by Nora Roberts
“I can discuss things better,” she began, “if you weren’t wandering around.”
“Yes?” All cooperation, Carlo sat and waved the rose under his nose. “You want to talk about our schedule here in Chicago?”
“No—yes.” She had at least a dozen things to go over with him. For once she let business take a back seat. “Later.” Deciding to take any advantage, Juliet remained standing. “First, I want to talk about that business down at the desk.”
“Ah.” The sound was distinctly European and as friendly as a smile. She could have murdered him.
“It was totally uncalled for.”
“Was it?” He’d learned that strategy was best plotted with friendly questions or simple agreement. That way, you could swing the final result to your own ends without too much blood being shed.
“Of course it was.” Forgetting her own strategy, Juliet dropped down on the edge of the bed. “Carlo, you had no right discussing our personal business in public.”
“You’re quite right.”
“I—” His calm agreement threw her off. The firm, moderately angry speech she’d prepared in the tub went out the window.
“I must apologize,” he continued before she could balance herself. “It was thoughtless of me.”
“Well, no.” As he’d planned, she came to his defense. “It wasn’t thoughtless, just inappropriate.”
With the rose, he waved her defense away. “You’re too kind, Juliet. You see, I was thinking only of how practical you are. It’s one of the things I most admire about you.” In getting his way, Carlo had always felt it best to use as much truth as possible. “You see, besides my own family, I’ve known very few truly practical women. This trait in you appeals to me, as much as the color of your eyes, the texture of your skin.”
Because she sensed she was losing ground, Juliet sat up straighter. “You don’t have to flatter me, Carlo. It’s simply a matter of establishing ground rules.”
“You see.” As if she’d made his point, he sat forward to touch her fingertips. “You’re too practical to expect flattery or to be swayed by it. Is it any wonder I’m enchanted by you?”
“Carlo—”
“I haven’t made my point.” He retreated just enough to keep his attack in full gear. “You see, knowing you, I thought you would agree that it was foolish and impractical to book separate rooms when we want to be together. You do want to be with me, don’t you, Juliet?”
Frustrated, she stared at him. He was turning the entire situation around. Certain of it, Juliet groped for a handhold. “Carlo, it has nothing to do with my wanting to be with you.”
His brow lifted. “No?”
“No. It has to do with the line that separates our business and our personal lives.”
“A line that’s difficult to draw. Perhaps impossible for me.” The truth came out again, though this time unplanned. “I want to be with you, Juliet, every moment we have. I find myself resenting even the hour that you’re here and I’m there. A few hours at night isn’t enough for me. I want more, much more for us.”
Saying it left him stunned. It hadn’t been one of his clever moves, one of his easy catch-phrases. That little jewel had come from somewhere inside where it had quietly hidden until it could take him by surprise.
He rose, and to give himself a moment, stood by the window to watch a stream of Chicago traffic. It rushed, then came to fitful stops, wound and swung then sped on again. Life was like this, he realized. You could speed right along but you never knew when something was going to stop you dead in your tracks.
Juliet was silent behind him, torn between what he’d said, what he’d meant and what she felt about it. From the very beginning, she’d kept Carlo’s definition of an affair in the front of her mind. Just one ride on the carousel. When the music stopped, you got off and knew you’d gotten your money’s worth. Now, with a few words he was changing the scope. She wondered if either of them was ready.
“Carlo, since you say I am, I’ll be practical.” Drawing together her resources, she rose. “We have a week left on tour. During that time, we’ve got Chicago and four other cities to deal with. To be honest, I’d rather if our only business right now was with each other.”
He turned, and though she thought the smile was a bit odd, at least he smiled. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me in all these days and all these cities, Juliet.”
She took a step toward him. It seemed foolish to think about risks when they had such little time. “Being with you isn’t something I’ll ever forget, no matter how much I might want to in years to come.”
