by Nora Roberts
“You know what I think?” Juliet gauged that she could give him a quick kick below the belt, but tapped his shoulder instead. After all, he was Bill’s neighbor. “I think you should get back out to the party before all the ladies miss you.”
“Got a better idea.” He leaned forward, boxing her in with a hand on each side. His teeth gleamed in the style of the best toothpaste ads. “Why don’t you and I go have a little party of our own? I imagine you New York ladies know how to have fun.”
If she hadn’t considered him such a jerk, she’d have been insulted for women in general and New York in particular. Patiently, Juliet considered the source. “We New York ladies,” she said calmly, “know how to say no. Now back off, Tim.”
“Come on, Juliet.” He hooked a finger in the neck of her top. “I’ve got a nice big water bed down the street.”
She put a hand on his wrist. Neighbor or not, she was going to belt him. “Why don’t you go take a dive.”
He only grinned as his hand slid up her leg. “Just what I had in mind.”
“Excuse me.” Carlo’s voice was soft as a snake from the doorway. “If you don’t find something else to do with your hands quickly, you might lose the use of them.”
“Carlo.” Her voice was sharp, but not with relief. She wasn’t in the mood for a knight-in-armor rescue.
“The lady and I’re having a private conversation.” Tim flexed his pectorals. “Take off.”
With his thumbs hooked in his pockets, Carlo strolled over. Juliet noted he looked as furious as he had over the canned basil. In that mood, there was no telling what he’d do. She swore, let out a breath and tried to avoid a scene. “Why don’t we all go outside?”
“Excellent.” Carlo held out a hand to help her down. Before she could reach for it, Tim blocked her way.
“You go outside, buddy. Juliet and I haven’t finished talking.”
Carlo inclined his head then shifted his gaze to Juliet. “Have you finished talking?”
“Yes.” She’d have slid off the counter, but that would have put her on top of Tim’s shoulders. Frustrated, she sat where she was.
“Apparently Juliet is finished.” Carlo’s smile was all amiability, but his eyes were flat and cold. “You seem to be blocking her way.”
“I told you to take off.” Big and annoyed, he grabbed Carlo by the lapels.
“Cut it out, both of you.” With a vivid picture of Carlo bleeding from the nose and mouth, Juliet grabbed a cookie jar shaped like a ten-gallon hat. Before she could use it, Tim grunted and bent over from the waist. As he gasped, clutching his stomach, Juliet only stared.
“You can put that down now,” Carlo said mildly. “It’s time we left.” When she didn’t move, he took the jar himself, set it aside, then lifted her from the counter. “You’ll excuse us,” he said pleasantly to the groaning Tim, then led Juliet outside.
“What did you do?”
“What was necessary.”
Juliet looked back toward the kitchen door. If she hadn’t seen it for herself… “You hit him.”
“Not very hard.” Carlo nodded to a group of sunbathers. “All his muscle is in his chest and his brain.”
“But—” She looked down at Carlo’s hands. They were lean-fingered and elegant with the flash of a diamond on the pinky. Not hands one associated with self-defense. “He was awfully big.”
Carlo lifted a brow as he took his sunglasses back out of his pocket. “Big isn’t always an advantage. The neighborhood where I grew up was an education. Are you ready to leave?”
No, his voice wasn’t pleasant, she realized. It was cold. Ice cold. Instinctively hers mirrored it. “I suppose I should thank you.”
“Unless of course you enjoyed being pawed. Perhaps Tim was just acting on the signals you were sending out.”
Juliet stopped in her tracks. “What signals?”
“The ones women send out when they want to be pursued.”
Thinking she could bring her temper to order, she gave herself a moment. It didn’t work. “He might have been bigger than you,” she said between her teeth. “But I think you’re just as much of an ass. You’re very much alike.”
The lenses of his glasses were smoky, but she saw his eyes narrow. “You compare what’s between us with what happened in there?”
