Endless Summer

by Nora Roberts

  Should she have known it would be like this? So easy. Inevitable. Her skin was warm, so warm wherever he brushed it. His lips demanded, they took, but with such patience. He loved her gently, slowly, as though it were her first time. As she drifted deeper, Juliet thought dimly that perhaps it was.

  Innocence. He felt it from her, not physical, but emotional. Somehow, incredibly, he discovered it was the same for himself. No matter how many had come before, for either of them, they came to each other now in innocence.

  Her hands didn’t hesitate as they moved over him, but stroked as though she were blind and could only gain her own picture through other senses. He smelled of a shower, water and soap, but he tasted richer, of wine. Then he spoke for the first time, only her name. It was to her more moving, more poetic than any endearment.

  Her body moved with his, in rhythm, keeping pace. She seemed to know, somehow, where he would touch her just before she felt his fingers trace, his palms press. Then his lips began a long, luxurious journey she hoped would never end.

  She was so small. Why had he never noticed before how small she was? It was easy to forget her strength, her control, her stamina. He could give her tenderness and wait for the passion.

  The line of her neck was slender and so white in the moonlight. Her scent was trapped there, at her throat. Intensified. Arousing. He could linger there while blood heated. His and hers.

  He slid his tongue over the subtle curve of her breast to find the peak. When he drew it into his mouth, she moaned his name, giving them both a long, slow nudge to the edge.

  But there was more to taste, more to touch. Passion, when heated, makes a mockery of control. Sounds slipped into the room—a catch of breath, a sigh, a moan—all pleasure. Their scents began to mix together—a lover’s fragrance. In the moonlight, they were one form. The sheets were hot, twisted. When with tongue and fingertips he drove her over the first peak, Juliet gripped the tousled sheets as her body arched and shuddered with a torrent of sensations.

  While she was still weak, still gasping, he slipped into her.

  His head was spinning—a deliciously foreign sensation to him. He wanted to bury himself in her, but he wanted to see her. Her eyes were shut; her lips just parted as the breath hurried in and out. She moved with him, slowly, then faster, still faster until her fingers dug into his shoulders.

  On a cry of pleasure, her eyes flew open. Looking into them, he saw the dark, astonished excitement he’d wanted to give her.

  At last, giving in to the rushing need of his own body, he closed his mouth over hers and let himself go.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Were there others who understood true passion? Wrapped in Carlo, absorbing and absorbed by Carlo, Juliet knew she hadn’t until moments ago. Should it make you weak? She felt weak, but not empty.

  Should she feel regret? Yes, logically she should. She’d given more of herself than she’d intended, shared more than she’d imagined, risked more than she should have dared. But she had no regrets. Perhaps later she’d make her list of the whys and why nots. For now, she wanted only to enjoy the soft afterglow of loving.

  “You’re quiet.” His breath whispered across her temple, followed by his lips.

  She smiled a little, content to let her eyes close. “So are you.”

  Nuzzling his cheek against her hair, he looked over to the slant of moonlight through the window. He wasn’t sure which words to use. He’d never felt quite like this before with any woman. He’d never expected to. How could he tell her that and expect to be believed? He was having a hard time believing it himself. And yet…perhaps truth was the hardest thing to put into words.

  “You feel very small when I hold you like this,” he murmured. “It makes me want to hold you like this for a long, long time.”

  “I like having you hold me.” The admission was much easier to make than she’d thought. With a little laugh, she turned her head so that she could see his face. “I like it very much.”

  “Then you won’t object if I go on holding you for the next few hours.”

  She kissed his chin. “The next few minutes,” she corrected. “I have to get back to my room.”

  “You don’t like my bed?”

  She stretched and cuddled and thought how wonderful it would be never to move from that one spot. “I think I’m crazy about it, but I’ve got a little work to do before I call it a night, then I have to be up by six-thirty, and—”

  “You work too much.” He cut her off, then leaned over her to pick up the phone. “You can get up in the morning just as easily from my bed as yours.”