“Juliet—”
“No, wait. I want to be with you, and part of me hates the time we lose with other people, in separate rooms, in all the demands that brought us to each other in the first place. But another part of me knows that all of those things are completely necessary. Those things will still be around after we’re each back in our separate places.”
No, don’t think about that now, she warned herself. If she did, her voice wouldn’t be steady.
“No matter how much time I spend with you in your suite, I need a room of my own if for no other reason than to know it’s there. Maybe that’s the practical side of me, Carlo.”
Or the vulnerable one, he mused. But hadn’t he just discovered he had a vulnerability of his own? Her name was Juliet. “So, it will be as you want in this.” And for the best perhaps. He might just need a bit of time to himself to think things through.
“No arguing?”
“Do we argue ever, cara?”
Her lips curved. “Never.” Giving in to herself as much as him, she stepped forward and linked her arms around his neck. “Did I ever tell you that when I first started setting up this tour I looked at your publicity shot and thought you were gorgeous?”
“No.” He brushed his lips over hers. “Why don’t you tell me now?”
“And sexy,” she murmured as she drew him closer to the bed. “Very, very sexy.”
“Is that so?” He allowed himself to be persuaded onto the bed. “So you decided in your office in New York that we’d be lovers?”
“I decided in my office in New York that we’d never be lovers.” Slowly, she began to unbutton his shirt. “I decided that the last thing I wanted was to be romanced and seduced by some gorgeous, sexy Italian chef who had a string of women longer than a trail of his own pasta, but—”
“Yes.” He nuzzled at her neck. “I think I’ll prefer the ‘but.’”
“But it seems to me that you can’t make definitive decisions without all the facts being in.”
“Have I ever told you that your practicality arouses me to the point of madness?”
She sighed as he slipped undone the knot in her robe. “Have I ever told you that I’m a sucker for a man who brings me flowers?”
“Flowers.” He lifted his head then picked up the rosebud he’d dropped on the pillow beside them. “Darling, did you want one, too?”
With a laugh, she pulled him back to her.
* * *
Juliet decided she’d seen more of Chicago in the flight into O’Hare than during the day and a half she’d been there. Cab drives from hotel to television station, from television station to department store, from department store to bookstore and back to the hotel again weren’t exactly leisurely sight-seeing tours. Then and there she decided that when she took her vacation at the end of the month, she’d go somewhere steamy with sun and do nothing more energetic than laze by a pool from dawn to dusk.
The only hour remotely resembling fun was another shopping expedition where she watched Carlo select a plump three-pound chicken for his cacciatore.
He was to prepare his pollastro alla cacciatora from simmer to serve during a live broadcast of one of the country’s top-rated morning shows. Next to the Simpson Show in L.A., Juliet considered this her biggest coup for the tour. Let’s Discuss It was the hottest hour on daytime TV, and remained both popular and controversial after five conse
cutive seasons.
Despite the fact that she knew Carlo’s showmanship abilities, Juliet was nervous as a cat. The show would air live in New York. She had no doubt that everyone in her department would be watching. If Carlo was a smash, it would be his triumph. If he bombed, the bomb was all hers. Such was the rationale in public relations.
It never occurred to Carlo to be nervous. He could make cacciatore in the dark, from memory with the use of only one hand. After watching Juliet pace the little green room for the fifth time, he shook his head. “Relax, my love, it’s only chicken.”
“Don’t forget to bring up the dates we’ll be in the rest of the cities. This show reaches all of them.”
“You’ve already told me.”
“And the title of the book.”
“I won’t forget.”
“You should remember to mention you prepared this dish for the President when he visited Rome last year.”
“I’ll try to keep it in mind. Juliet, wouldn’t you like some coffee?”
She shook her head and kept pacing. What else?
“I could use some,” he decided on the spot.
She glanced toward the pot on a hot plate. “Help yourself.”
