by Nora Roberts
Gucci, she observed. So he had taste as well as money. Juliet handed the stubs to a skycap and waited while Carlo’s luggage was loaded onto the pushcart. “I think you’ll be pleased with what we have for you, Mr. Franconi.” She walked through the automatic doors and signaled for her limo. “I know you’ve always worked with Jim Collins in the past on your tours in the States; he sends his best.”
“Does Jim like his executive position?”
“Apparently.”
Though Carlo expected her to climb into the limo first, she stepped back. With a bow to women professionals, Carlo ducked inside and took his seat. “Do you like yours, Ms. Trent?”
She took the seat across from him then sent him a straight-shooting, level look. Juliet could have no idea how much he admired it. “Yes, I do.”
Carlo stretched out his legs—legs his mother had once said that had refused to stop growing long after it was necessary. He’d have preferred driving himself, particularly after the long, long flight from Rome where someone else had been at the controls. But if he couldn’t, the plush laziness of the limo was the next best thing. Reaching over, he switched on the stereo so that Mozart poured out, quiet but vibrant. If he’d been driving, it would’ve been rock, loud and rambunctious.
“You’ve read my book, Ms. Trent?”
“Yes, of course. I couldn’t set up publicity and promotion for an unknown product.” She sat back. It was easy to do her job when she could speak the simple truth. “I was impressed with the attention to detail and the clear directions. It seemed a very friendly book, rather than simply a kitchen tool.”
“Hmm.” He noticed her stockings were very pale pink and had a tiny line of dots up one side. It would interest his mother that the practical American businesswoman could enjoy the frivolous. It interested him that Juliet Trent could. “Have you tried any of the recipes?”
“No, I don’t cook.”
“You don’t…” His lazy interest came to attention. “At all?”
She had to smile. He looked so sincerely shocked.
As he watched the perfect mouth curve, he had to put the next tug of desire in check.
“When you’re a failure at something, Mr. Franconi, you leave it to someone else.”
“I could teach you.” The idea intrigued him. He never offered his expertise lightly.
“To cook?” She laughed, relaxing enough to let her heel slip out of her shoe as she swung her foot. “I don’t think so.”
“I’m an excellent teacher,” he said with a slow smile.
Again, she gave him the calm, gunslinger look. “I don’t doubt it. I, on the other hand, am a poor student.”
“Your age?” When her look narrowed, he smiled charmingly. “A rude question when a woman’s reached a certain stage. You haven’t.”
“Twenty-eight,” she said so coolly his smile became a grin.
“You look younger, but your eyes are older. I’d find it a pleasure to give you a few lessons, Ms. Trent.”
She believed him. She, too, understood nuances. “A pity our schedule won’t permit it.”
He shrugged easily and glanced out the window. But the L.A. freeway didn’t interest him. “You put Philadelphia in the schedule as I requested?”
“We’ll have a full day there before we fly up to Boston. Then we’ll finish up in New York.”
“Good. I have a friend there. I haven’t seen her in nearly a year.”
Juliet was certain he had—friends—everywhere.
“You’ve been to Los Angeles before?” he asked her.
“Yes. Several times on business.”
“I’ve yet to come here for pleasure myself. What do you think of it?”
As he had, she glanced out the window without interest. “I prefer New York.”
“Why?”
“More grit, less gloss.”
He liked her answer, and her phrasing. Because of it, he studied her more closely. “Have you ever been to Rome?”
“No.” He thought he heard just a trace of wistfulness in her voice. “I haven’t been to Europe at all.”
“When you do, come to Rome. It was built on grit.”
Her mind drifted a bit as she thought of it, and her smile remained. “I think of fountains and marble and cathedrals.”
“You’ll find them—and more.” She had a face exquisite enough to be carved in marble, he thought. A voice quiet and smooth enough for cathedrals. “Rome rose and fell and clawed its way back up again. An intelligent woman understands such things. A romantic woman understands the fountains.”
She glanced out again as the limo pulled up in front of the hotel. “I’m afraid I’m not very romantic.”
