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?”
“Five dollars isn’t worth being dishonest.”
“Nothing’s worth being dishonest.” He gave the driver the name of the market and settled back. “Instinct tells me if you tried to tell a lie—a true lie—your tongue would fall out.”
“Mr. Franconi.” She planted the tongue in question in her cheek. “You forget, I’m in public relations. If I didn’t lie, I’d be out of a job.”
“A true lie,” he corrected.
“Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”
“Perhaps you’re too young to know the variety of truths and lies. Ah, you see? This is why I’m so fond of your country.” Carlo leaned out the window as they approached the big, lighted all-night market. “In America, you want cookies at midnight, you can buy cookies at midnight. Such practicality.”
“Glad to oblige. Wait here,” she instructed the driver, then climbed out opposite Carlo. “I hope you know what you need. I’d hate to get into the studio at dawn and find I had to run out and buy whole peppercorns or something.”
“Franconi knows linguini.” He swung an arm around her shoulder and drew her close as they walked inside. “Your first lesson, my love.”
He led her first to the seafood section where he clucked and muttered and rejected and chose until he had the proper number of clams for two dishes. She’d seen women give as much time and attention to choosing an engagement ring.
Juliet obliged him by pushing the cart as he walked along beside her, looking at everything. And touching. Cans, boxes, bottles—she waited as he picked up, examined and ran his long artist’s fingers over the labels as he read every ingredient. Somewhat amused, she watched his diamond wink in the fluorescent light.
“Amazing what they put in this prepackaged garbage,” he commented as he dropped a box back on the shelf.
“Careful, Franconi, you’re talking about my staple diet.”
“You should be sick.”
“Prepackaged food’s freed the American woman from the kitchen.”
“And destroyed a generation of taste buds.” He chose his spices carefully and without haste. He opened three brands of oregano and sniffed before he settled on one. “I tell you, Juliet, I admire your American convenience, its practicality, but I would rather shop in Rome where I can walk along the stalls and choose vegetables just out of the ground, fish fresh from the sea. Everything isn’t in a can, like the music.”
He didn’t miss an aisle, but Juliet forgot her fatigue in fascination. She’d never seen anyone shop like Carlo Franconi. It was like strolling through a museum with an art student. He breezed by the flour, scowling at each sack. She was afraid for a moment, he’d rip one open and test the contents. “This is a good brand?”
Juliet figured she bought a two-pound bag of flour about once a year. “Well, my mother always used this, but—”
“Good. Always trust a mother.”
“She’s a dreadful cook.”
Carlo set the flour firmly in the basket. “She’s a mother.”
“An odd sentiment from a man no mother can trust.”
“For mothers, I have the greatest respect. I have one myself. Now, we need garlic, mushrooms, peppers. Fresh.”
Carlo walked along the stalls of vegetables, touching, squeezing and sniffing. Cautious, Juliet looked around for clerks, grateful they’d come at midnight rather than midday. “Carlo, you really aren’t supposed to handle everything quite so much.”
“If I don’t handle, how do I know what’s good and what’s just pretty?” He sent her a quick grin over his shoulder. “I told you, food was much like a woman. They put mushrooms in this box with wrap over it.” Disgusted, he tore the wrapping off before Juliet could stop him.
“Carlo! You can’t open it.”
“I want only what I want. You can see, some are too small, too skimpy.” Patiently, he began to pick out the mushrooms that didn’t suit him.
“Then we’ll throw out what you don’t want when we get back to the hotel.” Keeping an eye out for the night manager, she began to put the discarded mushrooms back in the box. “Buy two boxes if you need them.”
“It’s a waste. You’d waste your money?”
“The publisher’s money,” she said quickly, as she put the broken box into the basket. “He’s glad to waste it. Thrilled.”
He paused for a moment, then shook his head. “No, no, I can’t do it.” But when he started to reach into the basket, Juliet moved and blocked his way.
“Carlo, if you break open another package, we’re going to be arrested.”
“Better to go to jail than to buy mushrooms that will do me no good in the morning.”
She grinned at him and stood firm. “No, it’s not.”
