by Nora Roberts
“Franconi knows linguini.” He swung an arm around her shoulder and drew her close as they walked inside. “Your first lesson, my love.”
He led her first to the seafood section where he clucked and muttered and rejected and chose until he had the proper number of clams for two dishes. She’d seen women give as much time and attention to choosing an engagement ring.
Juliet obliged him by pushing the cart as he walked along beside her, looking at everything. And touching. Cans, boxes, bottles—she waited as he picked up, examined and ran his long artist’s fingers over the labels as he read every ingredient. Somewhat amused, she watched his diamond wink in the fluorescent light.
“Amazing what they put in this prepackaged garbage,” he commented as he dropped a box back on the shelf.
“Careful, Franconi, you’re talking about my staple diet.”
“You should be sick.”
“Prepackaged food’s freed the American woman from the kitchen.”
“And destroyed a generation of taste buds.” He chose his spices carefully and without haste. He opened three brands of oregano and sniffed before he settled on one. “I tell you, Juliet, I admire your American convenience, its practicality, but I would rather shop in Rome where I can walk along the stalls and choose vegetables just out of the ground, fish fresh from the sea. Everything isn’t in a can, like the music.”
He didn’t miss an aisle, but Juliet forgot her fatigue in fascination. She’d never seen anyone shop like Carlo Franconi. It was like strolling through a museum with an art student. He breezed by the flour, scowling at each sack. She was afraid for a moment, he’d rip one open and test the contents. “This is a good brand?”
Juliet figured she bought a two-pound bag of flour about once a year. “Well, my mother always used this, but—”
“Good. Always trust a mother.”
“She’s a dreadful cook.”
Carlo set the flour firmly in the basket. “She’s a mother.”
“An odd sentiment from a man no mother can trust.”
“For mothers, I have the greatest respect. I have one myself. Now, we need garlic, mushrooms, peppers. Fresh.”
Carlo walked along the stalls of vegetables, touching, squeezing and sniffing. Cautious, Juliet looked around for clerks, grateful they’d come at midnight rather than midday. “Carlo, you really aren’t supposed to handle everything quite so much.”
“If I don’t handle, how do I know what’s good and what’s just pretty?” He sent her a quick grin over his shoulder. “I told you, food was much like a woman. They put mushrooms in this box with wrap over it.” Disgusted, he tore the wrapping off before Juliet could stop him.
“Carlo! You can’t open it.”
“I want only what I want. You can see, some are too small, too skimpy.” Patiently, he began to pick out the mushrooms that didn’t suit him.
“Then we’ll throw out what you don’t want when we get back to the hotel.” Keeping an eye out for the night manager, she began to put the discarded mushrooms back in the box. “Buy two boxes if you need them.”
“It’s a waste. You’d waste your money?”
“The publisher’s money,” she said quickly, as she put the broken box into the basket. “He’s glad to waste it. Thrilled.”
He paused for a moment, then shook his head. “No, no, I can’t do it.” But when he started to reach into the basket, Juliet moved and blocked his way.
“Carlo, if you break open another package, we’re going to be arrested.”
“Better to go to jail than to buy mushrooms that will do me no good in the morning.”
She grinned at him and stood firm. “No, it’s not.”
He ran a fingertip over her lips before she could react. “For you then, but against my better judgment.”
“Grazie. Do you have everything now?”
His gaze followed the path his finger had traced just as slowly. “No.”
“Well, what next?”
He stepped closer and because she hadn’t expected it, she found herself trapped between him and the grocery cart. “Tonight is for first lessons,” he murmured then ran his hands along either side of her face.
She should laugh. Juliet told herself it was ludicrous that he’d make a pass at her under the bright lights of the vegetable section of an all-night market. Carlo Franconi, a man who’d made seduction as much an art as his cooking wouldn’t choose such a foolish setting.
But she saw what was in his eyes, and she didn’t laugh.
