Читать книгу Best Of Nora Roberts Books 1-6 - Нора Робертс - Страница 26

There were times when you knew everything could go wrong, should go wrong, and probably would go wrong, but somehow it didn’t. Then there were the other times.

Perhaps Juliet was grouchy because she’d spent another restless night when she couldn’t afford to lose any sleep. That little annoyance she could lay smack at Carlo’s door, even though it didn’t bring any satisfaction. But even if she’d been rested and cheerful, the ordeal at Gallegher’s Department Store would have had her steaming. With a good eight hours’ sleep, she might have kept things from boiling over.

First, Carlo insisted on coming with her two hours before he was needed. Or wanted. Juliet didn’t care to spend the first two hours of what was bound to be a long, hectic day with a smug, self-assured, egocentric chef who looked as though he’d just come back from two sun-washed weeks on the Riviera.

Obviously, he didn’t need any sleep, she mused as they took the quick, damp cab ride from hotel to mall.

Whatever the tourist bureau had to say about sunny California, it was raining—big, steady drops of it that immediately made the few minutes she’d taken to fuss with her hair worthless.

Prepared to enjoy the ride, Carlo looked out the window. He liked the way the rain plopped in puddles. It didn’t matter to him that he’d heard it start that morning, just past four. “It’s a nice sound,” he decided. “It makes things more quiet, more…subtle, don’t you think?”

Breaking away from her own gloomy view of the rain, Juliet turned to him. “What?”

“The rain.” Carlo noted she looked a bit hollow-eyed. Good. She hadn’t been unaffected. “Rain changes the look of things.”

Normally, she would have agreed. Juliet never minded dashing for the subway in a storm or strolling along Fifth Avenue in a drizzle. Today, she considered it her right to look on the dark side. “This one might lower the attendance in your little demonstration by ten percent.”

“So?” He gave an easy shrug as the driver swung into the parking lot of the mall.

What she didn’t need at that moment was careless acceptance. “Carlo, the purpose of all this is exposure.”

He patted her hand. “You’re only thinking of numbers. You should think instead of my pasta con pesto. In a few hours, everyone else will.”

“I don’t think about food the way you do,” she muttered. It still amazed her that he’d lovingly prepared the first linguini at 6:00 A.M., then the second two hours later for the camera. Both dishes had been an exquisite example of Italian cooking at its finest. He’d looked more like a film star on holiday than a working chef, which was precisely the image Juliet had wanted to project. His spot on the morning show had been perfect. That only made Juliet more pessimistic about the rest of the day. “It’s hard to think about food at all on this kind of a schedule.”

“That’s because you didn’t eat anything this morning.”

“Linguini for breakfast doesn’t suit me.”

“My linguini is always suitable.”

Juliet gave a mild snort as she stepped from the cab into the rain. Though she made a dash for the doors, Carlo was there ahead of her, opening one. “Thanks.” Inside, she ran a hand through her hair and wondered how soon she could come by another cup of coffee. “You don’t need to do anything for another two hours.” And he’d definitely be in the way while things were being set up on the third floor.

“So, I’ll wander.” With his hands in his pockets, he looked around. As luck would have it, they’d entered straight into the lingerie department. “I find your American malls fascinating.”

“I’m sure.” Her voice was dry as he fingered the border of lace on a slinky camisole. “You can come upstairs with me first, if you like.”

“No, no.” A saleswoman with a face that demanded a second look adjusted two negligees and beamed at him. “I think I’ll just roam around and see what your shops have to offer.” He beamed back. “So far, I’m charmed.”

She watched the exchange and tried not to clench her teeth. “All right, then, if you’ll just be sure to—”

“Be in Special Events on the third floor at eleven-forty-five,” he finished. In his friendly, casual way, he kissed her forehead. She wondered why he could touch her like a cousin and make her think of a lover. “Believe me, Juliet, nothing you say to me is forgotten.” He took her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles. That was definitely not the touch of a cousin. “I’ll buy you a present.”

“It isn’t necessary.”

“A pleasure. Things that are necessary are rarely a pleasure.”

Juliet disengaged her hand while trying not to dwell on the pleasure he could offer. “Please, don’t be later than eleven-forty-five, Carlo.”

“Timing, mi amore, is something I excel in.”

I’ll bet, she thought as she started toward the escalator. She’d have bet a week’s pay he was already flirting with the lingerie clerk.

It only took ten minutes in Special Events for Juliet to forget Carlo’s penchant for romancing anything feminine.

The little assistant with the squeaky voice was still in charge as her boss continued his battle with the flu. She was young, cheerleader pretty and just as pert. She was also in completely over her head.

