by Nora Roberts
No. No, that was one thing she was determined not to do. She sat back determined to hold her own. “I suppose some of us insist on leaving more ripples than others.”
He nodded. “I don’t like to do anything in a small way.”
“Be careful, Mr. Franconi, or you’ll begin to believe your own image.”
The limo had stopped, but before Juliet could scoot toward the door, Carlo had her hand. When she looked at him this time, she didn’t see the affable, amorous Italian chef, but a man of power. A man, she realized, who was well aware of how far it could take him.
She didn’t move, but wondered how many other women had seen the steel beneath the silk.
“I don’t need imagery, Juliet.” His voice was soft, charming, beautiful. She heard the razor-blade cut beneath it. “Franconi is Franconi. Take me for what you see, or go to the devil.”
Smoothly, he climbed from the limo ahead of her, turned and took her hand, drawing her out with him. It was a move that was polite, respectful, even ordinary. It was a move, Juliet realized, that expressed their positions. Man to woman. The moment she stood on the curb, she removed her hand.
With two shows and a business brunch under their belts, Juliet left Carlo in the bookstore, already swamped with women crowded in line for a glimpse at and a few words with Carlo Franconi. They’d handled the reporter and photographer already, and a man like Franconi wouldn’t need her help with a crowd of women. Armed with change and her credit card, she went to find a pay phone.
For the first forty-five minutes, she spoke with her assistant in New York, filling her pad with times, dates and names while L.A. traffic whisked by outside the phone booth. As a bead of sweat trickled down her back, she wondered if she’d chosen the hottest corner in the city.
Denver still didn’t look as promising as she’d hoped, but Dallas… Juliet caught her bottom lip between her teeth as she wrote. Dallas was going to be fabulous. She might need to double her daily dose of vitamins to get through that twenty-four-hour stretch, but it would be fabulous.
After breaking her connection with New York, Juliet dialed her first contact in San Francisco. Ten minutes later, she was clenching her teeth. No, her contact at the department store couldn’t help coming down with a virus. She was sorry, genuinely sorry he was ill. But did he have to get sick without leaving someone behind with a couple of working brain cells?
The young girl with the squeaky voice knew about the cooking demonstration. Yes, she knew all about it and wasn’t it going to be fun? Extension cords? Oh my, she really didn’t know a thing about that. Maybe she could ask someone in maintenance. A table—chairs? Well golly, she supposed she could get something, if it was really necessary.
Juliet was reaching in her bag for her purse-size container of aspirin before it was over. The way it looked now, she’d have to get to the department store at least two hours before the demonstration to make sure everything was taken care of. That meant juggling the schedule.
After completing her calls, Juliet left the corner phone booth, aspirin in hand, and headed back to the bookstore, hoping they could give her a glass of water and a quiet corner.
No one noticed her. If she’d just crawled in from the desert on her belly, no one would have noticed her. The small, rather elegant bookstore was choked with laughter. No bookseller stood behind the counter. There was a magnet in the left-hand corner of the room. Its name was Franconi.
It wasn’t just women this time, Juliet noticed with interest. There were men sprinkled in the crowd. Some of them might have been dragged along by their wives, but they were having a time of it now. It looked like a cocktail party, minus the cigarette smoke and empty glasses.
She couldn’t even see him, Juliet realized as she worked her way toward the back of the store. He was surrounded, enveloped. Jingling the aspirin in her hand, she was glad she could find a little corner by herself. Perhaps he got all the glory, she mused. But she wouldn’t trade places with him.
Glancing at her watch, she noted he had another hour and wondered whether he could dwindle the crowd down in the amount of time. She wished vaguely for a stool, dropped the aspirin in the pocket of her skirt and began to browse.
“Fabulous, isn’t he?” Juliet heard someone murmur on the other side of a book rack.
“God, yes. I’m so glad you talked me into coming.”
“What’re friends for?”
