Endless Summer

by Nora Roberts

Carlo was already taking the little sack of basil out of the bag. “Perfect,” he said after one sniff. “Yes, yes, this is excellent.” He tested the pestle weight and size. “You’ll see over at our little stage a crowd is gathering,” he said easily to Juliet. “So we moved here to talk, knowing you’d see us as soon as you stepped off the escalator.”

  “Very good.” They’d both handled things well, she decided. It was best to take satisfaction from that. A quick glance showed her that Elise was busy chatting away with a small group of people. Not a worry in the world, Juliet thought nastily. Well, she’d already resigned herself to that. Five minutes in the rest room for some quick repairs, she calculated, and she could keep everything on schedule.

  “You have everything you need now, Carlo?”

  He caught the edge of annoyance, and her hand, smiling brilliantly. “Grazie, cara mia. You’re wonderful.”

  Perhaps she’d rather have snarled, but she returned the smile. “Just doing my job. You have a few more minutes before we should begin. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just take care of some things and be right back.”

  Juliet kept up a brisk, dignified walk until she was out of sight, then made a mad dash for the rest room, pulling out her brush as she went in.

  “What did I tell you?” Carlo held the bag of basil in his palm to judge the weight. “She’s fantastic.”

  “And quite lovely,” Marjorie agreed. “Even when she’s damp and annoyed.”

  With a laugh, Carlo leaned forward to grasp both of Marjorie’s hands. He was a man who touched, always. “A woman of perception. I knew I liked you.”

  She gave a quick dry chuckle, and for a moment felt twenty years younger. And twenty pounds lighter. It was a talent of his that he was generous with. “One last question, Carlo, before your fantastic Ms. Trent rushes you off. Are you still likely to fly off to Cairo or Cannes to prepare one of your dishes for an appreciative client and a stunning fee?”

  “There was a time this was routine.” He was silent a moment, thinking of the early years of his success. There’d been mad, glamorous trips to this country and to that, preparing fettuccine for a prince or cannelloni for a tycoon. It had been a heady, spectacular time.

  Then he’d opened his restaurant and had learned that the solid continuity of his own place was so much more fulfilling than the flash of the single dish.

  “From time to time I would still make such trips. Two months ago there was Count Lequine’s birthday. He’s an old client, an old friend, and he’s fond of my spaghetti. But my restaurant is more rewarding to me.” He gave her a quizzical look as a thought occurred to him. “Perhaps I’m settling down?”

  “A pity you didn’t decide to settle in the States.” She closed her pad. “I guarantee if you opened a Franconi’s right here in San Diego, you’d have clientele flying in from all over the country.”

  He took the idea, weighed it in much the same way he had the basil, and put it in a corner of his mind. “An interesting thought.”

  “And a fascinating interview. Thank you.” It pleased her that he rose as she did and took her hand. She was a tough outspoken feminist who appreciated genuine manners and genuine charm. “I’m looking forward to a taste of your pasta. I’ll just ease over and try to get a good seat. Here comes your Ms. Trent.”

  Marjorie had never considered herself particularly romantic, but she’d always believed where there was smoke, there was fire. She watched the way Carlo turned his head, saw the change in his eyes and the slight tilt of his mouth. There was fire all right, she mused. You only had to be within five feet to feel the heat.

  Between the hand dryer and her brush, Juliet had managed to do something with her hair. A touch here, a dab there, and her makeup was back in shape. Carrying her raincoat over her arm, she looked competent and collected. She was ready to admit she’d had one too many cups of coffee.

  “Your interview went well?”

  “Yes.” He noticed, and approved, that she’d taken the time to dab on her scent. “Perfectly.”

  “Good. You can fill me in later. We’d better get started.”

  “In a moment.” He reached in his pocket. “I told you I’d buy you a present.”

  There was a flutter of surprised pleasure she tried to ignore. Just wired from the coffee, she told herself. “Carlo, I told you not to. We don’t have time—”

  “There’s always time.” He opened the little box himself and drew out a small gold heart with an arrow of diamonds running through it. She’d been expecting something along the line of a box of chocolates.

