Lessons Learned

by Nora Roberts

  “That’s important.” He lifted his head a moment. Her face was already flushed, her eyes already soft. Almost as if she’d spoken aloud, he followed the train of thought. He couldn’t help but admire the way her mind worked from one point to the next in such straight lines.

  “I have to call New York and let them know our status. I have to call Boston and cancel, then the airport and change our flight. Then I—”

  “I think you have a love affair with the phone. It’s difficult for a man to be jealous of an inanimate object.”

  “Phones are my life.” She tried to slip out from under him, but got nowhere. “Carlo.”

  “I like it when you say my name with just a touch of exasperation.”

  “It’s going to be more than a touch in a minute.”

  He’d thought he’d enjoy that as well. “But you haven’t told me yet how fantastic I was today.”

  “You were fantastic.” It was so easy to relax when he held her like this. The phone calls could wait, just a bit. After all, they weren’t going anywhere. “You mesmerized them with your linguini.”

  “My linguini is hypnotic,” he agreed. “I charmed the reporter from the Free Press.”

  “You left him stupefied. Detroit’ll never be the same.”

  “That’s true.” He kissed her nose. “Boston won’t know what it’s missing.”

  “Don’t remind me,” she began, then broke off. Carlo could almost hear the wheels turning.

  “An idea.” Resigned, he rolled her on top of him and watched her think.

  “It might work,” she murmured. “If everyone cooperates, it might work very well. In fact, it might just be terrific.”

  “What?”

  “You claim to be a magician as well as an artist.”

  “Modesty prevents me from—”

  “Save it.” She scrambled up until she stradled him. “You told me once you could cook in a sewer.”

  Frowning, he toyed with the little gold hoop she wore in her ear. “Yes, perhaps I did. But this is only an expression—”

  “How about cooking by remote control?”

  His brows drew together, but he ran his hand idly to the hem of her skirt that had ridden high on her thigh. “You have extraordinary legs,” he said in passing, then gave her his attention. “What do you mean by remote control?”

  “Just that.” Wound up with the idea, Juliet rose and grabbed her pad and pencil. “You give me all the ingredients—it’s linguini again tomorrow, right?”

  “Yes, my specialty.”

  “Good, I have all that in the file anyway. We can set up a phone session between Detroit and the studio in Boston. You can be on the air there while we’re here.”

  “Juliet, you ask for a lot of magic.”

  “No, it’s just basic electronics. The host of the show—Paul O’Hara—can put the dish together on the air while you talk him through it. It’s like talking a plane in, you know. Forty degrees to the left—a cup of flour.”

  “No.”

  “Carlo.”

  Taking his time, he pried off his shoes. “You want him, this O’Hara who smiles for the camera, to cook my linguini?”

  “Don’t get temperamental on me,” she warned, while her mind leaped ahead to possibilities. “Look, you write cookbooks so the average person can cook one of your dishes.”

  “Cook them, yes.” He examined his nails. “Not like Franconi.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Tread softly on the ego, Juliet reminded herself. At least until you get your way. “Of course not, Carlo. No one expects that. But we could turn this inconvenience into a real event. Using your cookbook on the air, and some personal coaching from you via phone, O’Hara can prepare the linguini. He’s not a chef or a gourmet, but an average person. Therefore, he’ll be giving the audience the average person’s reactions. He’ll make the average person’s mistakes that you can correct. If we pull it off, the sales of your cookbook are going to soar. You know you can do it.” She smiled winningly. “Why you even said you could teach me to cook, and I’m helpless in the kitchen. Certainly you can talk O’Hara through one dish.”

  “Of course I can.” Folding his arms again, he stared up at the ceiling. Her logic was infallible, her idea creative. To be truthful, he liked it—almost as much as he liked the idea of not having to fly to Boston. Still, it hardly seemed fair to give without getting. “I’ll do it—on one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “Tomorrow morning, I talk this O’Hara through linguini. Tonight…” And he smiled at her. “We have a dress rehearsal. I talk you through it.”

