by Nora Roberts
He might have been able to rationalize the threat to his health and comfort. But…she was so damn indifferent.
If he did nothing else in the short time they had left in Dallas, he was going to change that.
Lunch was white linen, heavy silver flatware and thin crystal. The room was done in tones of dusty rose and pastel greens. The murmur of conversation was just as quiet.
Carlo thought it a pity they couldn’t have met the reporter at one of the little Tex-Mex restaurants over Mexican beer with chili and nachos. Briefly, he promised himself he’d rectify that in Houston.
He barely noticed the reporter was young and running on nerves as they took their seats. He’d decided, no matter what it took, he’d break through Juliet’s inflexible shield of politeness before they stood up again. Even if he had to play dirty.
“I’m so happy you included Dallas on your tour, Mr. Franconi,” the reporter began, already reaching for her water glass to clear her throat. “Mr. Van Ness sends his apologies. He was looking forward to meeting you.”
Carlo smiled at her, but his mind was on Juliet. “Yes?”
“Mr. Van Ness is the food editor for the Tribune.” Juliet spread her napkin over her lap as she gave Carlo information she’d related less than fifteen minutes before. She sent him the friendliest of smiles and hoped he felt the barbs in it. “Ms. Tribly is filling in for him.”
“Of course.” Carlo smoothed over the gap of attention. “Charmingly, I’m sure.”
As a woman she wasn’t immune to that top-cream voice. As a reporter, she was well aware of the importance of her assignment. “It’s all pretty confused.” Ms. Tribly wiped damp hands on her napkin. “Mr. Van Ness is having a baby. That is, what I mean is, his wife went into labor just a couple of hours ago.”
“So, we should drink to them.” Carlo signaled a waiter. “Margaritas?” He phrased the question as a statement, earned a cool nod from Juliet and a grateful smile from the reporter.
Determined to pull off her first really big assignment, Ms. Tribly balanced a pad discreetly on her lap. “Have you been enjoying your tour through America, Mr. Franconi?”
“I always enjoy America.” Lightly he ran a finger over the back of Juliet’s hand before she could move it out of reach. “Especially in the company of a beautiful woman.” She started to slide her hand away then felt it pinned under his. For a man who could whip up the most delicate of soufflés, his hands were as strong as a boxer’s.
Wills sparked, clashed and fumed. Carlo’s voice remained mild, soft and romantic. “I must tell you, Ms. Tribly, Juliet is an extraordinary woman. I couldn’t manage without her.”
“Mr. Franconi’s very kind.” Though Juliet’s voice was as mild and quiet as his, the nudge she gave him under the table wasn’t. “I handle the details; Mr. Franconi’s the artist.”
“We make an admirable team, wouldn’t you say, Ms. Tribly?”
“Yes.” Not quite sure how to handle that particular line, she veered off to safer ground. “Mr. Franconi, besides writing cookbooks, you own and run a successful restaurant in Rome and occasionally travel to prepare a special dish. A few months ago, you flew to a yacht in the Aegean to cook minestrone for Dimitri Azares, the shipping magnate.”
“His birthday,” Carlo recalled. “His daughter arranged a surprise.” Again, his gaze skimmed over the woman whose hand he held. “Juliet will tell you, I’m fond of surprises.”
“Yes, well.” Ms. Tribly reached for her water glass again. “Your schedule’s so full and exciting. I wonder if you still enjoy the basics as far as cooking.”
“Most people think of cooking as anything from a chore to a hobby. But as I’ve told Juliet—” His fingers twined possessively with hers “—food is a basic need. Like making love, it should appeal to all the senses. It should excite, arouse, satisfy.” He slipped his thumb around to skim over her palm. “You remember, Juliet?”
She’d tried to forget, had told herself she could. Now with that light, insistent brush of thumb, he was bringing it all back. “Mr. Franconi is a strong believer in the sensuality of food. His unusual flair for bringing this out has made him one of the top chefs in the world.”
