by Nora Roberts
Stunned, Steven could do nothing but stare. “You’re very kind.” His mother took out a small pad and wrote on it. Her hand was steady, but when she handed the paper to Carlo and looked at him, he saw the emotion. He thought of his own mother. He took the paper, then her hand.
“You have a fortunate son, Mrs. Hardesty.”
Thoughtful, Juliet watched them walk away, noting that Steven looked over his shoulder with the same, blank, baffled expression.
So he has a heart, Juliet decided, touched. A heart that wasn’t altogether reserved for amore. But she saw Carlo slip the paper into his pocket and wondered if that would be the end of it.
The autographing wasn’t a smashing success. Six books by Juliet’s count. That had been bad enough, but then there’d been The Incident.
Looking at the all but empty store, Juliet had considered hitting the streets with a sign on her back, then the homey little woman had come along bearing all three of Carlo’s books. Good for the ego, Juliet thought. That was before the woman had said something that caused Carlo’s eyes to chill and his voice to freeze. All Juliet heard was the name LaBare.
“I beg your pardon, Madame?” Carlo said in a tone Juliet had never heard from him. It could’ve sliced through steel.
“I said I keep all your books on a shelf in my kitchen, right next to André LaBare’s. I love to cook.”
“LaBare?” Carlo put his hand over his stack of books as a protective parent might over a threatened child. “You would dare put my work next to that—that peasant’s?”
Thinking fast, Juliet stepped up and broke into the conversation. If ever she’d seen a man ready to murder, it was Carlo. “Oh, I see you have all of Mr. Franconi’s books. You must love to cook.”
“Well, yes I—”
“Wait until you try some of his new recipes. I had the pasta con pesto myself. It’s wonderful.” Juliet started to take the woman’s books from under Carlo’s hand and met with resistance and a stubborn look. She gave him one of her own and jerked the books away. “Your family’s going to be just thrilled when you serve it,” Juliet went on, keeping her voice pleasant as she led the woman out of the line of fire. “And the fettuccine…”
“LaBare is a swine.” Carlo’s voice was very clear and reached the stairs. The woman glanced back nervously.
“Men.” Juliet made her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Such egos.”
“Yes.” Gathering up her books, the woman hurried down the stairs and out of the store. Juliet waited until she was out of earshot before she pounced on Carlo.
“How could you?”
“How could I?” He rose, and though he skimmed just under six feet, he looked enormous. “She would dare speak that name to me? She would dare associate the work of an artist with the work of a jackass? LaBare—”
“At the moment, I don’t give a damn who or what this LaBare is.” Juliet put a hand on his shoulder and shoved him back onto the love seat. “What I do care about is you scaring off the few customers we have. Now behave yourself.”
He sat where he was only because he admired the way she’d ordered him to. Fascinating woman, Carlo decided, finding it wiser to think of her than LaBare. It was wiser to think of flood and famine than of LaBare.
The afternoon had dragged on and on, except for the young boy, Carlo thought and touched the paper in his pocket. He’d call Summer in Philadelphia about young Steven Hardesty.
But other than Steven and the woman who upped his blood pressure by speaking of LaBare, Carlo had found himself perilously close to boredom. Something he considered worse than illness.
He needed some activity, a challenge—even a small one. He glanced over at Juliet as she spoke with a clerk. That was no small challenge. The one thing he’d yet to be in Juliet’s company was bored. She kept him interested. Sexually? Yes, that went without saying. Intellectually. That was a plus, a big one.
He understood women. It wasn’t a matter of pride, but to Carlo’s thinking, a matter of circumstance. He enjoyed women. As lovers, of course, but he also enjoyed them as companions, as friends, as associates. It was a rare thing when a man could find a woman to be all of those things. That’s what he wanted from Juliet. He hadn’t resolved it yet, only felt it. Convincing her to be his friend would be as challenging, and as rewarding, as it would be to convince her to be his lover.
No, he realized as he studied her profile. With this woman, a lover would come easier than a friend. He had two weeks left to accomplish both. With a smile, he decided to start the campaign in earnest.