“A woman named Juliet hasn’t a choice.”
“My mother’s selection,” she pointed out. “Not mine.”
“You don’t look for Romeo?”
Juliet gathered her briefcase. “No, Mr. Franconi. I don’t.”
He stepped out ahead of her and offered his hand. When Juliet stood on the curb, he didn’t move back to give her room. Instead, he experimented with the sensation of bodies brushing, lightly, even politely on a public street. Her gaze came up to his, not wary but direct.
He felt it, the pull. Not the tug that was impersonal and for any woman, but the pull that went straight to the gut and was for one woman. So he’d have to taste her mouth. After all, he was a man compelled to judge a great deal by taste. But he could also bide his time. Some creations took a long time and had complicated preparations to perfect. Like Juliet, he insisted on perfection.
“Some women,” he murmured, “never need to look, only to evade and avoid and select.”
“Some women,” she said just as quietly, “choose not to select at all.” Deliberately, she turned her back on him to pay off the driver. “I’ve already checked you in, Mr. Franconi,” she said over her shoulder as she handed his key to the waiting bellboy. “I’m just across the hall from your suite.”
Without looking at him, Juliet followed the bellboy into the hotel and to the elevators. “If it suits you, I’ll make reservations here in the hotel for dinner at seven. You can just tap on my door when you’re ready.” With a quick check of her watch she calculated the time difference and figured she could make three calls to New York and one to Dallas before office hours were over farther east. “If you need anything, you’ve only to order it and charge it to the room.”
She stepped from the elevator, unzipping her purse and pulling out her own room key as she walked. “I’m sure you’ll find your suite suitable.”
He watched her brisk, economic movements. “I’m sure I will.”
“Seven o’clock then.” She was already pushing her key into the lock as the bellboy opened the first door to the suite across the hall. As she did, her mind was already on the calls she’d make the moment she’d shed her jacket and shoes.
“Juliet.”
She paused, her hair swinging back as she looked over her shoulder at Carlo. He held her there, a moment longer, in silence. “Don’t change your scent,” he murmured. “Sex without flowers, femininity without vulnerability. It suits you.”
While she continued to stare over her shoulder, he disappeared inside the suite. The bellboy began his polite introductions to the accommodations of the suite. Something Carlo said caused him to break off and laugh.
Juliet turned her key with more strength than necessary, pushed open her door, then closed it again with the length of her body. For a minute, she just leaned there, waiting for her system to level.
Professional training had prevented her from stammering and fumbling and making a fool of herself. Professional training had helped her to keep her nerves just at the border where they could be controlled and concealed. Still, under the training, there was a woman. Control had cost her. Juliet was dead certain there wasn’t a woman alive who would be totally unaffected by Carlo Franconi. It wasn’t balm for her ego to admit she was simply part of a large, varied group.
He’d
never know it, she told herself, but her pulse had been behaving badly since he’d first taken her hand. It was still behaving badly. Stupid, she told herself and threw her bag down on a chair. Then she thought it best if she followed it. Her legs weren’t steady yet. Juliet let out a long, deep breath. She’d just have to wait until they were.
So he was gorgeous. And rich…and talented. And outrageously sexy. She’d already known that, hadn’t she? The trouble was, she wasn’t sure how to handle him. Not nearly as sure as she had to be.
CHAPTER TWO
She was a woman who thrived on tight scheduling, minute details and small crises. These were the things that kept you alert, sharp and interested. If her job had been simple, there wouldn’t have been much fun to it.
She was also a woman who liked long, lazy baths in mountains of bubbles and big, big beds. These were the things that kept you sane. Juliet felt she’d earned the second after she’d dealt with the first.
While Carlo amused himself in his own way, Juliet spent an hour and a half on the phone, then another hour revising and fine-tuning the next day’s itinerary. A print interview had come through and had to be shuffled in. She shuffled. Another paper was sending a reporter and photographer to the book signing. Their names had to be noted and remembered. Juliet noted, circled and committed to memory. The way things were shaping up, they’d be lucky to manage a two-hour breather the next day. Nothing could’ve pleased her more.
