by Nora Roberts
“No.” He put a hand on her shoulder and held her in the chair. “We’re not finished. Shopping for chicken in Chicago isn’t what had you reaching for pills. What?”
The best defense was always ice. Her voice chilled. “Carlo, I’ve been very busy.”
“You think after two weeks I don’t know you?” Impatient, he gave her a little shake. “You dig in that briefcase for your aspirin or your little mints only when you feel too much pressure. I don’t like to see it.”
“It comes with the territory.” She tried to shrug off his hand and failed. “Carlo, we’ve got to get to the airport.”
“We have more than enough time. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“All right then.” In two sharp moves, she pulled the clipping out of her case and pushed it into his hands.
“What’s this?” He skimmed it first without really reading it. “One of those little columns about who is seen with whom and what they wear while they’re seen?”
“More or less.”
“Ah.” As he began to read from the top, he nodded. “And you were seen with me.”
Closing her notebook, she slipped it neatly into her briefcase. Twice she reminded herself that losing her temper would accomplish nothing. “As your publicist, that could hardly be avoided.”
Because he’d come to expect logic from her, he only nodded again. “But you feel this intimates something else.”
“It says something else,” she tossed back. “Something that isn’t true.”
“It calls you my traveling companion.” He glanced up, knowing that wouldn’t sit well with her. “It’s perhaps not the full story, but not untrue. Does it upset you to be known as my companion?”
She didn’t want him to be reasonable. She had no intention of emulating him. “When companion takes on this shade of meaning, it isn’t professional or innocent. I’m not here to have my name linked with you this way, Carlo.”
“In what way, Juliet?”
“It gives my name and goes on to say that I’m never out of arm’s length, that I guard you as though you were my own personal property. And that you—”
“That I kiss your hand in public restaurants as though I couldn’t wait for privacy,” Carlo read at a glance. “So? What difference does it make what it says here?”
She dragged both hands through her hair. “Carlo, I’m here, with you, to do a job. This clipping came through my office, through my supervisor. Don’t you know something like this could ruin my credibility?”
“No,” he said simply enough. “This is no more than gossip. Your supervisor, he’s upset by this?”
She laughed, but it had little to do with humor. “No, actually, it seems he’s decided it’s just fine. Good for your image.”
“Well, then?”
“I don’t want to be good for your image,” she threw back with such passion, it shocked both of them. “I won’t be one of the dozens of names and faces linked with you.”
“So,” he murmured. “Now, we push away to the truth. You’re angry with me, for this.” He set the clipping down. “You’re angry because there’s more truth in it now than there was when it was written.”
“I don’t want to be on anyone’s list, Carlo.” Her voice had lowered, calmed. She dug balled fists into the pockets of her skirt. “Not yours, not anyone’s. I haven’t come this far in my life to let that happen now.”
He stood, wondering if she understood how insulting her words were. No, she’d see them as facts, not as darts. “I haven’t put you on a list. If you have one in your own mind, it has nothing to do with me.”
“A few weeks ago it was the French actress, a month before that a widowed countess.”
He didn’t shout, but it was only force of will that kept his voice even. “I never pretended you were the first woman in my bed. I never expected I was the first man in yours.”
“That’s entirely different.”
“Ah, now you find the double standard convenient.” He picked up the clipping, balled it in his fist then dropped it into the wastebasket. “I’ve no patience for this, Juliet.”
He was to the door again before she spoke. “Carlo, wait.” With a polite veneer stretched thinly over fury he turned. “Damn.” Hands still in her pockets, she paced from one stack of books to the other. “I never intended to take this out on you. It’s totally out of line and I’m sorry, really. You might guess I’m not thinking very clearly right now.”
“So it would seem.”
Juliet let out a sigh, knowing she observed the cutting edge of his voice. “I don’t know how to explain, except to say that my career’s very important to me.”
“I understand that.”
“But it’s no more important to me than my privacy. I don’t want my personal life discussed around the office water cooler.”
“People talk, Juliet. It’s natural and it’s meaningless.”
“I can’t brush it off the way you do.” She picked up her briefcase by the strap then set it down again. “I’m used to staying in the background. I set things up, handle the details, do the legwork, and someone else’s picture gets in the paper. That’s the way I want it.”
“You don’t always get what you want.” With his thumbs hooked in his pockets, he leaned back against the door and watched her. “Your anger goes deeper than a few lines in a paper people will have forgotten tomorrow.”
She closed her eyes a moment, then turned back to him. “All right, yes, but it’s not a matter of being angry. Carlo, I’ve put myself in a delicate position with you.”
Carefully, he weighed the phrase, tested it, judged it. “Delicate position?”
“Please, don’t misunderstand. I’m here, with you, because of my job. It’s very important to me that that’s handled in the best, the most professional manner I can manage. What’s happened between us…”
“What has happened between us?” he prompted when she trailed off.
“Don’t make it difficult.”
“All right, we’ll make it easy. We’re lovers.”
She let out a long, unsteady breath, wondering if he really believed that was easy. For him it might be just another stroll through the moonlight. For her, it was a race through a hurricane. “I want to keep that aspect of our relationship completely separate from the professional area.”