  Juliet stopped tapping the end of her pencil on the pad. “You want me to cook linguini?”

  “With my guidance, cara mia, you could cook anything.”

  Juliet thought it over and decided it didn’t matter. The suite didn’t have a kitchen this time, so he’d be counting on using the hotel’s. That may or may not work. If it did, once she’d botched it, they could order room service. The bottom line was saving what she could of Boston. “I’d love to. Now, I’ve got to make those calls.”

  Carlo closed his eyes and opted for a nap. If he was going to teach two amateurs the secrets of linguini within twelve hours, he’d need his strength. “Wake me when you’ve finished,” he told her. “We have to inspect the kitchen of the hotel.”

  It took her the best part of two hours, and when she hung up for the last time, Juliet’s neck was stiff and her fingers numb. But she had what she wanted. Hal told her she was a genius and O’Hara said it sounded like fun. Arrangements were already in the works.

  This time Juliet grinned at the stubborn fog swirling outside the window. Neither rain nor storm nor dark of night, she thought, pleased with herself. Nothing was going to stop Juliet Trent.

  Then she looked over at Carlo. Something tilted inside her that had both her confidence and self-satisfaction wavering. Emotion, she reflected. It was something she hadn’t written into the itinerary.

  Well, maybe there was one catastrophe that wasn’t in the books. Maybe it was one she couldn’t work her way through with a creative idea and hustle. She simply had to take her feelings for Carlo one step at a time.

  Four more days, she mused, and the ride would be over. The music would stop and it would be time to get off the carousel.

  It wasn’t any use trying to see beyond that yet; it was all blank pages. She had to hold on to the belief that life was built one day at a time. Carlo would go, then she would pick up the pieces and begin her life again from that point.

  She wasn’t fool enough to tell herself she wouldn’t cry. Tears would be shed over him, but they’d be shed quietly and privately. Schedule in a day for mourning, she thought then tossed her pad away.

  It wasn’t healthy to think of it now. There were only four days left. For a moment, she looked down at her empty hands and wondered if she’d have taken the steps she’d taken if she’d known where they would lead her. Then she looked over at him and simply watched him sleep.

  Even with his eyes closed and that irrepressible inner life he had on hold, he could draw her. It wasn’t simply a matter of his looks, she realized. She wasn’t a woman who’d turn her life sideways for simple physical attraction. It was a matter of style. Smiling, she rose and walked closer to him as he slept. No matter how practical she was, how much common sense she possessed, she couldn’t have resisted his style.

  There’d be no regrets, she reaffirmed. Not now, nor in five days’ time when an ocean and priorities separated them. As years passed, and their lives flowed and altered, she’d remember a handful of days when she’d had something special.

  No time to waste, he’d said. Catching her tongue in her teeth Juliet decided she couldn’t agree more. Reaching up, she began to unbutton her blouse. As a matter of habit, she draped it carefully over the back of a chair before she unhooked her skirt. When that fell, she lifted it, smoothed it out and folded it. The pins were drawn out of her hair, one by one, th
en set aside.

  Dressed in a very impractical lace camisole and string bikini she moved closer.

  Carlo awoke with his blood pumping and his head whirling. He could smell her scent lightly in her hair, more heady on her skin as her mouth took command of his. Her body was already heated as she lay full length on him. Before he could draw his first thoughts together, his own body followed suit.

  She was all lace and flesh and passion. There wasn’t time to steady his control or polish his style. Urgent and desperate, he reached for her and found silk and delicacy, strength and demand wherever he touched.

  She unbuttoned his shirt and drew it aside so that their skin could meet and arouse. Beneath hers, she felt his heartbeat race and pound until power made her dizzy. Capturing his lips once again, she thought only of driving him to madness. She could feel it spread through him, growing, building, so that it would dominate both of them.

  When he rolled so that she was trapped between the back of the sofa and his body, she was ready to relinquish control. With a moan, dark and liquid, she let herself enjoy what she’d begun.

