by Teri Wilson
Her white chocolate icing would have to be pristine. She’d need to give that particular challenge some serious forethought. Juliet had planned on using her grandmother’s white chocolate frosting recipe and had even brought the fragile recipe book along with her from the States. But she was no longer sure it would work. Would it turn out white enough?
For two days, she thought of little else but the Wedding Cake. Her hotel was located a little over a mile away, on a quiet side street with a violinist who stood on the corner playing for change and a bountiful trellis of pink roses that climbed the walls. In the mornings she would drink decadent, creamy Italian cappuccino, then take a walk somewhere on her list of must-see places, like the Trevi Fountain or the lush, green Villa Borghese, an enormous park with sweeping views of Rome’s crowded rooftops and its many domed churches. But she always ended up back at the Wedding Cake, staring at it, memorizing every angle of marble, the number of columns, the exact tilt of the wings on the goddess Victoria statues that topped the monument on either side.
On her final night alone in the city before her family descended, she forced herself to do something else. If anything, she was overprepared. And she still hadn’t seen the place at the top of her list. The Spanish Steps.
She told herself she hadn’t been intentionally avoiding that particular spot. A big, fat lie, of course.
She knew it was nonsensical, but ever since Leo had told her he could see her there—right there at that spot—and suggested they go together some day, an impossible fantasy had lodged in her heart. It was ridiculous. She hadn’t even seen him since the chocolate fair. Just as she’d suspected, once their secret had been exposed, once it was no longer just the two of them alone in a room together, the reality of their impossible situation became all too clear.
She hadn’t heard a word from him. Nor had she made any attempts to contact him. Cold turkey. That was the way to go. Why prolong the agony?
They’d been doomed from the start. But then again, she’d known that much all along.
Such forethought didn’t make the yearning any less intense, though. Sometimes she found herself thinking about him at the oddest times. Case in point—this, her last night alone in Rome. He was invading her thoughts from all sides. She imagined him sitting across the tiny table at the café where she ate a dinner of homemade pasta dusted with pecorino cheese and cracked black pepper. She could have sworn she heard his voice drifting toward her on the salty Mediterranean breeze. She even thought she spotted him in the crowd walking past the gelateria where she’d indulged in a dessert of tiramisu gelato heavily sprinkled with cocoa and powdered sugar.
She shook her head when she realized her feet had automatically started heading in the direction of the Wedding Cake. She could draw a perfect picture of that building in her sleep by now. She didn’t need to go there again. She was going to the Spanish Steps. Hadn’t she been waiting nearly all her life to walk up that grand outdoor staircase? She had a photo of that exact spot tacked to her refrigerator, for crying out loud. Was she really going to skip seeing it in person simply because she harbored some kind of fantastical notion that she should be there with Leo?
No. That would be wholly irrational.
It didn’t feel right going there alone. Which was precisely why she needed to do it.
She turned around and headed in the direction of the Piazza di Spagna, home to the Spanish Steps. It also happened to be one of the busiest piazzas in the city. The steps were a huge draw, obviously. But the piazza was also situated along one of Rome’s most exclusive high-end shopping districts. Shops with names like Gucci, Prada and Armani lined either side of the street. The famed Hotel de Russie was just a block away. And the home where romantic poet John Keats had spent his last days in 1821 was located there, as well, tucked into the right-hand corner of the steps.
As she approached the piazza, the buzz of happy conversation reached her ears and grew louder the closer she came. Then, before she knew it, she’d rounded a corner, and the grand staircase stretched before her. One hundred thirty-five impossibly wide steps leading from the street level to the Trinità dei Monti church at the top.
She paused for a moment in the middle of the street to appreciate the glory of the sight. While she’d been strolling with her gelato, the sun had fallen, leaving the sky a heavenly cerulean blue. The steps were awash in the pale golden glow of surrounding street lamps and overflowed with enormous pots of colorful azaleas. Crimsons, purples and hot, fiery pinks.
It was so romantic, she realized with a pang.
Around her, couples strolled hand in hand. Lovers sprawled on the steps, sharing bottles of wine and languid, sensual kisses. She was suddenly acutely aware of her aloneness. And in that quiet, vulnerable moment, Leo’s words came floating back to her.
I can see you there, in Rome, drinking wine on the Spanish Steps, wandering through cobblestone streets with the Mediterranean breeze blowing through your hair.
Her throat grew tight. It had been a mistake to come here. She’d managed to keep thoughts of Leo at bay—mostly—but here they all came flooding back. And she realized just how very much she missed his touch, the warmth of his breath against her skin and, quite simply, him. She couldn’t be here. Not without him.
This was the problem with wanting more. More life. More passion. More everything.
She’d been perfectly fine before she’d kissed Leo in the vineyard. Her career had been going well. Her family didn’t blame her for ruining the chocolate shop. Her grandmother hadn’t been rolling in her grave at the things she’d done.
