by Nora Roberts
A muffled laugh escaped before she could prevent it. “Figures.”
“Indeed yes, but such muscular ones.” His expression was still grave as he lowered himself into the car.
Juliet remained quiet a moment, then gave up and laughed out loud. Damn, she’d never had as much fun on tour with anyone. She might as well accept it. “Tucson’s in Arizona,” she told him with another laugh. “And it’s not on the itinerary.”
They would have been on time for the autographing if they hadn’t run into the detour. Traffic was clogged, rerouted and bad tempered as roads were blocked off for the film being shot. Juliet spent twenty minutes weaving, negotiating and cursing until she found she’d done no more than make a nice big circle.
“We’ve been here before,” Carlo said idly and received a glowering look.
“Oh, really?” Her sweet tone had an undertone of arsenic.
He merely shifted his legs into a less cramped position. “It’s an interesting city,” he commented. “I think perhaps if you turn right at the next corner, then left two corners beyond, we’ll find ourselves on the right track.”
Juliet meticulously smoothed her carefully written directions when she’d have preferred to crumple them into a ball. “The book clerk specifically said—”
“I’m sure she’s a lovely woman, but things seem a bit confused today.” It didn’t particularly bother him. The blast of a horn made her jolt. Amused, Carlo merely looked over. “As someone from New York City, you should be used to such things.”
Juliet set her teeth. “I never drive in the city.”
“I do. Trust me, innamorata.”
Not on your life, Juliet thought, but turned right. It took nearly ten minutes in the crawling traffic to manage the next two blocks, but when she turned left she found herself, as Carlo had said, on the right track. She waited, resigned, for him to gloat.
“Rome moves faster” was all he said.
How could she anticipate him? she wondered. He didn’t rage when you expected, didn’t gloat when it was natural. With a sigh, she gave up. “Anything moves faster.” She found herself in the right block, but parking space was at a premium. Weighing the ins and outs, Juliet swung over beside a car at the curb. “Look, Carlo, I’m going to have to drop you off. We’re already running behind. I’ll find a place to park and be back as soon as I can.”
“You’re the boss,” he said, still cheerful after forty-five minutes of teeth-grinding traffic.
“If I’m not there in an hour, send up a flare.”
“My money’s on you.”
Still cautious, she waited until she saw him swing into the bookstore before she fought her way into traffic again.
Twenty frustrating minutes later, Juliet walked into the dignified little bookstore herself. It was, she noted with a sinking stomach, too quiet and too empty. A clerk with a thin-striped tie and shined shoes greeted her.
“Good morning. May I help you?”
“I’m Juliet Trent, Mr. Franconi’s publicist.”
“Ah yes, right this way.” He glided across the carpet to a set of wide steps. “Mr. Franconi’s on the second level. It’s unfortunate that the traffic and confusion have discouraged people from coming out. Of course, we rarely do these things.” He gave her a smile and brushed a piece of lint from the sleeve of his dark blue jacket. “The last time was…let me see, in the fall. J. Jonathan Cooper was on tour. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. He wrote Metaphysical Force and You.”
Juliet bit back a sigh. When you hit dry ground, you just had to wait for the tide.
She spotted Carlo in a lovely little alcove on a curvy love seat. Beside him was a woman of about forty with a neat suit and pretty legs. Such things didn’t warrant even a raised brow. But to Juliet’s surprise, Carlo wasn’t busy charming her. Instead, he was listening intently to a young boy who sat across from him.
“I’ve worked in the kitchens there for the last three summers. I’m not allowed to actually prepare anything, but I can watch. At home, I cook whenever I can, but with school and the job, it’s mostly on weekends.”
“Why?”
The boy stopped in midstream and looked blank. “Why?”
“Why do you cook?” Carlo asked. He acknowledged Juliet with a nod, then gave his attention back to the boy.
“Because…” The boy looked at his mother, then back at Carlo. “Well, it’s important. I like to take things and put them together. You have to concentrate, you know, and be careful. But you can make something really terrific. It looks good and it smells good. It’s…I don’t know.” His voice lowered in embarrassment. “Satisfying, I guess.”