He knew if she had something to do, she’d stop worrying, even for a few moments. And she’d stop pacing up and down in front of him. “Juliet, no one with a heart would ask a man to drink that poison that’s been simmering since dawn.”
“Oh.” Without hesitation, she assumed the role of pamperer. “I’ll see about it.”
“Grazie.”
At the door, she hesitated. “The reporter for the Sun might drop back before the show.”
“Yes, you told me. I’ll be charming.”
Muttering to herself, she went to find a page.
Carlo leaned back and stretched his legs. He’d have to drink the coffee when she brought it back, though he didn’t want any. He didn’t want to board the plane for Detroit that afternoon, but such things were inevitable. In any case, he and Juliet would have the evening free in Detroit—what American state was that in?
They wouldn’t be there long enough to worry about it.
In any case, he would soon be in Philadelphia and there, see Summer. He needed to. Though he’d always had friends and was close to many of them, he’d never needed one as he felt he needed one now. He could talk to Summer and know what he said would be listened to carefully and not be repeated. Gossip had never bothered him in the past, but when it came to Juliet… When it came to Juliet, nothing was as it had been in the past.
None of his previous relationships with women had ever become a habit. Waking up in the morning beside a woman had always been pleasant, but never necessary. Every day, Juliet was changing that. He couldn’t imagine his bedroom back in Rome without her, yet she’d never been there. He’d long since stopped imagining other women in his bed.
Rising, he began to pace as Juliet had.
When the door opened, he turned, expecting her. The tall, willowy blonde who entered wasn’t Juliet, but she was familiar.
“Carlo! How wonderful to see you again.”
“Lydia.” He smiled, cursing himself for not putting the name of the Sun’s reporter with the face of the woman he’d spent two interesting days in Chicago with only eighteen months before. “You look lovely.”
Of course she did. Lydia Dickerson refused to look anything less. She was sharp, sexy and uninhibited. She was also, in his memory, an excellent cook and critic of gourmet foods.
“Carlo, I was just thrilled when I heard you were coming into town. We’ll do the interview after the show, but I just had to drop back and see you.” She swirled toward him with the scent of spring lilacs and the swish of a wide-flared skirt. “You don’t mind?”
“Of course not.” Smiling, he took her outstretched hand. “It’s always good to see an old friend.”
With a laugh, she put her hands on his shoulders. “I should be angry with you, caro. You do have my number, and my phone didn’t ring last night.”
“Ah.” He put his hands to her wrists, wondering just how to untangle himself. “You’ll have to forgive us, Lydia. The schedule is brutal. And there’s a…complication.” He winced, thinking how Juliet would take being labeled a complication.
“Carlo.” She edged closer. “You can’t tell me you haven’t got a few free hours for…an old friend. I’ve a tremendous recipe for vitèllo tonnato.” She murmured the words and made the dish sound like something to be eaten in the moonlight. “Who else should I cook it for but the best chef in Italy?”
“I’m honored.” He put his hands on her hips hoping to draw her away with the least amount of insult. It wouldn’t occur to him until later that he’d felt none, absolutely none, of the casual desire he should have. “I haven’t forgotten what a superb cook you are, Lydia.”
Her laugh was low and full of memories. “I hope you haven’t forgotten more than that.”
“No.” He let out a breath and opted to be blunt. “But you see I’m—”
Before he could finish being honest, the door opened again. With a cup of coffee in her hand, Juliet walked in, then came to a dead stop. She looked at the blonde wound around Carlo like an exotic vine. Her brow lifted as she took her gaze to Carlo’s face. If only she had a camera.
Her voice was as cool and dry as her eyes. “I see you’ve met.”
“Juliet, I—”
“I’ll give you a few moments for the…pre-interview,” she said blandly. “Try to wrap it up by eight-fifty, Carlo. You’ll want to check the kitchen set.” Without another word, she shut the door behind her.
Though her arms were still around Carlo’s neck, Lydia looked toward the closed door. “Oops,” she said lightly.
