Lessons Learned
Nora Roberts

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Coordinating the publicity tour for Italy's most famous—and most adorable—chef was just the kind of assignment Juliet relished. Carlo Franconi could gather a crowd just by smiling, and watching him prepare a meal was like witnessing a lesson in passionate lovemaking. By the time the tour was over, Juliet planned to have Carlo packaged as the world's sexiest chef. Women everywhere would fantasize about him preparing an intimate meal for two.

But Juliet hadn't counted on being part of the dinner plans. Candlelight, pasta and romance…Carlo distracted her with his charms, setting his romantic recipes simmering in her heart.

For Jill Gregory, aka The Baby,

one of my favorite roommates.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter One

So he was gorgeous. And rich…and talented. And sexy; you shouldn’t forget that he was outrageously sexy.

It hardly mattered to Juliet. She was a professional, and to a professional, a job was a job. In this case, great looks and personality were bound to help, but that was business. Strictly business.

No, personally it didn’t matter a bit. After all, she’d met a few gorgeous men in her life. She’d met a few rich ones too, and so forth, though she had to admit she’d never met a man with all those elusive qualities rolled up in one. She’d certainly never had the opportunity to work with one. Now she did.

The fact was, Carlo Franconi’s looks, charm, reputation and skill were going to make her job a pleasure. So she was told. Still, with her office door closed, Juliet scowled down at the eight-by-ten glossy black-and-white publicity photo. It looked to her as though he’d be more trouble than pleasure.

Carlo grinned cockily up at her, dark, almond-shaped eyes amused and appreciative. She wondered if the photographer had been a woman. His full thick hair was appealingly disheveled with a bit of curl along the nape of his neck and over his ears. Not too much—just enough to disarm. The strong facial bones, jauntily curved mouth, straight nose and expressive brows combined to create a face destined to sabotage any woman’s common sense. Gift or cultivated talent, Juliet wasn’t certain, but she’d have to use it to her advantage. Author tours could be murder.

A cookbook. Juliet tried, and failed, not to sigh. Carlo Franconi’s The Italian Way, was, whether she liked it or not, her biggest assignment to date. Business was business.

She loved her job as publicist and was content for the moment with Trinity Press, the publisher she currently worked for, after a half-dozen job changes and upward jumps since the start of her career. At twenty-eight, the ambition she’d started with as a receptionist nearly ten years before had eased very little. She’d worked, studied, hustled and sweated for her own office and position. She had them, but she wasn’t ready to relax.

In two years, by her calculations, she’d be ready to make the next jump: her own public relations firm. Naturally, she’d have to start out small, but it was building the business that was exciting. The contacts and experience she gained in her twenties would help her solidify her ambitions in her thirties. Juliet was content with that.

One of the first things she’d learned in public relations was that an account was an account, whether it was a big blockbuster bestseller already slated to be a big blockbuster film or a slim volume of poetry that would barely earn out its advance. Part of the challenge, and the fun, was finding the right promotional hook.

Now, she had a cookbook and a slick Italian chef. Franconi, she thought wryly, had a track record—with women and in publishing. The first was a matter of hot interest to the society and gossip sections of the international press. It wasn’t necessary to cook to be aware of Franconi’s name. The second was the reason he was being pampered on the road with a publicist.

His first two cookbooks had been solid bestsellers. For good reason, Juliet admitted. It was true she couldn’t fry an egg without creating a gooey inedible glob, but she recognized quality and style. Franconi could make linguini sound like a dish to be prepared while wearing black lace. He turned a simple spaghetti dish into an erotic event.

Sex. Juliet tipped back in her chair and wiggled her stockinged toes. That’s what he had. That’s just what they’d use. Before the twenty-one-day author tour was finished, she’ll have made Carlo Franconi the world’s sexiest cook. Any red-blooded American woman would fantasize about him preparing an intimate dinner for two. Candlelight, pasta and romance.

One last study of his publicity shot and the charmingly crooked grin assured her he could handle it.

In the meantime, there was a bit more groundwork to cover. Creating a schedule was a pleasure, adhering to one a challenge. She thrived on both.

Juliet lifted the phone, noticed with resignation that she’d broken another nail, then buzzed her assistant. “Terry, get me Diane Maxwell. She’s program coordinator on the Simpson Show in L.A.”

“Going for the big guns?”

Juliet gave a quick, unprofessional grin. “Yeah.” She replaced the phone and started making hurried notes. No reason not to start at the top, she told herself. That way, if you fell on your face, at least the trip would be worth it.

As she waited, she looked around her office. Not the top, but a good ways from the bottom. At least she had a window. Juliet could still shudder thinking of some of the walled-in cubicles she’d worked in. Now, twenty stories below, New York rushed, bumped, pushed and shoved its way through another day. Juliet Trent had learned how to do the same thing after moving from the relatively easygoing suburb of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

She might’ve grown up in a polite little neighborhood where only a stranger drove over twenty-five miles per hour and everyone kept the grass clipped close to their side of the chain-link fences, but Juliet had acclimated easily. The truth was she liked the pace, the energy and the “I dare you” tone of New York. She’d never go back to the bee-humming, hedge-clipping quiet of suburbia where everyone knew who you were, what you did and how you did it. She preferred the anonymity and the individuality of crowds.

Perhaps her mother had molded herself into the perfect suburban wife, but not Juliet. She was an eighties woman, independent, self-sufficient and moving up. There was an apartment in the west Seventies that she’d furnished, slowly, meticulously and, most important, personally. Juliet had enough patience to move step by step as long as the result was perfect. She had a career she could be proud of and an office she was gradually altering to suit her own tastes. Leaving her mark wasn’t something she took lightly. It had taken her four months to choose the right plants for her work space, from the four-foot split-leaf philodendron to the delicate white-blossomed African violet.

