by Nora Roberts
They found a dark, crowded lounge and worked their way through to a table. She watched Carlo maneuver his box, with some difficulty, around people, over chairs and ultimately under their table. “What’s in there?”
“Tools,” he said again. “Knives, properly weighted, stainless steel spatulas of the correct size and balance. My own cooking oil and vinegar. Other essentials.”
“You’re going to lug oil and vinegar through airport terminals from coast to coast?” With a shake of her head, she glanced up at a waitress. “Vodka and grapefruit juice.”
“Brandy. Yes,” he said, giving his attention back to Juliet after he’d dazzled the waitress with a quick smile. “Because there’s no brand on the American market to compare with my own.” He picked up a peanut from the bowl on the table. “There’s no brand on any market to compare with my own.”
“You could still check it,” she pointed out. “After all, you check your shirts and ties.”
“I don’t trust my tools to the hands of baggage carriers.” He popped the peanut into his mouth. “A tie is a simple thing to replace, even a thing to become bored with. But an excellent whisk is entirely different. Once I teach you to cook, you’ll understand.”
“You’ve got as much chance teaching me to cook as you do flying to San Diego without the plane. Now, you know you’ll be giving a demonstration of preparing linguini and clam sauce on A.M. San Diego. The show airs at eight, so we’ll have to be at the studio at six to get things started.”
As far as he could see, the only civilized cooking to be done at that hour would be a champagne breakfast for two. “Why do Americans insist on rising at dawn to watch television?”
“I’ll take a poll and find out,” she said absently. “In the meantime, you’ll make up one dish that we’ll set aside, exactly as we did tonight. On the air you’ll be going through each stage of preparation, but of course we don’t have enough time to finish; that’s why we need the first dish. Now, for the good news.” She sent a quick smile to the waitress as their drinks were served. “There’s been a bit of a mix-up at the studio, so we’ll have to bring the ingredients along ourselves. I need you to give me a list of what you’ll need. Once I see you settled into the hotel, I’ll run out and pick them up. There’s bound to be an all-night market.”
In his head, he went over the ingredients for his linguini con vongole biance. True, the American market would have some of the necessities, but he considered himself fortunate that he had a few of his own in the case at his feet. The clam sauce was his specialty, not to be taken lightly.
“Is shopping for groceries at midnight part of a publicist’s job?”
She smiled at him. Carlo thought it was not only lovely, but perhaps the first time she’d smiled at him and meant it. “On the road, anything that needs to be done is the publicist’s job. So, if you’ll run through the ingredients, I’ll write them down.”
“Not necessary.” He swirled and sipped his brandy. “I’ll go with you.”
“You need your sleep.” She was already rummaging for a pencil. “Even with a quick nap on the plane you’re only going to get about five hours.”
“So are you,” he pointed out. When she started to speak again, he lifted his brow in that strange silent way he had of interrupting. “Perhaps I don’t trust an amateur to pick out my clams.”
Juliet watched him as she drank. Or perhaps he was a gentleman, she mused. Despite his reputation with women, and a healthy dose of vanity, he was one of that rare breed of men who knew how to be considerate of women without patronizing them. She decided to forgive him for Butch after all.
“Drink up, Franconi.” And she toasted him, perhaps in friendship. “We’ve a plane to catch.”
“Salute.” He lifted his glass to her.
They didn’t argue again until they were on the plane.
Grumbling only a little, Juliet helped him stow his fancy box of tools under the seat. “It’s a short flight.” She checked her watch and calculated the shopping would indeed go beyond midnight. She’d have to take some of the vile tasting brewer’s yeast in the morning. “I’ll see you when we land.”
He took her wrist when she would have gone past him. “Where are you going?”
“To my seat.”
“You don’t sit here?” He pointed to the seat beside him.
“No, I’m in coach.” Impatient, she had to shift to let another oncoming passenger by.
“Why?”
