Lessons Learned

by Nora Roberts

  Settled, she decided, and closed her eyes. It was a nice, comfortable word. But the hot water, bubbles and steam didn’t relax her any longer. A bit resentful, she released the plug and stood up to let the water drain off her. The wide mirror above the counter and sink was fogged, but only lightly. Through the mist she could see Juliet Trent.

  Odd, she thought, how pale and soft and vulnerable a naked woman could look. In her mind, she was strong, practical, even tough. But she could see, in the damp, misty mirror, the fragility, even the wistfulness.

  Erotic? Juliet frowned a bit as she told herself she shouldn’t be disappointed that her body had been built on slim, practical lines rather than round and lush ones. She should be grateful that her long legs got her where she was going and her narrow hips helped keep her silhouette in a business suit trim and efficient. Erotic would never be a career plus.

  Without makeup, her face looked too young, too trusting. Without careful grooming, her hair looked too wild, too passionate.

  Fragile, young, passionate. Juliet shook her head. Not qualities for a professional woman. It was fortunate that clothes and cosmetics could play down or play up certain aspects. Grabbing a towel, she wrapped it around herself, then taking another she wiped the steam from the mirror. No more mists, she thought. To succeed you had to see clearly.

  With a glance at the tubes and bottles on the counter she began to create the professional Ms. Trent.

  Because she hated quiet hotel rooms, Juliet switched on the television as she started to dress. The old Bogart–Bacall movie pleased her and was more relaxing than a dozen bubble baths. She listened to the well-known dialogue while she drew on her smoke-colored stockings. She watched the shimmering restrained passion as she adjusted the straps of a sheer black teddy. While the plot twisted and turned, she zipped on the narrow black dress and knotted the long strand of pearls under her breasts.

  Caught up, she sat on the edge of the bed, running a brush through her hair as she watched. She was smiling, absorbed, distracted, but it would’ve shocked her if anyone had said she was romantic.

  When the knock sounded at her door, she glanced at her watch. 7:05. She’d lost fifteen minutes dawdling. To make up for it, Juliet had her shoes on, her earrings clipped and her bag and notebook at hand in twelve seconds flat. She went to the door ready with a greeting and an apology.

  A rose. Just one, the color of a young girl’s blush. When Carlo handed it to her, she didn’t have anything to say at all. Carlo, however, had no problem.

  “Bella.” He had her hand to his lips before she’d thought to counter the move. “Some women look severe or cold in black. Others…” His survey was long and male, but his smile made it gallant rather than calculating. “In others it simply enhances their femininity. I’m disturbing you?”

  “No, no, of course not. I was just—”

  “Ah, I know this movie.”

  Without waiting for an invitation, he breezed past her into the room. The standard, single hotel room didn’t seem so impersonal any longer. How could it? He brought life, energy, passion into the air as if it were his mission.

  “Yes, I’ve seen it many times.” The two strong faces dominated the screen. Bogart’s, creased, heavy-eyed, weary—Bacall’s, smooth, steamy and challenging. “Passione,” he murmured and made the word seem like honey to be tasted. Incredibly, Juliet found herself swallowing. “A man and a woman can bring many things to each other, but without passion, everything else is tame. Sì?”

  Juliet recovered herself. Franconi wasn’t a man to discuss passion with. The subject wouldn’t remain academic for long. “Perhaps.” She adjusted her evening bag and her notebook. But she didn’t put the rose down. “We’ve a lot to discuss over dinner, Mr. Franconi. We’d best get started.”

  With his thumbs still hooked in the pockets of his taupe slacks, he turned his head. Juliet figured hundreds of women had trusted that smile. She wouldn’t. With a careless flick, he turned off the television. “Yes, it’s time we started.”

  What did he think of her? Carlo asked himself the question and let the answer come in snatches, twined through the evening.

  Lovely. He didn’t consider his affection for beautiful women a weakness. He was grateful that Juliet didn’t find the need to play down or turn her natural beauty into severity, nor did she exploit it until it was artificial. She’d found a pleasing balance. He could admire that.

  She was ambitious, but he admired that as well. Beautiful women without ambition lost his interest quickly.