Some women, he thought as he felt her skin soft and warm under his hands, were made to be taught slowly. Very slowly. Some women were born knowing; others were born wondering.
With Juliet, he would take time and care because he understood. Or thought he did.
She didn’t resist, but her lips had parted in surprise. He touched his to hers gently, not in question, but with patience. Her eyes had already given him the answer.
He didn’t hurry. It didn’t matter to him where they were, that the lights were bright and the music manufactured. It only mattered that he explore the tastes that waited for him. So he tasted again, without pressure. And again.
She found she was bracing herself against the cart with her fingers wrapped around the metal. Why didn’t she walk away? Why didn’t she just brush him aside and stalk out of the store? He wasn’t holding her there. On her face his hands were light, clever but not insistent. She could move. She could go. She should.
She didn’t.
His thumbs trailed under her chin, tracing there. He felt the pulse, rapid and jerky, and kept his hold easy. He meant to keep it so, but even he hadn’t guessed her taste would be so unique.
Neither of them knew who took the next step. Perhaps they took it together. His mouth wasn’t so light on hers any longer, nor was hers so passive. They met, triumphantly, and clung.
Her fingers weren’t wrapped around the cart now, but gripping his shoulders, holding him closer. Their bodies fit. Perfectly. It should have warned her. Giving without thought was something she never did, until now. In giving, she took, but she never thought to balance the ledger.
His mouth was warm, full. His hands never left her face, but they were firm now. She couldn’t have walked away so easily. She wouldn’t have walked away at all.
He’d thought he had known everything there was to expect from a woman—fire, ice, temptation. But a lesson was being taught to both. Had he ever felt this warmth before? This kind of sweetness? No, because if he had, he’d remember. No tastes, no sensations ever experienced were forgotten.
He knew what it was to desire a woman—many women—but he hadn’t known what it was to crave. For a moment, he filled himself with the sensation. He wouldn’t forget.
But he knew that a cautious man takes a step back and a second breath before he steps off a cliff. With a murmur in his own language, he did.
Shaken, Juliet gripped the cart again for balance. Cursing herself for an idiot, she waited for her breath to even out.
“Very nice,” Carlo said quietly and ran a finger along her cheek. “Very nice, Juliet.”
An eighties woman, she reminded herself as her heart thudded. Strong, independent, sophisticated. “I’m so glad you approve.”
He took her hand before she could slam the cart down the aisle. Her skin was still warm, he noted, her pulse still unsteady. If they’d been alone… Perhaps it was best this way. For now. “It isn’t a matter of approval, cara mia, but of appreciation.”
“From now on, just appreciate me for my work, okay?” A jerk, and she freed herself of him and shoved the cart away. Without regard for the care he’d taken in selecting them, Juliet began to drop the contents of the cart on the conveyor belt at checkout.
“You didn’t object,” he reminded her. He’d needed to find his balance as well, he realized. Now he leaned against the cart and gave her a cocky grin.
“I didn’t want a scene.”
He took the peppers from the basket himself
before she could wound them. “Ah, you’re learning about lies.”
When her head came up, he was surprised her eyes didn’t bore right through him. “You wouldn’t know truth if you fell into it.”
“Darling, mind the mushrooms,” he warned her as she swung the package onto the belt. “We don’t want them bruised. I’ve a special affection for them now.”
She swore at him, loudly enough that the checker’s eyes widened. Carlo continued to grin and thought about lesson two.
He thought they should have it soon. Very soon.
Chapter Four
There were times when you knew everything could go wrong, should go wrong, and probably would go wrong, but somehow it didn’t. Then there were the other times.
Perhaps Juliet was grouchy because she’d spent another restless night when she couldn’t afford to lose any sleep. That little annoyance she could lay smack at Carlo’s door, even though it didn’t bring any satisfaction. But even if she’d been rested and cheerful, the ordeal at Gallegher’s Department Store would have had her steaming. With a good eight hours’ sleep, she might have kept things from boiling over.