“Yes.” Pleased, Carlo smiled at him. “That’s a good answer.”
“I have both your other books,” the boy blurted out. “I’ve tried all your recipes. I even made your pasta al tre formaggi for this dinner party at my aunt’s.”
“And?”
“They liked it.” The boy grinned. “I mean they really liked it.”
“You want to study.”
“Oh yeah.” But the boy dropped his gaze to where his hands rubbed nervously over his knees. “Thing is we can’t really afford college right now, so I’m hoping to get some restaurant work.”
“In Denver?”
“Any place where I could start cooking instead of wiping up.”
“We’ve taken up enough of Mr. Franconi’s time.” The boy’s mother rose, noting there was now a handful of people milling around on the second level with Carlo’s books in hand. “I want to thank you.” She offered her hand to Carlo as he rose with her. “It meant a great deal to Steven to talk with you.”
“My pleasure.” Though he was gracious as always, he turned back to the boy. “Perhaps you’d give me your address. I know of some restaurant owners here in the States. Perhaps one of them needs an apprentice chef.”
Stunned, Steven could do nothing but stare. “You’re very kind.” His mother took out a small pad and wrote on it. Her hand was steady, but when she handed the paper to Carlo and looked at him, he saw the emotion. He thought of his own mother. He took the paper, then her hand.
“You have a fortunate son, Mrs. Hardesty.”
Thoughtful, Juliet watched them walk away, noting that Steven looked over his shoulder with the same, blank, baffled expression.
So he has a heart, Juliet decided, touched. A heart that wasn’t altogether reserved for amore. But she saw Carlo slip the paper into his pocket and wondered if that would be the end of it.
The autographing wasn’t a smashing success. Six books by Juliet’s count. That had been bad enough, but then there’d been The Incident.
Looking at the all but empty store, Juliet had considered hitting the streets with a sign on her back, then the homey little woman had come along bearing all three of Carlo’s books. Good for the ego, Juliet thought. That was before the woman had said something that caused Carlo’s eyes to chill and his voice to freeze. All Juliet heard was the name LaBare.
“I beg your pardon, Madame?” Carlo said in a tone Juliet had never heard from him. It could’ve sliced through steel.
“I said I keep all your books on a shelf in my kitchen, right next to André LaBare’s. I love to cook.”
“LaBare?” Carlo put his hand over his stack of books as a protective parent might over a threatened child. “You would dare put my work next to that—that peasant’s?”
Thinking fast, Juliet stepped up and broke into the conversation. If ever she’d seen a man ready to murder, it was Carlo. “Oh, I see you have all of Mr. Franconi’s books. You must love to cook.”
“Well, yes I—”
“Wait until you try some of his new recipes. I had the pasta con pesto myself. It’s wonderful.” Juliet started to take the woman’s books from under Carlo’s hand and met with resistance and a stubborn look. She gave him one of her own and jerked the books away. “Your family’s going to be just thrilled when you serve it,” Juliet went on, keeping her voice pleasant as she led the w
oman out of the line of fire. “And the fettuccine…”
“LaBare is a swine.” Carlo’s voice was very clear and reached the stairs. The woman glanced back nervously.
“Men.” Juliet made her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Such egos.”
“Yes.” Gathering up her books, the woman hurried down the stairs and out of the store. Juliet waited until she was out of earshot before she pounced on Carlo.
“How could you?”
“How could I?” He rose, and though he skimmed just under six feet, he looked enormous. “She would dare speak that name to me? She would dare associate the work of an artist with the work of a jackass? LaBare—”
“At the moment, I don’t give a damn who or what this LaBare is.” Juliet put a hand on his shoulder and shoved him back onto the love seat. “What I do care about is you scaring off the few customers we have. Now behave yourself.”
He sat where he was only because he admired the way she’d ordered him to. Fascinating woman, Carlo decided, finding it wiser to think of her than LaBare. It was wiser to think of flood and famine than of LaBare.