  Finding she liked the way his body pressed into hers, she prepared to be convinced. “Maybe. What’re you doing?”

  “Shh. Yes, this is Franconi in 922. I’d like a wake-up call for six.” He replaced the phone and rolled, pulling her on top of him. “There now, everything is taken care of. The phone will ring at dawn and wake us up.”

  “It certainly will.” Juliet folded her hands over his chest and rested her chin on them. “But you told them to call at six. We don’t have to get up until six-thirty.”

  “Yes.” He slid his hands down low over her back. “So we have a half-hour to—ah—wake up.”

  With a laugh, she pressed her lips to his shoulder. This once, she told herself, just this once, she’d let someone else do the planning. “Very practical. Do you think we might take a half hour or so to—ah—go to sleep?”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  * * *

  When the phone did ring, Juliet merely groaned and slid down under the sheets. For the second time, she found herself buried under Carlo as he rolled over to answer it. Without complaint, she lay still, hoping the ringing of the phone had been part of a dream.

  “Come now, Juliet.” Shifting most of his weight from her, Carlo began to nibble on her shoulder. “You’re playing mole.”

  She murmured in drowsy excitement as he slid his hand down to her hip. “Mole? I don’t have a mole.”

  “Playing mole.” She was so warm and soft and pliant. He’d known she would be. Mornings were made for lazy delights and waking her was a pleasure just begun.

  Juliet stretched under the stroke and caress of his hands. Mornings were for a quick shower and a hasty cup of coffee. She’d never known they could be luxurious. “Playing mole?”

  “An American expression.” The skin over her rib cage was soft as butter. He thought there was no better time to taste it. “You pretend to be dead.”

  Because her mind was clouded with sleep, her system already churning with passion, it took a moment. “Possum.”

  “Prego?”

  “Playing possum,” she repeated and, guided by his hands, shifted. “A mole’s different.”

  “So, they’re both little animals.”

  She opened one eye. His hair was rumpled around his face, his chin darkened with a night’s growth of beard. But when he smiled he looked as though he’d been awake for hours. He looked, she admitted, absolutely wonderful.

  “You want an animal?” With a sudden burst of energy, she rolled on top of him. Her hands were quick, her mouth avid. In seconds, she’d taken his breath away.

  She’d never been aggressive, but found the low, surprised moan and the fast pump of his heart to her liking. Her body reacted like lightning. She didn’t mind that his hands weren’t as gentle, as patient as they’d been the night before. This new desperation thrilled her.

  He was Franconi, known for his wide range of expertise in the kitchen and the bedroom. But she was making him wild and helpless at the same time. With a laugh, she pressed her mouth to his, letting her tongue find all the dark, lavish tastes. When he tried to shift her, to take her because the need had grown too quickly to control, she evaded. His breathless curse whispered into her mouth.

  He never lost finesse with a woman. Passion, his passion, had always been melded with style. Now, as she took her frenzied journey over him, he had no style, only needs. He’d never been a man to
rush. When he cooked, he went slowly, step-by-step. Enjoy, experience, experiment. He made love the same way. Such things were meant to be savored, to be appreciated by each of the five senses.

  It wasn’t possible to savor when you were driven beyond the civilized. When your senses were whirling and tangled, it wasn’t possible to separate them. Being driven was something new for him, something intoxicating. No, he wouldn’t fight it, but pull her with him.

  Rough and urgent, he grabbed her hips. Within moments, they were both beyond thought, beyond reason….

  His breath was still unsteady, but he held her close and tight. Whatever she’d done, or was doing to him, he didn’t want to lose it. The thought flickered briefly that he didn’t want to lose her. Carlo pushed it aside. It was a dangerous thought. They had now. It was much wiser to concentrate on that.

  “I have to go.” Though she wanted nothing more than to curl up against him, Juliet made herself shift away. “We have to be downstairs at checkout in forty minutes.”

  “To meet Big Bill.”