“Carlo, I’m blocking the aisle.”
“Why are you in coach?”
She let out a sigh of a parent instructing a stubborn child. “Because the publisher is more than happy to spring for a first-class ticket for a bestselling author and celebrity. There’s a different style for publicists. It’s called coach.” Someone bumped a briefcase against her hip. Damn if she wouldn’t have a bruise. “Now if you’d let me go, I could stop being battered and go sit down.”
“First class is almost empty,” he pointed out. “It’s a simple matter to upgrade your ticket.”
She managed to pull her arm away. “Don’t buck the system, Franconi.”
“I always buck the system,” he told her as she walked down the aisle to her seat. Yes, he did like the way she moved.
“Mr. Franconi.” A flight attendant beamed at him. “May I get you a drink after take-off?”
“What’s your white wine?”
When she told him he settled into his seat. A bit pedestrian, he thought, but not entirely revolting. “You noticed the young woman I was speaking with. The honey-colored hair and the stubborn chin.”
Her smile remained bright and helpful though she thought it was a shame that he had his mind on another woman. “Of course, Mr. Franconi.”
“She’ll have a glass of wine, with my compliments.”
Juliet would have considered herself fortunate to have an aisle seat if the man beside her hadn’t already been sprawled out and snoring. Travel was so glamorous, she thought wryly as she slipped her toes out of her shoes. Wasn’t she lucky to have another flight to look forward to the very next night?
Don’t complain, Juliet, she warned herself. When you have your own agency, you can send someone else on the down-and-dirty tours.
The man beside her snored through take-off. On the other side of the aisle a woman held a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other in anticipation of the No Smoking sign blinking off. Juliet took out her pad and began to work.
“Miss?”
Stifling a yawn, Juliet glanced up at the flight attendant. “I’m sorry, I didn’t order a drink.”
“With Mr. Franconi’s compliments.”
Juliet accepted the wine as she looked up toward first class. He was sneaky, she told herself. Trying to get under her defenses by being nice. She let her notebook close as she sighed and sat back.
It was working.
She barely finished the wine before touchdown, but it had relaxed her. Relaxed her enough, she realized, that all she wanted to do was find a soft bed and a dark room. In an hour—or two, she promised herself and gathered up her flight bag and briefcase.
She found Carlo was waiting for her in first class with a very young, very attractive flight attendant. Neither of them seemed the least bit travel weary.
“Ah, Juliet, Deborah knows of a marvelous twenty-four-hour market where we can find everything we need.”
Juliet looked at the willowy brunette and managed a smile. “How convenient.”
He took the flight attendant’s hand and, inevitably Juliet thought, kissed it. “Arrivederci.”
“Don’t waste time, do you?” Juliet commented the moment they deplaned.
“Every moment lived is a moment to be enjoyed.”
“What a quaint little sentiment.” She shifted her bag and aimed for baggage claim. “You should have it tattooed.”
“Where?”
She didn’t bother to look at his grin. “Where it would be most attractive, naturally.”
; They had to wait longer than she liked for their luggage, and by then the relaxing effects of the wine had worn off. There was business to be seen to. Because he enjoyed watching her in action, Carlo let her see to it.
She secured a cab, tipped the skycap and gave the driver the name of the hotel. Scooting in beside Carlo, she caught his grin. “Something funny?”
“You’re so efficient, Juliet.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult?”
“I never insult women.” He said it so simply, she was absolutely certain it was true. Unlike Juliet, he was completely relaxed and not particularly sleepy. “If this was Rome, we’d go to a dark little café, drink heavy red wine and listen to American music.”
She closed her window because the air was damp and chilly. “The tour interfering with your night life?”
“So far I find myself enjoying the stimulating company.”
“Tomorrow you’re going to find yourself worked to a frazzle.”
