laughing. “I’ve just lost my mind.”
* * *
When she arrived in Rome, Juliet knew it was too late for sanity. She carried one bag which she’d packed in a frenzy. If it’d been lost en route, she wouldn’t have been able to identify the contents. Practicality? She’d left it behind in New York. What happened next would determine whether she returned for it.
She gave the cab driver Carlo’s address and settled back for her first whirlwind ride through Rome. Perhaps she’d see it all before she went home. Perhaps she was home. Decisions had to be made, but she hoped she wouldn’t make them alone.
She saw the fountains Carlo had spoken of. They rose and fell, never ending and full of dreams. On impulse she made the driver stop and wait while she dashed over to one she couldn’t even name. With a wish, she flung in a coin. She watched it hit and fall to join thousands of other wishes. Some came true, she told herself. That gave her hope.
When the driver barreled up to the curb and jerked to a halt she began to fumble with bills. He took pity on her and counted out the fare himself. Because she was young and in love, he added only a moderate tip.
Not daring to let herself stop her forward progress, Juliet ran up to the door and knocked. The dozens of things she wanted to say, had planned to say, jumbled in her mind until she knew she’d never be able to guarantee what would come out first. But when the door opened, she was ready.
The woman was lovely, dark, curvy and young. Juliet felt the impetus slip away from her as she stared. So soon, was all she could think. He already had another woman in his home. For a moment, she thought only to turn and walk away as quickly as she could. Then her shoulders straightened and she met the other woman’s eyes straight on.
“I’ve come to see Carlo.”
The other woman hesitated only a moment, then smiled beautifully. “You’re English.”
Juliet inclined her head. She hadn’t come so far, risked so much to turn tail and run. “American.”
“Come in. I’m Angelina Tuchina.”
“Juliet Trent.”
The moment she offered her hand, it was gripped. “Ah, yes, Carlo spoke of you.”
Juliet nearly laughed. “How like him.”
“But he never said you would visit. Come this way. We’re just having some tea. I missed him when he was in America, you see, so I’ve kept him home from the restaurant today to catch up.”
It amazed her that she could find it amusing. It ran through her mind that Angelina, and many others, were going to be disappointed from now on. The only woman who was going to catch up with Carlo was herself.
When she stepped into the salon, amusement became surprise. Carlo sat in a high-backed satin chair, having an intense conversation with another female. This one sat on his lap and was no more than five.
“Carlo, you have company.”
He glanced up, and the smile he’d used to charm the child on his lap vanished. So did every coherent thought in his mind. “Juliet.”
“Here, let me take this.” Angelina slipped Juliet’s bag from her hand while she gave Carlo a speculative look. She’d never seen him dazed by a woman before. “Rosa, come say good morning to Signorina Trent. Rosa is my daughter.”
Rosa slipped off Carlo’s lap and, staring all the way, came to Juliet. “Good morning, Signorina Trent.” Pleased with her English, she turned to her mother with a spate of Italian.
With a laugh, Angelina picked her up. “She says you have green eyes like the princess Carlo told her of. Carlo, aren’t you going to ask Miss Trent to sit down?” With a sigh, Angelina indicated a chair. “Please, be comfortable. You must forgive my brother, Miss Trent. Sometimes he loses himself in the stories he tells Rosa.”
Brother? Juliet looked at Angelina and saw Carlo’s warm, dark eyes. Over the quick elation, she wondered how many different ways you could feel like a fool.
“We must be on our way.” Angelina walked over to kiss her still silent brother’s cheek. As she did, she was already planning to drop by her mother’s shop and relate the story of the American who’d made Carlo lose his voice. “I hope we meet again while you’re in Rome, Miss Trent.”
“Thank you.” Juliet took her hand and met the smile, and all its implications, with an acknowledging nod. “I’m sure we will.”
“We’ll let ourselves out, Carlo. Ciao.”
He was still silent as Juliet began to wander around the room, stopping here to admire this, there to study that. Art of every culture was represented at its most opulent. It should’ve been overwhelming, museumlike. Instead it was friendly and lighthearted, just a bit vain and utterly suited to him.
“You told me I’d like your home,” she said at length. “I do.”
He managed to rise but not to go to her. He’d left part of himself back in New York, but he still had his pride. “You said you wouldn’t come.”
She moved one shoulder and decided it was best not to throw herself at his feet as she’d intended. “You know women, Franconi. They change their minds. You know me.” She turned then and managed to face him. “I like to keep business in order.”
“Business?”
Grateful she’d had the foresight, Juliet reached in her purse and drew out the Dallas clipping. “This is something you’ll want to look over.”
When she came no farther, he was forced to go over and take it from her. Her scent was there, as always. It reminded him of too much, too quickly. His voice was flat and brisk as he looked at her. “You came to Rome to bring me a piece of paper?”
“Perhaps you’d better look at it before we discuss anything else.”
He kept his eyes on hers for a long, silent minute before he lowered them to the paper. “So, more clippings,” he began, then stopped. “What’s this?”
She felt her lips curve at the change of tone. “What I thought you’d want to see.”
She thought she understood the names he called the unfortunate Ms. Tribly though they were all in fast, furious Italian. He said something about a knife in the back, balled the clipping up and heaved it in a scrubbed hearth across the room. Juliet noted, as a matter of interest, that his aim was perfect.
“What does she try to do?” he demanded.
“Her job. A bit too enthusiastically.”
“Job? Is it her job to quote all my recipes? And wrong!” Incensed, he whirled around the room. “She has too much oregano in my veal.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t notice,” Juliet murmured. “In any case, you’re entitled to retribution.”
“Retribution.” He relished the word and made a circle of his hands. “I’ll fly to Dallas and squeeze my retribution from her skinny throat.”
