by Nora Roberts
“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.
CHAPTER SIX
Dallas was different. Dallas was Dallas without apology. Texas rich, Texas big and Texas arrogant. If it was the city that epitomized the state, then it did so with flair. Futuristic architecture and mind-twisting freeways abounded in a strange kind of harmony with the more sedate buildings downtown. The air was hot and carried the scents of oil, expensive perfumes and prairie dust. Dallas was Dallas, but it had never forgotten its roots.
Dallas held the excitement of a boomtown that was determined not to stop booming. It was full of downhome American energy that wasn’t about to lag. As far as Juliet was concerned they could have been in downtown Timbuktu.
He acted as though nothing had happened—no intimate dinner, no arousal, no surrender, no cross words. Juliet wondered if he did it to drive her crazy.
Carlo was amiable, cooperative and charming. She knew better now. Under the amiability was a shaft of steel that wouldn’t bend an inch. She’d seen it. One could say she’d felt it. It would have been a lie to say she didn’t admire it.
Cooperative, sure. In his favor, Juliet had to admit that she’d never been on tour with anyone as willing to work wi
thout complaint. And touring was hard work, no matter how glamorous it looked on paper. Once you were into your second full week, it became difficult to smile unless you were cued. Carlo never broke his rhythm.
But he expected perfection—spelled his way—and wouldn’t budge an inch until he got it.
Charming. No one could enchant a group of people with more style than Franconi. That alone made her job easier. No one would deny his charm unless they’d seen how cold his eyes could become. She had.
He had flaws like any other man, Juliet thought. Remembering that might help her keep an emotional distance. It always helped her to list the pros and cons of a situation, even if the situation was a man. The trouble was, though flawed, he was damn near irresistible.
And he knew it. That was something else she had to remind herself of.
His ego was no small matter. That was something she’d be wise to balance against his unrestricted generosity. Vanity about himself and his work went over the border into arrogance. It didn’t hurt her sense of perspective to weigh that against his innate consideration for others.
But then, there was the way he smiled, the way he said her name. Even the practical, professional Juliet Trent had a difficult time finding a flaw to balance those little details.
The two days in Dallas were busy enough to keep her driving along on six hours’ sleep, plenty of vitamins and oceans of coffee. They were making up for Denver all right. She had the leg cramps to prove it.
Four minutes on the national news, an interview with one of the top magazines in the country, three write-ups in the Dallas press and two autograph sessions that sold clean out. There was more, but those headed up her report. When she went back to New York, she’d go back in triumph.
She didn’t want to think of the dinners with department store executives that started at 10:00 P.M. and lasted until she was falling asleep in her bananas flambé. She couldn’t bear to count the lunches of poached salmon or shrimp salad. She’d had to refill her pocket aspirin bottles and stock up on antacids. But it was worth it. She should have been thrilled.
She was miserable.
She was driving him mad. Polite, Carlo thought as they prepared to sit through another luncheon interview. Yes, she was polite. Her mother had taught her perfect manners even if she hadn’t taught her to cook.
Competent? As far as he was concerned, he’d never known anyone, male or female, who was as scrupulously competent as Juliet Trent. He’d always admired that particular quality in a companion, insisted on it in an associate. Of course, Juliet was both. Precise, prompt, cool in a crisis and unflaggingly energetic. Admirable qualities all.
For the first time in his life he gave serious thought to strangling a woman.
Indifferent. That’s what he couldn’t abide. She acted as though there was nothing more between them than the next interview, the next television spot, the next plane. She acted as though there’d been no flare of need, of passion, of understanding between them. One would think she didn’t want him with the same intensity that he wanted her.
He knew better. Didn’t he?
He could remember her ripe, unhesitating response to him. Mouth to mouth, body to body. There’d been no indifference in the way her arms had held him. No, there’d been strength, pliancy, need, demand, but no indifference. Yet now…
They’d spent nearly two days exclusively in each other’s company, but he’d seen nothing in her eyes, heard nothing in her voice that indicated more than a polite business association. They ate together, drove together, worked together. They did everything but sleep together.
He’d had his fill of polite. But he hadn’t had his fill of Juliet.
He thought of her. It didn’t bruise Carlo’s pride to admit he thought of her a great deal. He often thought of women, and why not? When a man didn’t think of a woman, he was better off dead.
He wanted her. It didn’t worry him to admit that he wanted her more every time he thought of her. He’d wanted many women. He’d never believed in self-denial. When a man didn’t want a woman, he was dead.
But… Carlo found it odd that “buts” so often followed any thoughts he had on Juliet. But he found himself dwelling on her more often than he’d have once considered healthy. Though he didn’t mind wanting a woman until he ached, he found Juliet could make him ache more than he’d have once considered comfortable.
He might have been able to rationalize the threat to his health and comfort. But…she was so damn indifferent.
If he did nothing else in the short time they had left in Dallas, he was going to change that.
Lunch was white linen, heavy silver flatware and thin crystal. The room was done in tones of dusty rose and pastel greens. The murmur of conversation was just as quiet.