  “Oh, I—” Words were her business, but she’d lost them. “Carlo, really, you can’t—”

  “Never say can’t to Franconi,” he murmured and began to fasten the pin to her lapel. He did so smoothly, with no fumbling. After all, he was a man accustomed to such feminine habits. “It’s very delicate, I thought, very elegant. So it suits you.” Narrowing his eyes, he stood back, then nodded. “Yes, I was sure it would.”

  It wasn’t possible to remember her crazed search for fresh basil when he was smiling at her in just that way. It was barely possible to remember how furious she was over the lackadaisical setup for the demonstration. Instinctively, she put up her hand and ran a finger over the pin. “It’s lovely.” Her lips curved, easily, sweetly, as he thought they didn’t do often enough. “Thank you.”

  He couldn’t count or even remember the number of presents he’d given, or the different styles of gratitude he’d received. Somehow, he was already sure this would be one he wouldn’t forget.

  “Prègo.”

  “Ah, Ms. Trent?”

  Juliet glanced over to see Elise watching her. Present or no present, it tightened her jaw. “Yes, Elise. You haven’t met Mr. Franconi yet.”

  “Elise directed me from the office to you when I answered the page,” Carlo said easily, more than appreciating Juliet’s aggravation.

  “Yes.” She flashed her touchdown smile. “I thought your cookbook looked just super, Mr. Franconi. Everyone’s dying to watch you cook something.” She opened a little pad of paper with daisies on the cover. “I thought you could spell what it is so I could tell them when I announce you.”

  “Elise, I have everything.” Juliet managed charm and diplomacy to cover a firm nudge out the door. “Why don’t I just announce Mr. Franconi?”

  “Great.” She beamed. Juliet could think of no other word for it. “That’ll be a lot easier.”

  “We’ll get started now, Carlo, if you’d just step over there behind those counters, I’ll go give the announcements.” Without waiting for an assent, she gathered up the basil, mortar and pestle and walked over to the area that she’d prepared. In the most natural of moves, she set everything down and turned to the audience. Three hundred, she judged. Maybe even over. Not bad for a rainy day in a department store.

  “Good afternoon.” Her voice was pleasant and well pitched. There’d be no need for a microphone in the relatively small space. Thank God, because Elise had botched that minor detail as well. “I want to thank you all for coming here today, and to thank Gallegher’s for providing such a lovely setting for the demonstration.”

  From a few feet away, Carlo leaned on a counter and watched her. She was, as he’d told the reporter, fantastic. No one would guess she’d been up and on her feet since dawn.

  “We all like to eat.” This drew the murmured laughter she’d expected. “But I’ve been told by an expert that eating is more than a basic necessity, it’s an experience. Not all of us like to cook, but the same expert told me that cooking is both art and magic. This afternoon, the expert, Carlo Franconi, will share with you the art, the magic and the experience with his own pasta con pesto.”

  Juliet started the applause herself, but it was picked up instantly. As Carlo stepped out, she melted back. Center stage was his the moment he stepped on it.

  “It’s a fortunate man,” he began, “who has the opportunity to cook for so many beautiful women. Some of you have husbands?�
�� At the question there was a smatter of chuckles and the lifting of hands. “Ah, well.” He gave a very European shrug. “Then I must be content to cook.”

  She knew Carlo had chosen that particular dish because it took little time in preparation. After the first five minutes, Juliet was certain not one member of the audience would have budged if he’d chosen something that took hours. She wasn’t yet convinced cooking was magic, but she was certain he was.

  His hands were as skilled and certain as a surgeon’s, his tongue as glib as a politician’s. She watched him measure, grate, chop and blend and found herself just as entertained as she might have been with a well produced one-act play.

  One woman was bold enough to ask a question. It opened the door and dozens of others followed. Juliet needn’t have worried that the noise and conversations would disturb him. Obviously he thrived on the interaction. He wasn’t, she decided, simply doing his job or fulfilling an obligation. He was enjoying himself.

