Endless Summer

by Nora Roberts

  This time Juliet grinned at the stubborn fog swirling outside the window. Neither rain nor storm nor dark of night, she thought, pleased with herself. Nothing was going to stop Juliet Trent.

  Then she looked over at Carlo. Something tilted inside her that had both her confidence and self-satisfaction wavering. Emotion, she reflected. It was something she hadn’t written into the itinerary.

  Well, maybe there was one catastrophe that wasn’t in the books. Maybe it was one she couldn’t work her way through with a creative idea and hustle. She simply had to take her feelings for Carlo one step at a time.

  Four more days, she mused, and the ride would be over. The music would stop and it would be time to get off the carousel.

  It wasn’t any use trying to see beyond that yet; it was all blank pages. She had to hold on to the belief that life was built one day at a time. Carlo would go, then she would pick up the pieces and begin her life again from that point.

  She wasn’t fool enough to tell herself she wouldn’t cry. Tears would be shed over him, but they’d be shed quietly and privately. Schedule in a day for mourning, she thought then tossed her pad away.

  It wasn’t healthy to think of it now. There were only four days left. For a moment, she looked down at her empty hands and wondered if she’d have taken the steps she’d taken if she’d known where they would lead her. Then she looked over at him and simply watched him sleep.

  Even with his eyes closed and that irrepressible inner life he had on hold, he could draw her. It wasn’t simply a matter of his looks, she realized. She wasn’t a woman who’d turn her life sideways for simple physical attraction. It was a matter of style. Smiling, she rose and walked closer to him as he slept. No matter how practical she was, how much common sense she possessed, she couldn’t have resisted his style.

  There’d be no regrets, she reaffirmed. Not now, nor in five days’ time when an ocean and priorities separated them. As years passed, and their lives flowed and altered, she’d remember a handful of days when she’d had something special.

  No time to waste, he’d said. Catching her tongue in her teeth Juliet decided she couldn’t agree more. Reaching up, she began to unbutton her blouse. As a matter of habit, she draped it carefully over the back of a chair before she unhooked her skirt. When that fell, she lifted it, smoothed it out and folded it. The pins were drawn out of her hair, one by one, then set aside.

  Dressed in a very impractical lace camisole and string bikini she moved closer.

  Carlo awoke with his blood pumping and his head whirling. He could smell her scent lightly in her hair, more heady on her skin as her mouth took command of his. Her body was already heated as she lay full length on him. Before he could draw his first thoughts together, his own body followed suit.

  She was all lace and flesh and passion. There wasn’t time to steady his control or polish his style. Urgent and desperate, he reached for her and found silk and delicacy, strength and demand wherever he touched.

  She unbuttoned his shirt and drew it aside so that their skin could meet and arouse. Beneath hers, she felt his heartbeat race and pound until power made her dizzy. Capturing his lips once again, she thought only of driving him to madness. She could feel it spread through him, growing, building, so that it would dominate both of them.

  When he rolled so that she was trapped between the back of the sofa and his body, she was ready to relinquish control. With a moan, dark and liquid, she let herself enjoy what she’d begun.

  No woman had ever done this to him. He understood that as his only thoughts were to devour everything she had. His fingers, so clever, so skilled, so gentle, pulled at the lace until the thin strap tore with hardly a sound.

  He found her—small soft breasts that fit so perfectly in his hands, the strong narrow rib cage and slender waist. His. The word nearly drove him mad. She was his now, as she’d been in the dream she’d woken him from. Perhaps he was still dreaming.

  She smelled of secrets, small, feminine secrets no man ever fully understood. She tasted of passion, ripe, shivering passion every man craved. With his tongue he tasted that sweet subtle valley between her breasts and felt her tremble. She was strong; he’d never doubted it. In her strength, she was surrendering completely to him, for the pleasure of each.

  The lace smelled of her. He could have wallowed in it, but her skin was irresistible. He drew the camisole down to her waist and feasted on her.