Carlo thought it a pity they couldn’t have met the reporter at one of the little Tex-Mex restaurants over Mexican beer with chili and nachos. Briefly, he promised himself he’d rectify that in Houston.
He barely noticed the reporter was young and running on nerves as they took their seats. He’d decided, no matter what it took, he’d break through Juliet’s inflexible shield of politeness before they stood up again. Even if he had to play dirty.
“I’m so happy you included Dallas on your tour, Mr. Franconi,” the reporter began, already reaching for her water glass to clear her throat. “Mr. Van Ness sends his apologies. He was looking forward to meeting you.”
Carlo smiled at her, but his mind was on Juliet. “Yes?”
“Mr. Van Ness is the food editor for the Tribune.” Juliet spread her napkin over her lap as she gave Carlo information she’d related less than fifteen minutes before. She sent him the friendliest of smiles and hoped he felt the barbs in it. “Ms. Tribly is filling in for him.”
“Of course.” Carlo smoothed over the gap of attention. “Charmingly, I’m sure.”
As a woman she wasn’t immune to that top-cream voice. As a reporter, she was well aware of the importance of her assignment. “It’s all pretty confused.” Ms. Tribly wiped damp hands on her napkin. “Mr. Van Ness is having a baby. That is, what I mean is, his wife went into labor just a couple of hours ago.”
“So, we should drink to them.” Carlo signaled a waiter. “Margaritas?” He phrased the question as a statement, earned a cool nod from Juliet and a grateful smile from the reporter.
Determined to pull off her first really big assignment, Ms. Tribly balanced a pad discreetly on her lap. “Have you been enjoying your tour through America, Mr. Franconi?”
“I always enjoy America.” Lightly he ran a finger over the back of Juliet’s hand before she could move it out of reach. “Especially in the company of a beautiful woman.” She started to slide her hand away then felt it pinned under his. For a man who could whip up the most delicate of soufflés, his hands were as strong as a boxer’s.
Wills sparked, clashed and fumed. Carlo’s voice remained mild, soft and romantic. “I must tell you, Ms. Tribly, Juliet is an extraordinary woman. I couldn’t manage without her.”
“Mr. Franconi’s very kind.” Though Juliet’s voice was as mild and quiet as his, the nudge she gave him under the table wasn’t. “I handle the details; Mr. Franconi’s the artist.”
“We make an admirable team, wouldn’t you say, Ms. Tribly?”
“Yes.” Not quite sure how to handle that particular line, she veered off to safer ground. “Mr. Franconi, besides writing cookbooks, you own and run a successful restaurant in Rome and occasionally travel to prepare a special dish. A few months ago, you flew to a yacht in the Aegean to cook minestrone for Dimitri Azares, the shipping magnate.”
“His birthday,” Carlo recalled. “His daughter arranged a surprise.” Again, his gaze skimmed over the woman whose hand he held. “Juliet will tell you, I’m fond of surprises.”
“Yes, well.” Ms. Tribly reached for her water glass again. “Your schedule’s so full and exciting. I wonder if you still enjoy the basics as far as cooking.”
“Most people think of
cooking as anything from a chore to a hobby. But as I’ve told Juliet—” His fingers twined possessively with hers “—food is a basic need. Like making love, it should appeal to all the senses. It should excite, arouse, satisfy.” He slipped his thumb around to skim over her palm. “You remember, Juliet?”
She’d tried to forget, had told herself she could. Now with that light, insistent brush of thumb, he was bringing it all back. “Mr. Franconi is a strong believer in the sensuality of food. His unusual flair for bringing this out has made him one of the top chefs in the world.”
“Grazie, mi amore,” he murmured and brought her stiff hand to his lips.
She pressed her shoe down on the soft leather of his loafers and hoped she ground bones. “I think you, and your readers, will find that Mr. Franconi’s book, The Italian Way, is a really stunning example of his technique, his style and his opinions, written in such a way that the average person following one of his recipes step-by-step can create something very special.”
When their drinks were served, Juliet gave another tug on her hand thinking she might catch him off guard. She should have known better.
“To the new baby.” He smiled over at Juliet. “It’s always a pleasure to drink to life in all its stages.”
Ms. Tribly sipped lightly at her margarita in a glass the size of a small birdbath. “Mr. Franconi, have you actually cooked and tasted every recipe that’s in your book?”
“Of course.” Carlo enjoyed the quick tang of his drink. There was a time for the sweet, and a time for the tart. His laugh came low and smooth as he looked at Juliet. “When something’s mine, there’s nothing I don’t learn about it. A meal, Ms. Tribly, is like a love affair.”
She broke the tip of her pencil and hurriedly dug out another. “A love affair?”
“Yes. It begins slowly, almost experimentally. Just a taste, to whet the appetite, to stir the anticipation. Then the flavor changes, perhaps something light, something cool to keep the senses stirred, but not overwhelmed. Then there’s the spice, the meat, the variety. The senses are aroused; the mind is focused on the pleasure. It should be lingered over. But finally, there’s dessert, the time of indulgence.” When he smiled at Juliet, there was no mistaking his meaning. “It should be enjoyed slowly, savored, until the palate is satisfied and the body sated.”