She’d had to make do with the beige carpet, but the six-foot Dali print on the wall opposite her window added life and energy. The narrow-beveled mirror gave an illusion of space and a touch of elegance. She had her eye on a big, gaudy Oriental urn that would be perfect for a spray of equally gaudy peacock feathers. If she waited a bit longer, the price might come down from exorbitant to ridiculous. Then she’d buy it.

Juliet might put on a very practical front to everyone, including herself, but she couldn’t resist a sale. As a result, her bank balance wasn’t as hefty as her bedroom closet. She wasn’t frivolous. No, she would have been appalled to hear the word applied to her. Her wardrobe was organized, well tended and suitable. Perhaps twenty pairs of shoes could be considered excessive, but Juliet rationalized that she was often on her feet ten hours a day and deserved the luxury. In any case, she’d earned them, from the sturdy sneakers, the practical black pumps to the strappy evening sandals. She’d earned them with innumerable long meetings, countless waits in airports and endless hours on the phone. She’d earned them on author tours, where the luck of the draw could have you dealing with the brilliant, the funny, the inept, the boring or the rude. Whatever she had to deal with, the results had to be the same. Media, media and more media.

She’d learned how to deal with the press, from the New York Times reporter to the stringer on the small-town weekly. She knew how to charm the staff of talk shows, from the accepted masters to the nervous imitators. Learning had been an adventure, and since she’d allowed herself very few in her personal life, professional success was all the sweeter.

When the intercom buzzed, she caught her tongue between her teeth. Now, she was going to apply everything she’d learned and land Franconi on the top-rated talk show in the States.

Once she did, she thought as she pressed the button, he’d better make the most of it. Or she’d slit his sexy throat with his own chef’s knife.

“Ah, mi amore. Squisito.” Carlo’s voice was a low purr designed to accelerate the blood pressure. The bedroom voice wasn’t something he’d had to develop, but something he’d been born with. Carlo had always thought a man who didn’t use God-given gifts was less than a fool. “Bellisimo,” he murmured and his eyes were dark and dreamy with anticipation.

It was hot, almost steamy, but he preferred the heat. Cold slowed down the blood. The sun coming through the window had taken on the subtle gold texture with tints of red that spoke of the end of the day and hinted at the pleasures of night. The room was rich with scent so he breathed it in. A man was missing a great deal of life if he didn’t use and appreciate all of his senses. Carlo believed in missing nothing.

He watched his love of the moment with a connoisseur’s eye. He’d caress, whisper to, flatter—it never mattered to him if it took moments or hours to get what he wanted. As long as he got what he wanted. To Carlo, the process, the anticipation, the moves themselves were equally as satisfying as the result. Like a dance, he’d always thought. Like a song. An aria from The Marriage of Figaro played in the background while he seduced.

Carlo believed in setting the scene because life was a play not simply to be enjoyed, but to be relished.

“Bellisimo,” he whispered and bent nearer what he adored. The clam sauce simmered erotically as he stirred it. Slowly, savoring the moment, Carlo lifted the spoon to his lips and with his eyes half-closed, tasted. The sound of pleasure came from low in his throat. “Squisito.”

He moved from the sauce to give the same loving attention to his zabaglione. He believed there wasn’t a woman alive who could resist the taste of that rich, creamy custard with the zing of wine. As usual, it was a woman he was expecting.

The kitchen was as much a den of pleasure to him as the bedroom. It wasn’t an accident that he was one of the most respected and admired chefs in the world, or that he was one of the most engaging lovers. Carlo considered it a matter of destiny. His kitchen was cleverly arranged, as meticulously laid out for the seduction of sauces and spices as his bedroom was for the seduction of women. Yes, Carlo Franconi believed life was to be relished. Every drop of it.

When the knock on the front door reverberated through the high-ceilinged rooms of his home, he murmured to his pasta before he removed his apron. As he went to answer, he rolled down the silk sleeves of his shirt but didn’t stop for adjustments in any of the antique mirrors that lined the walls. He wasn’t so much vain, as confident.

He opened the door to a tall, stately woman with honey-toned skin and dark glossy eyes. Carlo’s heart moved as it did whenever he saw her. “Mi amore.” Taking her hand, he pressed his mouth to the palm, while his eyes smiled into hers. “Bella. Molto bella.”

She stood in the evening light for a moment, dark, lovely, with a smile only for him. Only a fool wouldn’t have known he’d welcomed dozens of women in just this way. She wasn’t a fool. But she loved him.

“You’re a scoundrel, Carlo.” The woman reached out to touch his hair. It was dark and thick and difficult to resist. “Is this the way you greet your mother?”

“This is the way—” he kissed her hand again “—I greet a beautiful woman.” Then he wrapped both arms around her and kissed her cheeks. “This is the way I greet my mother. It’s a fortunate man who can do both.”

Gina Franconi laughed as she returned her son’s hug. “To you, all women are beautiful.”

“But only one is my mother.” With his arm around her waist, he led her inside.

Gina approved, as always, the fact that his home was spotless, if a bit too exotic for her taste. She often wondered how the poor maid managed to keep the ornately carved archways dusted and polished and the hundreds of windowpanes unstreaked. Because she was a woman who’d spent fifteen years of her life cleaning other people’s homes and forty cleaning her own, she thought of such things.

She studied one of his new acquisitions, a three-foot ivory owl with a small rodent captured in one claw. A good wife, Gina mused, would guide her son’s tastes toward less eccentric paths.

“An aperitif, Mama?” Carlo walked over to a tall smoked-glass cabinet and drew out a slim black bottle. “You should try this,” he told her as he chose two small glasses and poured. “A friend sent it to me.”