  No woman had ever done this to him. He understood that as his only thoughts were to devour everything she had. His fingers, so clever, so skilled, so gentle, pulled at the lace until the thin strap tore with hardly a sound.

  He found her—small soft breasts that fit so perfectly in his hands, the strong narrow rib cage and slender waist. His. The word nearly drove him mad. She was his now, as she’d been in the dream she’d woken him from. Perhaps he was still dreaming.

  She smelled of secrets, small, feminine secrets no man ever fully understood. She tasted of passion, ripe, shivering passion every man craved. With his tongue he tasted that sweet subtle valley between her breasts and felt her tremble. She was strong; he’d never doubted it. In her strength, she was surrendering completely to him, for the pleasure of each.

  The lace smelled of her. He could have wallowed in it, but her skin was irresistible. He drew the camisole down to her waist and feasted on her.

  With her hands tangled in his hair, her body on fire, she thought only of him. No tomorrows, no yesterdays. However much she might deny it in an hour, they’d become a single unit. One depended on the other for pleasure, for comfort, for excitement. For so much more she didn’t dare think of it. She yearned for him; nothing would ever stop it. But now, he was taking her, fast and furious, through doors they’d opened together. Neither of them had gone there before with another, nor would again.

  Juliet gave herself over to the dark, the heat, and to Carlo.

  He drew the thin strings riding on her hips, craving the essence of her. When he’d driven her over the first peak, he knew and reveled in it. With endless waves of desire, he whipped her up again, and yet again, until they were both trembling. She called out his name as he ran his lips down her leg. All of her was the thought paramount in his mind. He’d have all of her until she was willing, ready to have all of him.

  “Juliet, I want you.” His face was above hers again, his breath straining. “Look at me.”

  She was staggering on that razor’s edge between reason and madness. When she opened her eyes, his face filled her vision. It was all she wanted.

  “I want you,” he repeated while the blood raged in his head. “Only you.”

  She was wrapped around him, her head arched back. For an instant, their eyes met and held. What coursed through them wasn’t something they could try to explain. It was both danger and security.

  “Only,” she murmured and took him into her.

  They were both stunned, both shaken, both content. Naked, damp and warm, they lay tangled together in silence. Words had been spoken, Juliet thought. Words that were part of the madness of the moment. She would have to take care not to repeat them when passion was spent. They didn’t need words; they had four days. Yet she ached to hear them again, to say them again.

  She could set the tone between them, she thought. She had only to begin now and continue. No pressure. She kept her eyes closed a moment longer. No regrets. The extra moment she took to draw back her strength went unnoticed.

  “I could stay just like this for a week,” she murmured. Though she meant it, the words were said lazily. Turning her head, she looked at him, smiled. “Are you ready for another nap?”

  There was so much he wanted to say. So much, he thought, she didn’t want to hear. They’d set the rules; he had only to follow them. Nothing was as easy as it should’ve been.

  “No.” He kissed her forehead. “Though I’ve never found waking from a nap more delightful. Now, I think it’s time for your next lesson.”

  “Really?” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “I thought I’d graduated.”

  “Cooking,” he told her, giving her a quick pinch where Italian males were prone to.

  Juliet tossed back her hair and pinched him back. “I thought you’d forget about that.”

  “Franconi never forgets. A quick shower, a change of clothes and down to the kitchen.”

  Agreeable, Juliet shrugged. She didn’t think for one minute the management would allow him to give a cooking lesson in their kitchen.

  Thirty minutes later, she was proven wrong.

  Carlo merely bypassed management. He saw no reason to go through a chain of command. With very little fuss, he steered her through the hotel’s elegant dining room and into the big, lofty kitchen. It smelled exotic and sounded like a subway station.

  They’d stop him here, Juliet decided, still certain they’d be dining outside or through room service within the hour. Though she’d changed into comfortable jeans, she had no plans to cook. After one look at the big room with its oversized appliances and acres of counter, she was positive she wouldn’t.