“Elise,” Juliet began because it was still early on enough for her to have some optimism. “Mr. Franconi’s going to need a working area in the kitchen department. Is everything set?”

“Oh, yes.” Elise gave Juliet a toothy, amiable grin. “I’m getting a nice folding table from Sporting Goods.”

Diplomacy, Juliet reminded herself, was one of the primary rules of PR. “I’m afraid we’ll need something a bit sturdier. Perhaps one of the islands where Mr. Franconi could prepare the dish and still face the audience. Your supervisor and I had discussed it.”

“Oh, is that what he meant?” Elise looked blank for a moment, then brightened. Juliet began to think dark thoughts about mellow California. “Well, why not?”

“Why not,” Juliet agreed. “We’ve kept the dish Mr. Franconi is to prepare as simple as possible. You do have all the ingredients listed?”

“Oh, yes. It sounds just delicious. I’m a vegetarian, you know.”

Of course she was, Juliet thought. Yogurt was probably the high point of her day. “Elise, I’m sorry if it seems I’m rushing you along, but I really need to work out the setup as soon as possible.”

“Oh, sure.” All cooperation, Elise flashed her straight-toothed smile. “What do you want to know?”

Juliet offered up a prayer. “How sick is Mr. Francis?” she asked, thinking of the levelheaded, businesslike man she had dealt with before.

“Just miserable.” Elise swung back her straight California-blond hair. “He’ll be out the rest of the week.”

No help there. Accepting the inevitable, Juliet gave Elise her straight, no-nonsense look. “All right, what have you got so far?”

“Well, we’ve taken a new blender and some really lovely bowls from Housewares.”

Juliet nearly relaxed. “That’s fine. And the range?”

Elise smiled. “Range?”

“The range Mr. Franconi needs to cook the spaghetti for this dish. It’s on the list.”

“Oh. We’d need elecricity for that, wouldn’t we?”

“Yes.” Juliet folded her hands to keep them from clenching. “We would. For the blender, too.”

“I guess I’d better check with maintenance.”

“I guess you’d better.” Diplomacy, tact, Juliet reminded herself as her fingers itched for Elise’s neck. “Maybe I’ll just go over to the kitchen layouts and see which one would suit Mr. Franconi best.”

“Terrific. He might want to do his interview right there.”

Juliet had taken two steps before she stopped and turned back. “Interview?”

“With the food editor of the Sun. She’ll be here at eleven-thirty.”

Calm, controlled, Juliet pulled out her itinerary of the San Diego stop. She skimmed it, though she knew every word by heart. “I don’t seem to have anything listed here.”

“It came up at the last minute. I called your hotel at nine, but you’d already checked out.”

“I see.” Should she have expected Elise to phone the television studio and leave a message? Juliet looked into the personality-plus smile. No, she supposed not. Resigned, she checked her watch. The setup could be dealt with in time if she started immediately. Carlo would just have to be paged. “How do I call mall management?”

“Oh, you can call from my office. Can I do anything?”

Juliet thought of and rejected several things, none of which were kind. “I’d like some coffee, two sugars.”

She rolled up her sleeves and went to work.

By eleven, Juliet had the range, the island and the ingredients Carlo had specified neatly arranged. It had taken only one call, and some finesse, to acquire two vivid flower arrangements from a shop in the mall.

She was on her third coffee and considering a fourth when Carlo wandered over. “Thank God.” She drained the last from the styrofoam cup. “I thought I was going to have to send out a search party.”

“Search party?” Idly he began looking around the kitchen set. “I came when I heard the page.”

“You’ve been paged five times in the last hour.”

“Yes?” He smiled as he looked back at her. Her hair was beginning to stray out of her neat bun. He might have stepped off the cover of Gentlemen’s Quarterly. “I only just heard. But then, I spent some time in the most fantastic record store. Such speakers. Quadraphonic.”

“That’s nice.” Juliet dragged a hand through her already frazzled hair.

“There’s a problem?”

“Her name’s Elise. I’ve come very close to murdering her half a dozen times. If she smiles at me again, I just might.” Juliet gestured with her hand to brush it off. This was no time for fantasies, no matter how satisfying. “It seems things were a bit disorganized here.”

“But you’ve seen to that.” He bent over to examine the range as a driver might a car before Le Mans. “Excellent.”

“You can be glad you’ve got electricity rather than your imagination,” she muttered. “You have an interview at eleven-thirty with a food editor, Marjorie Ballister, from the Sun.”

He only moved his shoulders and examined the blender. “All right.”

“If I’d known it was coming up, I’d have bought a paper so we could have seen her column and gauged her style. As it is—”

“Non importante. You worry too much, Juliet.”