“I’m saying some men don’t take no for an answer graciously. You might have a smoother style, Carlo, but you’re after the same thing, whether it’s a roll in the hay or a cruise on a water bed.”
He dropped his hand from her arm, then very deliberately tucked both in his pockets. “If I’ve mistaken your feelings, Juliet, I apologize. I’m not a man who finds it necessary or pleasurable to pressure a woman. Do you wish to leave or stay?”
She felt a great deal of pressure—in her throat, behind her eyes. She couldn’t afford the luxury of giving into it. “I’d like to get to the hotel. I still have some work to do tonight.”
“Fine.” He left her there to find their host.
* * *
Three hours later, Juliet admitted working was impossible. She’d tried all the tricks she knew to relax. A half hour in a hot tub, quiet music on the radio while she watched the sun set from her hotel window. When relaxing failed, she went over the Houston schedule twice. They’d be running from 7:00 A.M. to 5:00 P.M., almost nonstop. Their flight to Chicago took off at 6:00.
There’d be no time to discuss, think or worry about anything that had happened within the last twenty-four hours. That’s what she wanted. Yet when she tried to work on the two-day Chicago stand, she couldn’t. All she could do was think about the man a few steps across the hall.
She hadn’t realized he could be so cold. He was always so full of warmth, of life. True, he was often infuriating, but he infuriated with verve. Now, he’d left her in a vacuum.
No. Tossing her notebook aside, Juliet dropped her chin in her hand. No, she’d put herself there. Maybe she could have stood it if she’d been right. She’d been dead wrong. She hadn’t sent any signals to the idiot Tim, and Carlo’s opinion on that still made her steam, but… But she hadn’t even thanked him for helping her when, whether she liked to admit it or not, she’d needed help. It didn’t sit well with her to be in debt.
With a shrug, she rose from the table and began to pace the room. It might be better all around if they finished off the tour with him cold and distant. There’d certainly be fewer personal problems that way because there’d be nothing personal between them. There’d be no edge to their relationship because they wouldn’t have a relationship. Logically, this little incident was probably the best thing that could have happened. It hardly mattered if she’d been right or wrong as long as the result was workable.
She took a glimpse around the small, tidy, impersonal room where she’d spend little more than eight hours, most of it asleep.
No, she couldn’t stand it.
Giving in, Juliet stuck her room key in the pocket of her robe.
* * *
Women had made him furious before. Carlo counted on it to keep life from becoming too tame. Women had frustrated him before. Without frustrations, how could you fully appreciate success?
But hurt. That was something no woman had ever done to him before. He’d never considered the possibility. Frustration, fury, passion, laughter, shouting. No man who’d known so many women—mother, sisters, lovers—expected a relationship without them. Pain was a different matter.
Pain was an intimate emotion. More personal than passion, more elemental than anger. When it went deep, it found places inside you that should have been left alone.
It had never mattered to him to be considered a rogue, a rake, a playboy—whatever term was being used for a man who appreciated women. Affairs came and went, as affairs were supposed to. They lasted no longer than the passion that conceived them. He was a careful man, a caring man. A lover became a friend as desire waned. There might be spats and hard words during the storm of an affair, but he’d never ended one that way
.
It occurred to him that he’d had more spats, more hard words with Juliet than with any other woman. Yet they’d never been lovers. Nor would they be. After pouring a glass of wine, he sat back in a deep chair and closed his eyes. He wanted no woman who compared him with a muscle-bound idiot, who confused passion for lust. He wanted no woman who compared the beauty of lovemaking to—what was it?—a cruise on a water bed. Dio!
He wanted no woman who could make him ache so—in the middle of the night, in the middle of the day. He wanted no woman who could bring him pain with a few harsh words.
God, he wanted Juliet.
He heard the knock on the door and frowned. By the time he’d set his glass aside and stood, it came again.
