by Nora Roberts
He merely smiled and touched a finger to her cheek. “You were on the phone.”
Telling herself not to swear, she dragged a hand through her hair. “Next time you wander off, leave a trail of bread crumbs. In the meantime, I’ve got a very cranky cab driver waiting outside.” As she pulled him along, she struggled to remember her manners. “Did you enjoy the show?” she asked Summer.
“I always enjoy watching Carlo cook. I only wish the two of you had more time in town. As it is, your timing’s very wise.”
“Yes?” Carlo pushed open the door and held it for both women.
“The French swine comes through next week.”
The door shut with the punch of a bullet. “LaBare?”
Juliet turned back. She’d heard him snarl that name before. “Carlo—”
He held up a hand, silencing any interruption. “What does the Gallic slug do here?”
“Precisely what you’ve done,” Summer returned. Tossing back her hair, she scowled at nothing. “He’s written another book.”
“Peasant. He’s fit to cook only for hyenas.”
“For rabid hyenas,” Summer corrected.
Seeing that both of her charges were firing up, Juliet took an arm of each. “I think we can talk in the cab.”
“He will not speak to you,” Carlo announced, ignoring Juliet. “I will dice him into very small pieces.”
Though she relished the image, Summer shook her head. “Don’t worry. I can handle him. Besides, Blake finds it amusing.”
Carlo made a sound like a snake. Juliet felt her nerves fraying. “Americans. Perhaps I’ll come back to Philadelphia and murder him.”
Trying her best, Juliet nudged him toward the cab. “Come now, Carlo, you know you don’t want to murder Blake.”
“LaBare,” he corrected with something close to an explosion.
“Who is LaBare?” Juliet demanded in exasperation.
“Swine,” Carlo answered.
“Pig,” Summer confirmed. “But I have plans of my own for him. He’s going to stay at the Cocharan House.” Summer spread her hands and examined her nails. “I’m going to prepare his meals personally.”
With a laugh, Carlo lifted her from the ground and kissed her. “Revenge, my love, is sweeter than even your meringue.” Satisfied, he set her down again. “We were students with this slug.” Carlo explained to Juliet. “His crimes are too numerous to mention.” With a snap, Carlo adjusted his jacket. “I refuse to be on the same continent as he.”
Running out of patience, Juliet glanced at the scowling cab driver. “You won’t be,” she reminded him. “You’ll be back in Italy when he’s here.”
Carlo brightened and nodded. “You’re right. Summer, you’ll call me and tell me how he fell on his face?”
“Naturally.”
“Then it’s settled.” His mood altered completely, he smiled and picked up the conversation as it ended before the mention of the Frenchman’s name. “Next time we come to Philadelphia,” Carlo promised. “You and I will make a meal for Blake and Juliet. My veal, your bombe. You haven’t sinned, Juliet, until you’ve tasted Summer’s bombe.”
There wouldn’t be a next time, Juliet knew, but she managed to smile. “I’ll look forward to it.”
Carlo paused as Juliet opened the door of the cab. “But tonight, we leave for New York.”
Summer smiled as she stepped inside. “Don’t forget to pack your broom.”
Juliet started to climb into the front seat. “Broom?”
Carlo took Summer’s hand in his and smiled. “An old French expression.”
Chapter Twelve
New York hadn’t changed. Perhaps it was hotter than when Juliet had left it, but the traffic still pushed, the people still rushed and the noise still rang. As she stood at her window at the Harley, she absorbed it.
No, New York hadn’t changed, but she had.
Three weeks before, she’d looked out her office window at not so different a view. Her primary thought then had been the tour, to make a success of it. For herself, she admitted. She’d wanted the splash.
She realized she’d gotten it. At that moment, Carlo was in his suite, giving an interview to a reporter for the Times. She’d made a half-dozen excuses why she didn’t have time to sit in on it. He’d accepted her usual list of phone calls and details, but the truth had been, she’d needed to be alone.
Later, there’d be another reporter and a photographer from one of the top magazines on the stands. They had network coverage of his demonstration at Bloomingdale’s. The Italian Way had just climbed to number five on the bestsellers list. Her boss was ready to canonize her.
Juliet tried to remember when she’d ever been more miserable.
Time was running out. The next evening, Carlo would board a plane and she’d take the short cab ride back to her apartment. While she unpacked, he’d be thousands of miles above the Atlantic. She’d be thinking of him while he flirted with a flight attendant or a pretty seat companion. That was his way; she’d always known it.
It wasn’t possible to bask in success, to begin plans on her next assignment when she couldn’t see beyond the next twenty-four hours.
Wasn’t this exactly what she’d always promised herself wouldn’t happen? Hadn’t she always picked her way carefully through life so that she could keep everything in perfect focus? She’d made a career for herself from the ground up, and everything she had, she’d earned. She’d never considered it ungenerous not to share it, but simply practical. After all, Juliet had what she considered the perfect example before her of what happened when you let go the reins long enough to let someone else pick them up.
Her mother had blindly handed over control and had never guided her own life again. Her promising career in nursing had dwindled down to doctoring the scraped knees of her children. She’d sacrificed hunks of herself for a man who’d cared for her but could never be faithful. How close had she come to doing precisely the same thing?
