Endless Summer

by Nora Roberts

  “I want to speak with you.”

  “Yes, fine. We’ll talk in the cab.” Because she was already heading down the winding corridor he had no choice but to follow.

  “When you told me the name of the reporter, I simply didn’t put it together.”

  “Put what together?” Juliet pulled open the heavy metal door and stepped out on the back lot. If it had been much hotter, she noted, Carlo could’ve browned his chicken on the asphalt. “Oh, that you’d known her. Well, it’s so hard to remember everyone we’ve met, isn’t it?” She slipped into the cab and gave the driver the name of the hotel.

  “We’ve come halfway across the country.” Annoyed, he climbed in beside her. “Things begin to blur.”

  “They certainly do.” Sympathetic, she patted his hand. “Detroit and Boston’ll be down and dirty. You’ll be lucky to remember your own name.” She pulled out her compact to give her make-up a quick check. “But then I can help out in Philadelphia. You’ve already told me you have a…friend there.”

  “Summer’s different.” He took the compact from her. “I’ve known her for years. We were students together. We never—Friends, we’re only friends,” he ended on a mutter. “I don’t enjoy explaining myself.”

  “I can see that.” She pulled out bills and calculated the tip as the cab drew up to the hotel. As she started to slide out, she gave Carlo a long look. “No one asked you to.”

  “Ridiculous.” He had her by the arm before she’d reached the revolving doors. “You ask. It isn’t necessary to ask with words to ask.”

  “Guilt makes you imagine all sorts of things.” She swung through the doors and into the lobby.

  “Guilt?” Incensed, he caught up with her at the elevators. “I’ve nothing to be guilty for. A man has to commit some crime, some sin, for guilt.”

  She listened calmly as she stepped into the elevator car and pushed the button for their floor. “That’s true, Carlo. You seem to me to be a man bent on making a confession.”

  He went off on a fiery stream of Italian that had the other two occupants of the car edging into the corners. Juliet folded her hands serenely and decided she’d never enjoyed herself more. The other passengers gave Carlo a wide berth as the elevator stopped on their floor.

  “Did you want to grab something quick to eat at the airport or wait until we land?”

  “I’m not interested in food.”

  “An odd statement from a chef.” She breezed into the hall. “Take ten minutes to pack and I’ll call for a bellman.” The key was in her hand and into the lock before his fingers circled her wrist. When she looked up at him, she thought she’d never seen him truly frustrated before. Good. It was about time.

  “I pack nothing until this is settled.”

  “Until what’s settled?” she countered.

  “When I commit a crime or a sin, I do so with complete honesty.” It was the closest he’d come to an explosion. Juliet lifted a brow and listened attentively. “It was Lydia who had her arms around me.”

  Juliet smiled. “Yes, I saw quite clearly how you were struggling. A woman should be locked up for taking advantage of a man that way.”

  His eyes, already dark, went nearly black. “You’re sarcastic. But you don’t understand the circumstances.”

  “On the contrary.” She leaned against the door. “Carlo, I believe I understood the circumstances perfectly. I don’t believe I’ve asked you to explain anything. Now, you’d better pack if we’re going to catch that early plane.” For the second time, she shut the door in his face.

  He stood where he was for a moment, torn. A man expected a certain amount of jealousy from a woman he was involved with. He even, well, enjoyed it to a point. What he didn’t expect was a smile, a pat on the head and breezy understanding when he’d been caught in another woman’s arms. However innocently.

  No, he didn’t expect it, Carlo decided. He wouldn’t tolerate it.

  When the sharp knock came on the door, Juliet was still standing with a hand on the knob. Wisely, she counted to ten before she opened it.

  “Did you need something?”

  Carefully, he studied her face for a trap. “You’re not angry.”

  She lifted her brows. “No, why?”

  “Lydia’s very beautiful.”

  “She certainly is.”

  He stepped inside. “You’re not jealous?”

  “Don’t be absurd.” She brushed a speck of lint from her sleeve. “If you found me with another man, under similar circumstances, you’d understand, I’m sure.”