She could have kissed him. Strictly in gratitude, but she could have kissed him. Considering that unwise, she smiled instead. “I appreciate your attitude, Carlo. After the last hour of dealing with the inept, the insane and the unbearable, it’s a relief to have someone take things in stride.”

“Franconi always takes things in stride.” Juliet started to sink into a chair for a five-minute break.

“Dio! What joke is this?” She was standing again and looking down at the little can he held in his hand. “Who would sabotage my pasta?”

“Sabotage?” Had he found a bomb in the can? “What are you talking about?”

“This!” He shook the can at her. “What do you call this?”

“It’s basil,” she began, a bit unsteady when she lifted her gaze and caught the dark, furious look in his eyes. “It’s on your list.”

“Basil!” He went off in a stream of Italian. “You dare call this basil?”

Soothe, Juliet reminded herself. It was part of the job. “Carlo, it says basil right on the can.”

“On the can.” He said something short and rude as he dropped it into her hand. “Where in your clever notes does it say Franconi uses basil from a can?”

“It just says basil,” she said between clenched teeth. “B-a-s-i-l.”

“Fresh. On your famous list you’ll see fresh. Accidenti! Only a philistine uses basil from a can for pasta con pesto. Do I look like a philistine?”

She wouldn’t tell him what he looked like. Later, she might privately admit that temper was spectacular on him. Dark and unreasonable, but spectacular. “Carlo, I realize things aren’t quite as perfect here as both of us would like, but—”

“I don’t need perfect,” he tossed at her. “I can cook in a sewer if I have to, but not without the proper ingredients.”

She swallowed—though it went down hard—pride, temper and opinion. She only had fifteen minutes left until the interview. “I’m sorry, Carlo. If we could just compromise on this—”

“Compromise?” When the word came out like an obscenity, she knew she’d lost the battle. “Would you ask Picasso to compromise on a painting?”

Juliet stuck the can into her pocket. “How much fresh basil do you need?”

“Three ounces.”

“You’ll have it. Anything else?”

“A mortar and pestle, marble.”

Juliet checked her watch. She had forty-five minutes to handle it. “Okay. If you’ll do the interview right here, I’ll take care of this and we’ll be ready for the demonstration at noon.” She sent up a quick prayer that there was a gourmet shop within ten miles. “Remember to get in the book title and the next stop on the tour. We’ll be hitting another Gallegher’s in Portland, so it’s a good tie-in. Here.” Digging into her bag she brought out an eight-by-ten glossy. “Take the extra publicity shot for her in case I don’t get back. Elise didn’t mention a photographer.”

“You’d like to chop and dice that bouncy little woman,” Carlo observed, noting that Juliet was swearing very unprofessionally under her breath.

“You bet I would.” She dug in again. “Take a copy of the book. The reporter can keep it if necessary.”

“I can handle the reporter,” he told her calmly enough. “You handle the basil.”

It seemed luck was with her when Juliet only had to make three calls before she found a shop that carried what she needed. The frenzied trip in the rain didn’t improve her disposition, nor did the price of a marble pestle. Another glance at her watch reminded her she didn’t have time for temperament. Carrying what she considered Carlo’s eccentricities, she ran back to the waiting cab.

At exactly ten minutes to twelve, dripping wet, Juliet rode up to the third floor of Gallegher’s. The first thing she saw was Carlo, leaning back in a cozy wicker dinette chair laughing with a plump, pretty middle-aged woman with a pad and pencil. He looked dashing, amiable and most of all, dry. She wondered how it would feel to grind the pestle into his ear.

“Ah, Juliet.” All good humor, Carlo rose as she walked up to the table. “You must meet Marjorie. She tells me she’s eaten my pasta in my restaurant in Rome.”

“Loved every sinful bite. How do you do? You must be the Juliet Trent Carlo bragged about.”

Bragged about? No, she wouldn’t be pleased. But Juliet set her bag on the table and offered her hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I hope you can stay for the demonstration.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” She twinkled at Carlo. “Or a sample of Franconi’s pasta.”

Juliet felt a little wave of relief. Something would be salvaged out of the disaster. Unless she was way off the mark, Carlo was about to be given a glowing write-up.

Carlo was already taking the little sack of basil out of the bag. “Perfect,” he said after one sniff. “Yes, yes, this is excellent.” He tested the pestle weight and size. “You’ll see over at our little stage a crowd is gathering,” he said easily to Juliet. “So we moved here to talk, knowing you’d see us as soon as you stepped off the escalator.”