If she was still certain of anything, Juliet was certain she couldn’t live that way. Exist, she thought, but not live.
So whether she wanted to or not, whether she thought she could or not, she had to think beyond the next twenty-four hours. Picking up her pad, she went to the phone. There were always calls to be made.
Before she could push the first button, Carlo strolled in. “I took your key,” he said before she could ask. “So I wouldn’t disturb you if you were napping. But I should’ve known.” He nodded toward the phone, then dropped into a chair. He looked so pleased with himself she had to smile.
“How’d the interview go?”
“Perfectly.” With a sigh, Carlo stretched out his legs. “The reporter had prepared my ravioli only last night. He thinks, correctly, that I’m a genius.”
She checked her watch. “Very good. You’ve another reporter on the way. If you can convince him you’re a genius—”
“He has only to be perceptive.”
She grinned, then on impulse rose and went to kneel in front of him. “Don’t change, Carlo.”
Leaning down, he caught her face in his hands. “What I am now, I’ll be tomorrow.”
Tomorrow he’d be gone. But she wouldn’t think of it. Juliet kissed him quickly then made herself draw away. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
Carlo glanced down at his casual linen shirt and trim black jeans. “Of course it’s what I’m wearing. If I wasn’t wearing this, I’d be wearing something else.”
“Hmm.” She studied him, trying to judge him with a camera’s eye. “Actually, I think it might be just right for this article. Something informal and relaxed for a magazine that’s generally starched collars and ties. It should be a unique angle.”
“Grazie,” he said dryly as he rose. “Now when do we talk about something other than reporters?”
“After you’ve earned it.”
“You’re a hard woman, Juliet.”
“Solid steel.” But she couldn’t resist putting her arms aro
und him and proving otherwise. “After you’ve finished being a hit across the hall, we’ll head down to Bloomingdale’s.”
He nudged her closer, until their bodies fit. “And then?”
“Then you have drinks with your editor.”
He ran the tip of his tongue down her neck. “Then?”
“Then you have the evening free.”
“A late supper in my suite.” Their lips met, clung, then parted.
“It could be arranged.”
“Champagne?”
“You’re the star. Whatever you want.”
“You?”
She pressed her cheek against his. Tonight, this last night, there’d be no restriction. “Me.”
It was ten before they walked down the hall to his suite again. Juliet had long since lost the urge to eat, but her enthusiasm in the evening hadn’t waned.
“Carlo, it never ceases to amaze me how you perform. If you’d chosen show business, you’d have a wall full of Oscars.”
“Timing, innamorata. It all has to do with timing.”
“You had them eating your pasta out of your hand.”
“I found it difficult,” he confessed and stopped at the door to take her into his arms. “When I could think of nothing but coming back here tonight with you.”
“Then you do deserve an Oscar. Every woman in the audience was certain you were thinking only of her.”
“I did receive two interesting offers.”
Her brow lifted. “Oh, really?”
Hopeful, he nuzzled her chin. “Are you jealous?”
She linked her fingers behind his neck. “I’m here and they’re not.”
“Such arrogance. I believe I still have one of the phone numbers in my pocket.”
“Reach for it, Franconi, and I’ll break your wrist.”
He grinned at her. He liked the flare of aggression in a woman with skin the texture of rose petals. “Perhaps I’ll just get my key then.”
“A better idea.” Amused, Juliet stood back as he opened the door. She stepped inside and stared.
The room was filled with roses. Hundreds of them in every color she’d ever imagined flowed out of baskets, tangled out of vases, spilled out of bowls. The room smelled like an English garden on a summer afternoon.
“Carlo, where did you get all these?”
“I ordered them.”
She stopped as she leaned over to sniff at a bud. “Ordered them, for yourself?”
He plucked the bud out of its vase and handed it to her. “For you.”
Overwhelmed, she stared around the room. “For me?”
“You should always have flowers.” He kissed her wrist. “Roses suit Juliet best.”
A single rose, a hundred roses, there was no in between with Carlo. Again, he moved her unbearably. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You like them.”
“Like them? Yes, of course, I love them, but—”
“Then you have to say nothing. You promised to share a late supper and champagne.” Taking her hand, he led her across the room to the table already set by the wide uncurtained window. A magnum of champagne was chilling in a silver bucket, white tapers were waiting to be lit. Carlo lifted a cover to show delicately broiled lobster tails. It was, Juliet thought, the most beautiful spot in the world.
“How did you manage to have all this here, waiting?”
“I told room service to have it here at ten.” He pulled out her chair. “I, too, can keep a schedule, my love.” When he’d seated her, Carlo lit the candles, then dimmed the lights so that the silver glinted. At another touch, music flowed out toward her.
Juliet ran her fingertip down the slim white column of a candle then looked at him when he joined her. He drew the cork on the champagne. As it frothed to the lip, he filled two glasses.
He’d make their last night special, she thought. It was so like him. Sweet, generous, romantic. When they parted ways, they’d each have something memorable to take with them. No regrets, Juliet thought again and smiled at him.
“Thank you.”