Carlo let out a long breath as they separated. “You couldn’t have put it better.”
At nine o’clock, Juliet had a comfortable seat midway back in the audience. When Lydia slipped into the seat beside her, she gave the reporter an easy nod, then looked back to the set. As far as she could tell, and she’d gone over every inch of it, it was perfect.
When Carlo was introduced to cheerful applause she began to relax, just a little. But when he began preparations on the chicken, moving like a surgeon and talking to his host, his studio and television audience like a seasoned performer, her relaxation was complete. He was going to be fantastic.
“He’s really something, isn’t he?” Lydia murmured during the first break.
“Something,” Juliet agreed.
“Carlo and I met the last time he was in Chicago.”
“Yes, I gathered. I’m glad you could make it by this morning. You did get the press kit I sent in?”
She’s a cool one, Lydia thought and shifted in her seat. “Yes. The feature should be out by the end of the week. I’ll send you a clipping.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“Miss Trent—”
“Juliet, please.” For the first time, Juliet turned and smiled at her fully. “No need for formality.”
“All right, Juliet, I feel like a fool.”
“I’m sorry. You shouldn’t.”
“I’m very fond of Carlo, but I don’t poach.”
“Lydia, I’m sure there isn’t a woman alive who wouldn’t be fond of Carlo.” She crossed her legs as the countdown for taping began again. “If I thought you’d even consider poaching, you wouldn’t be able to pick up your pencil.”
Lydia sat still for a moment, then leaned back with a laugh. Carlo had picked himself quite a handful. Served him right. “Is it all right to wish you luck?”
Juliet shot her another smile. “I’d appreciate it.”
The two women might’ve come to amicable terms, but it wasn’t easy for Carlo to concentrate on his job while they sat cozily together in the audience. His experience with Lydia had been a quick and energetic two days. He knew little more of her than her preference for peanut oil for cooking and blue bed linen. He understood how easy it was for a man to be executed w
ithout trial. He thought he could almost feel the prickle of the noose around his throat.
But he was innocent. Carlo poured the mixture of tomatoes, sauce and spices over the browned chicken and set the cover. If he had to bind and gag her, Juliet would listen to him.
He cooked his dish with the finesse of an artist completing a royal portrait. He performed for the audience like a veteran thespian. He thought the dark thoughts of a man already at the dock.
When the show was over, he spent a few obligatory moments with his host, then left the crew to devour one of his best cacciatores.
But when he went back to the green room, Juliet was nowhere in sight. Lydia was waiting. He had no choice but to deal with her, and the interview, first.
She didn’t make it easy for him. But then, to his knowledge, women seldom did. Lydia chatted away as though nothing had happened. She asked her questions, noted down his answers, all the while with mischief gleaming in her eyes. At length, he’d had enough.
“All right, Lydia, what did you say to her?”
“To whom?” All innocence, Lydia blinked at him. “Oh, your publicist. A lovely woman. But then I’d hardly be one to fault your taste, darling.”
He rose, swore and wondered what a desperate man should do with his hands. “Lydia, we had a few enjoyable hours together. No more.”
“I know.” Something in her tone made him pause and glance back. “I don’t imagine either of us could count the number of few enjoyable hours we’ve had.” With a shrug, she rose. Perhaps she understood him, even envied what she thought she’d read in his eyes, but it wasn’t any reason to let him off the hook. “Your Juliet and I just chatted, darling.” She dropped her pad and pencil in her bag. “Girl talk, you know. Just girl talk. Thanks for the interview, Carlo.” At the door, she paused and turned back. “If you’re ever back in town without a…complication, give me a ring. Ciao.”
When she left he considered breaking something. Before he could decide what would be the most satisfying and destructive, Juliet bustled in. “Let’s get moving, Carlo. The cab’s waiting. It looks like we’ll have enough time to get back to the hotel, check out and catch the earlier plane.”