  “No.” He closed the door behind him. “I’d break his face.”

  “Oh?” Rather pleased, she turned away to gather a few things from her dresser. “That’s the Italian temperament, I suppose. Most of my ancestors were rather staid. Hand me that brush, will you?”

  Carlo picked it up and dropped it into her hand. “Staid—this means?”

  “Calm and sturdy, I suppose. Though there was one—my great-great-grandmother, I think. She found her husband tickling the scullery maid. In her staid sort of way, she knocked him flat with a cast-iron skillet. I don’t think he ever tickled any of the other servants.” Securing the brush in a plastic case, she arranged it in the bag. “I’m said to take after her.”

  Taking her by the shoulders, he turned her to face him. “There were no skillets available.”

  “True enough, but I’m inventive. Carlo…” Still smiling, she slipped her arms around his neck. “If I hadn’t understood exactly what was going on, the coffee I’d fetched for you would’ve been dumped over your head. Capice?”

  “Sì.” He grinned as he rubbed his nose against hers. But he didn’t really understand her. Perhaps that was why he was enchanted by her. Lowering his mouth to hers, he let the enchantment grow. “Juliet,” he murmured. “There’s a later plane for Detroit, yes?”

  She had wondered if he would ever think of it. “Yes, this afternoon.”

  “Did you know it’s unhealthy for the system to rush.” As he spoke, he slipped the jacket from her arms so that it slid to the floor.

  “I’ve heard something about that.”

  “Very true. It’s much better, medically speaking, to take one’s time. To keep a steady pace, but not a fast one. And, of course, to give the system time to relax at regular intervals. It could be very unhealthy for us to pack now and race to the airport.” He unhooked her skirt so that it followed her jacket.

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Of course I’m right,” he murmured in her ear. “It would never do for either of us to be ill on the tour.”

  “Disastrous,” she agreed. “In fact, it might be best if we both just lay down for a little while.”

  “The very best. One must guard one’s health.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” she told him as his shirt joined her skirt and jacket.

  She was laughing as they tumbled onto the bed.

  He liked her this way. Free, easy, enthusiastic. Just as he liked her cooler, more enigmatic moods. He could enjoy her in a hundred different ways because she wasn’t always the same woman. Yet she was always the same.

  Soft, as she was now. Warm wherever he touched, luxurious wherever he tasted. She might be submissive one moment, aggressive the next, and he never tired of the swings.

  They made love in laughter now, something he knew more than most was precious and rare. Even when the passion began to dominate, there was an underlying sense of enjoyment that didn’t cloud the fire. She gave him more in a moment than he’d thought he’d ever find with a woman in a lifetime.

  She’d never known she could be this way—laughing, churning, happy, desperate. There were so many things she hadn’t known. Every time he touched her it was something new, though it was somehow as if his touch was all she’d ever known. He made her feel fresh and desirable, wild and weepy all at once. In the space of minutes, he could bring her a sense of contentment and a frantic range of excitements.

  The more he brou
ght, the more he gave, and the easier it became for her to give. She wasn’t aware yet, nor was he, that every time they made love, the intimacy grew and spread. It was gaining a strength and weight that wouldn’t break with simply walking away. Perhaps if they’d known, they would have fought it.

  Instead, they loved each other through the morning with the verve of youth and the depth of familiarity.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Juliet hung up the phone, dragged a hand through her hair and swore. Rising, she swore again then moved toward the wide spread of window in Carlo’s suite. For a few moments she muttered at nothing and no one in particular. Across the room, Carlo lay sprawled on the sofa. Wisely, he waited until she’d lapsed into silence.

  “Problems?”

  “We’re fogged in.” Swearing again, she stared out the window. She could see the mist, thick and still hanging outside the glass. Detroit was obliterated. “All flights are cancelled. The only way we’re going to get to Boston is to stick out our thumbs.”

  “Thumbs?”

  “Never mind.” She turned and paced around the suite.

