by Nora Roberts
She swallowed zucchini. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Am I?” On impulse, he set his wine down as well and took another step toward her. Juliet found her back pressed into the refrigerator.
“Carlo—”
“No, shh. We experiment.” Gently, watching her, he brushed his lips over one cheek, then the other. He heard her breath catch then shudder out. Nerves—these he accepted. When a man and woman were attracted and close, there had to be nerves. Without them, passion was bland, like a sauce without spice.
But fear? Wasn’t that what he saw in her eyes? Just a trace of it, only briefly. Nerves he’d use, play on, exploit. Fear was something different. It disturbed him, blocked him and, at the same time, moved him.
“I won’t hurt you, Juliet.”
Her eyes were direct again, level, though her hand was balled into a fist. “Won’t you?”
He took her hand, slowly working it open. “No.” In that moment, he promised both of them. “I won’t. Now we’ll eat.”
Juliet held off the shudder until he’d turned around to stir and drain his pasta. Perhaps he wouldn’t hurt her, she thought and recklessly tossed back her wine. But she might hurt herself.
He didn’t fuss. He merely perfected. It occurred to Juliet, as she watched him put the last touches on the meal, that he was no different here in the little hotel kitchen than he’d been before the camera. Juliet added her help in the only way she’d have dared. She set the table.
Yes, it was a mistake, she told herself as she arranged plates. But no one but a fool would walk away from anything that smelled like that sauce. She wasn’t a fool. She could handle herself. The moment of weak fear she’d felt in the kitchen was past. She’d enjoy a take-your-shoes-off meal, drink two glasses of really excellent burgundy, then go across the hall and catch eight hours’ sleep. The merry-go-round would continue the next day.
She selected a marinated mushroom as Carlo brought in the platter of spaghetti. “Better,” he said when she smiled at him. “You’re ready to enjoy yourself.”
With a shrug, Juliet sat. “If one of the top chefs in the world wants to cook me dinner, why should I complain?”
“The top,” he corrected and gestured for her to serve herself. She did, barely conquering greed.
“Does it really relax you to stand in a kitchen?”
“It depends. Sometimes it relaxes, sometimes it excites. Always it pleases. No, don’t cut.” With a shake of his head, he reached over. “Americans. You roll it onto the fork.”
“It falls off when I do.”
“Like this.” With his hands on her wrists, he guided her. Her pulse was steady, he noted, but not slow. “Now.” Still holding her hand, he lifted the fork toward her mouth. “Taste.”
As she did, he had the satisfaction of watching her face. Spices exploded on her tongue. Heat seeped through, mellowing to warmth. She savored it, even as she thought of the next bite. “Oh, this is no little sin.”
Nothing could have delighted him more. With a laugh, he sat back and started on his own plate. “Small sins are only small pleasures. When Franconi cooks for you, food is not a basic necessity.”
She was already rolling the next forkful. “You win that one. Why aren’t you fat?”
“Prègo?”
“If I could cook like this…” She tasted again and sighed. “I’d look like one of your meatballs.”
With a chuckle, he watched her dig in. It pleased him to see someone he cared for enjoying what he’d created. After years of cooking, he’d never tired of it. “So, your mother didn’t teach you to cook?”
“She tried.” Juliet accepted a piece of the crusty bread he offered but set it aside as she rolled more spaghetti. First things first. “I never seemed to be very good at the things she wanted me to be good at. My sister plays the piano beautifully; I can barely remember the scales.”
“So, what did you want to do instead of taking piano lessons?”
“Play third base.” It came out so easily, it stunned her. Juliet had thought she’d buried that along with a dozen other childhood frustrations. “It just wasn’t done,” she said with a shrug. “My mother was determined to raise two well rounded ladies who would become two well rounded, successful wives. Win some, lose some.”
“You think she’s not proud of you?”
The question hit a target she hadn’t known was exposed. Juliet reached for her wine. “It’s not a matter of pride, but of disappointment, I suppose. I disappointed her; I confused my father. They still wonder what they did wrong.”
“What they did wrong was not to accept what you are.”
“Maybe,” she murmured. “Or maybe I was determined to be something they couldn’t accept. I’ve never worked it out.”
“Are you unhappy with your life?”
Surprised, she glanced up. Unhappy? Sometimes frustrated, harassed and pressured. But unhappy? “No. No, I’m not.”
“Then perhaps that’s your answer.”
Juliet took a moment to study him. He was more than gorgeous, more than sexy, more than all those qualities she’d once cynically attributed to him. “Carlo.” For the first time she reached out to touch him, just his hand, but he thought it a giant step. “You’re a very nice man.”
“But of course I am.” His fingers curled over hers because he couldn’t resist. “I could give you references.”
With a laugh, Juliet backed off. “I’m sure you could.” With concentration, dedication and just plain greed, she cleared off her plate.
“Time for dessert.”
“Carlo!” Moaning, Juliet pressed a hand to her stomach. “Please, don’t be cruel.”
“You’ll like it.” He was up and in the kitchen before she found the strength to refuse again. “It’s an old, old, Italian tradition. Back to the empire. American cheesecake is sometimes excellent, but this…” He brought out a small, lovely cake with cherries dripping lavishly over it.
“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 kis
s 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 without 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 s
hould 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.