The afternoon had dragged on and on, except for the young boy, Carlo thought and touched the paper in his pocket. He’d call Summer in Philadelphia about young Steven Hardesty.
But other than Steven and the woman who upped his blood pressure by speaking of LaBare, Carlo had found himself perilously close to boredom. Something he considered worse than illness.
He needed some activity, a challenge—even a small one. He glanced over at Juliet as she spoke with a clerk. That was no small challenge. The one thing he’d yet to be in Juliet’s company was bored. She kept him interested. Sexually? Yes, that went without saying. Intellectually. That was a plus, a big one.
He understood women. It wasn’t a matter of pride, but to Carlo’s thinking, a matter of circumstance. He enjoyed women. As lovers, of course, but he also enjoyed them as companions, as friends, as associates. It was a rare thing when a man could find a woman to be all of those things. That’s what he wanted from Juliet. He hadn’t resolved it yet, only felt it. Convincing her to be his friend would be as challenging, and as rewarding, as it would be to convince her to be his lover.
No, he realized as he studied her profile. With this woman, a lover would come easier than a friend. He had two weeks left to accomplish both. With a smile, he decided to start the campaign in earnest.
Half an hour later, they were walking the three blocks to the parking garage Juliet had found.
“This time I drive,” he told Juliet as they stepped inside the echoing gray building. When she started to object, he held out his hand for the keys. “Come, my love, I’ve just survived two hours of boredom. Why should you have all the fun?”
“Since you put it that way.” She dropped the keys in his hand, relieved that whatever had set him off before was forgotten.
“So now we have a free evening.”
“That’s right.” With a sigh she leaned back in her seat and waited for him to start the engine.
“We’ll have dinner at seven. Tonight, I make the arrangements.”
A hamburger in her room, an old movie and bed. Juliet let the wish come and go. Her job was to pamper and entertain as much as possible. “Whatever you like.”
Carlo pulled out of the parking space with a squeal of tires that had Juliet bolting up. “I’ll hold you to that, cara.”
He zoomed out of the garage and turned right with hardly a pause. “Carlo—”
“We should have champagne to celebrate the end of our first week. You like champagne?”
“Yes, I—Carlo, the light’s changing.”
He breezed through the amber light, skimmed by the bumper of a battered compact and kept going. “Italian food. You have no objection?”
“No.” She gripped the door handle until her knuckles turned white. “That truck!”
“Yes, I see it.” He swerved around it, zipped through another light and cut a sharp right. “You have plans for the afternoon?”
Juliet pressed a hand to her throat, thinking she might be able to push out her voice. “I was thinking of making use of the hotel spa. If I live.”
“Good. Me, I think I’ll go shopping.”
Juliet’s teeth snapped together as he changed lanes in bumper-to-bumper traffic. “How do I notify next of kin?”
With a laugh, Carlo swung in front of their hotel. “Don’t worry, Juliet. Have your whirlpool and your sauna. Knock on my door at seven.”
She looked back toward the street. Pamper and entertain, she remembered. Did that include risking your life? Her supervisor would think so. “Maybe I should go with you.”
“No, I insist.” He leaned over, cupping her neck before she’d recovered enough to evade. “Enjoy,” he murmured lightly against her lips. “And think of me as your skin grows warm and your muscles grow lax.”
In self-defense, Juliet hurried out of the car. Before she could tell him to drive carefully, he was barreling back out into the street. She offered a prayer for Italian maniacs, then went inside.
By seven, she felt reborn. She’d sweated out fatigue in the sauna, shocked herself awake in the pool and splurged on a massage. Life, she thought as she splashed on her scent, had its good points after all. Tomorrow’s flight to Dallas would be soon enough to draft her Denver report. Such as it was. Tonight, all she had to worry about was eating. After pressing a hand to her stomach, Juliet admitted she was more than ready for that.
With a quick check, she approved the simple ivory dress with the high collar and tiny pearly buttons. Unless Carlo had picked a hot dog stand it would suit. Grabbing her evening bag, she slipped across the hall to knock on Carlo’s door. She only hoped he’d chosen some place close by. The last thing she wanted to do was fight Denver’s downtown traffic again.