  Detroit had been a solid round of media and events, and the Renaissance Center a beautiful place to stay, but now it was time to move on. Boston was just a hop away by air, so that the evening could be devoted to drafting out reports and a good night’s sleep. Except for the fact that fog had driven in from the lake and put the whole city under wraps.

  Stuck, Juliet thought as she glared out the window again. Stuck when they had an 8:00 A.M. live demonstration on a well-established morning show in Boston.

  He shifted a bit, but didn’t sit up. If it hadn’t been too much trouble, he could’ve counted off the number of times he’d been grounded for one reason or another. One, he recalled, had been a flamenco dancer in Madrid who’d distracted him into missing the last flight out. Better not to mention it. Still, when such things happened, Carlo reflected, it was best to relax and enjoy the moment. He knew Juliet better.

  “You’re worried about the TV in the morning.”

  “Of course I am.” As she paced, she went over every possibility. Rent a car and drive—no, even in clear weather it was simply too far. They could charter a plane and hope the fog cleared by dawn. She took another glance outside. They were sixty-five floors up, but they might as well have been sixty-five feet under. No, she decided, no television spot was worth the risk. They’d have to cancel. That was that.

  She dropped down on a chair and stuck her stockinged feet up by Carlo’s. “I’m sorry, Carlo, there’s no way around it. We’ll have to scrub Boston.”

  “Scrub Boston?” Lazily he folded his arms behind his head. “Juliet, Franconi scrubs nothing. Cook, yes, scrub, no.”

  It took her a moment to realize he was serious. “I mean cancel.”

  “You didn’t say cancel.”

  She heaved out a long breath. “I’m saying it now.” She wiggled her toes, finding them a bit stiff after a ten-hour day. “There’s no way we can make the television spot, and that’s the biggest thing we have going in Boston. There’re a couple of print interviews and an autographing. We didn’t expect much to move there, and we were depending on the TV spot for that. Without it…” She shrugged and resigned herself. “It’s a wash.”

  Letting his eyes half close, Carlo decided the sofa was an excellent place to spend an hour or so. “I don’t wash.”

  She shot him a level look. “You’re not going to have to do anything but lie on your—back,” she decided after a moment, “for the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  He grinned. Moving faster than he looked capable of, he sat up, grabbed her by the arms and pulled her down with him. “Good, you lie with me. Two backs, madonna, are better than one.”

  “Carlo.” She couldn’t avoid the first kiss. Or perhaps she didn’t put her best effort into it, but she knew it was essential to avoid the second. “Wait a minute.”

  “Only twenty-four hours,” he reminded her as he moved to her ear. “No time to waste.”

  “I’ve got to—Stop that,” she ordered when her thoughts started to cloud. “There’re arrangements to be made.”

  “What arrangements?”

  She made a quick mental sketch. True, she’d already checked out of her room. They’d only kept the suite for convenience, and until six. She could book another separate room for the night, but—she might as well admit in this case it was foolish. Moving her shoulders, she gave in to innate practicality. “Like keeping the suite overnight.”

  “That’s important.” He lifted his head a moment. Her face was already flushed, her eyes already soft. Almost as if she’d spoken aloud, he followed the train of thought. He couldn’t help but admire the way her mind worked from one point to the next in such straight lines.

  “I have to call New York and let them know our status. I have to call Boston and cancel, then the airport and change our flight. Then I—”

  “I think you have a love affair with the phone. It’s difficult for a man to be jealous of an inanimate object.”

  “Phones are my life.” She tried to slip out from under him, but got nowhere. “Carlo.”

  “I like it when you say my name with just a touch of exasperation.”

  “It’s going to be more than a touch in a minute.”

  He’d thought he’d enjoy that as well. “But you haven’t told me yet how fantastic I was today.”

  “You were fantastic.” It was so easy to relax when he held her like this. The phone calls could wait, just a bit. After all, they weren’t going anywhere. “You mesmerized them with your linguini.”