  She didn’t trust him. That amused him. As he drank his second glass of Beaujolais, he decided her wariness was a compliment. In his estimation, a woman like Juliet would only be wary of a man if she were attracted in some way.

  If he were honest, and he was, he’d admit that most women were attracted to him. It seemed only fair, as he was attracted to them. Short, tall, plump, thin, old or young, he found women a fascination, a delight, an amusement. He respected them, perhaps only as a man who had grown up surrounded by women could do. But respect didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy.

  He was going to enjoy Juliet.

  “Hello, L.A. is on first tomorrow.” Juliet ran down her notes while Carlo nibbled on pâté. “It’s the top-rated morning talk show on the coast, not just in L.A. Liz Marks hosts. She’s very personable—not too bubbly. Los Angeles doesn’t want bubbly at 8:00 A.M.”

  “Thank God.”

  “In any case, she has a copy of the book. It’s important that you get the title in a couple of times if she doesn’t. You have the full twenty minutes, so it shouldn’t be a problem. You’ll be autographing at Books, Incorporated on Wilshire Boulevard between one and three.” Hastily, she made herself a note to contact the store in the morning for a last check. “You’ll want to plug that, but I’ll remind you just before airtime. Of course, you’ll want to mention that you’re beginning a twenty-one-day tour of the country here in California.”

  “Mmm-hmm. The pâté is quite passable. Would you like some?”

  “No, thanks. Just go ahead.” She checked off her list and reached for her wine without looking at him. The restaurant was quiet and elegant, but it didn’t matter. If they’d been in a loud crowded bar on the Strip, she’d still have gone on with her notes. “Right after the morning show, we go to a radio spot. Then we’ll have brunch with a reporter from the Times. You’ve already had an article in the Trib. I’ve got a clipping for you. You’d want to mention your other two books, but concentrate on the new one. It wouldn’t hurt to bring up some of the major cities we’ll hit. Denver, Dallas, Chicago, New York. Then there’s the autographing, a spot on the evening news and dinner with two book reps. The next day—”

  “One day at a time,” he said easily. “I’ll be less likely to snarl at you.”

  “All right.” She closed her notebook and sipped at her wine again. “After all, it’s my job to see to the details, yours to sign books and be charming.”

  He touched his glass to hers. “Then neither of us should have a problem. Being charming is my life.”

  Was he laughing at himself, she wondered, or at her? “From what I’ve seen, you excel at it.”

  “A gift, cara.” Those dark, deep-set eyes were amused and exciting. “Unlike a skill that’s developed and trained.”

  So, he was laughing at both of them, she realized. It would be both difficult and wise not to like him for it.

  When her steak was served, Juliet glanced at it. Carlo, however, studied his veal as though it were a fine old painting. No, Juliet realized after a moment, he studied it as though it were a young, beautiful woman.

  “Appearances,” he told her, “in food, as in people, are essential.” He was smiling at her when he cut into the veal. “And, as in people, they can be deceiving.”

  Juliet watched him sample the first bite, slowly, his eyes halfclosed. She felt an odd chill at the base of her spine. He’d sample a woman the same way, she was certain. Slowly.

  “Pleasant,” h
e said after a moment. “No more, no less.”

  She couldn’t prevent the quick smirk as she cut into her steak. “Yours is better of course.”

  He moved his shoulders. A statement of arrogance. “Of course. Like comparing a pretty young girl with a beautiful woman.” When she glanced up he was holding out his fork. Over it, his eyes studied her. “Taste,” he invited and the simple word made her blood shiver. “Nothing should ever go untasted, Juliet.”

  She shrugged, letting him feed her the tiny bite of veal. It was spicy, just bordering on rich and hot on her tongue. “It’s good.”

  “Good, sì. Nothing Franconi prepares is ever merely good. Good, I’d pour into the garbage, feed to the dogs in the alley.” She laughed, delighting him. “If something isn’t special, then it’s ordinary.”

  “True enough.” Without realizing it, she slipped out of her shoes. “But then, I suppose I’ve always looked at food as a basic necessity.”

