by Nora Roberts
“Why does your mother stay his wife?”
“I asked her that a few years ago, before I moved away to New York. She loves him.” Juliet stared into her wine. “That’s reason enough for her.”
“Would you rather she’d have left him?”
“I’d rather she’d have been what she could be. What she might’ve been.”
“The choice was hers, Juliet. Just as your life is yours.”
“I don’t want to ever be bound to anyone, anyone who could humiliate me that way.” She lifted her head again. “I won’t put myself in my mother’s position. Not for anyone.”
“Do you see all relationships as being so imbalanced?”
With a shrug, she drank again. “I suppose I haven’t seen so many of them.”
For a moment he was silent. Carlo understood fidelity, the need for it, and the lack of it. “Perhaps we have something in common. I don’t remember my father well, I saw him little. He, too, was unfaithful to my mother.”
She looked over at him, but he didn’t see any surprise in her face. It was as though she expected such things. “But he committed his adultery with the sea. For months he’d be gone, while she raised us, worked, waited. When he’d come home, she’d welcome him. Then he’d go again, unable to resist. When he died, she mourned. She loved him, and made her choice.”
“It’s not fair, is it?”
“No. Did you think love was?”
“It’s not something I want.”
He remembered once another woman, a friend, telling him the same thing when she was in turmoil. “We all want love, Juliet.”
“No.” She shook her head with the confidence born of desperation. “No, affection, respect, admiration, but not love. It steals something from you.”
He looked at her as she stood in the path of the lamplight. “Perhaps it does,” he murmured. “But until we love, we can’t be sure we needed what was lost.”
“Maybe it’s easier for you to say that, to think that. You’ve had many lovers.”
It should have amused him. Instead, it seemed to accent a void he hadn’t been aware of. “Yes. But I’ve never been in love. I have a friend—” again he thought of Summer “—once she told me love was a merry-go-round. Maybe she knew best.”
Juliet pressed her lips together. “And an affair?”
Something in her voice had him looking over. For the second time he went to her, but slowly. “Perhaps it’s just one ride on the carousel.”
Because her fingers weren’t steady, Juliet set down the glass. “We understand each other.”
“In some ways.”
“Carlo—” She hesitated, then admitted the decision had already been made before she crossed the hall. “Carlo, I’ve never taken much time for carousels, but I do want you.”
How should he handle her? Odd, he’d never had to think things through so carefully before. With some women, he’d have been flamboyant, sweeping her up, carrying her off. With another he might have been impulsive, tumbling with her to the carpet. But nothing he’d ever done seemed as important as the first time with Juliet.
Words for a woman had always come easily to him. The right phrase, the right tone had always come as naturally as breathing. He could think of nothing. Even a murmur might spoil the simplicity of what she’d said to him and how she’d said it. So he didn’t speak.
He kissed her where they stood, not with the raging passion he knew she could draw from him, not with the hesitation she sometimes made him feel. He kissed her with the truth and the knowledge that longtime lovers often experience. They came to each other with separate needs, separate attitudes, but with this, they locked out the past. Tonight was for the new, and for renewing.
She’d expected the words, the flash and style that seemed so much a part of him. Perhaps she’d even expected something of triumph. Again, he gave her the different and the fresh with no more than the touch of mouth to mouth.
The thought came to her, then was discounted, that he was no more certain of his ground than she. Then he held out his hand. Juliet put hers in it. Together they walked to the bedroom.
If he’d set the scene for a night of romance, Carlo would’ve added flowers with a touch of spice, music with the throb of passion. He’d have given her the warmth of candlelight and the fun of champagne. Tonight, with Juliet, there was only silence and moonlight. The maid had turned down the bed and left the drapes wide. White light filtered through shadows and onto white sheets.
Standing by the bed, he kissed her palms, one by one. They were cool and carried a hint of her scent. At her wrist her pulse throbbed. Slowly, watching her, he loosened the tie of her robe. With his eyes still on hers, he brought his hands to her shoulders and slipped the material aside. It fell silently to pool at her feet.