  “My linguini is hypnotic,” he agreed. “I charmed the reporter from the Free Press.”

  “You left him stupefied. Detroit’ll never be the same.”

  “That’s true.” He kissed her nose. “Boston won’t know what it’s missing.”

  “Don’t remind me,” she began, then broke off. Carlo could almost hear the wheels turning.

  “An idea.” Resigned, he rolled her on top of him and watched her think.

  “It might work,” she murmured. “If everyone cooperates, it might work very well. In fact, it might just be terrific.”

  “What?”

  “You claim to be a magician as well as an artist.”

  “Modesty prevents me from—”

  “Save it.” She scrambled up until she stradled him. “You told me once you could cook in a sewer.”

  Frowning, he toyed with the little gold hoop she wore in her ear. “Yes, perhaps I did. But this is only an expression—”

  “How about cooking by remote control?”

  His brows drew together, but he ran his hand idly to the hem of her skirt that had ridden high on her thigh. “You have extraordinary legs,” he said in passing, then gave her his attention. “What do you mean by remote control?”

  “Just that.” Wound up with the idea, Juliet rose and grabbed her pad and pencil. “You give me all the ingredients—it’s linguini again tomorrow, right?”

  “Yes, my specialty.”

  “Good, I have all that in the file anyway. We can set up a phone session between Detroit and the studio in Boston. You can be on the air there while we’re here.”

  “Juliet, you ask for a lot of magic.”

  “No, it’s just basic electronics. The host of the show—Paul O’Hara—can put the dish together on the air while you talk him through it. It’s like talking a plane in, you know. Forty degrees to the left—a cup of flour.”

  “No.”

  “Carlo.”

  Taking his time, he pried off his shoes. “You want him, this O’Hara who smiles for the camera, to cook my linguini?”

  “Don’t get temperamental on me,” she warned, while her mind leaped ahead to possibilities. “Look, you write cookbooks so the average person can cook one of your dishes.”

  “Cook them, yes.” He examined his nails. “Not like Franconi.”

  She open
ed her mouth, then closed it again. Tread softly on the ego, Juliet reminded herself. At least until you get your way. “Of course not, Carlo. No one expects that. But we could turn this inconvenience into a real event. Using your cookbook on the air, and some personal coaching from you via phone, O’Hara can prepare the linguini. He’s not a chef or a gourmet, but an average person. Therefore, he’ll be giving the audience the average person’s reactions. He’ll make the average person’s mistakes that you can correct. If we pull it off, the sales of your cookbook are going to soar. You know you can do it.” She smiled winningly. “Why you even said you could teach me to cook, and I’m helpless in the kitchen. Certainly you can talk O’Hara through one dish.”

  “Of course I can.” Folding his arms again, he stared up at the ceiling. Her logic was infallible, her idea creative. To be truthful, he liked it—almost as much as he liked the idea of not having to fly to Boston. Still, it hardly seemed fair to give without getting. “I’ll do it—on one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “Tomorrow morning, I talk this O’Hara through linguini. Tonight…” And he smiled at her. “We have a dress rehearsal. I talk you through it.”

  Juliet stopped tapping the end of her pencil on the pad. “You want me to cook linguini?”

  “With my guidance, cara mia, you could cook anything.”

  Juliet thought it over and decided it didn’t matter. The suite didn’t have a kitchen this time, so he’d be counting on using the hotel’s. That may or may not work. If it did, once she’d botched it, they could order room service. The bottom line was saving what she could of Boston. “I’d love to. Now, I’ve got to make those calls.”

  Carlo closed his eyes and opted for a nap. If he was going to teach two amateurs the secrets of linguini within twelve hours, he’d need his strength. “Wake me when you’ve finished,” he told her. “We have to inspect the kitchen of the hotel.”

  It took her the best part of two hours, and when she hung up for the last time, Juliet’s neck was stiff and her fingers numb. But she had what she wanted. Hal told her she was a genius and O’Hara said it sounded like fun. Arrangements were already in the works.