Gina set aside her red snakeskin bag and accepted the glass. The first sip was hot, potent, smooth as a lover’s kiss and just as intoxicating. She lifted a brow as she took the second sip. “Excellent.”

“Yes, it is. Anna has excellent taste.”

Anna, she thought, with more amusement than exasperation. She’d learned years before that it didn’t do any good to be exasperated with a man, especially if you loved him. “Are all your friends women, Carlo?”

“No.” He held his glass up, twirling it. “But this one was. She sent me this as a wedding present.”

“A—”

“Her wedding,” Carlo said with a grin. “She wanted a husband, and though I couldn’t accommodate her, we parted friends.” He held up the bottle as proof.

“Did you have it analyzed before you drank any?” Gina asked dryly.

He touched the rim of his glass to hers. “A clever man turns all former lovers into friends, Mama.”

“You’ve always been clever.” With a small movement of her shoulders she sipped again and sat down. “I hear you’re seeing the French actress.”

“As always, your hearing’s excellent.”

As if it interested her, Gina studied the hue of the liqueur in her glass. “She is, of course, beautiful.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t think she’ll give me grandchildren.”

Carlo laughed and sat beside her. “You have six grandchildren and another coming, Mama. Don’t be greedy.”

“But none from my son. My only son,” she reminded him with a tap of her finger on his shoulder. “Still, I haven’t given you up yet.”

“Perhaps if I could find a woman like you.”

She shot him back arrogant look for arrogant look. “Impossible, caro.”

His feeling exactly, Carlo thought as he guided her into talk about his four sisters and their families. When he looked at this sleek, lovely woman, it was difficult to think of her as the mother who’d raised him, almost single-handedly. She’d worked, and though she’d been known to storm and rage, she’d never complained. Her clothes had been carefully mended, her floors meticulously scrubbed while his father had spent endless months at sea.

When he concentrated, and he rarely did, Carlo could recall an impression of a dark, wiry man with a black mustache and an easy grin. The impression didn’t bring on resentment or even regret. His father had been a seaman before his parents had married, and a seaman he’d remained. Carlo’s belief in meeting your destiny was unwavering. But while his feelings for his father were ambivalent, his feelings for his mother were set and strong.

She’d supported each of her children’s ambitions, and when Carlo had earned a scholarship to the Sorbonne in Paris and the opportunity to pursue his interest in haute cuisine, she’d let him go. Ultimately, she’d supplemented the meager income he could earn between studies with part of the insurance money she’d received when her husband had been lost in the sea he’d loved.

Six years before, Carlo had been able to pay her back in his own way. The dress shop he’d bought for her birthday had been a lifelong dream for both of them. For him, it was a way of seeing his mother happy at last. For Gina it was a way to begin again.

He’d grown up in a big, boisterous, emotional family. It gave him pleasure to look back and remember. A man who grows up in a family of women learns to understand them, appreciate them, admire them. Carlo knew about women’s dreams, their vanities, their insecurities. He never took a lover he didn’t have affection for as well as desire. If there was only desire, he knew there’d be no friendship at the end, only resentment. Even now, the comfortable affair he was having with the French actress was ending. She’d be starting a film in a few weeks, and he’d be going on tour in America. That, Carlo thought with some regret, would be that.

“Carlo, you go to America soon?”

“Hmm. Yes.” He wondered if she’d read his mind, knowing women were capable of doing so. “Two weeks.”

“You’ll do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Then notice for me what the professional American woman is wearing. I’m thinking of adding some things to the shop. The Americans are so clever and practical.”

“Not too practical, I hope.” He swirled his drink. “My publicist is a Ms. Trent.” Tipping back his glass, he accepted the heat and the punch. “I’ll promise you to study every aspect of her wardrobe.”

She gave his quick grin a steady look. “You’re so good to me, Carlo.”

“But of course, Mama. Now I’m going to feed you like a queen.”

Carlo had no idea what Juliet Trent looked like, but put himself in the hands of fate. What he did know, from the letters he’d received from her, was that Juliet Trent was the type of American his mother had described. Practical and clever. Excellent qualities in a publicist.

Physically was another matter. But again, as his mother had said, Carlo could always find beauty in a woman. Perhaps he did prefer, in his personal life, a woman with a lovely shell, but he knew how to dig beneath to find inner beauty. It was something that made life interesting as well as aesthetically pleasing.

Still, as he stepped off the plane into the terminal in L.A., he had his hand on the elbow of a stunning redhead.

Juliet did know what he looked like, and she first saw him, shoulder to shoulder with a luxuriously built woman in pencil-thin heels. Though he carried a bulky leather case in one hand, and a flight bag over his shoulder, he escorted the redhead through the gate as though they were walking into a ballroom. Or a bedroom.

Juliet took a quick assessment of the well-tailored slacks, the unstructured jacket and open-collared shirt. The well-heeled traveler. There was a chunk of gold and diamond on his finger that should’ve looked ostentatious and vulgar. Somehow it looked as casual and breezy as the rest of him. She felt formal and sticky.

She’d been in L.A. since the evening before, giving herself time to see personally to all the tiny details. Carlo Franconi would have nothing to do but be charming, answer questions and sign his cookbook.

As she watched him kiss the redhead’s knuckles, Juliet thought he’d be signing plenty of them. After all, didn’t women do the majority of cookbook buying? Carefully smoothing away a sarcastic smirk, Juliet rose. The redhead was sending one last wistful look over her shoulder as she walked away.

“Mr. Franconi?”

