by Nora Roberts
Her mother had blindly handed over control and had never guided her own life again. Her promising career in nursing had dwindled down to doctoring the scraped knees of her children. She’d sacrificed hunks of herself for a man who’d cared for her but could never be faithful. How close had she come to doing precisely the same thing?
If she was still certain of anything, Juliet was certain she couldn’t live that way. Exist, she thought, but not live.
So whether she wanted to or not, whether she thought she could or not, she had to think beyond the next twenty-four hours. Picking up her pad, she went to the phone. There were always calls to be made.
Before she could push the first button, Carlo strolled in. “I took your key,” he said before she could ask. “So I wouldn’t disturb you if you were napping. But I should’ve known.” He nodded toward the phone, then dropped into a chair. He looked so pleased with himself she had to smile.
“How’d the interview go?”
“Perfectly.” With a sigh, Carlo stretched out his legs. “The reporter had prepared my ravioli only last night. He thinks, correctly, that I’m a genius.”
She checked her watch. “Very good. You’ve another reporter on the way. If you can convince him you’re a genius—”
“He has only to be perceptive.”
She grinned, then on impulse rose and went to kneel in front of him. “Don’t change, Carlo.”
Leaning down, he caught her face in his hands. “What I am now, I’ll be tomorrow.”
Tomorrow he’d be gone. But she wouldn’t think of it. Juliet kissed him quickly then made herself draw away. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
Carlo glanced down at his casual linen shirt and trim black jeans. “Of course it’s what I’m wearing. If I wasn’t wearing this, I’d be wearing something else.”
“Hmm.” She studied him, trying to judge him with a camera’s eye. “Actually, I think it might be just right for this article. Something informal and relaxed for a magazine that’s generally starched collars and ties. It should be a unique angle.”
“Grazie,” he said dryly as he rose. “Now when do we talk about something other than reporters?”
“After you’ve earned it.”
“You’re a hard woman, Juliet.”
“Solid steel.” But she couldn’t resist putting her arms around him and proving otherwise. “After you’ve finished being a hit across the hall, we’ll head down to Bloomingdale’s.”
He nudged her closer, until their bodies fit. “And then?”
“Then you have drinks with your editor.”
He ran the tip of his tongue down her neck. “Then?”
“Then you have the evening free.”
“A late supper in my suite.” Their lips met, clung, then parted.
“It could be arranged.”
“Champagne?”
“You’re the star. Whatever you want.”
“You?”
She pressed her cheek against his. Tonight, this last night, there’d be no restriction. “Me.”
It was ten before they walked down the hall to his suite again. Juliet had long since lost the urge to eat, but her enthusiasm in the evening hadn’t waned.
“Carlo, it never ceases to amaze me how you perform. If you’d chosen show business, you’d have a wall full of Oscars.”
“Timing, innamorata. It all has to do with timing.”
“You had them eating your pasta out of your hand.”
“I found it difficult,” he confessed and stopped at the door to take her into his arms. “When I could think of nothing but coming back here tonight with you.”
“Then you do deserve an Oscar. Every woman in the audience was certain you were thinking only of her.”
“I did receive two interesting offers.”
Her brow lifted. “Oh, really?”
Hopeful, he nuzzled her chin. “Are you jealous?”
She linked her fingers behind his neck. “I’m here and they’re not.”
“Such arrogance. I believe I still have one of the phone numbers in my pocket.”
“Reach for it, Franconi, and I’ll break your wrist.”
He grinned at her. He liked the flare of aggression in a woman with skin the texture of rose petals. “Perhaps I’ll just get my key then.”
“A better idea.” Amused, Juliet stood back as he opened the door. She stepped inside and stared.
The room was filled with roses. Hundreds of them in every color she’d ever imagined flowed out of baskets, tangled out of vases, spilled out of bowls. The room smelled like an English garden on a summer afternoon.
“Carlo, where did you get all these?”
“I ordered them.”
She stopped as she leaned over to sniff at a bud. “Ordered them, for yourself?”
He plucked the bud out of its vase and handed it to her. “For you.”
Overwhelmed, she stared around the room. “For me?”
“You should always have flowers.” He kissed her wrist. “Roses suit Juliet best.”
A single rose, a hundred roses, there was no in between with Carlo. Again, he moved her unbearably. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You like them.”
“Like them? Yes, of course, I love them, but—”
“Then you have to say nothing. You promised to share a late supper and champagne.” Taking her hand, he led her across the room to the table already set by the wide uncurtained window. A magnum of champagne was chilling in a silver bucket, white tapers were waiting to be lit. Carlo lifted a cover to show delicately broiled lobster tails. It was, Juliet thought, the most beautiful spot in the world.
“How did you manage to have all this here, waiting?”
“I told room service to have it here at ten.” He pulled out her chair. “I, too, can keep a schedule, my love.” When he’d seated her, Carlo lit the candles, then dimmed the lights so that the silver glinted. At another touch, music flowed out toward her.
Juliet ran her fingertip down the slim white column of a candle then looked at him when he joined her. He drew the cork on the champagne. As it frothed to the lip, he filled two glasses.