He didn’t touch her, nor did he yet look at anything but her face. Through nerves, through needs, something like comfort began to move through her. Her lips curved, just slightly, as she reached for the tie of his robe and drew the knot. With her hands light and sure on his shoulders, she pushed the silk aside.
They were both vulnerable, to their needs, to each other. The light was thin and white and washed with shadows. No other illumination was needed this first time that they looked at each other.
He was lean but not thin. She was slender but soft. Her skin seemed only more pale when he touched her. Her hand seemed only more delicate when she touched him.
They came together slowly. There was no need to rush.
The mattress gave, the sheets rustled. Quietly. Side by side they lay, giving themselves time—all the time needed to discover what pleasures could come from the taste of mouth to mouth, the touch of flesh to flesh.
Should she have known it would be like this? So easy. Inevitable. Her skin was warm, so warm wherever he brushed it. His lips demanded, they took, but with such patience. He loved her gently, slowly, as though it were her first time. As she drifted deeper, Juliet thought dimly that perhaps it was.
Innocence. He felt it from her, not physical, but emotional. Somehow, incredibly, he discovered it was the same for himself. No matter how many had come before, for either of them, they came to each other now in innocence.
Her hands didn’t hesitate as they moved over him, but stroked as though she were blind and could only gain her own picture through other senses. He smelled of a shower, water and soap, but he tasted richer, of wine. Then he spoke for the first time, only her name. It was to her more moving, more poetic than any endearment.
Her body moved with his, in rhythm, keeping pace. She seemed to know, somehow, where he would touch her just before she felt his fingers trace, his palms press. Then his lips began a long, luxurious journey she hoped would never end.
She was so small. Why had he never noticed before how small she was? It was easy to forget her strength, her control, her stamina. He could give her tenderness and wait for the passion.
The line of her neck was slender and so white in the moonlight. Her scent was trapped there, at her throat. Intensified. Arousing. He could linger there while blood heated. His and hers.
He slid his tongue over the subtle curve of her breast to find the peak. When he drew it into his mouth, she moaned his name, giving them both a long, slow nudge to the edge.
But there was more to taste, more to touch. Passion, when heated, makes a mockery of control. Sounds slipped into the room—a catch of breath, a sigh, a moan—all pleasure. Their scents began to mix together—a lover’s fragrance. In the moonlight, they were one form. The sheets were hot, twisted. When with tongue and fingertips he drove her over the first peak, Juliet gripped the tousled sheets as her body arched and shuddered with a torrent of sensations.
While she was still weak, still gasping, he slipped into her.
His head was spinning—a deliciously foreign sensation to him. He wanted to bury himself in her, but he wanted to see her. Her eyes were shut; her lips just parted as the breath hurried in and out. She moved with him, slowly, then fa
ster, still faster until her fingers dug into his shoulders.
On a cry of pleasure, her eyes flew open. Looking into them, he saw the dark, astonished excitement he’d wanted to give her.
At last, giving in to the rushing need of his own body, he closed his mouth over hers and let himself go.
Chapter Eight
Were there others who understood true passion? Wrapped in Carlo, absorbing and absorbed by Carlo, Juliet knew she hadn’t until moments ago. Should it make you weak? She felt weak, but not empty.
Should she feel regret? Yes, logically she should. She’d given more of herself than she’d intended, shared more than she’d imagined, risked more than she should have dared. But she had no regrets. Perhaps later she’d make her list of the whys and why nots. For now, she wanted only to enjoy the soft afterglow of loving.
“You’re quiet.” His breath whispered across her temple, followed by his lips.
She smiled a little, content to let her eyes close. “So are you.”
Nuzzling his cheek against her hair, he looked over to the slant of moonlight through the window. He wasn’t sure which words to use. He’d never felt quite like this before with any woman. He’d never expected to. How could he tell her that and expect to be believed? He was having a hard time believing it himself. And yet…perhaps truth was the hardest thing to put into words.