“I thought I’d be bored to death. I feel like a kid at a rock concert. He’s got such…”
“Style,” the other voice supplied. “If a man like that ever walked into my life, he wouldn’t walk out again.”
Curious, Juliet walked around the stacks. She wasn’t sure what she expected—young housewives, college students. What she saw were two attractive women in their thirties, both dressed in sleek professional suits.
“I’ve got to get back to the office.” One woman checked a trim little Rolex watch. “I’ve got a meeting at three.”
“I’ve got to get back to the courthouse.”
Both women tucked their autographed books into leather briefcases.
“How come none of the men I date can kiss my hand without making it seem like a staged move in a one-act play?”
“Style. It all has to do with style.”
With this observation, or complaint, the two women disappeared into the crowd.
At three-fifteen, he was still signing, but the crowd had thinned enough that Juliet could see him. Style, she was forced to agree, he had. No one who came up to his table, book in hand, was given a quick signature, practiced smile and brush-off. He talked to them. Enjoyed them, Juliet corrected, whether it was a grandmother who smelled of lavender or a young woman with a toddler on her hip. How did he know the right thing to say to each one of them, she wondered, that made them leave the table with a laugh or a smile or a sigh?
First day of the tour, she reminded herself. She wondered if he could manage to keep himself up to this level for three weeks. Time would tell, she decided and calculated she could give him another fifteen minutes before she began to ease him out the door.
Even with the half-hour extension, it wasn’t easy. Juliet began to see the pattern she was certain would set the pace of the tour. Carlo would charm and delight, and she would play the less attractive role of drill sergeant. That’s what she was paid for, Juliet reminded herself as she began to smile, chat and urge people toward the door. By four there were only a handful of stragglers. With apologies and an iron grip, Juliet disengaged Carlo.
“That went very well,” she began, nudging him onto the street. “One of the booksellers told me they’d nearly sold out. Makes you wonder how much pasta’s going to be cooked in L.A. tonight. Consider this just one more triumph today.”
“Grazie.”
“Prego. However, we won’t always have the leeway to run an hour over,” she told him as the door of the limo shut behind her. “It would help if you try to keep an eye on the time and pick up the pace say half an hour before finishing time. You’ve got an hour and fifteen minutes before airtime—”
“Fine.” Pushing a button, Carlo instructed the driver to cruise.
“But—”
“Even I need to unwind,” he told her, then opened up a small built-in cabinet to reveal the bar. “Cognac,” he decided and poured two glasses without asking. “You’ve had two hours to window-shop and browse.” Leaning back, he stretched out his legs.
Juliet thought of the hour and a half she’d spent on the phone, then the time involved in easing customers along. She’d been on her feet for two and a half hours straight, but she said nothing. The cognac went down smooth and warm.
“The spot on the news should run four, four and a half minutes. It doesn’t seem like much time, but you’d be surprised how much you can cram in. Be sure to mention the book title, and the autographing and demonstration at the college tomorrow afternoon. The sensual aspect of food, cooking and eating’s a great angle. If you’ll—”
“Wo
uld you care to do the interview for me?” he asked so politely she glanced up.
So, he could be cranky, she mused. “You handle interviews beautifully, Mr. Franconi, but—”
“Carlo.” Before she could open her notebook, he had his hand on her wrist. “It’s Carlo, and put the damn notes away for ten minutes. Tell me, my very organized Juliet Trent, why are we here together?”
She started to move her hand but his grip was firmer than she’d thought. For the second time, she got the full impression of power, strength and determination. “To publicize your book.”
“Today went well, sì?”
“Yes, so far—”
“Today went well,” he said again and began to annoy her with the frequency of his interruptions.
“I’ll go on this local news show, talk for a few minutes, then have this necessary business dinner when I would much rather have a bottle of wine and a steak in my room. With you. Alone. Then I could see you without your proper little business suit and your proper little business manner.”