  Calling one woman up with him, Carlo joked about all truly great chefs requiring both inspiration and assistance. He told her to stir the spaghetti, made a fuss out of showing her the proper way to stir by putting his hand over hers and undoubtedly sold another ten books then and there.

  Juliet had to grin. He’d done it for fun, not for sales. He was fun, Juliet realized, even if he did take his basil too seriously. He was sweet. Unconsciously, she began to toy with the gold and diamonds on her lapel. Uncommonly considerate and uncommonly demanding. Simply uncommon.

  As she watched him laugh with his audience, something began to melt inside of her. She sighed with it, dreaming. There were certain men that prompted a woman, even a practical woman, to dream.

  One of the women seated closer to her leaned toward a companion. “Good God, he’s the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. He could keep a dozen lovers patiently waiting.”

  Juliet caught herself and dropped her hand. Yes, he could keep a dozen lovers patiently waiting. She was sure he did. Deliberately she tucked her hands in the pockets of her skirt. She’d be better off remembering she was encouraging this public image, even exploiting it. She’d be better off remembering that Carlo himself had told her he needed no imagery.

  If she started believing half the things he said to her, she might just find herself patiently waiting. The thought of that was enough to stop the melting. Waiting didn’t fit into her schedule.

  When every last bite of pasta had been consumed, and every last fan had been spoken with, Carlo allowed himself to think of the pleasures of sitting down with a cool glass of wine.

  Juliet already had his jacket.

  “Well done, Carlo.” As she spoke, she began to help him into it. “You can leave California with the satisfaction of knowing you were a smashing success.”

  He took her raincoat from her when she would’ve shrugged into it herself. “The airport.”

  She smiled at his tone, understanding. “We’ll pick up our bags in the holding room at the hotel on the way. Look at it this way. You can sit back and sleep all the way to Portland if you like.”

  Because the thought had a certain appeal, he cooperated. They rode down to the first floor and went out the west entrance where Juliet had told the cab to wait. She let out a quick sigh of relief when it was actually there.

  “We get into Portland early?”

  “Seven.” Rain splattered against the cab’s windshield. Juliet told herself to relax. Planes took off safely in the rain every day. “You have a spot on People of Interest, but not until nine-thirty. That means we can have breakfast at a civilized hour and go over the scheduling.”

  Quickly, efficiently, she checked off her San Diego list and noted everything had been accomplished. She had time for a quick, preliminary glance at her Portland schedule before the cab pulled up to the hotel.

  “Just wait here,” she ordered both the driver and Carlo. She was up and out of the cab and, because they were running it close, managed to have the bags installed in the trunk within seven minutes. Carlo knew because it amused him to time her.

  “You, too, can sleep all the way to Portland.”

  She settled in beside him again. “No, I’ve got some work to do. The nice thing about planes is that I can pretend I’m in my office and forget I’m thousands of feet off the ground.”

  “I didn’t realize flying bothered you.”

  “Only when I’m in the air.” Juliet sat back and closed her eyes, thinking to relax for a moment. The next thing she knew, she was being kissed awake.

  Disoriented, she sighed and wrapped her arms around Carlo’s neck. It was soothing, so sweet. And then the heat began to rise.

  “Cara.” She’d surprised him, but that had brought its own kind of pleasure. “Such a pity to wake you.”

  “Hmm?” When she opened her eyes, his face was close, her mouth still warm, her heart still thudding. She jerked back and fumbled with the door handle. “That was uncalled for.”

  “True enough.” Leisurely, Carlo stepped out into the rain. “But it was illuminating. I’ve already paid the driver, Juliet,” he continued when she started to dig into her purse. “The baggage is checked. We board from gate five.” Taking her arm, and his big leather case, he led her into the terminal.

  “You didn’t have to take care of all that.” She’d have pulled her arm away if she’d had the energy. Or so she told herself. “The reason I’m here is to—”

  “Promote my book,” he finished easily. “If it makes you feel better, I’ve been known to do the same when I traveled with your predecessor.”