Carlo turned away from the woman who’d proven to be a pleasant traveling companion on the long flight from New York. His first look at Juliet brought a quick flutter of interest and a subtle tug of desire he often felt with a woman. It was a tug he could either control or let loose, as was appropriate. This time, he savored it.

She didn’t have merely a lovely face, but an interesting one. Her skin was very pale, which should have made her seem fragile, but the wide, strong cheekbones undid the air of fragility and gave her face an intriguing diamond shape. Her eyes were large, heavily lashed and artfully accented with a smoky shadow that only made the cool green shade of the irises seem cooler. Her mouth was only lightly touched with a peach-colored gloss. It had a full, eye-drawing shape that needed no artifice. He gathered she was wise enough to know it.

Her hair was caught somewhere between brown and blond so that its shade was soft, natural and subtle. She wore it long enough in the back to be pinned up in a chignon when she wished, and short enough on the top and sides so that she could style it from fussy to practical as the occasion, and her whim, demanded. At the moment, it was loose and casual, but not windblown. She’d stopped in the ladies’ room for a quick check just after the incoming flight had been announced.

“I’m Juliet Trent,” she told him when she felt he’d stared long enough. “Welcome to California.” As he took the hand she offered, she realized she should’ve expected him to kiss it rather than shake. Still, she stiffened, hardly more than an instant, but she saw by the lift of brow, he’d felt it.

“A beautiful woman makes a man welcome anywhere.”

His voice was incredible—the cream that rose to the top and then flowed over something rich. She told herself it only pleased her because it would record well and took his statement literally. Thinking of the redhead, she gave him an easy, not entirely friendly smile. “Then you must have had a pleasant flight.”

His native language might have been Italian, but Carlo understood nuances in any tongue. He grinned at her. “Very pleasant.”

“And tiring,” she said remembering her position. “Your luggage should be in by now.” Again, she glanced at the large case he carried. “Can I take that for you?”

His brow lifted at the idea of a man dumping his burden on a woman. Equality, to Carlo, never crossed the border into manners. “No, this is something I always carry myself.”

Indicating the way, she fell into step beside him. “It’s a half-hour ride to the Beverly Wilshire, but after you’ve settled in, you can rest all afternoon. I’d like to go over tomorrow’s schedule with you this evening.”

He liked the way she walked. Though she wasn’t tall, she moved in long, unhurried strides that made the red side-pleated skirt she wore shift over her hips. “Over dinner?”

She sent him a quick sidelong look. “If you like.”

She’d be at his disposal, Juliet reminded herself, for the next three weeks. Without appearing to think about it, she skirted around a barrel-chested man hefting a bulging garment bag and a briefcase. Yes, he liked the way she walked, Carlo thought again. She was a woman who could take care of herself without a great deal of fuss.

“At seven? You have a talk show in the morning that starts at seven-thirty so we’d best make it an early evening.”

Seven-thirty A.M. Carlo thought, only briefly, about jet lag and time changes. “So, you put me to work quickly.”

“That’s what I’m here for, Mr. Franconi.” Juliet said it cheerfully as she stepped up to the slowly moving baggage belt. “You have your stubs?”

An organized woman, he thought as he reached into the inside pocket of his loose-fitting buff-colored jacket. In silence, he handed them to her, then hefted a pullman and a garment bag from the belt himself.

Gucci, she observed. So he had taste as well as money. Juliet handed the stubs to a skycap and waited while Carlo’s luggage was loaded onto the pushcart. “I think you’ll be pleased with what we have for you, Mr. Franconi.” She walked through the automatic doors and signaled for her limo. “I know you’ve always worked with Jim Collins in the past on your tours in the States; he sends his best.”

“Does Jim like his executive position?”

“Apparently.”

Though Carlo expected her to climb into the limo first, she stepped back. With a bow to women professionals, Carlo ducked inside and took his seat. “Do you like yours, Ms. Trent?”

She took the seat across from him then sent him a straight-shooting, level look. Juliet could have no idea how much he admired it. “Yes, I do.”

Carlo stretched out his legs—legs his mother had once said that had refused to stop growing long after it was necessary. He’d have preferred driving himself, particularly after the long, long flight from Rome where someone else had been at the controls. But if he couldn’t, the plush laziness of the limo was the next best thing. Reaching over, he switched on the stereo so that Mozart poured out, quiet but vibrant. If he’d been driving, it would’ve been rock, loud and rambunctious.

“You’ve read my book, Ms. Trent?”

“Yes, of course. I couldn’t set up publicity and promotion for an unknown product.” She sat back. It was easy to do her job when she could speak the simple truth. “I was impressed with the attention to detail and the clear directions. It seemed a very friendly book, rather than simply a kitchen tool.”

“Hmm.” He noticed her stockings were very pale pink and had a tiny line of dots up one side. It would interest his mother that the practical American businesswoman could enjoy the frivolous. It interested him that Juliet Trent could. “Have you tried any of the recipes?”

“No, I don’t cook.”

“You don’t…” His lazy interest came to attention. “At all?”

She had to smile. He looked so sincerely shocked.

As he watched the perfect mouth curve, he had to put the next tug of desire in check.

“When you’re a failure at something, Mr. Franconi, you leave it to someone else.”

“I could teach you.” The idea intrigued him. He never offered his expertise lightly.

“To cook?” She laughed, relaxing enough to let her heel slip out of her shoe as she swung her foot. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m an excellent teacher,” he said with a slow smile.

Again, she gave him the calm, gunslinger look. “I don’t doubt it. I, on the other hand, am a poor student.”

“Your age?” When her look narrowed, he smiled charmingly. “A rude question when a woman’s reached a certain stage. You haven’t.”

“Twenty-eight,” she said so coolly his smile became a grin.

“You look younger, but your eyes are older. I’d find it a pleasure to give you a few lessons, Ms. Trent.”