“There’s that, of course.” Juliet pressed her lips together to keep the laughter in. How had she ever thought she’d convince herself she could do without him? “Or a legal suit. I’ve given it a lot of thought, however, and feel the best way might be a very firm letter of disapproval.”
“Disapproval?” He spun back to her. “Do you simply disapprove of murder in your country? She overspiced my veal.”
After clearing her throat, Juliet managed to soothe. “I understand, Carlo, but I believe it was an honest mistake all around. If you remember the interview, she was nervous and insecure. It appears to be you just overwhelmed her.”
Muttering something nasty, he stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’ll write to her myself.”
“That might be just the right touch—if you let legal take a look at it first.”
He scowled, then looked at her carefully from head to foot. She hadn’t changed. He’d known she wouldn’t. Somehow that fact comforted and distressed all at once. “You came to Rome to discuss lawsuits with me?”
She took her life in her hands. “I came to Rome,” she said simply.
He wasn’t sure he could go any closer without having to touch, and touching, take. The hurt hadn’t faded. He wasn’t certain it ever would. “Why?”
“Because I didn’t forget.” Since he wouldn’t come to her, she went to him. “Because I couldn’t forget, Carlo. You asked me to come and I was afraid. You said you loved me and I didn’t believe you.”
He curled his fingers to keep them still. “And now?”
“Now I’m still afraid. The moment I was alone, the moment I knew you’d gone, I had to stop pretending. Even when I had to admit I was in love with you, I thought I could work around it. I thought I had to work around it.”
“Juliet.” He reached for her, but she stepped back quickly.
“I think you’d better wait until I finish. Please,” she added when he only came closer.
“Then finish quickly. I need to hold you.”
“Oh, Carlo.” She closed her eyes and tried to hang on. “I want to believe I can have a life with you without giving up what I am, what I need to be. But you see, I love you so much I’m afraid I’d give up everything the moment you asked me.”
“Dio, what a woman!” Because she wasn’t certain if it was a compliment or an insult, Juliet remained silent as he took a quick turn around the room. “Don’t you understand that I love you too much to ask? If you weren’t who you are, I wouldn’t be in love with you? If I love Juliet Trent, why would I want to change her into that Juliet Trent?”
“I don’t know, Carlo. I just—”
“I was clumsy.” When she lifted her hands, he caught them in his to quiet her. “The night I asked you to marry me, I was clumsy. There were things I wanted to say, ways I’d wanted to say them, but it was too important. What comes easily with every woman becomes impossible with the only woman.”
“I didn’t think you’d meant—”
“No.” Before she could resist, he’d brought her hands to his lips. “I’ve thought back on what I said to you. You thought I was asking you to give up your job, your home, and come to Rome to live with me. I was asking less, and much more. I should have said—Juliet, you’ve become my life and without you, I’m only half of what I was. Share with me.”
“Carlo, I want to.” She shook her head and went into his arms. “I want to. I can start over, learn Italian. There must be a publisher in Rome who could use an American.”
Drawing her back by the shoulders, he stared at her. “What are you talking about, starting over? You’re starting your own firm. You told me.”
“It doesn’t matter. I can—”
“No.” He took her more firmly. “It matters a great deal, to both of us. So you’ll have your own firm one day in New York. Who knows better than I how successful you’ll be? I can have a wife to brag about as much as I brag about myself.”
“But you have your restaurant here.”
“Yes. I think perhaps you’d consider having a branch of your public relations company in Rome. Learning Italian is an excellent decision. I’ll teach you myself. Who better?”
“I don’t understand you. How can we share our lives if I’m in New York and you’re in Rome?”
He kissed her because it had been much too long. He drew her closer because she was willing to give something he’d never have asked. “I never told you my plans that night. I’ve been considering opening another restaurant. Franconi’s in Rome is, of course, the best. Incomparable.”
She found his mouth again, dismissing any plans but that. “Of course.”
“So, a Franconi’s in New York would be twice the best.”
“In New York?” She tilted her head back just enough to see him. “You’re thinking of opening a restaurant in New York?”
“My lawyers are already looking for the right property. You see, Juliet, you wouldn’t have escaped me for long.”
“You were coming back.”
“Once I could be certain I wouldn’t murder you. We have our roots in two countries. We have our business in two countries. We’ll have our lives in two countries.”
Things were so simple. She’d forgotten his unending generosity. Now she remembered everything they’d already shared, thought of everything they’d yet to share. She blinked at tears. “I should’ve trusted you.”
“And yourself, Juliet.” He framed her face until his fingers slid into her hair. “Dio, how I’ve missed you. I want my ring on your finger, and yours on mine.”
“How long does it take to get a license in Rome?”
Grinning, he whirled her in his arms. “I have connections. By the end of the week you’ll be—what is it?—stuck with me.”
“And you with me. Take me to bed, Carlo.” She pressed against him, knowing she had to get still closer. “I want you to show me again what the rest of our lives will be like.”
“I’ve thought of you, here, with me.” He pressed his lips against her temple as he remembered the words she’d hurled at him on that last night. “Juliet.” Troubled, he drew away, touching only her hands. “You know what I am, how I’ve lived. I can’t take it back, nor would I if I could. There’ve been other women in my bed.”
“Carlo.” Her fingers tightened on his. “Perhaps I said foolish things once, but I’m not a fool. I don’t want to be the first woman in your bed. I want to be the last. The only.”
“Juliet, mi amore, from this moment there is only you.”
She pressed his hand to her cheek. “Can you hear it?”
“What?”
“The carousel.” Smiling, she held out her arms. “It’s never stopped.”
* * * * *