  “Necessity?” Carlo shook his head. Though he’d heard such sentiment before, he still considered it a sacrilege. “Oh, madonna, you have much to learn. When one knows how to eat, how to appreciate, it’s second only to making love. Scents, textures, tastes. To eat only to fill your stomach? Barbaric.”

  “Sorry.” Juliet took another bite of steak. It was tender and cooked well. But it was only a piece of meat. She’d never have considered it sensual or romantic, but simply filling. “Is that why you became a cook? Because you think food’s sexy?”

  He winced. “Chef, cara mia.”

  She grinned, showing him for the first time a streak of humor and mischief. “What’s the difference?”

  “What’s the difference between a plow horse and a thorough-bred? Plaster and porcelain?”

  Enjoying herself, she touched her tongue to the rim of her glass. “Some might say dollar signs.”

  “No, no, no, my love. Money is only a result, not a cause. A cook makes hamburgers in a greasy kitchen that smells of onions behind a counter where people squeeze plastic bottles of ketchup. A chef creates…” He gestured, a circle of a hand. “An experience.”

  She lifted her glass and swept her lashes down, but she didn’t hide the smile. “I see.”

  Though he could be offended by a look when he chose, and be ruthless with the offender, Carlo liked her style. “You’re amused. But you haven’t tasted Franconi.” He waited until her eyes, both wry and wary, lifted to him. “Yet.”

  He had a talent for turning the simplest statement into something erotic, she observed. It would be a challenge to skirt around him without giving way. “But you haven’t told me why you became a chef.”

  “I can’t paint or sculpt. I haven’t the patience or the talent to compose sonnets. There are other ways to create, to embrace art.”

  She saw, with surprise mixed with respect, that he was quite serious. “But paintings, sculpture and poetry remain centuries after they’ve been created. If you make a soufflé, it’s here, then it’s gone.”

  “Then the challenge is to make it again, and again. Art needn’t be put behind glass or bronzed, Juliet, merely appreciated. I have a friend…” He thought of Summer Lyndon—no, Summer Cocharan now. “She makes pastries like an angel. When you eat one, you’re a king.”

  “Then is cooking magic or art?”

  “Both. Like love. And I think you, Juliet Trent, eat much too little.”

  She met his look as he’d hoped she would. “I don’t believe in overindulgence, Mr. Franconi. It leads to carelessness.”

  “To indulgence then.” He lifted his glass. The smile was back, charming and dangerous. “Carefully.”

  Anything and everything could go wrong. You had to expect it, anticipate it and avoid it. Juliet knew just how much could be botched in a twenty-minute, live interview at 7:30 A.M. on a Monday. You hoped for the best and made do with the not too bad. Even she didn’t expect perfection on the first day of a tour.

  It wasn’t easy to explain why she was annoyed when she got it.

  The morning spot went beautifully. There was no other way to describe it, Juliet decided as she watched Liz Marks talk and laugh with Carlo after the camera stopped taping. If a shrewd operator could be called a natural, Carlo was indeed a natural. During the interview, he’d subtly and completely dominated the show while charmingly blinding his host to it. Twice he’d made the ten-year veteran of morning talk shows giggle like a girl. Once, once, Juliet remembered with astonishment, she’d seen the woman blush.

  Yeah. She shifted the strap of her heavy briefcase on her arm. Franconi was a natural. It was bound to make her job easier. She yawned and cursed him.

  Juliet always slept well in hotel rooms. Always. Except for last night. She might’ve been able to convince someone else that too much coffee and first-day jitters had kept her awake. But she knew better. She could drink a pot of coffee at ten and fall asleep on command at eleven. Her system was very disciplined. Except for last night.

  She’d nearly dreamed of him. If she hadn’t shaken herself awake at 2:00 A.M., she would have dreamed of him. That was no way to begin a very important, very long author tour. She told herself now if she had to choose between some silly fantasies and honest fatigue, she’d take the fatigue.

  Stifling another yawn, Juliet checked her watch. Liz had her arm tucked through Carlo’s and looked as though she’d keep it there unless someone pried her loose. With a sigh, Juliet decided she’d have to be the crowbar.