He ran a fingertip over her lips before she could react. “For you then, but against my better judgment.”
“Grazie. Do you have everything now?”
His gaze followed the path his finger had traced just as slowly. “No.”
“Well, what next?”
He stepped closer and because she hadn’t expected it, she found herself trapped between him and the grocery cart. “Tonight is for first lessons,” he murmured then ran his hands along either side of her face.
She should laugh. Juliet told herself it was ludicrous that he’d make a pass at her under the bright lights of the vegetable section of an all-night market. Carlo Franconi, a man who’d made seduction as much an art as his cooking wouldn’t choose such a foolish setting.
But she saw what was in his eyes, and she didn’t laugh.
Some women, he thought as he felt her skin soft and warm under his hands, were made to be taught slowly. Very slowly. Some women were born knowing; others were born wondering.
With Juliet, he would take time and care because he understood. Or thought he did.
She didn’t resist, but her lips had parted in surprise. He touched his to hers gently, not in question, but with patience. Her eyes had already given him the answer.
He didn’t hurry. It didn’t matter to him where they were, that the lights were bright and the music manufactured. It only mattered that he explore the tastes that waited for him. So he tasted again, without pressure. And again.
She found she was bracing herself against the cart with her fingers wrapped around the metal. Why didn’t she walk away? Why didn’t she just brush him aside and stalk out of the store? He wasn’t holding her there. On her face his hands were light, clever but not insistent. She could move. She could go. She should.
She didn’t.
His thumbs trailed under her chin, tracing there. He felt the pulse, rapid and jerky, and kept his hold easy. He meant to keep it so, but even he hadn’t guessed her taste would be so unique.
Neither of them knew who took the next step. Perhaps they took it together. His mouth wasn’t so light on hers any longer, nor was hers so passive. They met, triumphantly, and clung.
Her fingers weren’t wrapped around the cart now, but gripping his shoulders, holding him closer. Their bodies fit. Perfectly. It should have warned her. Giving without thought was something she never did, until now. In giving, she took, but she never thought to balance the ledger.
His mouth was warm, full. His hands never left her face, but they were firm now. She couldn’t have walked away so easily. She wouldn’t have walked away at all.
He’d thought he had known everything there was to expect from a woman—fire, ice, temptation. But a lesson was being taught to both. Had he ever felt this warmth before? This kind of sweetness? No, because if he had, he’d remember. No tastes, no sensations ever experienced were forgotten.
He knew what it was to desire a woman—many women—but he hadn’t known what it was to crave. For a moment, he filled himself with the sensation. He wouldn’t forget.
But he knew that a cautious man takes a step back and a second breath before he steps off a cliff. With a murmur in his own language, he did.
Shaken, Juliet gripped the cart again for balance. Cursing herself for an idiot, she waited for her breath to even out.
“Very nice,” Carlo said quietly and ran a finger along her cheek. “Very nice, Juliet.”
An eighties woman, she reminded herself as her heart thudded. Strong, independent, sophisticated. “I’m so glad you approve.”
He took her hand before she could slam the cart down the aisle. Her skin was still warm, he noted, her pulse still unsteady. If they’d been alone… Perhaps it was best this way. For now. “It isn’t a matter of approval, cara mia, but of appreciation.”
“From now on, just appreciate me for my work, okay?” A jerk, and she freed herself of him and shoved the cart away. Without regard for the care he’d taken in selecting them, Juliet began to drop the contents of the cart on the conveyor belt at checkout.
“You didn’t object,” he reminded her. He’d needed to find his balance as well, he realized. Now he leaned against the cart and gave her a cocky grin.
“I didn’t want a scene.”
He took the peppers from the basket himself before she could wound them. “Ah, you’re learning about lies.”
When her head came up, he was surprised her eyes didn’t bore right through him. “You wouldn’t know truth if you fell into it.”
“Darling, mind the mushrooms,” he warned her as she swung the package onto the belt. “We don’t want them bruised. I’ve a special affection for them now.”
She swore at him, loudly enough that the checker’s eyes widened. Carlo continued to grin and thought about lesson two.
He thought they should have it soon. Very soon.