He’d make their last night special, she thought. It was so like him. Sweet, generous, romantic. When they parted ways, they’d each have something memorable to take with them. No regrets, Juliet thought again and smiled at him.
“Thank you.”
“To happiness, Juliet. Yours and mine.”
She touched her glass to his, watching him as she sipped. “You know, some women might suspect a seduction when they’re dined with champagne and candlelight.”
“Yes. Do you?”
She laughed and sipped again. “I’m counting on it.”
God, she excited him, just watching her laugh, hearing her speak. He wondered if such a thing would mellow and settle after years of being together. How would it feel, he wondered, to wake comfortably every morning beside the woman you loved?
Sometimes, he thought, you would come together at dawn with mutual need and sleepy passion. Other times you would simply lie together, secure in the night’s warmth. He’d always considered marriage sacred, almost mysterious. Now he thought it would be an adventure—one he intended to share with no one but Juliet.
“This is wonderful.” Juliet let the buttery lobster dissolve on her tongue. “I’ve been completely spoiled.”
Carlo filled her glass again. “Spoiled. How?”
“This champagne’s a far cry from the little Reisling I splurge on from time to time. And the food.” She took another bite of lobster and closed her eyes. “In three weeks my entire attitude toward food has changed. I’m going to end up fat and penniless supporting my habit.”
“So, you’ve learned to relax and enjoy. Is it so bad?”
“If I continue to relax and enjoy I’m going to have to learn how to cook.”
“I said I’d teach you.”
“I managed the linguini,” she reminded him as she drew out the l
ast bite.
“One lesson only. It takes many years to learn properly.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to make do with the little boxes that say complete meal inside.”
“Sacrilege, caro, now that your palate is educated.” He touched her fingers across the table. “Juliet, I still want to teach you.”
She felt her pulse skid, and though she concentrated, she couldn’t level it. She tried to smile. “You’ll have to write another cookbook. Next time you tour, you can show me how to make spaghetti.” Ramble, she told herself. When you rambled, you couldn’t think. “If you write one book a year, I should be able to handle it. When you come around this time next year, I could manage the next lesson. By then, maybe I’ll have my own firm and you can hire me. After three bestsellers, you should think about a personal publicist.”
“A personal publicist?” His fingers tightened on hers then released. “Perhaps you’re right.” He reached in his pocket and drew out an envelope. “I have something for you.”
Juliet recognized the airline folder and took it with a frown. “Is there trouble on your return flight? I thought I’d…” She trailed off when she saw her own name on a departing flight for Rome.
“Come with me, Juliet.” He waited until her gaze lifted to his. “Come home with me.”
More time, she thought as she gripped the ticket. He was offering her more time. And more pain. It was time she accepted there’d be pain. She waited until she was certain she could control her voice, and her words. “I can’t, Carlo. We both knew the tour would end.”
“The tour, yes. But not us.” He’d thought he’d feel confident, assured, even cheerful. He hadn’t counted on desperation. “I want you with me, Juliet.”
Very carefully, she set the ticket aside. It hurt, she discovered, to take her hand from it. “It’s impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible. We belong with each other.”
She had to deflect the words, somehow. She had to pretend they didn’t run deep inside her and swell until her heart was ready to burst. “Carlo, we both have obligations, and they’re thousands of miles apart. On Monday, we’ll both be back at work.”
“That isn’t something that must be,” he corrected. “It’s you and I who must be. If you need a few days to tidy your business here in New York, we’ll wait. Next week, the week after, we fly to Rome.”
“Tidy my business?” She rose and found her knees were shaking. “Do you hear what you’re saying?”
He did, and didn’t know what had happened to the words he’d planned. Demands were coming from him where he’d wanted to show her need and emotion. He was stumbling over himself where he’d always been surefooted. Even now, cursing himself, he couldn’t find solid ground.
“I’m saying I want you with me.” He stood and grabbed her arms. The candlelight flickered over two confused faces. “Schedules and plans mean nothing, don’t you see? I love you.”
She went stiff and cold, as though he’d slapped her. A hundred aches, a multitude of needs moved through her, and with them the knowledge that he’d said those words too many times to count to women he couldn’t even remember.
“You won’t use that on me, Carlo.” Her voice wasn’t strong, but he saw fury in her eyes. “I’ve stayed with you until now because you never insulted me with that.”
“Insult?” Astonished, then enraged, he shook her. “Insult you by loving you?”
“By using a phrase that comes much too easily to a man like you and doesn’t mean any more than the breath it takes to say it.”
His fingers loosened slowly until he’d dropped her arms. “After this, after what we’ve had together, you’d throw yesterdays at me? You didn’t come to me untouched, Juliet.”
“We both know there’s a difference. I hadn’t made my success as a lover a career.” She knew it was a filthy thing to say but thought only of defense. “I told you before how I felt about love, Carlo. I won’t have it churning up my life and pulling me away from every goal I’ve ever set. You—you hand me a ticket and say come to Rome, then expect me to run off with you for a fling, leaving my work and my life behind until we’ve had our fill.”
His eyes frosted. “I have knowledge of flings, Juliet, of where they begin and where they end. I was asking you to be my wife.”