She believed him. She, too, understood nuances. “A pity our schedule won’t permit it.”

He shrugged easily and glanced out the window. But the L.A. freeway didn’t interest him. “You put Philadelphia in the schedule as I requested?”

“We’ll have a full day there before we fly up to Boston. Then we’ll finish up in New York.”

“Good. I have a friend there. I haven’t seen her in nearly a year.”

Juliet was certain he had—friends—everywhere.

“You’ve been to Los Angeles before?” he asked her.

“Yes. Several times on business.”

“I’ve yet to come here for pleasure myself. What do you think of it?”

As he had, she glanced out the window without interest. “I prefer New York.”

“Why?”

“More grit, less gloss.”

He liked her answer, and her phrasing. Because of it, he studied her more closely. “Have you ever been to Rome?”

“No.” He thought he heard just a trace of wistfulness in her voice. “I haven’t been to Europe at all.”

“When you do, come to Rome. It was built on grit.”

Her mind drifted a bit as she thought of it, and her smile remained. “I think of fountains and marble and cathedrals.”

“You’ll find them—and more.” She had a face exquisite enough to be carved in marble, he thought. A voice quiet and smooth enough for cathedrals. “Rome rose and fell and clawed its way back up again. An intelligent woman understands such things. A romantic woman understands the fountains.”

She glanced out again as the limo pulled up in front of the hotel. “I’m afraid I’m not very romantic.”

“A woman named Juliet hasn’t a choice.”

“My mother’s selection,” she pointed out. “Not mine.”

“You don’t look for Romeo?”

Juliet gathered her briefcase. “No, Mr. Franconi. I don’t.”

He stepped out ahead of her and offered his hand. When Juliet stood on the curb, he didn’t move back to give her room. Instead, he experimented with the sensation of bodies brushing, lightly, even politely on a public street. Her gaze came up to his, not wary but direct.

He felt it, the pull. Not the tug that was impersonal and for any woman, but the pull that went straight to the gut and was for one woman. So he’d have to taste her mouth. After all, he was a man compelled to judge a great deal by taste. But he could also bide his time. Some creations took a long time and had complicated preparations to perfect. Like Juliet, he insisted on perfection.

“Some women,” he murmured, “never need to look, only to evade and avoid and select.”

“Some women,” she said just as quietly, “choose not to select at all.” Deliberately, she turned her back on him to pay off the driver. “I’ve already checked you in, Mr. Franconi,” she said over her shoulder as she handed his key to the waiting bellboy. “I’m just across the hall from your suite.”

Without looking at him, Juliet followed the bellboy into the hotel and to the elevators. “If it suits you, I’ll make reservations here in the hotel for dinner at seven. You can just tap on my door when you’re ready.” With a quick check of her watch she calculated the time difference and figured she could make three calls to New York and one to Dallas before office hours were over farther east. “If you need anything, you’ve only to order it and charge it to the room.”

She stepped from the elevator, unzipping her purse and pulling out her own room key as she walked. “I’m sure you’ll find your suite suitable.”

He watched her brisk, economic movements. “I’m sure I will.”

“Seven o’clock then.” She was already pushing her key into the lock as the bellboy opened the first door to the suite across the hall. As she did, her mind was already on the calls she’d make the moment she’d shed her jacket and shoes.

“Juliet.”

She paused, her hair swinging back as she looked over her shoulder at Carlo. He held her there, a moment longer, in silence. “Don’t change your scent,” he murmured. “Sex without flowers, femininity without vulnerability. It suits you.”

While she continued to stare over her shoulder, he disappeared inside the suite. The bellboy began his polite introductions to the accommodations of the suite. Something Carlo said caused him to break off and laugh.

Juliet turned her key with more strength than necessary, pushed open her door, then closed it again with the length of her body. For a minute, she just leaned there, waiting for her system to level.

Professional training had prevented her from stammering and fumbling and making a fool of herself. Professional training had helped her to keep her nerves just at the border where they could be controlled and concealed. Still, under the training, there was a woman. Control had cost her. Juliet was dead certain there wasn’t a woman alive who would be totally unaffected by Carlo Franconi. It wasn’t balm for her ego to admit she was simply part of a large, varied group.

He’d never know it, she told herself, but her pulse had been behaving badly since he’d first taken her hand. It was still behaving badly. Stupid, she told herself and threw her bag down on a chair. Then she thought it best if she followed it. Her legs weren’t steady yet. Juliet let out a long, deep breath. She’d just have to wait until they were.

So he was gorgeous. And rich…and talented. And outrageously sexy. She’d already known that, hadn’t she? The trouble was, she wasn’t sure how to handle him. Not nearly as sure as she had to be.

Chapter Two

She was a woman who thrived on tight scheduling, minute details and small crises. These were the things that kept you alert, sharp and interested. If her job had been simple, there wouldn’t have been much fun to it.

She was also a woman who liked long, lazy baths in mountains of bubbles and big, big beds. These were the things that kept you sane. Juliet felt she’d earned the second after she’d dealt with the first.

While Carlo amused himself in his own way, Juliet spent an hour and a half on the phone, then another hour revising and fine-tuning the next day’s itinerary. A print interview had come through and had to be shuffled in. She shuffled. Another paper was sending a reporter and photographer to the book signing. Their names had to be noted and remembered. Juliet noted, circled and committed to memory. The way things were shaping up, they’d be lucky to manage a two-hour breather the next day. Nothing could’ve pleased her more.

By the time she’d closed her thick, leather-bound notebook, she was more than ready for the tub. The bed, unfortunately, would have to wait. Ten o’clock, she promised herself. By ten, she’d be in bed, snuggled in, curled up and unconscious.