  “That’s right.” Juliet reached onto the floor for her robe, slipping it onto her arms before she stood up. Carlo’s lips trembled at the way she turned her back to him to tie it. It was rather endearing to see the unconscious modesty from a woman who’d just exploited every inch of his body. “You don’t know how grateful I am that Bill volunteered to play chauffeur. The last thing I want to do is fight the freeway system in this town. I’ve had to do it before, and it’s not a pretty sight.”

  “I could drive,” he murmured, enjoying the way the rich green silk reached the top of her thighs.

  “Staying alive is another reason I’m grateful for Bill. I’ll call and have a bellman come up for the bags in—thirty-five minutes. Be sure—”

  “You check everything because we won’t be coming back,” he finished. “Juliet, haven’t I proven my competency yet?”

  “Just a friendly reminder.” She checked her watch before she remembered she wasn’t wearing it. “The TV spot should be a breeze. Jacky Torrence hosts. It’s a jovial sort of show that goes after the fast, funny story rather than nuts and bolts.”

  “Hmm.” He rose, stretching. The publicist was back, he noted with a half smile, but as he reached down for his own robe, he noticed that she’d broken off. Lifting his head, he looked up at her.

  Good God, he was beautiful. It was all she could think. Schedules, planning, points of information all went out of her head. In the early morning sun, his skin was more gold than brown, smooth and tight over his rib cage, nipped in at the waist to a narrow line of hip. Letting out a shaky breath, she took a step back.

  “I’d better go,” she managed. “We can run through today’s schedule on the way to the studio.”

  It pleased him enormously to understand what had broken her concentration. He held the robe loosely in one hand as he took a step closer. “Perhaps we’ll get bumped.”

  “Bite your tongue.” Aiming for a light tone, she succeeded with a whisper. “That’s an interesting robe.”

  The tone of her voice was a springboard to an arousal already begun. “You like the flamingos? My mother has a sense of humor.” But he didn’t put it on as he stepped closer.

  “Carlo, stay right where you are. I mean it.” She held up a hand as she walked backward to the doorway.

  He grinned, and kept on grinning after he heard the click of the hallway door.

  Between Juliet cracking the whip and Bill piloting, their Houston business went like clockwork. TV, radio and print, the media was responsive and energetic. The midafternoon autograph party turned out to be a party in the true sense of the word and was a smashing success. Juliet found herself a spot in a storeroom and ripped open the oversized envelope from her office that had been delivered to the hotel. Settling back, she began to go through the clippings her assistant had air expressed.

  L.A. was excellent, as she’d expected. Upbeat and enthusiastic. San Diego might’ve tried for a little more depth, but they’d given him page one of the Food section in one spread and a below-the-fold in the Style section in another. No complaints. Portland and Seattle listed a recipe apiece and raved shamelessly. Juliet could’ve rubbed her hands together with glee if she hadn’t been drinking coffee. Then she hit Denver.

  Coffee sloshed out of the cup and onto her hand.

  “Damn!” Fumbling in her briefcase, she found three crumpled tissues and began to mop up. A gossip column. Who’d have thought it? She gave herself a moment to think then relaxed. Publicity was publicity, after all. And the truth of the matter was, Franconi was gossip. Looking at it logically, the more times his name was in print, the more successful the tour. Resolved, Juliet began to read.

  She nodded absently as she skimmed the first paragraph. Chatty, shallow, but certainly not offensive. A lot of people who might not glance at the food or cooking sections would give the gossip columns a working over. All in all, it was probably an excellent break. Then she read the second paragraph.

  Juliet was up out of her folding chair. This time the coffee that dripped onto the floor went unnoticed. Her expression changed from surprised astonishment to fury in a matter of seconds. In the same amount of time, she stuffed the clippings back into their envelope. It wasn’t easy, but she gave herself five minutes for control before she walked back into the main store.

  The schedule called for another fifteen minutes, but Carlo had more than twenty people in line, and that many again just milling around. Fifteen minutes would have to be stretched to thirty. Grinding her teeth, Juliet stalked over to Bill.