Stunned, she took a step back, again as if he’d struck her. His wife? She felt panic bubble hot in her throat. “No.” It came out in a whisper, terrified. Juliet ran to the door and across the hall without looking back.
* * *
It took her three days before she’d gathered enough strength to go back to her office. It hadn’t been difficult to convince her supervisor she was ill and needed a replacement for the last day of Carlo’s tour. As it was, the first thing he told her when she returned to the office days later was that she belonged in bed.
She knew how she looked—pale, hollow-eyed. But she was determined to do as she’d once promised herself. Pick up the pieces and go on. She’d never do it huddled in her apartment staring at the walls.
“Deb, I want to start cleaning up the schedule for Lia Barrister’s tour in August.”
“You look like hell.”
Juliet glanced up from her desk, already cluttered with schedules to be photocopied. “Thanks.”
“If you want my advice, you’ll move your vacation by a few weeks and get out of town. You need some sun, Juliet.”
“I need a list of approved hotels in Albuquerque for the Barrister tour.”
With a shrug, Deb gave up. “You’ll have them. In the meantime, look over these clippings that just came in on Franconi.” Looking up, she noted that Juliet had knocked her container of paperclips on the floor. “Coordination’s the first thing to go.”
“Let’s have the clippings.”
“Well, there’s one I’m not sure how to deal with.” Deb slipped a clipping out of the folder and frowned at it. “It’s not one of ours, actually, but some French chef who’s just starting a tour.”
“LaBare?”
Impressed, Deb looked up. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
“Just a sick feeling.”
“Anyway, Franconi’s name was brought up in the interview because the reporter had done a feature on him. This LaBare made some—well, unpleasant comments.”
Taking the clipping, Juliet read what her assistant had highlighted. “Cooking for peasants by a peasant,” she read in a mumble. “Oil, starch and no substance…” There was more, but Juliet just lifted a brow. She hoped Summer’s plan of revenge went perfectly. “We’re better off ignoring this,” she decided, and dropped the clipping in the trash. “If we passed it on to Carlo, he might challenge LaBare to a duel.”
“Skewers at ten paces?”
Juliet merely sent her a cool look. “What else have you got?”
“There might be a problem with the Dallas feature,” she said as she gave Juliet a folder. “The reporter got carried away and listed ten of the recipes straight out of the book.”
Juliet’s head flew back. “Did you say ten?”
“Count ’em. I imagine Franconi’s going to blow when he sees them.”
Juliet flipped through the clippings until she came to it. The feature was enthusiastic and flattering. The timid Ms. Tribly had used the angle of preparing an entire meal from antipasto to dessert. Carlo’s recipes from The Italian Way were quoted verbatim. “What was she thinking of?” Juliet muttered. “She could’ve used one or two without making a ripple. But this…”
“Think Franconi’s going to kick up a storm?”
“I think our Ms. Tribly’s lucky she’s a few thousand miles away. You’d better get me legal. If he wants to sue, we’ll be better off having all the facts.”
After nearly two hours on the phone, Juliet felt almost normal. If there was a hollowness, she told herself it was a skipped lunch—and breakfast. If she tended to miss whole phrases that were recited to her, she told herself it was hard to keep up with legalese.
They c
ould sue, or put Ms. Tribly’s neck in a sling, both of which would create a miserable mess when she had two other authors scheduled for Dallas that summer.
Carlo would have to be told, she reflected as she hung up. It wouldn’t be possible, or at least ethical, to crumple up the clipping and pretend it didn’t exist as she had with the one from LaBare. The problem was whether to let legal inform him, pass it off through his editor or bite the bullet and write him herself.
It wouldn’t hurt to write him, she told herself as she toyed with her pen. She’d made her decision, said her piece and stepped off the carousel. They were both adults, both professionals. Dictating his name on a letter couldn’t cause her any pain.
Thinking his name caused her pain.
Swearing, Juliet rose and paced to the window. He hadn’t meant it. As she had consistently for days, Juliet went over and over their last evening together.
It was all romance to him. Just flowers and candlelight. He could get carried away with the moment and not suffer any consequences. I love you—such a simple phrase. Careless and calculating. He hadn’t meant it the way it had to be meant.
Marriage? It was absurd. He’d slipped and slid his way out of marriage all of his adult life. He’d known exactly how she’d felt about it. That’s why he’d said it, Juliet decided. He’d known it was safe and she’d never agree. She couldn’t even think about marriage for years. There was her firm to think of. Her goals, her obligations.
Why couldn’t she forget the way he’d made her laugh, the way he’d made her burn? Memories, sensations didn’t fade even a little with the days that had passed. Somehow they gained in intensity, haunted her. Taunted her. Sometimes—too often—she’d remember just the way he’d looked as he’d taken her face in his hand.
She touched the little heart of gold and diamonds she hadn’t been able to make herself put away. More time, she told herself. She just needed more time. Perhaps she’d have legal contact him after all.
“Juliet?”
Turning from the window, Juliet saw her assistant at the door. “Yes?”
“I rang you twice.”
“I’m sorry.”