Half an hour later, they were walking the three blocks to the parking garage Juliet had found.
“This time I drive,” he told Juliet as they stepped inside the echoing gray building. When she started to object, he held out his hand for the keys. “Come, my love, I’ve just survived two hours of boredom. Why should you have all the fun?”
“Since you put it that way.” She dropped the keys in his hand, relieved that whatever had set him off before was forgotten.
“So now we have a free evening.”
“That’s right.” With a sigh she leaned back in her seat and waited for him to start the engine.
“We’ll have dinner at seven. Tonight, I make the arrangements.”
A hamburger in her room, an old movie and bed. Juliet let the wish come and go. Her job was to pamper and entertain as much as possible. “Whatever you like.”
Carlo pulled out of the parking space with a squeal of tires that had Juliet bolting up. “I’ll hold you to that, cara.”
He zoomed out of the garage and turned right with hardly a pause. “Carlo—”
“We should have champagne to celebrate the end of our first week. You like champagne?”
“Yes, I—Carlo, the light’s changing.”
He breezed through the amber light, skimmed by the bumper of a battered compact and kept going. “Italian food. You have no objection?”
“No.” She gripped the door handle until her knuckles turned white. “That truck!”
“Yes, I see it.” He swerved around it, zipped through another light and cut a sharp right. “You have plans for the afternoon?”
Juliet pressed a hand to her throat, thinking she might be able to push out her voice. “I was thinking of making use of the hotel spa. If I live.”
“Good. Me, I think I’ll go shopping.”
Juliet’s teeth snapped together as he changed lanes in bumper-to-bumper traffic. “How do I notify next of kin?”
With a laugh, Carlo swung in front of their hotel. “Don’t worry, Juliet. Have your whirlpool and your sauna. Knock on my door at seven.”
She looked back toward the street. Pamper and entertain, she remembered. Did that include risking your life? Her supervisor would think so. “Maybe I should go with you.”
“No, I insist.” He leaned over, cupping her neck before she’d recovered enough to evade. “Enjoy,” he murmured lightly against her lips. “And think of me as your skin grows warm and your muscles grow lax.”
In self-defense, Juliet hurried out of the car. Before she could tell him to drive carefully, he was barreling back out into the street. She offered a prayer for Italian maniacs, then went inside.
By seven, she felt reborn. She’d sweated out fatigue in the sauna, shocked herself awake in the pool and splurged on a massage. Life, she thought as she splashed on her scent, had its good points after all. Tomorrow’s flight to Dallas would be soon enough to draft her Denver report. Such as it was. Tonight, all she had to worry about was eating. After pressing a hand to her stomach, Juliet admitted she was more than ready for that.
With a quick check, she approved the simple ivory dress with the high collar and tiny pearly buttons. Unless Carlo had picked a hot dog stand it would suit. Grabbing her evening bag, she slipped across the hall to knock on Carlo’s door. She only hoped he’d chosen some place close by. The last thing she wanted to do was fight Denver’s downtown traffic again.
The first thing she notice
d when Carlo opened his door were the rolled up sleeves of his shirt. It was cotton, oversized and chic, but her eyes were drawn to the surprising cord of muscles in his forearms. The man did more than lift spoons and spatulas. The next thing she noticed was the erotic scents of spices and sauce.
“Lovely.” Carlo took both hands and drew her inside. She pleased him, the smooth, creamy skin, the light, subtle scent, but more, the confused hesitation in her eyes as she glanced over to where the aroma of food was strongest.
“An interesting cologne,” she managed after a moment. “But don’t you think you’ve gotten a bit carried away?”
“Innamorata, you don’t wear Franconi’s spaghetti sauce, you absorb it.” He kissed the back of her hand. “Anticipate it.” Then the other. “Savor it.” This time her palm.
A smart woman wasn’t aroused by a man who used such flamboyant tactics. Juliet told herself that as the chills raced up her arms and down again. “Spaghetti sauce?” Slipping her hands from his, she linked them behind her back.
“I found a wonderful shop. The spices pleased me very much. The burgundy was excellent. Italian, of course.”