She should have never played with fire. She would have been better off if she’d stayed inside the ballroom that night and never walked barefoot among the grapevines. Because now she knew exactly what it was she’d been missing for so long.
She stopped halfway up the world’s most famous staircase to turn around abruptly.
And tumbled headfirst into another meandering tourist.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She teetered on the edge of the narrow step, arms flailing, and the unknown victim of her hasty about-face grabbed her by the shoulders to keep her from falling.
“Careful there,” he said, his hands solid and warm through the wispy fabric of her sundress.
At the sound of his melted caramel voice, her heart went still. She knew that voice. Intimately.
She breathed out a sigh. What was wrong with her? Was she really mooning over Leonardo Mezzanotte so much that now she was hearing things? She needed to get her head out of the clouds at once before she completely sabotaged her chances in the contest, or worse, broke both her legs falling down the Spanish Steps.
“So sorry,” she mumbled, wanting nothing more than to escape to her hotel room and a bottle of Prosecco. She lifted her gaze to thank her rescuer for keeping her in one piece.
And everything went hazy, as if she were looking at the world through the emerald-green glass of a wine bottle.
She couldn’t be seeing what she was seeing. Who she was seeing. It simply wasn’t possible.
“Leo.”
* * *
It took a moment for Leo to realize what was happening.
When he’d caught his first glimpse of the back of her head, that graceful curve of her neck, he’d thought it was her.
But he’d convinced himself he was imagining things. He hadn’t seen Juliet’s name mentioned anywhere in conjunction with the Roma Festa del Cioccolato. Her name wasn’t on the list of competitors he’d received with his registration materials. Of course, neither was his. His late entry meant he’d slipped in under the radar. Apparently unbeknownst to him, Juliet had been flying stealthily alongside him the whole time.
Still, that familiar glimpse of creamy white skin and upswept hair had been enough to cause him to turn and follow. Only he’d thought he’d been following a ghost. An ethereal bein
g conjured from the desire for her he still carried around like his love for good chocolate. Something he couldn’t indulge, but at the same time refused to leave him.
“Juliet.” He didn’t know whether to release his hold on her at once or to follow his bone-deep instinct to pull her against him, wrap his arms around her and never let go.
Juliet. Here. In Rome.
She stared at him for a long moment until her gaze drifted to his fingertips, still resting on her shoulders. With no small amount of reluctance, he removed his hands from her.
She looked back up at him. “You’re here.”
It wasn’t what he’d expected her to say. He’d anticipated questions. What are you doing here? Why are you in Rome? She seemed alternately surprised to see him and not shocked in the least. As if she’d fully expected to run into him on the Spanish Steps, a world away from the chocolate war in Napa Valley.
He nodded. “Yes, I am. For the...”
“Festa del Cioccolato,” she finished, her voice going strangely hollow. “Interesting. I hadn’t realized you’d qualified.”
Damn you, Uncle Joe. “About that...”
“No explanation necessary. I can venture an educated guess as to how that happened.” The softness was slipping from her gaze. Once again, she was falling though his fingers.
“Would it make any difference if I told you that I didn’t expect you to be here?” Should it? Even he didn’t know the answer to that question.
“Well, surprise. Here I am.” She laughed. But it was uncomfortable, nervous laughter. Not the kind of laughter he’d ever hoped to draw from Juliet’s lips.
“Yes, here you are.” In the spirit of supreme optimism, he reached for her hand.
She took a micro-step away from him, hovering once again on the edge of the stair where she stood. He almost wished she’d take another tumble, just so he could catch her when she fell.
He dropped his hand.
“Leo, what happened that day after the chocolate fair? The last time I saw you, you were being carried away on a stretcher.”
“I’m none the worse for wear.” It was a flippant answer, every bit deserving of the flicker of disappointment he saw in the subtle downturn of her mouth.
“Good to know.” Church bells sounded from the Trinità dei Monti at the top of the steps. Her gaze lifted toward the bell tower. “It’s getting late. I should probably get back to my hotel.”
He could see she was on the verge of pulling a Cinderella and fleeing down the stairs.
Panic fluttered in Leo’s chest.
This wasn’t right. They were far from home in one of the most romantic cities in the world, and they were talking to one another like two damned strangers.
“Don’t go,” he said as she turned her back to him.
She gave him a final over-the-shoulder glance. That’s when he saw it—the look of raw longing in her eyes that told him she still wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her. “Haven’t we made a big enough mess of things already? We’re competitors. More than competitors. We’re enemies. We couldn’t even tell one another we were coming here.”
“I’m not your enemy, Juliet,” he said quietly.
There were other things he could have said. Probably should have.
But how could he tell her that he was allergic to chocolate when they’d be facing off against one another in less than a day? His odds of winning were already slim at best. His family business was hanging by a thread.