  The very fact that it did, made her feel foolish as well. “I appreciate it, Carlo. It’s not that I mind you lending a hand, it’s that I’m not used to it. You’d be surprised how many authors are either helpless or careless on the road.”

  “You’d be surprised how many chefs are temperamental and rude.”

  She thought of the basil and grinned. “No!”

  “Oh, yes.” And though he’d read her thoughts perfectly, his tone remained grave. “Always flying off the handle, swearing, throwing things. It leads to a bad reputation for all of us. Here, they’re boarding. If only they have a decent Bordeaux.”

  Juliet stifled a yawn as she followed him through. “I’ll need my boarding pass, Carlo.”

  “I have it.” He flashed them both for the flight attendant and nudged Juliet ahead. “Do you want the window or the aisle?”

  “I need my pass to see which I’ve got.”

  “We have 2A and B. Take your pick.”

  Someone pushed past her and bumped her solidly. It brought a sinking sensation of déjà vu. “Carlo, I’m in coach, so—”

  “No, your tickets are changed. Take the window.”

  Before she could object, he’d maneuvered her over and slipped in beside her. “What do you mean my ticket’s been changed? Carlo, I have to get in the back before I cause a scene.”

  “Your seat’s here.” After handing Juliet her boarding pass he stretched out his legs. “Dio, what a relief.”

  Frowning, Juliet studied her stub—2A. “I don’t know how they could’ve made a mistake like this. I’d better see to it right away.”

  “There’s no mistake. You should fasten your belt,” he advised, then did so himself. “I changed your tickets for the remaining flights on the tour.”

  Juliet reached to undo the clasp he’d just secured. “You—but you can’t.”

  “I told you, don’t say can’t to Franconi.” Satisfied with her belt, he dealt with his own. “You work as hard as I do—why should you travel in tourist?”

  “Because I’m paid to work. Carlo, let me out so I can fix this before we take off.”

  “No.” For the first time, his voice was blunt and final. “I prefer your company to that of a stranger or an empty seat.” When he turned his head, his eyes were like his voice. “I want you here. Leave it.”

  Juliet opened her mouth and closed it again. Professionally, she was on shaky ground either direction she went.
She was supposed to see to his needs and wants within reason. Personally, she’d counted on the distance, at least during flight time, to keep her balanced. With Carlo, even a little distance could help.

  He was being kind, she knew. Considerate. But he was also being stubborn. There was always a diplomatic way to handle such things.

  She gave him a patient smile. “Carlo—”

  He stopped her by simply closing his mouth over hers, quietly, completely and irresistibly. He held her there a moment, one hand on her cheek, the other over the fingers which had frozen in her lap. Juliet felt the floor tilt and her head go light.

  We’re taking off, she thought dimly, but knew the plane hadn’t left the ground.

  His tongue touched hers briefly, teasingly; then it was only his lips again. After brushing a hand through her hair, he leaned back. “Now, go back to sleep awhile,” he advised. “This isn’t the place I’d choose to seduce you.”

  Sometimes, Juliet decided, silence was the best diplomacy. Without another word, she closed her eyes and slept.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Colorado. The Rockies, Pike’s Peak, Indian ruins, aspens and fast-running streams. It sounded beautiful, exciting. But a hotel room was a hotel room after all.

  They’d been busy in Washington State. For most of their three-day stay, Juliet had had to work and think on her feet. But the media had been outstanding. Their schedule had been so full her boss back in New York had probably done handstands. Her report on their run on the coast would be a publicist’s dream. Then there was Denver.

  What coverage she’d managed to hustle there would barely justify the plane fare. One talk show at the ungodly hour of 7:00 A.M. and one miserly article in the food section of a local paper. No network or local news coverage of the autographing, no print reporter who’d confirm an appearance. Lousy.

  It was 6:00 A.M. when Juliet dragged herself out of the shower and began to search through her unpacked garment bag for a suit and a fresh blouse. The cleaners was definitely a priority the minute they moved on to Dallas.

  At least Carlo wasn’t cooking this morning. She didn’t think she could bear to look at food in any form for at least two hours.