Carlo thought of his background and smiled. At nine, he’d spent the hours between school and supper washing dishes and mopping up kitchens. At fifteen he’d waited tables and spent his free time learning of spices and sauces. In Paris he’d combined long, hard study with work as an assistant chef. Even now, his restaurant and clients had him keeping twelve-hour days. Not all of his background was in the neatly typed bio Juliet had in her briefcase.
“I don’t mind work, as long as it interests me. I think you’re the same.”
“I have to work,” she corrected. “But it’s easier when you enjoy it.”
“You’re more successful when you enjoy it. It shows with you. Ambition, Juliet, without a certain joy, is cold, and when achieved leaves a flat taste.”
“But I am ambitious.”
“Oh, yes.” He turned to look at her, starting off flutters she’d thought herself too wise to experience. “But you’re not cold.”
For a moment, she thought she’d be better off if he were wrong. “Here’s the hotel.” She turned from him, relieved to deal with details. “We need you to wait,” she instructed the driver. “We’ll be going out again as soon as we check in. The hotel has a lovely view of the bay, I’m told.” She walked into the lobby with Carlo as the bellboy dealt with their luggage. “It’s a shame we won’t have time to enjoy it. Franconi and Trent,” she told the desk clerk.
The lobby was quiet and empty. Oh, the lucky people who were sleeping in their beds, she thought and pushed at a strand of hair that had come loose.
“We’ll be checking out first thing tomorrow, and we won’t be able to come back, so be sure you don’t leave anything behind in your room.”
“But of course you’ll check anyway.”
She sent him a sidelong look as she signed the form. “Just part of the service.” She pocketed her key. “The luggage can be taken straight up.” Discreetly, she handed the bellboy a folded bill. “Mr. Franconi and I have an errand.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I like that about you.” To Juliet’s surprise, Carlo linked arms with her as they walked back outside.
“What?”
“Your generosity. Many people would’ve slipped out without tipping the bellboy.”
She shrugged. “Maybe it’s easier to be generous when it’s not your money.”
“Juliet.” He opened the door to the waiting cab and gestured her in. “You’re intelligent enough. Couldn’t you—how is it—stiff the bellboy then write the tip down on your expense account?”
“Five dollars isn’t worth being dishonest.”
“Nothing’s worth being dishonest.” He gave the driver the name of the market and settled back. “Instinct tells me if you tried to tell a lie—a true lie—your tongue would fall out.”
“Mr. Franconi.” She planted the tongue in question in her cheek. “You forget, I’m in public relations. If I didn’t lie, I’d be out of a job.”
“A true lie,” he corrected.
“Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”
“Perhaps you’re too young to know the variety of truths and lies. Ah, you see? This is why I’m so fond of your country.” Carlo leaned out the window as they approached the big, lighted all-night market. “In America, you want cookies at midnight, you can buy cookies at midnight. Such practicality.”
“Glad to oblige. Wait here,” she instructed the driver, then climbed out opposite Carlo. “I hope you know what you need. I’d hate to get into the studio at dawn and find I had to run out and buy whole peppercorns or something.”
“Franconi knows linguini.” He swung an arm around her shoulder and drew her close as they walked inside. “Your first lesson, my love.”
He led her first to the seafood section where he clucked and muttered and rejected and chose until he had the proper number of clams for two dishes. She’d seen women give as much time and attention to choosing an engagement ring.
Juliet obliged him by pushing the cart as he walked along beside her, looking at everything. And touching. Cans, boxes, bottles—she waited as he picked up, examined and ran his long artist’s fingers over the labels as he read every ingredient. Somewhat amused, she watched his diamond wink in the fluorescent light.
“Amazing what they put in this prepackaged garbage,” he commented as he dropped a box back on the shelf.
“Careful, Franconi, you’re talking about my staple diet.”
“You should be sick.”
“Prepackaged food’s freed the American woman from the kitchen.”