By the time she’d closed her thick, leather-bound notebook, she was more than ready for the tub. The bed, unfortunately, would have to wait. Ten o’clock, she promised herself. By ten, she’d be in bed, snuggled in, curled up and unconscious.
She soaked, designating precisely forty-five minutes for her personal time. In the bath, she didn’t plot or plan or estimate. She clicked off the busy, business end of her brain and enjoyed.
Relaxing—it took the first ten minutes to accomplish that completely. Dreaming—she could pretend the white, standard-size tub was luxurious, large and lush. Black marble perhaps and big enough for two. It was a secret ambition of Juliet’s to own one like it eventually. The symbol, she felt, of ultimate success. She’d have bristled if anyone had called her goal romantic. Practical, she’d insist. When you worked hard, you needed a place to unwind. This was hers.
Her robe hung on the back of the door—jade green, teasingly brief and silk. Not a luxury as far as she was concerned, but a necessity. When you often had only short snatches to relax, you needed all the help you could get. She considered the robe as much an aid in keeping pace as the bottles of vitamins that lined the counter by the sink. When she traveled, she always took them.
After she’d relaxed and dreamed a bit, she could appreciate soft, hot water against her skin, silky bubbles hissing, steam rising rich with scent.
He’d told her not to change her scent.
Juliet scowled as she felt the muscles in her shoulders tense. Oh no. Deliberately she picked up the tiny cake of hotel soap and rubbed it up and down her arms. Oh no, she wouldn’t let Carlo Franconi intrude on her personal time. That was rule number one.
He’d purposely tried to unravel her. He’d succeeded. Yes, he had succeeded, Juliet admitted with a stubborn nod. But that was over now. She wouldn’t let it happen again. Her job was to promote his book, not his ego. To promote, she’d go above and beyond the call of duty with her time, her energy and her skill, but not with her emotions.
Franconi wasn’t flying back to Rome in three weeks with a smug smile on his face unless it was professionally generated. That instant knife-sharp attraction would be dealt with. Priorities, Juliet mused, were the order of the day. He could add all the American conquests to his list he chose—as long as she wasn’t among them.
In any case, he didn’t seriously interest her. It was simply that basic, primal urge. Certainly there wasn’t any intellect involved. She preferred a different kind of man—steady rather than flashy, sincere rather than charming. That was the kind of man a woman of common sense looked for when the time was right. Juliet judged the time would be right in about three years. By then, she’d have established the structure for her own firm. She’d be financially independent and creatively content. Yes, in three years she’d be ready to think about a serious relationship. That would fit her schedule nicely.
Settled, she decided, and closed her eyes. It was a nice, comfortable word. But the hot water, bubbles and steam didn’t relax her any longer. A bit resentful, she released the plug and stood up to let the water drain off her. The wide mirror above the counter and sink was fogged, but only lightly. Through the mist she could see Juliet Trent.
Odd, she thought, how pale and soft and vulnerable a naked woman could look. In her mind, she was strong, practical, even tough. But she could see, in the damp, misty mirror, the fragility, even the wistfulness.
Erotic? Juliet frowned a bit as she told herself she shouldn’t be disappointed that her body had been built on slim, practical lines rather than round and lush ones. She should be grateful that her long legs got her where she was going and her narrow hips helped keep her silhouette in a business suit trim and efficient. Erotic would never be a career plus.
Without makeup, her face looked too young, too trusting. Without careful grooming, her hair looked too wild, too passionate.
Fragile, young, passionate. Juliet shook her head. Not qualities for a professional woman. It was fortunate that clothes and cosmetics could play down or play up certain aspects. Grabbing a towel, she wrapped it around herself, then taking another she wiped the steam from the mirror. No more mists, she thought. To succeed you had to see clearly.
With a glance at the tubes and bottles on the counter she began to create the professional Ms. Trent.