His chest ached. He wanted to explain, to tell her everything. There was so much he wanted to say. And he would...once the Roma Festa del Cioccolato was over and done with.
She smiled at him. A bittersweet smile that all but ripped him in two. “Good luck tomorrow.”
And then she was gone. Lost in the crowd of hundreds who gathered on the steps every night. Tourists. Friends. Lovers.
Lovers.
What the hell was he doing? She’d walked away from him, and he’d just stood there and let her.
Go after her, you idiot.
He took the stairs two at a time on his way down, hurdling over several bottles of wine and a few small children as he went. When he reached the piazza at the foot of the Spanish Steps, he searched for a glimpse of her breezy sundress but came up empty. Despite the late hour, the street was packed with people. Even the little round newsstand and the makeshift flower market down the block were still open.
Leo had no idea where she’d gone. She’d mentioned her hotel, but of course, he didn’t know where she was staying. She could have already gotten into a cab for all he knew. There was a taxi stand at the opposite end of the piazza from the shopping district. He jogged toward it, narrowly avoiding a priest in full cassock juggling a cup of gelato.
He stopped at the first cab in line, bending to speak to the driver through his open window. Hopefully the guy would be forthcoming if he’d seen Juliet get into a car. “Mi Scusi. Ha fatto una bella donna che indossa un abito giallo entrare in una di queste vetture?”
“No, signore.” The driver shook his head.
Leo breathed out a heavy sigh, resisting the urge to let loose a string of Italian expletives. If Juliet had gotten into a cab, there was always the slim chance another driver could find out where she’d gone. Of course, things couldn’t be so simple. For once, it would have been nice to feel as if fate wasn’t working against him and Juliet. Just once.
“E andata cosi,” the driver said.
She went that way.
Leo’s head jerked up.
“E andata cosi,” he repeated, pointing toward a quiet side street behind the flower market. It was narrow enough to be almost completely obscured by the flower stand’s clay-colored tent.
“Grazie.” Leo dug a five-euro note out of his pocket and gave it to the driver. “Mille grazie.”
He ran down the side street, his feet echoing on the cold, dark cobblestones. It was remarkable how quiet everything seemed just a few short blocks from the chaos of the Piazza di Spagna. Aside from a street musician playing a violin, its case resting open on the ground at the player’s feet, Leo didn’t see another soul. Not anyone.
Not Juliet.
He stopped and looked at the buildings surrounding him. Most were nondescript with gated openings that he suspected led to enclosed private parking areas. Residences. But there was one modest-size building situated on the corner with roses climbing up its walls that had potential. The bottom floor was decorated with dark green awnings, and the upper floors were dotted with small balconies.
Of course, even if it was a hotel, even if it was her hotel, he didn’t know what room Juliet was in and doubted very much that anyone would be willing to part with that information, no matter how many euros he tossed in their direction. He was contemplating other, more devious options when he heard something that slowed his footsteps.
A voice. Her voice.
“Oh, Leo.”
He looked up and found her instantly. She stood on one of the second floor balconies enveloped in soft light, glorious in the night, looming over him like a winged messenger from heaven.
“Leo, if it weren’t for your name, I’d give myself to you.” Her voice was little more than a breathy whisper on the sultry Italian air, but he heard her loud and clear.
And at the sound of those magic words, his soul sang. “Juliet, I’m here.”
“Leo?” She leaned over the balcony railing, squinting down at him in the darkness. “Is that you?”
“Yes. It’s me.” He planted his hands on his hips. Now that he’d found her, his patience was wearing thin. He wanted up there. Now.
“What are you doing here?” She sounded far more surprised to find him at her hotel than she had earlier on the Spanish Steps.
“I’ll tell you exactly what I’m doing. I’m com
ing up there.”
20
“I’m coming up there.” Leo stood below with his hands jammed on his hips, staring up at Juliet. Even from two floors up, she could see the thunder in his gaze.
She peered down at him, butterflies swarming in her stomach. “What did you say?”
She’d heard perfectly well what he’d said. She just needed a minute to wrap her mind around the fact that he was here. In Rome. At her hotel. And he’d just announced that he was about to march up to her room.
How much of her wistful muttering had he heard from down there, exactly?
Her mind and body were at war. She knew good and well this wasn’t a great idea. After the Festa del Cioccolato, maybe. But not now. Not here. She’d traveled over six thousand miles to compete in this contest. Not to mention the fact that her family was scheduled to descend on the place in less than eight hours.
Her body, on the other hand, was of a differing opinion. With one look, the smallest glance, she could practically feel his hands on her. The memory of their one night together was written into her flesh. Her heart beat hummingbird-fast, as though it wanted to leap over the edge of the balcony and throw itself at Leo’s feet.
“You heard me. I’m coming up.” His tone had a determined edge. Clearly he’d made up his mind.
He waited a beat, and when she didn’t make a move to open her door, he marched straight toward the rose trellis that trailed up the side of the hotel.