  “Ms. Marks, it was a wonderful show.” As she crossed over, Juliet deliberately held out her hand. With obvious reluctance, Liz disengaged herself from Carlo and accepted it.

  “Thank you, Miss…”

  “Trent,” Juliet supplied without a waver.

  “Juliet is my publicist,” Carlo told Liz, though the two women had been introduced less than an hour earlier. “She guards my schedule.”

  “Yes, and I’m afraid I’ll have to rush Mr. Franconi along. He has a radio spot in a half-hour.”

  “If you must.” Juliet was easily dismissed as Liz turned back to Carlo. “You have a delightful way of starting the morning. A pity you won’t be in town longer.”

  “A pity,” Carlo agreed and kissed Liz’s fingers. Like an old movie, Juliet thought impatiently. All they needed were violins.

  “Thank you again, Ms. Marks.” Juliet used her most diplomatic smile as she took Carlo’s arm and began to lead him out of the studio. After all, she’d very likely need Liz Marks again. “We’re in a bit of a hurry,” she muttered as they worked their way back to the reception area. The taping was over and she had other fish to fry. “This radio show’s one of the top-rated in the city. Since it leans heavily on top forties and classic rock, its audience, at this time of day, falls mainly in the eighteen to thirty-five range. Excellent buying power. That gives us a nice mix with the audience from this morning’s show which is generally in the twenty-five to fifty, primarily female category.”

  Listening with all apparent respect, Carlo reached the waiting limo first and opened the door himself. “You consider this important?”

  “Of course.” Because she was distracted by what she thought was a foolish question, Juliet climbed into the limo ahead of him. “We’ve a solid schedule in L.A.” And she didn’t see the point in mentioning there were some cities on the tour where they wouldn’t be quite so busy. “A morning talk show with a good reputation, a popular radio show, two print interviews, two quick spots on the evening news and the Simpson Show.” She said the last with a hint of relish. The Simpson Show offset what she was doing to the budget with limos.

  “So you’re pleased.”

  “Yes, of course.” Digging into her briefcase, she took out her folder to recheck the name of her contact at the radio station.

  “Then why do you look so annoyed?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You get a line right…here,” he said as he ran a fingertip between her eyebrows. At the touch, Juliet jerked back before she could st
op herself. Carlo only cocked his head, watching her. “You may smile and speak in a quiet, polite voice, but that line gives you away.”

  “I was very pleased with the taping,” she said again.

  “But?”

  All right, she thought, he was asking for it. “Perhaps it annoys me to see a woman making a fool of herself.” Juliet stuffed the folder back into her briefcase. “Liz Marks is married, you know.”

  “Wedding rings are things I try to be immediately aware of,” he said with a shrug. “Your instructions were to be charming, weren’t they?”

  “Perhaps charm has a different meaning in Italy.”

  “As I said, you must come to Rome.”

  “I suppose you enjoy having women drooling all over you.”

  He smiled at her, easy, attractive, innocent. “But of course.”

  A gurgle of laughter bubbled in her throat but she swallowed it. She wouldn’t be charmed. “You’ll have to deal with some men on this tour as well.”

  “I promise not to kiss Simpson’s fingers.”

  This time the laughter escaped. For a moment, she relaxed with it, let it come. Carlo saw, too briefly, the youth and energy beneath the discipline. He’d like to have kept her like that longer—laughing, at ease with him, and with herself. It would be a challenge, he mused, to find the right sequence of buttons to push to bring laughter to her eyes more often. He liked challenges—particularly when there was a woman connected to them.

  “Juliet.” Her name flowed off his tongue in a way only the European male had mastered. “You mustn’t worry. Your tidily married Liz only enjoyed a mild flirtation with a man she’ll more than than likely never see again. Harmless. Perhaps because of it, she’ll find more romance with her husband tonight.”

  Juliet eyed him a moment in her straight-on, no-nonsense manner. “You think quite of lot of yourself, don’t you?”

  He grinned, not sure if he was relieved or if he regretted the fact that he’d never met anyone like her before. “No more than is warranted, cara. Anyone who has character leaves a mark on another. Would you like to leave the world without making a ripple?”