“Of course.” Cautious, she stepped farther into the suite. “You spent the day cooking?”
“Yes. Though you should remind me to speak to the hotel owner about the quality of this stove. All in all, it went quite well.”
She told herself it wasn’t wise to encourage him when she had no intention of eating alone with him in his suite. Perhaps if she’d been made out of rock she could have resisted wandering toward the little kitchenette. Her mouth watered. “Oh, God.”
Delighted, Carlo slipped an arm around her waist and led her to the stove. The little kitchen itself was in shambles. She’d never seen so many pots and bowls and spoons jammed into a sink before. Counters were splattered and streaked. But the smells. It was heaven, pure and simple.
“The senses, Juliet. There’s not one of us who isn’t ruled by them. First, you smell, and you begin to imagine.” His fingers moved lightly over her waist. “Imagine. You can almost taste it on your tongue from that alone.”
“Hmm.” Knowing she was making a mistake, she watched him take the lid off the pot on the stove. The tang made her close her eyes and just breathe. “Oh, Carlo.”
“Then we look, and the imagination goes one step further.” His fingers squeezed lightly at her waist until she opened her eyes and looked into the pot. Thick, red, simmering, the sauce was chunky with meat, peppers and spice. Her stomach growled.
“Beautiful, yes?”
“Yes.” She wasn’t aware that her tongue slid out over her lips in anticipation. He was.
“And we hear.” Beside the sauce a pot of water began to boil. In an expert move, he measured pasta by sight and slid it in. “Some things are destined to be mated.” With a slotted spoon, he stirred gently. “Without each other, they are incomplete. But when merged…” he adjusted the flame, “a treasure. Pasta and the sauce. A man and a woman. Come, you’ll have some burgundy. The champagne’s for later.”
It was time to take a stand, even though she took it by the stove. “Carlo, I had no idea this was what you intended. I think—”
“I like surprises.” He handed her a glass half filled with dark, red wine. “And I wanted to cook for you.”
She wished he hadn’t put it quite that way. She wished his voice wasn’t so warm, so deep, like his eyes. Like the feelings he could urge out of her. “I appreciate that Carlo, it’s just that—”
“You had your sauna?”
“Yes, I did. Now—”
“It relaxed you. It shows.”
She sighed, sipping at the wine without thinking. “Yes.”
“This relaxes me. We eat together tonight.” He tapped his glass to hers. “Men and women have done so for centuries. It has become civilized.”
Her chin tilted. “You’re making fun of me.”
“Yes.” Ducking into the refrigerator, he pulled out a small tray. “First you’ll try my antipasto. Your palate should be prepared.”
Juliet chose a little chunk of zucchini. “I’d think you’d prefer being served in a restaurant.”
“Now and then. There are times I prefer privacy.” He set down the tray. As he did, she took a small step back. Interested, he lifted a brow. “Juliet, do I make you nervous?”
She swallowed zucchini. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Am I?” On impulse, he set his wine down as well and took another step toward her. Juliet found her back pressed into the refrigerator.
“Carlo—”
“No, shh. We experiment.” Gently, watching her, he brushed his lips over one cheek, then the other. He heard her breath catch then shudder out. Nerves—these he accepted. When a man and woman were attracted and close, there had to be nerves. Without them, passion was bland, like a sauce without spice.
But fear? Wasn’t that what he saw in her eyes? Just a trace of it, only briefly. Nerves he’d use, play on, exploit. Fear was something different. It disturbed him, blocked him and, at the same time, moved him.
“I won’t hurt you, Juliet.”
Her eyes were direct again, level, though her hand was balled into a fist. “Won’t you?”
He took her hand, slowly working it open. “No.” In that moment, he promised both of them. “I won’t. Now we’ll eat.”
Juliet held off the shudder until he’d turned around to stir and drain his pasta. Perhaps he wouldn’t hurt her, she thought and recklessly tossed back her wine. But she might hurt herself.