She soaked, designating precisely forty-five minutes for her personal time. In the bath, she didn’t plot or plan or estimate. She clicked off the busy, business end of her brain and enjoyed.

Relaxing—it took the first ten minutes to accomplish that completely. Dreaming—she could pretend the white, standard-size tub was luxurious, large and lush. Black marble perhaps and big enough for two. It was a secret ambition of Juliet’s to own one like it eventually. The symbol, she felt, of ultimate success. She’d have bristled if anyone had called her goal romantic. Practical, she’d insist. When you worked hard, you needed a place to unwind. This was hers.

Her robe hung on the back of the door—jade green, teasingly brief and silk. Not a luxury as far as she was concerned, but a necessity. When you often had only short snatches to relax, you needed all the help you could get. She considered the robe as much an aid in keeping pace as the bottles of vitamins that lined the counter by the sink. When she traveled, she always took them.

After she’d relaxed and dreamed a bit, she could appreciate soft, hot water against her skin, silky bubbles hissing, steam rising rich with scent.

He’d told her not to change her scent.

Juliet scowled as she felt the muscles in her shoulders tense. Oh no. Deliberately she picked up the tiny cake of hotel soap and rubbed it up and down her arms. Oh no, she wouldn’t let Carlo Franconi intrude on her personal time. That was rule number one.

He’d purposely tried to unravel her. He’d succeeded. Yes, he had succeeded, Juliet admitted with a stubborn nod. But that was over now. She wouldn’t let it happen again. Her job was to promote his book, not his ego. To promote, she’d go above and beyond the call of duty with her time, her energy and her skill, but not with her emotions.

Franconi wasn’t flying back to Rome in three weeks with a smug smile on his face unless it was professionally generated. That instant knife-sharp attraction would be dealt with. Priorities, Juliet mused, were the order of the day. He could add all the American conquests to his list he chose—as long as she wasn’t among them.

In any case, he didn’t seriously interest her. It was simply that basic, primal urge. Certainly there wasn’t any intellect involved. She preferred a different kind of man—steady rather than flashy, sincere rather than charming. That was the kind of man a woman of common sense looked for when the time was right. Juliet judged the time would be right in about three years. By then, she’d have established the structure for her own firm. She’d be financially independent and creatively content. Yes, in three years she’d be ready to think about a serious relationship. That would fit her schedule nicely.

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,” he 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 stop 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?”

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—”

“Would 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 name 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.

“See? He appreciates a beautiful woman.”

Appreciating the ridiculous, Juliet laughed. Whether he was attracted to the sound or simply felt it was time he made his move, Butch bowlegged his way over to her. Still grinning, he put his hand on Juliet’s bare knee. This time, she was certain he winked.

“I never make so obvious a move on first acquaintance,” Carlo observed.

“Some women prefer the direct approach.” Deciding he was harmless, Juliet smiled down at Butch. “He reminds me of someone.” She sent Carlo a mild look. “It must be that ingratiating grin.” Before she’d finished speaking, Butch climbed into her lap and wrapped one of his long arms around her. “He’s kind of sweet.” With another laugh, she looked down into the chimp’s face. “I think he has your eyes, Carlo.”

“Ah, Juliet, I think you should—”

“Though his might be more intelligent.”

“Oh, I think he’s smart, all right.” Carlo coughed into his hand as he watched the chimp’s busy fingers. “Juliet, if you’d—”

“Of course he’s smart, he’s in movies.” Enjoying herself, Juliet watched the chimp grin up at her. “Have I seen any of your films, Butch?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re blue.”

She tickled Butch under the chin. “Really, Carlo, how crude.”

“Just a guess.” He let his gaze run over her. “Tell me Juliet, do you feel a draft?”

“No. I’d say it’s entirely too warm in here. This poor thing is all wrapped up in a tux.” She clucked at Butch and he clacked his teeth at her.

“Juliet, do you believe people can reveal their personalities by the clothes they wear? Send signals, if you understand what I mean.”

“Hmm?” Distracted, she shrugged and helped Butch straighten his tie. “I suppose so.”

“I find it interesting that you wear pink silk under such a prim blouse.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“An observation, mi amore.” He let his gaze wander down again. “Just an observation.”

Sitting very still, Juliet moved only her head. In a moment, her mouth was as open as her blouse. The monkey with the cute face and excellent tailor had nimbly undone every one of the buttons.

Carlo gave Butch a look of admiration. “I must ask him how he perfected that technique.”

“Why you son of a—”

“Not me.” Carlo put a hand to his heart. “I’m an innocent bystander.”

Juliet rose abruptly, dumping the chimp onto the floor. As she ducked into the adjoining rest room, she heard the laughter of two males—one a chimp, the other a rat.

Juliet took the ride to the airport where they would leave for San Diego in excruciatingly polite silence.

“Come now, cara, the show went well. Not only was the title mentioned three times, but there was that nice close-up of the book. My tortoni was a triumph, and they liked my anecdote on cooking the long, sensual Italian meal.”

“You’re a real prince with anecdotes,” she murmured.

“Amore, it was the monkey who tried to undress you, not I.” He gave a long, self-satisfied sigh. He couldn’t remember when he’d enjoyed a…demonstration quite so much. “If I had, we’d have missed the show altogether.”

“You just had to tell that story on the air, didn’t you?” She sent him a cool, killing look. “Do you know how many millions of people watch that show?”

“It was a good story.” In the dim light of the limo, she saw the gleam in his eyes. “Most millions of people like good stories.”

“Everyone I work with will have seen that show.” She found her jaw was clenched and deliberately relaxed it. “Not only did you just—just sit there and let that happy-fingered little creature half strip me, but then you broadcast it on national television.”