“Grazie, mi amore,” he murmured and brought her stiff hand to his lips.
She pressed her shoe down on the soft leather of his loafers and hoped she ground bones. “I think you, and your readers, will find that Mr. Franconi’s book, The Italian Way, is a really stunning example of his technique, his style and his opinions, written in such a way that the average person following one of his recipes step-by-step can create something very special.”
When their drinks were served, Juliet gave another tug on her hand thinking she might catch him off guard. She should have known better.
“To the new baby.” He smiled over at Juliet. “It’s always a pleasure to drink to life in all its stages.”
Ms. Tribly sipped lightly at her margarita in a glass the size of a small birdbath. “Mr. Franconi, have you actually cooked and tasted every recipe that’s in your book?”
“Of course.” Carlo enjoyed the quick tang of his drink. There was a time for the sweet, and a time for the tart. His laugh came low and smooth as he looked at Juliet. “When something’s mine, there’s nothing I don’t learn about it. A meal, Ms. Tribly, is like a love affair.”
She broke the tip of her pencil and hurriedly dug out another. “A love affair?”
“Yes. It begins slowly, almost experimentally. Just a taste, to whet the appetite, to stir the anticipation. Then the flavor changes, perhaps something light, something cool to keep the senses stirred, but not overwhelmed. Then there’s the spice, the meat, the variety. The senses are aroused; the mind is focused on the pleasure. It should be lingered over. But finally, there’s dessert, the time of indulgence.” When he smiled at Juliet, there was no mistaking his meaning. “It should be enjoyed slowly, savored, until the palate is satisfied and the body sated.”
Ms. Tribly swallowed. “I’m going to buy a copy of your book for myself.”
With a laugh, Carlo picked up his menu. “Suddenly, I have a huge appetite.”
Juliet ordered a small fruit salad and picked at it for thirty minutes.
“I’ve really got to get back.” After polishing off her meal and an apricot tart, Ms. Tribly gathered up her pad. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed this, Mr. Franconi. I’m never going to sit down to pot roast with the same attitude again.”
Amused, Carlo rose. “It was a pleasure.”
“I’ll be glad to send a clipping of the article to your office, Ms. Trent.”
“I’d appreciate that.” Juliet offered her hand, surprised when the reporter held it an extra moment.
“You’re a lucky woman. Enjoy the rest of your tour, Mr. Franconi.”
“Arrivederci.” He was still smiling when he sat down to finish his coffee.
“You put on a hell of a show, Franconi.”
He’d been expecting the storm. Anticipating it. “Yes, I think I did my—what was it you called it? Ah yes, my spiel very well.”
“It was more like a three-act play.” With calm, deliberate movements, she signed the check. “But the next time, don’t cast me unless you ask first.”
“Cast you?”
His innocence was calculated to infuriate. He never missed his mark. “You gave that woman the very clear impression that we were lovers.”
“Juliet, I merely gave her the very correct impression that I respect and admire you. What she takes from that isn’t my responsibility.”
Juliet rose, placed her napkin very carefully on the table and picked up her briefcase. “Swine.”
Carlo watched her walk out of the restaurant. No endearment could have pleased him more. When a woman called a man a swine, she wasn’t indifferent. He was whistling when he walked out to join her. It pleased him even more to see her fumbling with the keys of the rented car parked at the curb. When a woman was indifferent, she didn’t swear at inanimate objects.
“Would you like me to drive to the airport?”
“No.” Swearing again, she jabbed the key into the lock. She’d control her temper. She would control it. Like hell. Slamming both hands down on the roof of the car, she stared at him. “Just what was the point of that little charade?”
Squisito, he thought briefly. Her eyes were a dangerous blade-sharp green. He’d discovered he preferred a woman with temper. “Charade?”
“All that hand-holding, those intimate looks you were giving me?”
“It’s not a charade that I enjoy holding your hand, and that I find it impossible not to look at you.”
She refused to argue with the car between them. In a few quick steps she was around the hood and toe-to-toe with him. “It was completely unprofessional.”