  With her hands tangled in his hair, her body on fire, she thought only of him. No tomorrows, no yesterdays. However much she might deny it in an hour, they’d become a single unit. One depended on the other for pleasure, for comfort, for excitement. For so much more she didn’t dare think of it. She yearned for him; nothing would ever stop it. But now, he was taking her, fast and furious, through doors they’d opened together. Neither of them had gone there before with another, nor would again.

  Juliet gave herself over to the dark, the heat, and to Carlo.

  He drew the thin strings riding on her hips, craving the essence of her. When he’d driven her over the first peak, he knew and reveled in it. With endless waves of desire, he whipped her up again, and yet again, until they were both trembling. She called out his name as he ran his lips down her leg. All of her was the thought paramount in his mind. He’d have all of her until she was willing, ready to have all of him.

  “Juliet, I want you.” His face was above hers again, his breath straining. “Look at me.”

  She was staggering on that razor’s edge between reason and madness. When she opened her eyes, his face filled her vision. It was all she wanted.

  “I want you,” he repeated while the blood raged in his head. “Only you.”

  She was wrapped around him, her head arched back. For an instant, their eyes met and held. What coursed through them wasn’t something they could try to explain. It was both danger and security.

  “Only,” she murmured and took him into her.

  * * *

  They were both stunned, both shaken, both content. Naked, damp and warm, they lay tangled together in silence. Words had been spoken, Juliet thought. Words that were part of the madness of the moment. She would have to take care not to repeat them when passion was spent. They didn’t need words; they had four days. Yet she ached to hear them again, to say them again.

  She could set the tone between them, she thought. She had only to begin now and continue. No pressure. She kept her eyes closed a moment longer. No regrets. The extra moment she took to draw back her strength went unnoticed.

  “I could stay just like this for a week,” she murmured. Though she meant it, the words were said lazily. Turning her head, she looked at him, smiled. “Are you ready for another nap?”

  There was so much he wanted to say. So much, he thought, she didn’t want to hear. They’d set the rules; he had only to follow them. Nothing was as easy as it should’ve been.

  “No.” He kissed her forehead. “Though I’ve never found waking from a nap more delightful. Now, I think it’s time for your next lesson.”

  “Really?” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “I thought I’d graduated.”

  “Cooking,” he told her, giving her a quick pinch where Italian males were prone to.

  Juliet tossed back her hair and pinched him back. “I thought you’d forget about that.”

  “Franconi never forgets. A quick shower, a change of clothes and down to the kitchen.”

  Agreeable, Juliet shrugged. She didn’t think for one minute the management would allow him to give a cooking lesson in their kitchen.

  Thirty minutes later, she was proven wrong.

  Carlo merely bypassed management. He saw no reason to go through a chain of command. With very little fuss, he steered her through the hotel’s elegant dining room and into the big, lofty kitchen. It smelled exotic and sounded like a subway station.

  They’d stop him here, Juliet decided, still certain they’d be dining outside or through room service within the hour. Though sh
e’d changed into comfortable jeans, she had no plans to cook. After one look at the big room with its oversized appliances and acres of counter, she was positive she wouldn’t.

  It shouldn’t have surprised her to be proven wrong again.

  “Franconi!” The name boomed out and echoed off the walls. Juliet jumped back three inches.

  “Carlo, I think we should—” But as she spoke, she looked up at his face. He was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Pierre!”

  As she looked on, Carlo was enveloped by a wide, white-aproned man with a drooping moustache and a face as big and round as a frying pan. His skin glistened with sweat, but he smelt inoffensively of tomatoes.

  “You Italian lecher, what do you do in my kitchen?”

  “Honor it,” Carlo said as they drew apart. “I thought you were in Montreal, poisoning the tourists.”

  “They beg me to take the kitchen here.” The big man with the heavy French accent shrugged tanklike shoulders. “I feel sorry for them. Americans have so little finesse in the kitchen.”

  “They offered to pay you by the pound,” Carlo said dryly. “Your pounds.”

  Pierre held both hands to his abundant middle and laughed. “We understand each other, old friend. Still, I find America to my liking. You, why aren’t you in Rome pinching ladies?”

  “I’m finishing up a tour for my book.”