“And destroyed a generation of taste buds.” He chose his spices carefully and without haste. He opened three brands of oregano and sniffed before he settled on one. “I tell you, Juliet, I admire your American convenience, its practicality, but I would rather shop in Rome where I can walk along the stalls and choose vegetables just out of the ground, fish fresh from the sea. Everything isn’t in a can, like the music.”
He didn’t miss an aisle, but Juliet forgot her fatigue in fascination. She’d never seen anyone shop like Carlo Franconi. It was like strolling through a museum with an art student. He breezed by the flour, scowling at each sack. She was afraid for a moment, he’d rip one open and test the contents. “This is a good brand?”
Juliet figured she bought a two-pound bag of flour about once a year. “Well, my mother always used this, but—”
“Good. Always trust a mother.”
“She’s a dreadful cook.”
Carlo set the flour firmly in the basket. “She’s a mother.”
“An odd sentiment from a man no mother can trust.”
“For mothers, I have the greatest respect. I have one myself. Now, we need garlic, mushrooms, peppers. Fresh.”
Carlo walked along the stalls of vegetables, touching, squeezing and sniffing. Cautious, Juliet looked around for clerks, grateful they’d come at midnight rather than midday. “Carlo, you really aren’t supposed to handle everything quite so much.”
“If I don’t handle, how do I know what’s good and what’s just pretty?” He sent her a quick grin over his shoulder. “I told you, food was much like a woman. They put mushrooms in this box with wrap over it.” Disgusted, he tore the wrapping off before Juliet could stop him.
“Carlo! You can’t open it.”
“I want only what I want. You can see, some are too small, too skimpy.” Patiently, he began to pick out the mushrooms that didn’t suit him.
“Then we’ll throw out what you don’t want when we get back to the hotel.” Keeping an eye out for the night manager, she began to put the discarded mushrooms back in the box. “Buy two boxes if you need them.”
“It’s a waste. You’d waste your money?”
“The publisher’s money,” she said quickly, as she put the broken box into the basket. “He’s glad to waste it. Thrilled.”
He paused for a moment, then shook his head. “No, no, I can’t do it.” But when he started to reach into the basket, Juliet moved and blocked his way.
“Carlo, if you break
open another package, we’re going to be arrested.”
“Better to go to jail than to buy mushrooms that will do me no good in the morning.”
She grinned at him and stood firm. “No, it’s not.”
He ran a fingertip over her lips before she could react. “For you then, but against my better judgment.”
“Grazie. Do you have everything now?”
His gaze followed the path his finger had traced just as slowly. “No.”
“Well, what next?”
He stepped closer and because she hadn’t expected it, she found herself trapped between him and the grocery cart. “Tonight is for first lessons,” he murmured then ran his hands along either side of her face.
She should laugh. Juliet told herself it was ludicrous that he’d make a pass at her under the bright lights of the vegetable section of an all-night market. Carlo Franconi, a man who’d made seduction as much an art as his cooking wouldn’t choose such a foolish setting.
But she saw what was in his eyes, and she didn’t laugh.
Some women, he thought as he felt her skin soft and warm under his hands, were made to be taught slowly. Very slowly. Some women were born knowing; others were born wondering.
With Juliet, he would take time and care because he understood. Or thought he did.
She didn’t resist, but her lips had parted in surprise. He touched his to hers gently, not in question, but with patience. Her eyes had already given him the answer.
He didn’t hurry. It didn’t matter to him where they were, that the lights were bright and the music manufactured. It only mattered that he explore the tastes that waited for him. So he tasted again, without pressure. And again.
She found she was bracing herself against the cart with her fingers wrapped around the metal. Why didn’t she walk away? Why didn’t she just brush him aside and stalk out of the store? He wasn’t holding her there. On her face his hands were light, clever but not insistent. She could move. She could go. She should.
She didn’t.
His thumbs trailed under her chin, tracing there. He felt the pulse, rapid and jerky, and kept his hold easy. He meant to keep it so, but even he hadn’t guessed her taste would be so unique.