“Yes. It was completely personal.”
It was going to be difficult to argue at all if he turned everything she said to his own advantage.
“Don’t ever do it again.”
“Madonna.” His voice was very mild, his move very calculated. Juliet found herself boxed in between him and the car. “Orders I’ll take from you when they have to do with schedules and plane flights. When it comes to more personal things, I do as I choose.”
It wasn’t something she’d expected; that’s why she lost her advantage. Juliet would tell herself that again and again—later. He had her by both shoulders and his eyes never left hers as he gave her a quick jerk. It wasn’t the smooth, calculated seduction she’d have anticipated from him. It was rough, impulsive and enervating.
His mouth was on hers, all demand. His hands held her still, all power. She had no time to stiffen, to struggle or to think. He took her with him quickly, through a journey of heat and light. She didn’t resist. Later, when she would tell herself she had, it would be a lie.
There were people on the sidewalk, cars in the street. Juliet and Carlo were unaware of everything. The heat of a Dallas afternoon soaked into the concrete beneath them. It blasted the air until it hummed. They were concerned with a fire of their own.
Her hands were at his waist, holding on, letting go. A car streaked by, country rock blasting through open windows. She never heard it. Though she’d refused wine at lunch, she tasted it on his tongue and was intoxicated.
Later, much later, he’d take time to think about what was happening. It wasn’t the same. Part of him already knew and feared because it wasn’t the same. Touching her was different than touching other women. Tasting her—lightly, deeply, teasingly—just tasting her was different than tasting other women. The feelings were new, though he’d have sworn he’d experienced all the feelings that any man was capable of.
He knew about sensations. He incorporated them in his work and in his life. But they’d never had this depth before. A man who found more and didn’t reach for it was a fool.
He knew about intimacy. He expected, demanded it in everything he did. But it had never had this strength before.
New experiences were not to be refused, but explored and exploited. If he felt a small, nagging fear, he could ignore it. For now.
Later. They clung to each other and told themselves they’d think later. Time was unimportant after all. Now held all the meaning necessary.
He took his mouth from hers, but his hands held her still. It shocked him to realize they weren’t quite steady. Women had made him ache. Women had made him burn. But no woman had ever made him tremble. “We need a place,” he murmured. “Quiet, private. It’s time to stop pretending this isn’t real.”
She wanted to nod, to simply put herself completely in his hands. Wasn’t that the first step in losing control over your own life? “No, Carlo.” Her voice wasn’t as strong as she would have liked but she didn’t back away. “We’ve got to stop mixing personal feelings with business. We’ve got just under two weeks to go on the road.”
“I don’t give a damn if it’s two days or two years. I want to spend it making love with you.”
She brought herself back enough to remember they were standing on a public street in the middle of afternoon traffic. “Carlo, this isn’t the time to discuss it.”
“Now is always the time. Juliet—” He cupped her face in his hand. “It’s not me you’re fighting.”
He didn’t have to finish the thought. She was all too aware that the war was within herself. What she wanted, what was wise. What she needed, what was safe. The tug-of-war threatened to split her apart, and the two halves, put back together, would never equal the whole she understood.
“Carlo, we have a plane to catch.”
He said something soft and pungent in Italian. “You’ll talk to me.”
“No.” She lifted her hands to grip his forearms. “Not about this.”
“Then we’ll stay right here until you change your mind.”
They could both be stubborn, and with stubbornness, they could both get nowhere. “We have a schedule.”
“We have a great deal more than that.”
“No, we don’t.” His brow lifted. “All right then, we can’t. We have a plane to catch.”
“We’ll catch your plane, Juliet. But we’ll talk in Houston.”
“Carlo, don’t push me into a corner.”
“Who pushes?” he murmured. “Me or you?”
She didn’t have an easy answer. “What I’ll do is arrange for someone else to come out and finish the tour with you.”
He only shook his head. “No, you won’t. You’re too ambitious. Leaving a tour in the middle wouldn’t look good for you.”