  “There you are.” Friendly as always, he threw his arm over her shoulder and squeezed. “Going great guns out here. Old Carlo knows how to twinkle to the ladies without setting the men off. Damn clever sonofabitch.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Her knuckles were white on the strap of her briefcase. “Bill, is there a phone I can use? I have to call the office.”

  “No problem at all. Y’all just come on back with me.” He led her through Psychology, into Westerns and around Romances to a door marked Private. “You just help yourself,” he invited and showed her into a room with a cluttered metal desk, a goosenecked lamp and stacks upon stacks of books. Juliet headed straight for the phone.

  “Thanks, Bill.” She didn’t even wait until the door closed before she started dialing. “Deborah Mortimor, please,” she said to the answering switchboard. Tapping her foot, Juliet waited.

  “Ms. Mortimor.”

  “Deb, it’s Juliet.”

  “Hi. I’ve been waiting for you to call in. Looks like we’ve got a strong nibble with the Times when you come back to New York. I just—”

  “Later.” Juliet reached into her briefcase for a roll of antacids. “I got the clippings today.”

  “Great, aren’t they?”

  “Oh sure. They’re just dandy.”

  “Uh-huh.” Deb waited only a beat. “It’s the little number in Denver, isn’t it?”

  She gave the rolling chair a quick kick. “Of course it is.”

  “Sit down, Juliet.” Deb didn’t have to see to know her boss was pacing.

  “Sit down? I’m tempted to fly back to Denver and ring Chatty Cathy’s neck.”

  “Killing columnists isn’t good for PR, Juliet.”

  “It was garbage.”

  “No, no, it wasn’t that bad. Trash maybe, but not garbage.”

  She struggled for control and managed to get a very slippery rein on her temper. Popping the first antacid into her mouth, she crunched down. “Don’t be cute, Deb. I didn’t like the insinuations about Carlo and me. Carlo Franconi’s lovely American traveling companion,” she quoted between her teeth. “Traveling companion. It makes me sound as though I’m just along for the ride. And then—”

  “I read it,” Deb interrupted. “So did Hal,” she added, referring to the head of publicity.

  Juliet closed her eyes a moment. “And?”

  “Well, he went through about s
ix different reactions. In the end, he decided a few comments like that were bound to come up and only added to Franconi’s—well, mystique might be the best term.”

  “I see.” Her jaw clenched, her fingers tight around the little roll of stomach pills. “That’s fine then, isn’t it? I’m just thrilled to add to a client’s mystique.”

  “Now, Juliet—”

  “Look, just tell dear old Hal that Houston went perfectly.” She was definitely going to need two pills. Juliet popped another out of the roll with her thumb. “I don’t even want you to mention to him that I called about this—this tripe in Denver.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Taking a pen, she sat down and made space on the desk. “Now, give me what you have with the Times.”

  A half hour later, Juliet was just finishing up her last call when Carlo poked his head in the office. Seeing she was on the phone, he rolled his eyes, closed the door and leaned against it. His brow lifted when he spotted the half-eaten roll of antacids.

  “Yes, thank you, Ed, Mr. Franconi will bring all the necessary ingredients and be in the studio at 8:00. Yes.” She laughed, though her foot was tapping out a rhythm on the floor. “It’s absolutely delicious. Guaranteed. See you in two days.”

  When she hung up the receiver, Carlo stepped forward. “You didn’t come to save me.”

  She gave him a long, slow look. “You seemed to be handling the situation without me.”

  He knew the tone, and the expression. Now all he had to do was find the reason for them. Strolling over, he picked up the roll of pills. “You’re much too young to need these.”

  “I’ve never heard that ulcers had an age barrier.”

  His brows drew together as he sat on the edge of the desk. “Juliet, if I believed you had an ulcer, I’d pack you off to my home in Rome and keep you in bed on bland foods for the next month. Now…” He slipped the roll into his pocket. “What problem is there?”

  “Several,” she said briskly as she began to gather up her notes. “But they’re fairly well smoothed out now. We’ll need to go shopping again in Chicago for that chicken dish you’d planned to cook. So, if you’ve finished up here, we can just—”