“Very good.” They’d both handled things well, she decided. It was best to take satisfaction from that. A quick glance showed her that Elise was busy chatting away with a small group of people. Not a worry in the world, Juliet thought nastily. Well, she’d already resigned herself to that. Five minutes in the rest room for some quick repairs, she calculated, and she could keep everything on schedule.

“You have everything you need now, Carlo?”

He caught the edge of annoyance, and her hand, smiling brilliantly. “Grazie, cara mia. You’re wonderful.”

Perhaps she’d rather have snarled, but she returned the smile. “Just doing my job. You have a few more minutes before we should begin. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just take care of some things and be right back.”

Juliet kept up a brisk, dignified walk until she was out of sight, then made a mad dash for the rest room, pulling out her brush as she went in.

“What did I tell you?” Carlo held the bag of basil in his palm to judge the weight. “She’s fantastic.”

“And quite lovely,” Marjorie agreed. “Even when she’s damp and annoyed.”

With a laugh, Carlo leaned forward to grasp both of Marjorie’s hands. He was a man who touched, always. “A woman of perception. I knew I liked you.”

She gave a quick dry chuckle, and for a moment felt twenty years younger. And twenty pounds lighter. It was a talent of his that he was generous with. “One last question, Carlo, before your fantastic Ms. Trent rushes you off. Are you still likely to fly off to Cairo or Cannes to prepare one of your dishes for an appreciative client and a stunning fee?”

“There was a time this was routine.” He was silent a moment, thinking of the early years of his success. There’d been mad, glamorous trips to this country and to that, preparing fettuccine for a prince or cannelloni for a tycoon. It had been a heady, spectacular time.

Then he’d opened his restaurant and had learned that the solid continuity of his own place was so much more fulfilling than the flash of the single dish.

“From time to time I would still make such trips. Two months ago there was Count Lequine’s birthday. He’s an old client, an old friend, and he’s fond of my spaghetti. But my restaurant is more rewarding to me.” He gave her a quizzical look as a thought occurred to him. “Perhaps I’m settling down?”

“A pity you didn’t decide to settle in the States.” She closed her pad. “I guarantee if you opened a Franconi’s right here in San Diego, you’d have clientele flying in from all over the country.”

He took the idea, weighed it in much the same way he had the basil, and put it in a corner of his mind. “An interesting thought.”

“And a fascinating interview. Thank you.” It pleased her that he rose as she did and took her hand. She was a tough outspoken feminist who appreciated genuine manners and genuine charm. “I’m looking forward to a taste of your pasta. I’ll just ease over and try to get a good seat. Here comes your Ms. Trent.”

Marjorie had never considered herself particularly romantic, but she’d always believed where there was smoke, there was fire. She watched the way Carlo turned his head, saw the change in his eyes and the slight tilt of his mouth. There was fire all right, she mused. You only had to be within five feet to feel the heat.

Between the hand dryer and her brush, Juliet had managed to do something with her hair. A touch here, a dab there, and her makeup was back in shape. Carrying her raincoat over her arm, she looked competent and collected. She was ready to admit she’d had one too many cups of coffee.

“Your interview went well?”

“Yes.” He noticed, and approved, that she’d taken the time to dab on her scent. “Perfectly.”

“Good. You can fill me in later. We’d better get started.”

“In a moment.” He reached in his pocket. “I told you I’d buy you a present.”

There was a flutter of surprised pleasure she tried to ignore. Just wired from the coffee, she told herself. “Carlo, I told you not to. We don’t have time—”

“There’s always time.” He opened the little box himself and drew out a small gold heart with an arrow of diamonds running through it. She’d been expecting something along the line of a box of chocolates.

“Oh, I—” Words were her business, but she’d lost them. “Carlo, really, you can’t—”

“Never say can’t to Franconi,” he murmured and began to fasten the pin to her lapel. He did so smoothly, with no fumbling. After all, he was a man accustomed to such feminine habits. “It’s very delicate, I thought, very elegant. So it suits you.” Narrowing his eyes, he stood back, then nodded. “Yes, I was sure it would.”

It wasn’t possible to remember her crazed search for fresh basil when he was smiling at her in just that way. It was barely possible to remember how furious she was over the lackadaisical setup for the demonstration. Instinctively, she put up her hand and ran a finger over the pin. “It’s lovely.” Her lips curved, easily, sweetly, as he thought they didn’t do often enough. “Thank you.”

He couldn’t count or even remember the number of presents he’d given, or the different styles of gratitude he’d received. Somehow, he was already sure this would be one he wouldn’t forget.

“Prègo.”

“Ah, Ms. Trent?”

Juliet glanced over to see Elise watching her. Present or no present, it tightened her jaw. “Yes, Elise. You haven’t met Mr. Franconi yet.”