The first thing she noticed when Carlo opened his door were the rolled up sleeves of his shirt. It was cotton, oversized and chic, but her eyes were drawn to the surprising cord of muscles in his forearms. The man did more than lift spoons and spatulas. The next thing she noticed was the erotic scents of spices and sauce.
“Lovely.” Carlo took both hands and drew her inside. She pleased him, the smooth, creamy skin, the light, subtle scent, but more, the confused hesitation in her eyes as she glanced over to where the aroma of food was strongest.
“An interesting cologne,” she managed after a moment. “But don’t you think you’ve gotten a bit carried away?”
“Innamorata, you don’t wear Franconi’s spaghetti sauce, you absorb it.” He kissed the back of her hand. “Anticipate it.” Then the other. “Savor it.” This time her palm.
A smart woman wasn’t aroused by a man who used such flamboyant tactics. Juliet told herself that as the chills raced up her arms and down again. “Spaghetti sauce?” Slipping her hands from his, she linked them behind her back.
“I found a wonderful shop. The spices pleased me very much. The burgundy was excellent. Italian, of course.”
“Of course.” Cautious, she stepped farther into the suite. “You spent the day cooking?”
“Yes. Though you should remind me to speak to the hotel owner about the quality of this stove. All in all, it went quite well.”
She told herself it wasn’t wise to encourage him when she had no intention of eating alone with him in his suite. Perhaps if she’d been made out of rock she could have resisted wandering toward the little kitchenette. Her mouth watered. “Oh, God.”
Delighted, Carlo slipped an arm around her waist and led her to the stove. The little kitchen itself was in shambles. She’d never seen so many pots and bowls and spoons jammed into a sink before. Counters were splattered and streaked. But the smells. It was heaven, pure and simple.
“The senses, Juliet. There’s not one of us who isn’t ruled by them. First, you smell, and you begin to imagine.” His fingers moved lightly over her waist. “Imagine. You can almost taste it on your tongue from that alone.”
“Hmm.” Knowing
she was making a mistake, she watched him take the lid off the pot on the stove. The tang made her close her eyes and just breathe. “Oh, Carlo.”
“Then we look, and the imagination goes one step further.” His fingers squeezed lightly at her waist until she opened her eyes and looked into the pot. Thick, red, simmering, the sauce was chunky with meat, peppers and spice. Her stomach growled.
“Beautiful, yes?”
“Yes.” She wasn’t aware that her tongue slid out over her lips in anticipation. He was.
“And we hear.” Beside the sauce a pot of water began to boil. In an expert move, he measured pasta by sight and slid it in. “Some things are destined to be mated.” With a slotted spoon, he stirred gently. “Without each other, they are incomplete. But when merged…” he adjusted the flame, “a treasure. Pasta and the sauce. A man and a woman. Come, you’ll have some burgundy. The champagne’s for later.”
It was time to take a stand, even though she took it by the stove. “Carlo, I had no idea this was what you intended. I think—”
“I like surprises.” He handed her a glass half filled with dark, red wine. “And I wanted to cook for you.”
She wished he hadn’t put it quite that way. She wished his voice wasn’t so warm, so deep, like his eyes. Like the feelings he could urge out of her. “I appreciate that Carlo, it’s just that—”
“You had your sauna?”
“Yes, I did. Now—”
“It relaxed you. It shows.”
She sighed, sipping at the wine without thinking. “Yes.”
“This relaxes me. We eat together tonight.” He tapped his glass to hers. “Men and women have done so for centuries. It has become civilized.”
Her chin tilted. “You’re making fun of me.”
“Yes.” Ducking into the refrigerator, he pulled out a small tray. “First you’ll try my antipasto. Your palate should be prepared.”
Juliet chose a little chunk of zucchini. “I’d think you’d prefer being served in a restaurant.”
“Now and then. There are times I prefer privacy.” He set down the tray. As he did, she took a small step back. Interested, he lifted a brow. “Juliet, do I make you nervous?”