If Juliet hadn’t been so nervous, she might have thought of something witty to say about the short black robe Carlo wore with two pink flamingos twining up one side. As it was, she stood in her own robe and bare feet with her fingers linked together.
“I’m sorry,” she said when he opened the door.
He stepped back. “Come in, Juliet.”
“I had to apologize.” She let out a deep breath as she walked into the room. “I was awful to you this afternoon, and you’d helped me out of a very tricky situation with a minimum of fuss. I was angry when you insinuated that I’d led that—that idiot on in some way. I had a right to be.” She folded her arms under her chest and paced the room. “It was an uncalled for remark, and insulting. Even if by the remotest possibility it had been true, you had no right to talk. After all, you were basking in your own harem.”
“Harem?” Carlo poured another glass of wine and offered it.
“With that amazon of a brunette leading the pack.” She sipped, gestured with the glass and sipped again. “Everywhere we go, you’ve got half a dozen women nipping at your ankles, but do I say a word?”
“Well, you—”
“And once, just once, I have a problem with some creep with an overactive libido, and you assume I asked for it. I thought that kind of double standard was outdated even in Italy.”
Had he ever known a woman who could change his moods so quickly? Thinking it over, and finding it to his taste, Carlo studied his wine. “Juliet, did you come here to apologize, or demand that I do so?”
She scowled at him. “I don’t know why I came, but obviously it was a mistake.”
“Wait.” He held up a hand before she could storm out again. “Perhaps it would be wise if I simply accepted the apology you came in with.”
Juliet sent him a killing look. “You can take the apology I came in with and—”
“And offer you one of my own,” he finished. “Then we’ll be even.”
“I didn’t encourage him,” she murmured. And pouted. He’d never seen that sulky, utterly feminine look on her face before. It did several interesting things to his system.
“And I’m not looking for the same thing he was.” He came to her then, close enough to touch. “But very much more.”
“Maybe I know that,” she whispered, but took a step away. “Maybe I’d like to believe it. I don’t understand affairs, Carlo.” With a little laugh, she dragged her hand through her hair and turned away. “I should; my father had plenty of them. Discreet,” she added with a lingering taste of bitterness. “My mother could always turn a blind eye as long as they were discreet.”
He understood such things, had seen them among both friends and relatives, so he understood the scars and disillusionments that could be left. “Juliet, you’re not your mother.”
“No.” She turned back, head up. “No, I’ve worked long and hard to be certain I’m not. She’s a lovely, intelligent woman who gave up her career, her self-esteem, her independence to be no more than a glorified housekeeper because my father wanted it. He didn’t want a wife of his to work. A wife of his,” she repeated. “What a phrase. Her job was to take care of him. That meant having dinner on the table at six o’clock every night, and his shirts folded in his drawer. He—damn, he’s a good father, attentive, considerate. He simply doesn’t believe a man should shout at a woman or a girl. As a husband, he’d never forget a birthday, an anniversary. He’s always seen to it that she was provided for in the best material fashion, but he dictated my mother’s lifestyle. While he was about it, he enjoyed a very discreet string of women.”
“Why does your mother stay his wife?”
“I asked her that a few years ago, before I moved away to New York. She loves him.” Juliet stared into her wine. “That’s reason enough for her.”
“Would you rather she’d have left him?”
“I’d rather she’d have been what she could be. What she might’ve been.”
“The choice was hers, Juliet. Just as your life is yours.”
“I don’t want to ever be bound to anyone, anyone who could humiliate me that way.” She lifted her head again. “I won’t put myself in my mother’s position. Not for anyone.”
“Do you see all relationships as being so imbalanced?”
With a shrug, she drank again. “I suppose I haven’t seen so many of them.”
For a moment he was silent. Carlo understood fidelity, the need for it, and the lack of it. “Perhaps we have something in common. I don’t remember my father well, I saw him little. He, too, was unfaithful to my mother.”