“You feel very small when I hold you like this,” he murmured. “It makes me want to hold you like this for a long, long time.”
“I like having you hold me.” The admission was much easier to make than she’d thought. With a little laugh, she turned her head so that she could see his face. “I like it very much.”
“Then you won’t object if I go on holding you for the next few hours.”
She kissed his chin. “The next few minutes,” she corrected. “I have to get back to my room.”
“You don’t like my bed?”
She stretched and cuddled and thought how wonderful it would be never to move from that one spot. “I think I’m crazy about it, but I’ve got a little work to do before I call it a night, then I have to be up by six-thirty, and—”
“You work too much.” He cut her off, then leaned over her to pick up the phone. “You can get up in the morning just as easily from my bed as yours.”
Finding she liked the way his body pressed into hers, she prepared to be convinced. “Maybe. What’re you doing?”
“Shh. Yes, this is Franconi in 922. I’d like a wake-up call for six.” He replaced the phone and rolled, pulling her on top of him. “There now, everything is taken care of. The phone will ring at dawn and wake us up.”
“It certainly will.” Juliet folded her hands over his chest and rested her chin on them. “But you told them to call at six. We don’t have to get up until six-thirty.”
“Yes.” He slid his hands down low over her back. “So we have a half-hour to—ah—wake up.”
With a laugh, she pressed her lips to his shoulder. This once, she told herself, just this once, she’d let someone else do the planning. “Very practical. Do you think we might take a half hour or so to—ah—go to sleep?”
“My thoughts exactly.”
When the phone did ring, Juliet merely groaned and slid down under the sheets. For the second time, she found herself buried under Carlo as he rolled over to answer it. Without complaint, she lay still, hoping the ringing of the phone had been part of a dream.
“Come now, Juliet.” Shifting most of his weight from her, Carlo began to nibble on her shoulder. “You’re playing mole.”
She murmured in drowsy excitement as he slid his hand down to her hip. “Mole? I don’t have a mole.”
“Playing mole.” She was so warm and soft and pliant. He’d known she would be. Mornings were made for lazy delights and waking her was a pleasure just begun.
Juliet stretched under the stroke and caress of his hands. Mornings were for a quick shower and a hasty cup of coffee. She’d never known they could be luxurious. “Playing mole?”
“An American expression.” The skin over her rib cage was soft as butter. He thought there was no better time to taste it. “You pretend to be dead.”
Because her mind was clouded with sleep, her system already churning with passion, it took a moment. “Possum.”
“Prego?”
“Playing possum,” she repeated and, guided by his hands, shifted. “A mole’s different.”
“So, they’re both little animals.”
She opened one eye. His hair was rumpled around his face, his chin darkened with a night’s growth of beard. But when he smiled he looked as though he’d been awake for hours. He looked, she admitted, absolutely wonderful.
“You want an animal?” With a sudden burst of energy, she rolled on top of him. Her hands were quick, her mouth avid. In seconds, she’d taken his breath away.
She’d never been aggressive, but found the low, surprised moan and the fast pump of his heart to her liking. Her body reacted like lightning. She didn’t mind that his hands weren’t as gentle, as patient as they’d been the night before. This new desperation thrilled her.
He was Franconi, known for his wide range of expertise in the kitchen and the bedroom. But she was making him wild and helpless at the same time. With a laugh, she pressed her mouth to his, letting her tongue find all the dark, lavish tastes. When he tried to shift her, to take her because the need had grown too quickly to control, she evaded. His breathless curse whispered into her mouth.
He never lost finesse with a woman. Passion, his passion, had always been melded with style. Now, as she took her frenzied journey over him, he had no style, only needs. He’d never been a man to rush. When he cooked, he went slowly, step-by-step. Enjoy, experience, experiment. He made love the same way. Such things were meant to be savored, to be appreciated by each of the five senses.