She wouldn’t permit herself to shudder. She wouldn’t permit herself to react in any way. “Business is what we’re here for. It’s all I’m interested in.”
“That may be.” His agreement was much too easy. In direct contrast, he moved his hand to the back of her neck, gently, but not so gently she could move aside. “But we have an hour before business begins again. Don’t lecture me on timetables.”
The limo smelled of leather, she realized all at once. Of leather and wealth and Carlo. As casually as possible, she sipped from her glass. “Timetables, as you pointed out yourself this morning, are part of my job.”
“You have an hour off,” he told her, lifting a brow before she could speak. “So relax. Your feet hurt, so take your shoes off and drink your cognac.” He set down his own drink, then moved her briefcase to the floor so there was nothing between them. “Relax,” he said again but wasn’t displeased that she’d stiffened. “I don’t intend to make love with you in the back of a car. This time.” He smiled as temper flared in her eyes because he’d seen doubt and excitement as well. “One day, one day soon, I’ll find the proper moment for that, the proper place, the proper mood.”
He leaned closer, so that he could just feel her breath flutter on his lips. She’d swipe at him now, he knew, if he took the next step. He might enjoy the battle. The color that ran along her cheekbones hadn’t come from a tube or pot, but from passion. The look in her eyes was very close to a dare. She expected him to move an inch closer, to press her back against the seat with his mouth firm on hers. She was waiting for him, poised, ready.
He smiled while his lips did no more than hover until he knew the tension in her had built to match the tension in him. He let his gaze shift down to her mouth so that he could imagine the taste, the texture, the sweetness. Her chin stayed lifted even as he brushed a thumb over it.
He didn’t care to do the expected. In a long, easy move, he leaned back, crossed his feet at the ankles and closed his eyes.
“Take off your shoes,” he said again. “My schedule and yours should merge very well.”
Then, to her astonishment, he was asleep. Not feigning it, she realized, but sound asleep, as if he’d just flicked a switch.
With a click, she set her half-full glass down and folded her arms. Angry, she thought. Damn right she was angry because he hadn’t kissed her. Not because she wanted him to, she told herself as she stared out the tinted window. But because he’d denied her the opportunity to show her claws.
She was beginning to think she’d love drawing some Italian blood.
Chapter Three
Their bags were packed and in the limo. As a precaution, Juliet had given Carlo’s room a quick, last-minute going-over to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind. She still remembered being on the road with a mystery writer who’d forgotten his toothbrush eight times on an eight-city tour. A quick look was simpler than a late-night search for a drugstore.
Checkout at the hotel had gone quickly and without any last-minute hitches. To her relief, the charges on Carlo’s room bill had been light and reasonable. Her road budget might just hold. With a minimum of confusion, they’d left the Wilshire. Juliet could only hope check-in at the airport, then at the hotel in San Francisco would go as well.
She didn’t want to think about the Simpson Show.
A list of demographics wasn’t necessary here. She knew Carlo had spent enough time in the States off and on to know how important his brief demonstration on the proper way to prepare biscuit tortoni and his ten minutes on the air would be. It was the top-rated nighttime show in the country and had been for fifteen years. Bob Simpson was an American institution. A few minutes on his show could boost the sale of books even in the most remote areas. Or it could kill it.
And boy, oh boy, she thought, with a fresh gurgle of excitement, did it look impressive to have the Simpson Show listed on her itinerary. She offered a last-minute prayer that Carlo wouldn’t blow it.
She checked the little freezer backstage to be certain the dessert Carlo had prepared that afternoon was in place and ready. The concoction had to freeze for four hours, so they’d play the before-and-after game for the viewers. He’d make it up on the air, then voilà, they’d produce the completed frozen dessert within minutes.
Though Carlo had already gone over the procedure, the tools and ingredients with the production manager and the director, Juliet went over them all again. The whipped cream was chilling and so far none of the crew had pilfered any macaroons. The brand of dry sherry Carlo had insisted on was stored and ready. No one had broken the seal for a quick sample.