He didn’t fuss. He merely perfected. It occurred to Juliet, as she watched him put the last touches on the meal, that he was no different here in the little hotel kitchen than he’d been before the camera. Juliet added her help in the only way she’d have dared. She set the table.
Yes, it was a mistake, she told herself as she arranged plates. But no one but a fool would walk away from anything that smelled like that sauce. She wasn’t a fool. She could handle herself. The moment of weak fear she’d felt in the kitchen was past. She’d enjoy a take-your-shoes-off meal, drink two glasses of really excellent burgundy, then go across the hall and catch eight hours’ sleep. The merry-go-round would continue the next day.
She selected a marinated mushroom as Carlo brought in the platter of spaghetti. “Better,” he said when she smiled at him. “You’re ready to enjoy yourself.”
With a shrug, Juliet sat. “If one of the top chefs in the world wants to cook me dinner, why should I complain?”
“The top,” he corrected and gestured for her to serve herself. She did, barely conquering greed.
“Does it really relax you to stand in a kitchen?”
“It depends. Sometimes it relaxes, sometimes it excites. Always it pleases. No, don’t cut.” With a shake of his head, he reached over. “Americans. You roll it onto the fork.”
“It falls off when I do.”
“Like this.” With his hands on her wrists, he guided her. Her pulse was steady, he noted, but not slow. “Now.” Still holding her hand, he lifted the fork toward her mouth. “Taste.”
As she did, he had the satisfaction of watching her face. Spices exploded on her tongue. Heat seeped through, mellowing to warmth. She savored it, even as she thought of the next bite. “Oh, this is no little sin.”
Nothing could have delighted him more. With a laugh, he sat back and started on his own plate. “Small sins are only small pleasures. When Franconi cooks for you, food is not a basic necessity.”
She was already rolling the next forkful. “You win that one. Why aren’t you fat?”
“Prègo?”
“If I could cook like this…” She tasted again and sighed. “I’d look like one of your meatballs.”
With a chuckle, he watched her dig in. It pleased him to see someone he cared for enjoying what he’d created. After years of cooking, he’d never tired of it. “So, your mother didn’t teach you to cook?”
“She tried.” Juliet accepted a piece of the cr
usty bread he offered but set it aside as she rolled more spaghetti. First things first. “I never seemed to be very good at the things she wanted me to be good at. My sister plays the piano beautifully; I can barely remember the scales.”
“So, what did you want to do instead of taking piano lessons?”
“Play third base.” It came out so easily, it stunned her. Juliet had thought she’d buried that along with a dozen other childhood frustrations. “It just wasn’t done,” she said with a shrug. “My mother was determined to raise two well rounded ladies who would become two well rounded, successful wives. Win some, lose some.”
“You think she’s not proud of you?”
The question hit a target she hadn’t known was exposed. Juliet reached for her wine. “It’s not a matter of pride, but of disappointment, I suppose. I disappointed her; I confused my father. They still wonder what they did wrong.”
“What they did wrong was not to accept what you are.”
“Maybe,” she murmured. “Or maybe I was determined to be something they couldn’t accept. I’ve never worked it out.”
“Are you unhappy with your life?”
Surprised, she glanced up. Unhappy? Sometimes frustrated, harassed and pressured. But unhappy? “No. No, I’m not.”
“Then perhaps that’s your answer.”
Juliet took a moment to study him. He was more than gorgeous, more than sexy, more than all those qualities she’d once cynically attributed to him. “Carlo.” For the first time she reached out to touch him, just his hand, but he thought it a giant step. “You’re a very nice man.”
“But of course I am.” His fingers curled over hers because he couldn’t resist. “I could give you references.”
With a laugh, Juliet backed off. “I’m sure you could.” With concentration, dedication and just plain greed, she cleared off her plate.
“Time for dessert.”
“Carlo!” Moaning, Juliet pressed a hand to her stomach. “Please, don’t be cruel.”
“You’ll like it.” He was up and in the kitchen before she found the strength to refuse again. “It’s an old, old, Italian tradition. Back to the empire. American cheesecake is sometimes excellent, but this…” He brought out a small, lovely cake with cherries dripping lavishly over it.