  It shouldn’t have surprised her to be proven wrong again.

  “Franconi!” The name boomed out and echoed off the walls. Juliet jumped back three inches.

  “Carlo, I think we should—” But as she spoke, she looked up at his face. He was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Pierre!”

  As she looked on, Carlo was enveloped by a wide, white-aproned man with a drooping moustache and a face as big and round as a frying pan. His skin glistened with sweat, but he smelt inoffensively of tomatoes.

  “You Italian lecher, what do you do in my kitchen?”

  “Honor it,” Carlo said as they drew apart. “I thought you were in Montreal, poisoning the tourists.”

  “They beg me to take the kitchen here.” The big man with the heavy French accent shrugged tanklike shoulders. “I feel sorry for them. Americans have so little finesse in the kitchen.”

  “They offered to pay you by the pound,” Carlo said dryly. “Your pounds.”

  Pierre held both hands to his abundant middle and laughed. “We understand each other, old friend. Still, I find America to my liking. You, why aren’t you in Rome pinching ladies?”

  “I’m finishing up a tour for my book.”

  “But yes, you and your cookbooks.” A noise behind him had him glancing around and bellowing in French. Juliet was certain the walls trembled. With a smile, he adjusted his hat and turned back to them. “That goes well?”

  “Well enough.” Carlo drew Juliet up. “This is Juliet Trent, my publicist.”

  “So it goes very well,” Pierre murmured as he took Juliet’s hand and brushed his lips over it. “Perhaps I will write a cookbook. Welcome to my kitchen, mademoiselle. I’m at your service.”

  Charmed, Juliet smiled. “Thank you, Pierre.”

  “Don’t let this one fool you,” Carlo warned. “He has a daughter your age.”

  “Bah!” Pierre gave him a lowered brow look. “She’s but sixteen. If she were a day older I’d call my wife and tell her to lock the doors while Franconi is in town.”

  Carlo grinned. “Such flattery, Pierre.” With his hands hooked in his back pockets, he looked around the room. “Very nice,” he mused. Lifting his head, he scented the air. “Duck. Is that duck I smell?”<
br />
  Pierre preened. “The specialty. Canard au Pierre.”

  “Fantastico.” Carlo swung an arm around Juliet as he led her closer to the scent. “No one, absolutely no one, does to duck what Pierre can do.”

  The black eyes in the frying-pan face gleamed. “No, you flatter me, mon ami.”

  “There’s no flattery in truth.” Carlo looked on while an assistant carved Pierre’s duck. With the ease of experience, he took a small sliver and popped it into Juliet’s mouth. It dissolved there, leaving behind an elusive flavor that begged for more. Carlo merely laid his tongue on his thumb to test. “Exquisite, as always. Do you remember, Pierre, when we prepared the Shah’s engagement feast? Five, six years ago.”

  “Seven,” Pierre corrected and sighed.

  “Your duck and my cannelloni.”

  “Magnificent. Not so much paprika on that fish,” he boomed out. “We are not in Budapest. Those were the days,” he continued easily. “But…” The shrug was essentially Gallic. “When a man has his third child, he has to settle down, oui?”

  Carlo gave another look at the kitchen, and with an expert’s eye approved. “You’ve picked an excellent spot. Perhaps you’d let me have a corner of it for a short time.”

  “A corner?”

  “A favor,” Carlo said with a smile that would have charmed the pearls from oysters. “I’ve promised my Juliet to teach her how to prepare linguini.”

  “Linguini con vongole biance?” Pierre’s eyes glittered.

  “Naturally. It is my specialty.”

  “You can have a corner of my kitchen, mon ami, in exchange for a plate.”

  Carlo laughed and patted Pierre’s stomach. “For you, amico, two plates.”

  Pierre clasped him by the shoulders and kissed both cheeks. “I feel my youth coming back to me. Tell me what you need.”

  In no time at all, Juliet found herself covered in a white apron with her hair tucked into a chef’s hat. She might have felt ridiculous if she’d been given the chance.