Juliet nearly believed she could whip up the fancy frozen dessert herself if necessary and only thanked God she wouldn’t have to give a live culinary demonstration in front of millions of television viewers.
He didn’t seem to be feeling any pressure, she thought as they settled in the green room. No, he’d already given the little halfdressed blonde on the sofa a big smile and offered her a cup of coffee from the available machine.
Coffee? Even for Hollywood, it took a wild imagination to consider the contents of the pot coffee. Juliet had taken one sip of what tasted like lukewarm mud and set the cup aside.
The little blonde was apparently a new love interest on one of the popular nighttime soaps, and she was jittery with nerves. Carlo sat down on the sofa beside her and began chatting away as though they were old friends. By the time the green room door opened again, she was giggling.
The green room itself was beige—pale, unattractive beige and cramped. The air-conditioning worked, but miserably. Still Juliet knew how many of the famous and near-famous had sat in that dull little room chewing their nails. Or taking quick sips from a flask.
Carlo had exchanged the dubious coffee for plain water and was sprawled on the sofa with one arm tossed over the back. He looked as easy as a man entertaining in his own home. Juliet wondered why she hadn’t tossed any antacids in her bag.
She made a pretense of rechecking the schedule while Carlo charmed the rising star and the Simpson Show murmured away on the twenty-five-inch color console across the room.
Then the monkey walked in. Juliet glanced up and saw the long-armed, tuxedoed chimpanzee waddle in with his hand caught in that of a tall thin man with harassed eyes and a nervous grin. Feeling a bit nervous herself, Juliet looked over at Carlo. He nodded to both newcomers, then went back to the blonde without missing a beat. Even as Juliet told herself to relax, the chimp grinned, threw back his head and let out a long, loud announcement.
The blonde giggled, but looked as though she’d cut and run if the chimp came one step closer—tux or no tux.
“Behave, Butch.” The thin man cleared his throat as he swept his gaze around the room. “Butch just finished a picture last week,” he explained to the room in general. “He’s feeling a little restless.”
With a jiggle of the sequins that covered her, the blonde walked to the door when her n
ame was announced. With some satisfaction, Carlo noted that she wasn’t nearly as edgy as she’d been when he’d sat down. She turned and gave him a toothy smile. “Wish me luck, darling.”
“The best.”
To Juliet’s disgust, the blonde blew him a kiss as she sailed out.
The thin man seemed to relax visibly. “That’s a relief. Blondes make Butch overexcited.”
“I see.” Juliet thought of her own hair that could be considered blond or brown depending on the whim. Hopefully Butch would consider it brown and unstimulating.
“But where’s the lemonade?” The man’s nerves came back in full force. “They know Butch wants lemonade before he goes on the air. Calms him down.”
Juliet bit the tip of her tongue to hold back a snicker. Carlo and Butch were eyeing each other with a kind of tolerant understanding. “He seems calm enough,” Carlo ventured.
“Bundle of nerves,” the man disagreed. “I’ll never be able to get him on camera.”
“I’m sure it’s just an oversight.” Because she was used to soothing panic, Juliet smiled. “Maybe you should ask one of the pages.”
“I’ll do that.” The man patted Butch on the head and went back through the door.
“But—” Juliet half rose, then sat again. The chimp stood in the middle of the room, resting his knuckles on the floor. “I’m not sure he should’ve left Cheetah.”
“Butch,” Carlo corrected. “I think he’s harmless enough.” He sent the chimp a quick grin. “He certainly has an excellent tailor.”
Juliet looked over to see the chimp grinning and winking. “Is he twitching,” she asked Carlo, “or is he flirting with me?”
“Flirting, if he’s a male of any taste,” he mused. “And, as I said, his tailoring is quite good. What do you say, Butch? You find my Juliet attractive?”
Butch threw back his head and let out a series of sounds Juliet felt could be taken either way.