Because she hated quiet hotel rooms, Juliet switched on the television as she started to dress. The old Bogart–Bacall movie pleased her and was more relaxing than a dozen bubble baths. She listened to the well-known dialogue while she drew on her smoke-colored stockings. She watched the shimmering restrained passion as she adjusted the straps of a sheer black teddy. While the plot twisted and turned, she zipped on the narrow black dress and knotted the long strand of pearls under her breasts.
Caught up, she sat on the edge of the bed, running a brush through her hair as she watched. She was smiling, absorbed, distracted, but it would’ve shocked her if anyone had said she was romantic.
When the knock sounded at her door, she glanced at her watch. 7:05. She’d lost fifteen minutes dawdling. To make up for it, Juliet had her shoes on, her earrings clipped and her bag and notebook at hand in twelve seconds flat. She went to the door ready with a greeting and an apology.
A rose. Just one, the color of a young girl’s blush. When Carlo handed it to her, she didn’t have anything to say at all. Carlo, however, had no problem.
“Bella.” He had her hand to his lips before she’d thought to counter the move. “Some women look severe or cold in black. Others…” His survey was long and male, but his smile made it gallant rather than calculating. “In others it simply enhances their femininity. I’m disturbing you?”
“No, no, of course not. I was just—”
“Ah, I know this movie.”
Without waiting for an invitation, he breezed past her into the room. The standard, single hotel room didn’t seem so impersonal any longer. How could it? He brought life, energy, passion into the air as if it were his mission.
“Yes, I’ve seen it many times.” The two strong faces dominated the screen. Bogart’s, creased, heavy-eyed, weary—Bacall’s, smooth, steamy and challenging. “Passione,” he murmured and made the word seem like honey to be tasted. Incredibly, Juliet found herself swallowing. “A man and a woman can bring many things to each other, but without passion, everything else is tame. Sì?”
Juliet recovered herself. Franconi wasn’t a man to discuss passion with. The subject wouldn’t remain academic for long. “Perhaps.” She adjusted her evening bag and her notebook. But she didn’t put
the rose down. “We’ve a lot to discuss over dinner, Mr. Franconi. We’d best get started.”
With his thumbs still hooked in the pockets of his taupe slacks, he turned his head. Juliet figured hundreds of women had trusted that smile. She wouldn’t. With a careless flick, he turned off the television. “Yes, it’s time we started.”
* * *
What did he think of her? Carlo asked himself the question and let the answer come in snatches, twined through the evening.
Lovely. He didn’t consider his affection for beautiful women a weakness. He was grateful that Juliet didn’t find the need to play down or turn her natural beauty into severity, nor did she exploit it until it was artificial. She’d found a pleasing balance. He could admire that.
She was ambitious, but he admired that as well. Beautiful women without ambition lost his interest quickly.
She didn’t trust him. That amused him. As he drank his second glass of Beaujolais, he decided her wariness was a compliment. In his estimation, a woman like Juliet would only be wary of a man if she were attracted in some way.
If he were honest, and he was, he’d admit that most women were attracted to him. It seemed only fair, as he was attracted to them. Short, tall, plump, thin, old or young, he found women a fascination, a delight, an amusement. He respected them, perhaps only as a man who had grown up surrounded by women could do. But respect didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy.
He was going to enjoy Juliet.
“Hello, L.A. is on first tomorrow.” Juliet ran down her notes while Carlo nibbled on pâté. “It’s the top-rated morning talk show on the coast, not just in L.A. Liz Marks hosts. She’s very personable—not too bubbly. Los Angeles doesn’t want bubbly at 8:00 A.M.”
“Thank God.”
“In any case, she has a copy of the book. It’s important that you get the title in a couple of times if she doesn’t. You have the full twenty minutes, so it shouldn’t be a problem. You’ll be autographing at Books, Incorporated on Wilshire Boulevard between one and three.” Hastily, she made herself a note to contact the store in the morning for a last check. “You’ll want to plug that, but I’ll remind you just before airtime. Of course, you’ll want to mention that you’re beginning a twenty-one-day tour of the country here in California.”