It surprised him he could find such a statement endearing. Perhaps the fact that she was half romanticist and half businesswoman was part of her appeal to him. “Juliet, my love, you sound as though you’re negotiating a contract.”
“Maybe I do.” Nerves were beginning to run through her too quickly again. “Maybe I am, in a way.”
His own anger had disappeared. Her eyes weren’t nearly as certain as her voice. Her hands, he noted, were twisting together. Slowly, he walked toward her, pleased that though she didn’t back away, the wariness was back. “Juliet…” He lifted a hand to brush through her hair. “You can negotiate terms and times, but not emotion.”
“You can—regulate it.”
He took both her hands, kissing them. “No.”
“Carlo, please—”
“You like me to touch you,” he murmured. “Whether we stand here alone, or we stand in a group of strangers. If I touch your hand, like this, you know what’s in my mind. It’s not always passion. There are times, I see you, I touch you, and I think only of being with you—talking, or sitting silently. Will you negotiate now how I am to touch your hand, how many times a day it’s permitted?”
“Don’t make me sound like a fool.”
His fingers tightened on hers. “Don’t make what I feel for you sound foolish.”
“I—” No, she couldn’t touch that. She didn’t dare. “Carlo, I just want to keep things simple.”
“Impossible.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Then tell me, is this simple?” With just his fingertips on her shoulder, he leaned down to kiss her. So softly, so lightly, it was hardly a kiss at all. She felt her l
egs dissolve from the knees down.
“Carlo, we’re not staying on the point.”
He slipped his arms around her. “I like this point much better. When we get to Chicago…” His fingers slipped up and down her spine as he began to brush his lips over her face. “I want to spend the evening alone with you.”
“We—have an appointment for drinks at ten with—”
“Cancel it.”
“Carlo, you know I can’t.”
“Very well.” He caught the lobe of her ear between his teeth. “I’ll plead fatigue and make certain we have a very quick, very early evening. Then, I’ll spend the rest of the night doing little things, like this.”
His tongue darted inside her ear, then retreated to the vulnerable spot just below. The shudder that went through her was enough to arouse both of them. “Carlo, you don’t understand.”
“I understand that I want you.” In a swift mood swing, he had her by the shoulders. “If I told you now that I want you more than I’ve wanted any other woman, you wouldn’t believe me.”
She backed away from that, but was caught close again. “No, I wouldn’t. It isn’t necessary to say so.”
“You’re afraid to hear it, afraid to believe it. You won’t get simple with me, Juliet. But you’ll get a lover you’ll never forget.”
She steadied a bit, meeting his look levelly. “I’ve already resigned myself to that, Carlo. I don’t apologize to myself, and I don’t pretend to have any regrets about coming to you last night.”
“Then resign yourself to this.” The temper was back in his eyes, hot and volatile. “I don’t care what’s written in the paper, what’s whispered about in offices in New York. You, this moment, are all I care about.”
Something shattered quietly inside her. A defense built instinctively through years. She knew she shouldn’t take him literally. He was Franconi after all. If he cared about her, it was only in his way, and in his time. But something had shattered, and she couldn’t rebuild it so quickly. Instead, she chose to be blunt.
“Carlo, I don’t know how to handle you. I haven’t the experience.”
“Then don’t handle me.” Again, he took her by the shoulders. “Trust me.”
She put her hands on his, held them a moment, then drew them away. “It’s too soon, and too much.”
There were times, in his work, where he had to be very, very patient. As a man, it happened much more rarely. Yet he knew if he pushed now, as for some inexplicable reason he wanted to, he’d only create more distance between them. “Then, for now, we just enjoy each other.”
That’s what she wanted. Juliet told herself that was exactly what she wanted—no more, no less. But she felt like weeping.
“We’ll enjoy each other,” she agreed. Letting out a sigh, she framed his face with her hands as he so often did with her. “Very much.”
He wondered, when he lowered his brow to hers, why it didn’t quite satisfy.
CHAPTER NINE
Burned out from traveling, ready for a drink and elevated feet, Juliet walked up to the front desk of their Chicago hotel. Taking a quick glimpse around the lobby, she was pleased with the marble floors, sculpture and elegant potted palms. Such places usually lent themselves to big, stylish bathrooms. She intended to spend her first hour in Chicago with everything from the neck down submerged.
“May I help you?”
“You have a reservation for Franconi and Trent.”
With a few punches on the keyboard, the clerk brought up their reservations on the screen. “You’ll both be staying for two nights, Miss Trent?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“It’s direct bill. Everything’s set. If you and Mr. Franconi will just fill out these forms, I’ll ring for a bellman.”
As he scrawled the information on the form, Carlo glanced over. From the profile, she looked lovely, though perhaps a bit tired. Her hair was pinned up in the back, fluffed out on the sides and barely mussed from traveling. She looked as though she could head a three-hour business meeting without a whimper. But then she arched her back, closing her eyes briefly as she stretched her shoulders. He wanted to take care of her.
“Juliet, there’s no need for two rooms.”
She shifted her shoulder bag and signed her name. “Carlo, don’t start. Arrangements have already been made.”