She set her teeth. He knew her too well already. “I’ll get sick.”
This time he smiled. “You’re too proud. Running away isn’t possible for you.”
“It’s not a matter of running.” But of survival, she thought and quickly changed the phrase. “It’s a matter of priorities.”
He kissed her again, lightly. “Whose?”
“Carlo, we have business.”
“Yes, of different sorts. One has nothing to do with the other.”
“To me they do. Unlike you, I don’t go to bed with everyone I’m attracted to.”
Unoffended, he grinned. “You flatter me, cara.”
She could have sighed. How like him to make her want to laugh while she was still furious. “Purely unintentional.”
“I like you when you bare your teeth.”
“Then you’re going to enjoy the next couple of weeks.” She pushed his hands away. “It’s a long ride to the airport, Carlo. Let’s get going.”
Amiable as ever, he pulled his door open. “You’re the boss.”
A foolish woman might’ve thought she’d won a victory.
Chapter Seven
Juliet was an expert on budgeting time. It was her business every bit as much as promotion. So, if she could budget time, she could just as easily overbudget it when the circumstances warranted. If she did her job well enough, hustled fast enough, she could create a schedule so tight that there could be no time for talk that didn’t directly deal with business. She counted on Houston to cooperate.
Juliet had worked with Big Bill Bowers before. He was a brash, warmhearted braggart who handled special events for Books, Etc., one of the biggest chains in the country. Big Bill had Texas sewed up and wasn’t ashamed to say so. He was partial to long, exaggerated stories, ornate boots and cold beer.
Juliet liked him because he was sharp and tough and invariably made her job easier. On this trip, she blessed him because he was also long-winded and gregarious. He wouldn’t give her or Carlo many private moments.
From the minute they arrived at Houston International, the six-foot-five, two-hundred-and-sixty-pound Texan made it his business to entertain. There was a crowd of people waiting at the end of the breezeway, some already packed together and chatting, but there was no overlooking Big Bill. You only had to look for a Brahma bull in a Stetson.
“Well now, there’s little Juliet. Pretty as ever.”
Juliet found herself caught in
a good-natured, rib-cracking bear hug. “Bill.” She tested her lungs gingerly as she drew away. “It’s always good to be back in Houston. You look great.”
“Just clean living, honey.” He let out a boom of a laugh that turned heads. Juliet found her mood lifting automatically.
“Carlo Franconi, Bill Bowers. Be nice to him,” she added with a grin. “He’s not only big, he’s the man who’ll promote your books for the largest chain in the state.”
“Then I’ll be very nice.” Carlo offered his hand and met an enormous, meaty paw.
“Glad you could make it.” The same meaty hand gave Carlo a friendly pat on the back that could have felled a good-sized sapling. Juliet gave Carlo points for not taking a nosedive.
“It’s good to be here” was all he said.
“Never been to Italy myself, but I’m partial to Eye-talian cooking. The wife makes a hell of a pot of spaghetti. Let me take that for you.” Before Carlo could object, Bill had hefted his big leather case. Juliet couldn’t prevent the smirk when Carlo glanced down at the case as though it were a small child boarding a school bus for the first time.
“Car’s outside. We’ll just pick up your bags and get going. Airports and hospitals, can’t stand ’em.” Bill started toward the terminal in his big, yard-long strides. “Hotel’s all ready for you; I checked this morning.”
Juliet managed to keep up though she still wore three-inch heels. “I knew I could depend on you, Bill. How’s Betty?”
“Mean as ever,” he said proudly of his wife. “With the kids up and gone, she’s only got me to order around.”
“But you’re still crazy about her.”
“A man gets used to mean after a while.” He grinned, showing one prominent gold tooth. “No need to go by the hotel straight off. We’ll show Carlo here what Houston’s all about.” As he walked he swung Carlo’s case at his side.
“I’d like that.” Diplomatically, Carlo moved closer to his side. “I could take that case…”