“To happiness, Juliet. Yours and mine.”
She touched her glass to his, watching him as she sipped. “You know, some women might suspect a seduction when they’re dined with champagne and candlelight.”
“Yes. Do you?”
She laughed and sipped again. “I’m counting on it.”
God, she excited him, just watching her laugh, hearing her speak. He wondered if such a thing would mellow and settle after years of being together. How would it feel, he wondered, to wake comfortably every morning beside the woman you loved?
Sometimes, he thought, you would come together at dawn with mutual need and sleepy passion. Other times you would simply lie together, secure in the night’s warmth. He’d always considered marriage sacred, almost mysterious. Now he thought it would be an adventure—one he intended to share with no one but Juliet.
“This is wonderful.” Juliet let the buttery lobster dissolve on her tongue. “I’ve been completely spoiled.”
Carlo filled her glass again. “Spoiled. How?”
“This champagne’s a far cry from the little Reisling I splurge on from time to time. And the food.” She took another bite of lobster and closed her eyes. “In three weeks my entire attitude toward food has changed. I’m going to end up fat and penniless supporting my habit.”
“So, you’ve learned to relax and enjoy. Is it so bad?”
“If I continue to relax and enjoy I’m going to have to learn how to cook.”
“I said I’d teach you.”
“I managed the linguini,” she reminded him as she drew out the last bite.
“One lesson only. It takes many years to learn properly.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to make do with the little boxes that say complete meal inside.”
“Sacrilege, caro, now that your palate is educated.” He touched her fingers across the table. “Juliet, I still want to teach you.”
She felt her pulse skid, and though she concentrated, she couldn’t level it. She tried to smile. “You’ll have to write another cookbook. Next time you tour, you can show me how to make spaghetti.” Ramble, she told herself. When you rambled, you couldn’t think. “If you write one book a year, I should be able to handle it. When you come around this time next year, I could manage the next lesson. By then, maybe I’ll have my own firm and you can hire me. After three bestsellers, you should think about a personal publicist.”
“A personal publicist?” His fingers tightened on hers then released. “Perhaps you’re right.” He reached in his pocket and drew out an envelope. “I have something for you.”
Juliet recognized the airline folder and took it with a frown. “Is there trouble on your return flight? I thought I’d…” She trailed off when she saw her own name on a departing flight for Rome.
“Come with me, Juliet.” He waited until her gaze lifted to his. “Come home with me.”
More time, she thought as she gripped the ticket. He was offering her more time. And more pain. It was time she accepted there’d be pain. She waited until she was certain she could control her voice, and her words. “I can’t, Carlo. We both knew the tour would end.”
“The tour, yes. But not us.” He’d thought he’d feel confident, assured, even cheerful. He hadn’t counted on desperation. “I want you with me, Juliet.”
Very carefully, she set the ticket aside. It hurt, she discovered, to take her hand from it. “It’s impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible. We belong with each other.”
She had to deflect the words, somehow. She had to pretend they didn’t run deep inside her and swell until her heart was ready to burst. “Carlo, we both have obligations, and they’re thousands of miles apart. On Monday, we’ll both be back at work.”
“That isn’t something that must be,” he corrected. “It’s you and I who must be. If you need a few days to tidy your business here in New York, we’ll wait. Next week, the week aft
er, we fly to Rome.”
“Tidy my business?” She rose and found her knees were shaking. “Do you hear what you’re saying?”
He did, and didn’t know what had happened to the words he’d planned. Demands were coming from him where he’d wanted to show her need and emotion. He was stumbling over himself where he’d always been surefooted. Even now, cursing himself, he couldn’t find solid ground.
“I’m saying I want you with me.” He stood and grabbed her arms. The candlelight flickered over two confused faces. “Schedules and plans mean nothing, don’t you see? I love you.”
She went stiff and cold, as though he’d slapped her. A hundred aches, a multitude of needs moved through her, and with them the knowledge that he’d said those words too many times to count to women he couldn’t even remember.
“You won’t use that on me, Carlo.” Her voice wasn’t strong, but he saw fury in her eyes. “I’ve stayed with you until now because you never insulted me with that.”
“Insult?” Astonished, then enraged, he shook her. “Insult you by loving you?”
“By using a phrase that comes much too easily to a man like you and doesn’t mean any more than the breath it takes to say it.”
His fingers loosened slowly until he’d dropped her arms. “After this, after what we’ve had together, you’d throw yesterdays at me? You didn’t come to me untouched, Juliet.”
“We both know there’s a difference. I hadn’t made my success as a lover a career.” She knew it was a filthy thing to say but thought only of defense. “I told you before how I felt about love, Carlo. I won’t have it churning up my life and pulling me away from every goal I’ve ever set. You—you hand me a ticket and say come to Rome, then expect me to run off with you for a fling, leaving my work and my life behind until we’ve had our fill.”
His eyes frosted. “I have knowledge of flings, Juliet, of where they begin and where they end. I was asking you to be my wife.”
Stunned, she took a step back, again as if he’d struck her. His wife? She felt panic bubble hot in her throat. “No.” It came out in a whisper, terrified. Juliet ran to the door and across the hall without looking back.