“Madonna, you’ll remember I did try to warn you.”

“I remember nothing of the kind.”

“But you were so enchanted with Butch,” he continued. “I confess, it was difficult not to be enchanted myself.” He let his gaze roam down to her tidily buttoned blouse. “You’ve lovely skin, Juliet; perhaps I was momentarily distracted. I throw myself, a simple, weak man, on your mercy.”

“Oh, shut up.” She folded her arms and stared straight ahead, not speaking again until the driver pulled to the curb at their airline.

Juliet pulled her carry-on bag out of the trunk. She knew the chance was always there that the bags could be lost—sent to San Jose while she went to San Diego—so she always carried her absolute essentials with her. She handed over both her ticket and Carlo’s so the check-in could get underway while she paid off the driver. It made her think of her budget. She’d managed to justify limo service in L.A., but it would be cabs and rented cars from here on. Goodbye glamour, she thought as she pocketed her receipt. Hello reality.

“No, this I’ll carry.”

She turned to see Carlo indicate his leather-bound box of about two feet in length, eight inches in width. “You’re better off checking something that bulky.”

“I never check my tools.” He slung a flight bag over his shoulder and picked up the box by its handle.

“Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug and moved through the automatic doors with him. Fatigue was creeping in, she realized, and she hadn’t had to prepare any intricate desserts. If he were human, he’d be every bit as weary as she. He might annoy her in a dozen ways, but he didn’t gripe. Juliet bit back a sigh. “We’ve a half hour before they’ll begin boarding. Would you like a drink?”

He gave her an easy smile. “A truce?”

She returned it despite herself. “No, a drink.”

“Okay.”

They found a dark, crowded lounge and worked their way through to a table. She watched Carlo maneuver his box, with some difficulty, around people, over chairs and ultimately under their table. “What’s in there?”

“Tools,” he said again. “Knives, properly weighted, stainless steel spatulas of the correct size and balance. My own cooking oil and vinegar. Other essentials.”

“You’re going to lug oil and vinegar through airport terminals from coast to coast?” With a shake of her head, she glanced up at a waitress. “Vodka and grapefruit juice.”

“Brandy. Yes,” he said, giving his attention back to Juliet after he’d dazzled the waitress with a quick smile. “Because there’s no brand on the American market to compare with my own.” He picked up a peanut from the bowl on the table. “There’s no brand on any market to compare with my own.”

“You could still check it,” she pointed out. “After all, you check your shirts and ties.”

“I don’t trust my tools to the hands of baggage carriers.” He popped the peanut into his mouth. “A tie is a simple thing to replace, even a thing to become bored with. But an excellent whisk is entirely different. Once I teach you to cook, you’ll understand.”

“You’ve got as much chance teaching me to cook as you do flying to San Diego without the plane. Now, you know you’ll be giving a demonstration of preparing linguini and clam sauce on A.M. San Diego. The show airs at eight, so we’ll have to be at the studio at six to get things started.”

As far as he could see, the only civilized cooking to be done at that hour would be a champagne breakfast for two. “Why do Americans insist on rising at dawn to watch television?”

“I’ll take a poll and find out,” she said absently. “In the meantime, you’ll make up one dish that we’ll set aside, exactly as we did tonight. On the air you’ll be going through each stage of preparation, but of course we don’t have enough time to finish; that’s why we need the first dish. Now, for the good news.” She sent a quick smile to the waitress as their drinks were served. “There’s been a bit of a mix-up at the studio, so we’ll have to bring the ingredients along ourselves. I need you to give me a list of what you’ll need. Once I see you settled into the hotel, I’ll run out and pick them up. There’s bound to be an all-night market.”

In his head, he went over the ingredients for his linguini con vongole biance. True, the American market would have some of the necessities, but he considered himself fortunate that he had a few of his own in the case at his feet. The clam sauce was his specialty, not to be taken lightly.

“Is shopping for groceries at midnight part of a publicist’s job?”

She smiled at him. Carlo thought it was not only lovely, but perhaps the first time she’d smiled at him and meant it. “On the road, anything that needs to be done is the publicist’s job. So, if you’ll run through the ingredients, I’ll write them down.”

“Not necessary.” He swirled and sipped his brandy. “I’ll go with you.”

“You need your sleep.” She was already rummaging for a pencil. “Even with a quick nap on the plane you’re only going to get about five hours.”

“So are you,” he pointed out. When she started to speak again, he lifted his brow in that strange silent way he had of interrupting. “Perhaps I don’t trust an amateur to pick out my clams.”

Juliet watched him as she drank. Or perhaps he was a gentleman, she mused. Despite his reputation with women, and a healthy dose of vanity, he was one of that rare breed of men who knew how to be considerate of women without patronizing them. She decided to forgive him for Butch after all.

“Drink up, Franconi.” And she toasted him, perhaps in friendship. “We’ve a plane to catch.”

“Salute.” He lifted his glass to her.

They didn’t argue again until they were on the plane.

Grumbling only a little, Juliet helped him stow his fancy box of tools under the seat. “It’s a short flight.” She checked her watch and calculated the shopping would indeed go beyond midnight. She’d have to take some of the vile tasting brewer’s yeast in the morning. “I’ll see you when we land.”

He took her wrist when she would have gone past him. “Where are you going?”

“To my seat.”

“You don’t sit here?” He pointed to the seat beside him.

“No, I’m in coach.” Impatient, she had to shift to let another oncoming passenger by.

“Why?”

“Carlo, I’m blocking the aisle.”

“Why are you in coach?”