  “But yes, you and your cookbooks.” A noise behind him had him glancing around and bellowing in French. Juliet was certain the walls trembled. With a smile, he adjusted his hat and turned back to them. “That goes well?”

  “Well enough.” Carlo drew Juliet up. “This is Juliet Trent, my publicist.”

  “So it goes very well,” Pierre murmured as he took Juliet’s hand and brushed his lips over it. “Perhaps I will write a cookbook. Welcome to my kitchen, mademoiselle. I’m at your service.”

  Charmed, Juliet smiled. “Thank you, Pierre.”

  “Don’t let this one fool you,” Carlo warned. “He has a daughter your age.”

  “Bah!” Pierre gave him a lowered brow look. “She’s but sixteen. If she were a day older I’d call my wife and tell her to lock the doors while Franconi is in town.”

  Carlo grinned. “Such flattery, Pierre.” With his hands hooked in his back pockets, he looked around the room. “Very nice,” he mused. Lifting his head, he scented the air. “Duck. Is that duck I smell?”

  Pierre preened. “The specialty. Canard au Pierre.”

  “Fantastico.” Carlo swung an arm around Juliet as he led her closer to the scent. “No one, absolutely no one, does to duck what Pierre can do.”

  The black eyes in the frying-pan face gleamed. “No, you flatter me, mon ami.”

  “There’s no flattery in truth.” Carlo looked on while an assistant carved Pierre’s duck. With the ease of experience, he took a small sliver and popped it into Juliet’s mouth. It dissolved there, leaving behind an elusive flavor that begged for more. Carlo merely laid his tongue on his thumb to test. “Exquisite, as always. Do you remember, Pierre, when we prepared the Shah’s engagement feast? Five, six years ago.”

  “Seven,” Pierre corrected and sighed.

  “Your duck and my cannelloni.”

  “Magnificent. Not so much paprika on that fish,” he boomed out. “We are not in Budapest. Those were the days,” he continued easily. “But…” The shrug was essentially Gallic. “When a man has his third child, he has to settle down, oui?”

  Carlo gave another look at the kitchen, and with an expert’s eye approved. “You’ve picked an excellent spot. Perhaps you’d let me have a corner of it for a short time.”

  “A corner?”

  “A favor,” Carlo said with a smile that would have charmed the pearls from oysters. “I’ve promised my Juliet to teach her how to prepare linguini.”

  “Linguini con vongole biance?” Pierre’s eyes glittered.

  “Naturally. It is my specialty.”

  “You can have a corner of my kitchen, mon ami, in exchange for a plate.”

  Carlo laughed and patted Pierre’s stomach. “For you, amico, two plates.”

  Pierre clasped him by the shoulders and kissed both cheeks. “I feel my youth coming back to me. Tell me what you need.”

  In no time at all, Juliet found herself covered in a white apron with her hair tucked into a chef’s hat. She might have felt ridiculous if she’d been given the chance.

  “First you mince the clams.”

  Juliet looked at Carlo, then down at the mess of clams on the cutting board. “Mince them?”

  “Like so.” Carlo took the knife and with a few quick moves had half of the clams in small, perfect pieces. “Try.”

  Feeling a bit like an executioner, Juliet brought the knife down. “They’re not…well, alive, are they?”

  “Madonna, any clam considers himself honored to be part of Franconi’s linguini. A bit smaller there. Yes.” Satisfied, he passed her an onion. “Chopped, not too fine.” Again, he demonstrated, but this time Juliet felt more at home. Accepting the knife, she hacked again until the onion was in pieces and her eyes were streaming.

  “I hate to cook,” she muttered but Carlo only pushed a clove of garlic at her.

  “This is chopped very fine. Its essence is what we need, not so much texture.” He stood over her shoulder, watching until he approved. “You’ve good hands, Juliet. Now here, melt the butter.”

  Following instructions, she cooked the onion and garlic in the simmering butter, stirring until Carlo pronounced it ready.