First, Carlo insisted on coming with her two hours before he was needed. Or wanted. Juliet didn’t care to spend the first two hours of what was bound to be a long, hectic day with a smug, self-assured, egocentric chef who looked as though he’d just come back from two sun-washed weeks on the Riviera.
Obviously, he didn’t need any sleep, she mused as they took the quick, damp cab ride from hotel to mall.
Whatever the tourist bureau had to say about sunny California, it was raining—big, steady drops of it that immediately made the few minutes she’d taken to fuss with her hair worthless.
Prepared to enjoy the ride, Carlo looked out the window. He liked the way the rain plopped in puddles. It didn’t matter to him that he’d heard it start that morning, just past four. “It’s a nice sound,” he decided. “It makes things more quiet, more…subtle, don’t you think?”
Breaking away from her own gloomy view of the rain, Juliet turned to him. “What?”
“The rain.” Carlo noted she looked a bit hollow-eyed. Good. She hadn’t been unaffected. “Rain changes the look of things.”
Normally, she would have agreed. Juliet never minded dashing for the subway in a storm or strolling along Fifth Avenue in a drizzle. Today, she considered it her right to look on the dark side. “This one might lower the attendance in your little demonstration by ten percent.”
“So?” He gave an easy shrug as the driver swung into the parking lot of the mall.
What she didn’t need at that moment was careless acceptance. “Carlo, the purpose of all this is exposure.”
He patted her hand. “You’re only thinking of numbers. You should think instead of my pasta con pesto. In a few hours, everyone else will.”
“I don’t think about food the way you do,” she muttered. It still amazed her that he’d lovingly prepared the first linguini at 6:00 A.M., then the second two hours later for the camera. Both dishes had been an exquisite example of Italian cooking at its finest. He’d looked more like a film star on holiday than a working chef, which was precisely the image Juliet had wanted to project. His spot on the morning show had been perfect. That only made Juliet more pessimistic about the rest of the day. “It’s hard to think about food at all on this kind of a schedule.”
“That’s because you didn’t eat anything this morning.”
“Linguini for breakfast doesn’t suit me.”
“My linguini is always suitable.”
Juliet gave a mild snort as she stepped from the cab into the rain. Though she made a dash for the doors, Carlo was there ahead of her, opening one. “Thanks.” Inside, she ran a hand through her hair and wondered how soon she could come by another cup of coffee. “You don’t need to do anything for another two hours.” And he’d definitely be in the way while things were being set up on the third floor.
“So, I’ll wander.” With his hands in his pockets, he looked around. As luck would have it, they’d entered straight into the lingerie department. “I find your American malls fascinating.”
“I’m sure.” Her voice was dry as he fingered the border of lace on a slinky camisole. “You can come upstairs with me first, if you like.”
“No, no.” A saleswoman with a face that demanded a second look adjusted two negligees and beamed at him. “I think I’ll just roam around and see what your shops have to offer.” He beamed back. “So far, I’m charmed.”
She watched the exchange and tried not to clench her teeth. “All right, then, if you’ll just be sure to—”
“Be in Special Events on the third floor at eleven-forty-five,” he finished. In his friendly, casual way, he kissed her forehead. She wondered why he could touch her like a cousin and make her think of a lover. “Believe me, Juliet, nothing you say to me is forgotten.” He took her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles. That was definitely not the touch of a cousin. “I’ll buy you a present.”
“It isn’t necessary.”
“A pleasure. Things that are necessary are rarely a pleasure.”
Juliet disengaged her hand while trying not to dwell on the pleasure he could offer. “Please, don’t be later than eleven-forty-five, Carlo.”
“Timing, mi amore, is something I excel in.”
I’ll bet, she thought as she started toward the escalator. She’d have bet a week’s pay he was already flirting with the lingerie clerk.
It only took ten minutes in Special Events for Juliet to forget Carlo’s penchant for romancing anything feminine.