She looked over at him, but he didn’t see any surprise in her face. It was as though she expected such things. “But he committed his adultery with the sea. For months he’d be gone, while she raised us, worked, waited. When he’d come home, she’d welcome him. Then he’d go again, unable to resist. When he died, she mourned. She loved him, and made her choice.”
“It’s not fair, is it?”
“No. Did you think love was?”
“It’s not something I want.”
He remembered once another woman, a friend, telling him the same thing when she was in turmoil. “We all want love, Juliet.”
“No.” She shook her head with the confidence born of desperation. “No, affection, respect, admiration, but not love. It steals something from you.”
He looked at her as she stood in the path of the lamplight. “Perhaps it does,” he murmured. “But until we love, we can’t be sure we needed what was lost.”
“Maybe it’s easier for you to say that, to think that. You’ve had many lovers.”
It should have amused him. Instead, it seemed to accent a void he hadn’t been aware of. “Yes. But I’ve never been in love. I have a friend—” again he thought of Summer “—once she told me love was a merry-go-round. Maybe she knew best.”
Juliet pressed her lips together. “And an affair?”
Something in her voice had him looking over. For the second time he went to her, but slowly. “Perhaps it’s just one ride on the carousel.”
Because her fingers weren’t steady, Juliet set down the glass. “We understand each other.”
“In some ways.”
“Carlo—” She hesitated, then admitted the decision had already been made before she crossed the hall. “Carlo, I’ve never taken much time for carousels, but I do want you.”
How should he handle her? Odd, he’d never had to think things through so carefully before. With some women, he’d have been flamboyant, sweeping her up, carrying her off. With another he might have been impulsive, tumbling with her to the carpet. But nothing he’d ever done seemed as important as the first time with Juliet.
Words for a woman had always come easily to him. The right phrase, the right tone had always come as naturally as breathing. He could think of nothing. Even a murmur might spoil the simplicity of what she’d said to him and how she’d said it. So he didn’t speak.
He kissed her where they stood, not with the raging passion he knew she could draw from him, not with the hesitation she sometimes made him feel. He kissed her with the truth and the knowledge that longtime lovers often experience. They came to each other with separate needs, separate attitudes, but with this, they locked out the past. To
night was for the new, and for renewing.
She’d expected the words, the flash and style that seemed so much a part of him. Perhaps she’d even expected something of triumph. Again, he gave her the different and the fresh with no more than the touch of mouth to mouth.
The thought came to her, then was discounted, that he was no more certain of his ground than she. Then he held out his hand. Juliet put hers in it. Together they walked to the bedroom.
If he’d set the scene for a night of romance, Carlo would’ve added flowers with a touch of spice, music with the throb of passion. He’d have given her the warmth of candlelight and the fun of champagne. Tonight, with Juliet, there was only silence and moonlight. The maid had turned down the bed and left the drapes wide. White light filtered through shadows and onto white sheets.
Standing by the bed, he kissed her palms, one by one. They were cool and carried a hint of her scent. At her wrist her pulse throbbed. Slowly, watching her, he loosened the tie of her robe. With his eyes still on hers, he brought his hands to her shoulders and slipped the material aside. It fell silently to pool at her feet.
He didn’t touch her, nor did he yet look at anything but her face. Through nerves, through needs, something like comfort began to move through her. Her lips curved, just slightly, as she reached for the tie of his robe and drew the knot. With her hands light and sure on his shoulders, she pushed the silk aside.
They were both vulnerable, to their needs, to each other. The light was thin and white and washed with shadows. No other illumination was needed this first time that they looked at each other.
He was lean but not thin. She was slender but soft. Her skin seemed only more pale when he touched her. Her hand seemed only more delicate when she touched him.
They came together slowly. There was no need to rush.
The mattress gave, the sheets rustled. Quietly. Side by side they lay, giving themselves time—all the time needed to discover what pleasures could come from the taste of mouth to mouth, the touch of flesh to flesh.