  “Now, it’s tender, you see. We add just a bit of flour.” He held her hand to direct it as she stirred it in. “So it thickens. We add the clams. Gently,” he warned before she could dump them in. “We don’t want them bruised. Ah…” He nodded with approval. “Spice,” he told her. “It’s the secret and the strength.”

  Bending over her, he showed her how to take a pinch of this, a touch of that and create. As the scent became more pleasing, her confidence grew. She’d never remember the amounts or the ingredients, but found it didn’t matter.

  “How about that?” she asked, pointing to a few sprigs of parsley.

  “No, that comes just at the end. We don’t want to drown it. Turn the heat down, just a little more. There.” Satisfied, he nodded. “The cover goes on snug, then you let it simmer while the spices wake up.”

  Juliet wiped the back of her hand over her damp brow. “Carlo, you talk about the sauce as though it lived and breathed.”

  “My sauces do,” he said simply. “While this simmers, you grate the cheese.” He picked up a hunk and with his eyes closed, sniffed. “Squisito.”

  He had her grate and stir while the rest of the kitchen staff worked around them. Juliet thought of her mother’s kitchen with its tidy counters and homey smells. She’d never seen anything like this. It certainly wasn’t quiet. Pans were dropped, people and dishes were cursed, and fast was the order of the day. Busboys hustled in and out, weighed down with trays, waiters and waitresses breezed through demanding their orders. While she watched wide-eyed, Carlo ignored. It was time to create his pasta.

  Unless it was already cooked and in a meal, Juliet thought of pasta as something you got off the shelf in a cardboard box. She learned differently, after her hands were white to the wrists with flour. He had her measure and knead and roll and spread until her elbows creaked. It was nothing like the five-minute throw-it-together kind she was used to.

  As she worked, she began to realize why he had such stamina. He had to. In cooking for a living the way Franconi cooked for a living, he used as much energy as any athlete did. By the time the pasta had passed his inspection, her shoulder muscles ached the way they did after a brisk set of tennis.

  Blowing the hair out of her eyes and mopping away sweat, Juliet turned to him. “What now?”

  “Now you cook the pasta.”

  She tried not to grumble as she poured water into a Dutch oven and set it on to boil.

  “One tablesp
oon salt,” Carlo instructed.

  “One tablespoon salt,” she muttered and poured it in. When she turned around, he handed her a glass of wine.

  “Until it boils, you relax.”

  “Can I turn down the heat?”

  He laughed and kissed her, then decided it was only right to kiss her again. She smelled like heaven. “I like you in white.” He dusted flour from her nose. “You’re a messy cook, my love, but a stunning one.”

  It was easy to forget the noisy, bustling kitchen. “Cook?” A bit primly, she adjusted her hat. “Isn’t it chef?”

  He kissed her again. “Don’t get cocky. One linguini doesn’t make a chef.”

  She barely finished her wine when he put her back to work. “Put one end of the linguini in the water. Yes, just so. Now, as it softens coil them in. Careful. Yes, yes, you have a nice touch. A bit more patience and I might take you on in my restaurant.”

  “No, thanks,” Juliet said definitely as the steam rose in her face. She was almost certain she felt each separate pore opening.

  “Stir easily. Seven minutes only, not a moment more.” He refilled her glass and kissed her cheek.

  She stirred, and drained, measured parsley, poured and sprinkled cheese. By the time she was finished, Juliet didn’t think she could eat a thing. Nerves, she discovered with astonishment. She was as nervous as a new bride on her first day in the kitchen.

  With her hands clasped together, she watched Carlo take a fork and dip in. Eyes closed, he breathed in the aroma. She swallowed. His eyes remained closed as he took the first sample. Juliet bit her lip. Until then, she hadn’t noticed that the kitchen had become as quiet as a cathedral. A quick glimpse around showed her all activity had stopped and all eyes were on Carlo. She felt as though she were waiting to be sentenced or acquitted.

  “Well?” she demanded when she couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “Patience,” Carlo reminded her without opening his eyes. A busboy rushed in and was immediately shushed. Carlo opened his eyes and carefully set down the fork. “Fantastico!” He took Juliet by the shoulders and gave her the ceremonial kiss on each cheek as applause broke out.