The little assistant with the squeaky voice was still in charge as her boss continued his battle with the flu. She was young, cheerleader pretty and just as pert. She was also in completely over her head.
“Elise,” Juliet began because it was still early on enough for her to have some optimism. “Mr. Franconi’s going to need a working area in the kitchen department. Is everything set?”
“Oh, yes.” Elise gave Juliet a toothy, amiable grin. “I’m getting a nice folding table from Sporting Goods.”
Diplomacy, Juliet reminded herself, was one of the primary rules of PR. “I’m afraid we’ll need something a bit sturdier. Perhaps one of the islands where Mr. Franconi could prepare the dish and still face the audience. Your supervisor and I had discussed it.”
“Oh, is that what he meant?” Elise looked blank for a moment, then brightened. Juliet began to think dark thoughts about mellow California. “Well, why not?”
“Why not,” Juliet agreed. “We’ve kept the dish Mr. Franconi is to prepare as simple as possible. You do have all the ingredients listed?”
“Oh, yes. It sounds just delicious. I’m a vegetarian, you know.”
Of course she was, Juliet thought. Yogurt was probably the high point of her day. “Elise, I’m sorry if it seems I’m rushing you along, but I really need to work out the setup as soon as possible.”
“Oh, sure.” All cooperation, Elise flashed her straight-toothed smile. “What do you want to know?”
Juliet offered up a prayer. “How sick is Mr. Francis?” she asked, thinking of the levelheaded, businesslike man she had dealt with before.
“Just miserable.” Elise swung back her straight California-blond hair. “He’ll be out the rest of the week.”
No help there. Accepting the inevitable, Juliet gave Elise her straight, no-nonsense look. “All right, what have you got so far?”
“Well, we’ve taken a new blender and some really lovely bowls from Housewares.”
Juliet nearly relaxed. “That’s fine. And the range?”
Elise smiled. “Range?”
“The range Mr. Franconi needs to cook the spaghetti for this dish. It’s on the list.”
“Oh. We’d need elecricity for that, wouldn’t we?”
“Yes.” Juliet folded her hands to keep them from clenching. “We would. For the blender, too.”
“I guess I’d better check with
maintenance.”
“I guess you’d better.” Diplomacy, tact, Juliet reminded herself as her fingers itched for Elise’s neck. “Maybe I’ll just go over to the kitchen layouts and see which one would suit Mr. Franconi best.”
“Terrific. He might want to do his interview right there.”
Juliet had taken two steps before she stopped and turned back. “Interview?”
“With the food editor of the Sun. She’ll be here at eleven-thirty.”
Calm, controlled, Juliet pulled out her itinerary of the San Diego stop. She skimmed it, though she knew every word by heart. “I don’t seem to have anything listed here.”
“It came up at the last minute. I called your hotel at nine, but you’d already checked out.”
“I see.” Should she have expected Elise to phone the television studio and leave a message? Juliet looked into the personality-plus smile. No, she supposed not. Resigned, she checked her watch. The setup could be dealt with in time if she started immediately. Carlo would just have to be paged. “How do I call mall management?”
“Oh, you can call from my office. Can I do anything?”
Juliet thought of and rejected several things, none of which were kind. “I’d like some coffee, two sugars.”
She rolled up her sleeves and went to work.
By eleven, Juliet had the range, the island and the ingredients Carlo had specified neatly arranged. It had taken only one call, and some finesse, to acquire two vivid flower arrangements from a shop in the mall.
She was on her third coffee and considering a fourth when Carlo wandered over. “Thank God.” She drained the last from the styrofoam cup. “I thought I was going to have to send out a search party.”
“Search party?” Idly he began looking around the kitchen set. “I came when I heard the page.”
“You’ve been paged five times in the last hour.”
“Yes?” He smiled as he looked back at her. Her hair was beginning to stray out of her neat bun. He might have stepped off the cover of Gentlemen’s Quarterly. “I only just heard. But then, I spent some time in the most fantastic record store. Such speakers. Quadraphonic.”