“But it’s absurd. You’ll be staying in my suite, so the extra room is simply extra.”
The desk clerk stood at a discreet distance and listened to every word.
Juliet pulled her credit card out of her wallet and set it down on the counter with a snap. Carlo noted, with some amusement, that she no longer looked the least bit tired. He wanted to make love with her for hours.
“You’ll need the imprint on this for my incidentals,” she told the clerk calmly enough. “All Mr. Franconi’s charges will be picked up.”
Carlo pushed his form toward the clerk then leaned on the counter. “Juliet, won’t you feel foolish running back and forth across the hall? It’s ridiculous, even for a publisher, to pay for a bed that won’t be slept in.”
With her jaw clenched, she picked up her credit card again. “I’ll tell you what’s ridiculous,” she said under her breath. “It’s ridiculous for you to be standing here deliberately embarrassing me.”
“You have rooms 1102 and 1108.” The clerk pushed the keys toward them. “I’m afraid they’re just down the hall from each other rather than across.”
“That’s fine.” Juliet turned to find the bellman had their luggage packed on the cart and his ears open. Without a word, she strode toward the bank of elevators.
Strolling along beside her, Carlo noted that the cashier had a stunning smile. “Juliet, I find it odd that you’d be embarrassed over something so simple.”
“I don’t think it’s simple.” She jabbed the up button on the elevator.
“Forgive me.” Carlo put his tongue in his cheek. “It’s only that I recall you specifically saying you wanted our relationship to be simple.”
“Don’t tell me what I said. What I said has nothing to do with what I meant.”
“Of course not,” he murmured and waited for her to step inside the car.
Seeing the look on Juliet’s face, the bellman began to worry about his tip. He put on a hospitality-plus smile. “So, you in Chicago long?”
“Two days,” Carlo said genially enough.
“You can see a lot in a couple of days. You’ll want to get down to the lake—”
“We’re here on business,” Juliet interrupted. “Only business.”
“Yes, ma’am.” With a smile, the bellman pushed his cart into the hall. “1108’s the first stop.”
“That’s mine.” Juliet dug out her wallet again and pulled out bills as the bellman unlocked her door. “Those two bags,” she pointed out then turned to Carlo. “We’ll meet Dave Lockwell in the bar for drinks at 10:00. You can do as you like until then.”
“I have some ideas on that,” he began but Juliet moved past him. After stuffing the bills in the bellman’s hand, she shut the door with a quick click.
* * *
Thirty minutes, to Carlo’s thinking, was long enough for anyone to cool down. Juliet’s stiff-backed attitude toward their room situation had caused him more exasperation than annoyance. But then, he expected to be exasperated by women. On one hand, he found her reaction rather sweet and naive. Did she really think the fact that they were lovers would make the desk clerk or a bellman blink twice?
The fact that she did, and probably always would, was just another aspect of her nature that appealed to him. In whatever she did, Juliet Trent would always remain proper. Simmering passion beneath a tidy, clean-lined business suit. Carlo found her irresistible.
He’d known so many kinds of women—the bright young ingenue greedy to her fingertips, the wealthy aristocrat bored both by wealth and tradition, the successful career woman who both looked for and was wary of marriage. He’d known so many—the happy, the
secure, the desperate and seeking, the fulfilled and the grasping. Juliet Trent with the cool green eyes and quiet voice left him uncertain as to what pigeonhole she’d fit into. It seemed she had all and none of the feminine qualities he understood. The only thing he was certain of was that he wanted her to fit, somehow, into his life.
The best way, the only way, he knew to accomplish that was to distract her with charm until she was already caught. After that, they’d negotiate the next step.
Carlo lifted the rose he’d had sent up from the hotel florist out of its bud vase, sniffed its petals once, then walked down the hall to Juliet’s room.
She was just drying off from a hot, steamy bath. If she’d heard the knock five minutes before, she’d have growled. As it was, she pulled on her robe and went to answer.
She’d been expecting him. Juliet wasn’t foolish enough to believe a man like Carlo would take a door in the face as final. It had given her satisfaction to close it, just as it gave her satisfaction to open it again. When she was ready.
She hadn’t been expecting the rose. Though she knew it wasn’t wise to be moved by a single long-stemmed flower with a bud the color of sunshine, she was moved nonetheless. Her plans to have a calm, serious discussion with him faltered.
“You look rested.” Rather than giving her the rose, he took her hand. Before she could decide whether or not to let him in, he was there.
A stand, Juliet reminded herself even as she closed the door behind him. If she didn’t take a stand now, she’d never find her footing. “Since you’re here, we’ll talk. We have an hour.”
“Of course.” As was his habit, he took a survey of her room. Her suitcase sat on a stand, still packed, but with its top thrown open. It wasn’t practical to unpack and repack when you were bouncing around from city to city. Though they were starting their third week on the road, the contents of the case were still neat and organized. He’d have expected no less from her. Her notebook and two pens were already beside the phone. The only things remotely out of place in the tidy, impersonal room were the Italian heels that sat in the middle of the rug where she’d stepped out of them. The inconsistency suited her perfectly.