She let out a sigh of a parent instructing a stubborn child. “Because the publisher is more than happy to spring for a first-class ticket for a bestselling author and celebrity. There’s a different style for publicists. It’s called coach.” Someone bumped a briefcase against her hip. Damn if she wouldn’t have a bruise. “Now if you’d let me go, I could stop being battered and go sit down.”

“First class is almost empty,” he pointed out. “It’s a simple matter to upgrade your ticket.”

She managed to pull her arm away. “Don’t buck the system, Franconi.”

“I always buck the system,” he told her as she walked down the aisle to her seat. Yes, he did like the way she moved.

“Mr. Franconi.” A flight attendant beamed at him. “May I get you a drink after take-off?”

“What’s your white wine?”

When she told him he settled into his seat. A bit pedestrian, he thought, but not entirely revolting. “You noticed the young woman I was speaking with. The honey-colored hair and the stubborn chin.”

Her smile remained bright and helpful though she thought it was a shame that he had his mind on another woman. “Of course, Mr. Franconi.”

“She’ll have a glass of wine, with my compliments.”

Juliet would have considered herself fortunate to have an aisle seat if the man beside her hadn’t already been sprawled out and snoring. Travel was so glamorous, she thought wryly as she slipped her toes out of her shoes. Wasn’t she lucky to have another flight to look forward to the very next night?

Don’t complain, Juliet, she warned herself. When you have your own agency, you can send someone else on the down-and-dirty tours.

The man beside her snored through take-off. On the other side of the aisle a woman held a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other in anticipation of the No Smoking sign blinking off. Juliet took out her pad and began to work.

“Miss?”

Stifling a yawn, Juliet glanced up at the flight attendant. “I’m sorry, I didn’t order a drink.”

“With Mr. Franconi’s compliments.”

Juliet accepted the wine as she looked up toward first class. He was sneaky, she told herself. Trying to get under her defenses by being nice. She let her notebook close as she sighed and sat back.

It was working.

She barely finished the wine before touchdown, but it had relaxed her. Relaxed her enough, she realized, that all she wanted to do was find a soft bed and a dark room. In an hour—or two, she promised herself and gathered up her flight bag and briefcase.

She found Carlo was waiting for her in first class with a very young, very attractive flight attendant. Neither of them seemed the least bit travel weary.

“Ah, Juliet, Deborah knows of a marvelous twenty-four-hour market where we can find everything we need.”

Juliet looked at the willowy brunette and managed a smile. “How convenient.”

He took the flight attendant’s hand and, inevitably Juliet thought, kissed it. “Arrivederci.”

“Don’t waste time, do you?” Juliet commented the moment they deplaned.

“Every moment lived is a moment to be enjoyed.”

“What a quaint little sentiment.” She shifted her bag and aimed for baggage claim. “You should have it tattooed.”

“Where?”

She didn’t bother to look at his grin. “Where it would be most attractive, naturally.”

They had to wait longer than she liked for their luggage, and by then the relaxing effects of the wine had worn off. There was business to be seen to. Because he enjoyed watching her in action, Carlo let her see to it.

She secured a cab, tipped the skycap and gave the driver the name of the hotel. Scooting in beside Carlo, she caught his grin. “Something funny?”

“You’re so efficient, Juliet.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“I never insult women.” He said it so simply, she was absolutely certain it was true. Unlike Juliet, he was completely relaxed and not particularly sleepy. “If this was Rome, we’d go to a dark little café, drink heavy red wine and listen to American music.”

She closed her window because the air was damp and chilly. “The tour interfering with your night life?”

“So far I find myself enjoying the stimulating company.”

“Tomorrow you’re going to find yourself worked to a frazzle.”

Carlo thought of his background and smiled. At nine, he’d spent the hours between school and supper washing dishes and mopping up kitchens. At fifteen he’d waited tables and spent his free time learning of spices and sauces. In Paris he’d combined long, hard study with work as an assistant chef. Even now, his restaurant and clients had him keeping twelve-hour days. Not all of his background was in the neatly typed bio Juliet had in her briefcase.

“I don’t mind work, as long as it interests me. I think you’re the same.”

“I have to work,” she corrected. “But it’s easier when you enjoy it.”

“You’re more successful when you enjoy it. It shows with you. Ambition, Juliet, without a certain joy, is cold, and when achieved leaves a flat taste.”

“But I am ambitious.”

“Oh, yes.” He turned to look at her, starting off flutters she’d thought herself too wise to experience. “But you’re not cold.”

For a moment, she thought she’d be better off if he were wrong. “Here’s the hotel.” She turned from him, relieved to deal with details. “We need you to wait,” she instructed the driver. “We’ll be going out again as soon as we check in. The hotel has a lovely view of the bay, I’m told.” She walked into the lobby with Carlo as the bellboy dealt with their luggage. “It’s a shame we won’t have time to enjoy it. Franconi and Trent,” she told the desk clerk.

The lobby was quiet and empty. Oh, the lucky people who were sleeping in their beds, she thought and pushed at a strand of hair that had come loose.

“We’ll be checking out first thing tomorrow, and we won’t be able to come back, so be sure you don’t leave anything behind in your room.”

“But of course you’ll check anyway.”

She sent him a sidelong look as she signed the form. “Just part of the service.” She pocketed her key. “The luggage can be taken straight up.” Discreetly, she handed the bellboy a folded bill. “Mr. Franconi and I have an errand.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I like that about you.” To Juliet’s surprise, Carlo linked arms with her as they walked back outside.

“What?”

“Your generosity. Many people would’ve slipped out without tipping the bellboy.”

She shrugged. “Maybe it’s easier to be generous when it’s not your money.”

“Juliet.” He opened the door to the waiting cab and gestured her in. “You’re intelligent enough. Couldn’t you—how is it—stiff the bellboy then write the tip down on your expense account?”

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