It wasn’t possible to savor when you were driven beyond the civilized. When your senses were whirling and tangled, it wasn’t possible to separate them. Being driven was something new for him, something intoxicating. No, he wouldn’t fight it, but pull her with him.
Rough and urgent, he grabbed her hips. Within moments, they were both beyond thought, beyond reason….
His breath was still unsteady, but he held her close and tight. Whatever she’d done, or was doing to him, he didn’t want to lose it. The thought flickered briefly that he didn’t want to lose her. Carlo pushed it aside. It was a dangerous thought. They had now. It was much wiser to concentrate on that.
“I have to go.” Though she wanted nothing more than to curl up against him, Juliet made herself shift away. “We have to be downstairs at checkout in forty minutes.”
“To meet Big Bill.”
“That’s right.” Juliet reached onto the floor for her robe, slipping it onto her arms before she stood up. Carlo’s lips trembled at the way she turned her back to him to tie it. It was rather endearing to see the unconscious modesty from a woman who’d just exploited every inch of his body. “You don’t know how grateful I am that Bill volunteered to play chauffeur. The last thing I want to do is fight the freeway system in this town. I’ve had to do it before, and it’s not a pretty sight.”
“I could drive,” he murmured, enjoying the way the rich green silk reached the top of her thighs.
“Staying alive is another reason I’m grateful for Bill. I’ll call and have a bellman come up for the bags in—thirty-five minutes. Be sure—”
“You check everything because we won’t be coming back,” he finished. “Juliet, haven’t I proven my competency yet?”
“Just a friendly reminder.” She checked her watch before she remembered she wasn’t wearing it. “The TV spot should be a breeze. Jacky Torrence hosts. It’s a jovial sort of show that goes after the fast, funny story rather than nuts and bolts.”
“Hmm.” He rose, stretching. The publicist was back, he noted with a half smile, but as he reached down for his own robe, he noticed that she’d broken off. Lifting his he
ad, he looked up at her.
Good God, he was beautiful. It was all she could think. Schedules, planning, points of information all went out of her head. In the early morning sun, his skin was more gold than brown, smooth and tight over his rib cage, nipped in at the waist to a narrow line of hip. Letting out a shaky breath, she took a step back.
“I’d better go,” she managed. “We can run through today’s schedule on the way to the studio.”
It pleased him enormously to understand what had broken her concentration. He held the robe loosely in one hand as he took a step closer. “Perhaps we’ll get bumped.”
“Bite your tongue.” Aiming for a light tone, she succeeded with a whisper. “That’s an interesting robe.”
The tone of her voice was a springboard to an arousal already begun. “You like the flamingos? My mother has a sense of humor.” But he didn’t put it on as he stepped closer.
“Carlo, stay right where you are. I mean it.” She held up a hand as she walked backward to the doorway.
He grinned, and kept on grinning after he heard the click of the hallway door.
Between Juliet cracking the whip and Bill piloting, their Houston business went like clockwork. TV, radio and print, the media was responsive and energetic. The midafternoon autograph party turned out to be a party in the true sense of the word and was a smashing success. Juliet found herself a spot in a storeroom and ripped open the oversized envelope from her office that had been delivered to the hotel. Settling back, she began to go through the clippings her assistant had air expressed.
L.A. was excellent, as she’d expected. Upbeat and enthusiastic. San Diego might’ve tried for a little more depth, but they’d given him page one of the Food section in one spread and a below-the-fold in the Style section in another. No complaints. Portland and Seattle listed a recipe apiece and raved shamelessly. Juliet could’ve rubbed her hands together with glee if she hadn’t been drinking coffee. Then she hit Denver.
Coffee sloshed out of the cup and onto her hand.
“Damn!” Fumbling in her briefcase, she found three crumpled tissues and began to mop up. A gossip column. Who’d have thought it? She gave herself a moment to think then relaxed. Publicity was publicity, after all. And the truth of the matter was, Franconi was gossip. Looking at it logically, the more times his name was in print, the more successful the tour. Resolved, Juliet began to read.