“Elise directed me from the office to you when I answered the page,” Carlo said easily, more than appreciating Juliet’s aggravation.

“Yes.” She flashed her touchdown smile. “I thought your cookbook looked just super, Mr. Franconi. Everyone’s dying to watch you cook something.” She opened a little pad of paper with daisies on the cover. “I thought you could spell what it is so I could tell them when I announce you.”

“Elise, I have everything.” Juliet managed charm and diplomacy to cover a firm nudge out the door. “Why don’t I just announce Mr. Franconi?”

“Great.” She beamed. Juliet could think of no other word for it. “That’ll be a lot easier.”

“We’ll get started now, Carlo, if you’d just step over there behind those counters, I’ll go give the announcements.” Without waiting for an assent, she gathered up the basil, mortar and pestle and walked over to the area that she’d prepared. In the most natural of moves, she set everything down and turned to the audience. Three hundred, she judged. Maybe even over. Not bad for a rainy day in a department store.

“Good afternoon.” Her voice was pleasant and well pitched. There’d be no need for a microphone in the relatively small space. Thank God, because Elise had botched that minor detail as well. “I want to thank you all for coming here today, and to thank Gallegher’s for providing such a lovely setting for the demonstration.”

From a few feet away, Carlo leaned on a counter and watched her. She was, as he’d told the reporter, fantastic. No one would guess she’d been up and on her feet since dawn.

“We all like to eat.” This drew the murmured laughter she’d expected. “But I’ve been told by an expert that eating is more than a basic necessity, it’s an experience. Not all of us like to cook, but the same expert told me that cooking is both art and magic. This afternoon, the expert, Carlo Franconi, will share with you the art, the magic and the experience with his own pasta con pesto.”

Juliet started the applause herself, but it was picked up instantly. As Carlo stepped out, she melted back. Center stage was his the moment he stepped on it.

“It’s a fortunate man,” he began, “who has the opportunity to cook for so many beautiful women. Some of you have husbands?” At the question there was a smatter of chuckles and the lifting of hands. “Ah, well.” He gave a very European shrug. “Then I must be content to cook.”

She knew Carlo had chosen that particular dish because it took little time in preparation. After the first five minutes, Juliet was certain not one member of the audience would have budged if he’d chosen something that took hours. She wasn’t yet convinced cooking was magic, but she was certain he was.

His hands were as skilled and certain as a surgeon’s, his tongue as glib as a politician’s. She watched him measure, grate, chop and blend and found herself just as entertained as she might have been with a well produced one-act play.

One woman was bold enough to ask a question. It opened the door and dozens of others followed. Juliet needn’t have worried that the noise and conversations would disturb him. Obviously he thrived on the interaction. He wasn’t, she decided, simply doing his job or fulfilling an obligation. He was enjoying himself.

Calling one woman up with him, Carlo joked about all truly great chefs requiring both inspiration and assistance. He told her to stir the spaghetti, made a fuss out of showing her the proper way to stir by putting his hand over hers and undoubtedly sold another ten books then and there.

Juliet had to grin. He’d done it for fun, not for sales. He was fun, Juliet realized, even if he did take his basil too seriously. He was sweet. Unconsciously, she began to toy with the gold and diamonds on her lapel. Uncommonly considerate and uncommonly demanding. Simply uncommon.

As she watched him laugh with his audience, something began to melt inside of her. She sighed with it, dreaming. There were certain men that prompted a woman, even a practical woman, to dream.

One of the women seated closer to her leaned toward a companion. “Good God, he’s the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. He could keep a dozen lovers patiently waiting.”

Juliet caught herself and dropped her hand. Yes, he could keep a dozen lovers patiently waiting. She was sure he did. Deliberately she tucked her hands in the pockets of her skirt. She’d be better off remembering she was encouraging this public image, even exploiting it. She’d be better off remembering that Carlo himself had told her he needed no imagery.

If she started believing half the things he said to her, she might just find herself patiently waiting. The thought of that was enough to stop the melting. Waiting didn’t fit into her schedule.

When every last bite of pasta had been consumed, and every last fan had been spoken with, Carlo allowed himself to think of the pleasures of sitting down with a cool glass of wine.

Juliet already had his jacket.

“Well done, Carlo.” As she spoke, she began to help him into it. “You can leave California with the satisfaction of knowing you were a smashing success.”

He took her raincoat from her when she would’ve shrugged into it herself. “The airport.”

She smiled at his tone, understanding. “We’ll pick up our bags in the holding room at the hotel on the way. Look at it this way. You can sit back and sleep all the way to Portland if you like.”

Because the thought had a certain appeal, he cooperated. They rode down to the first floor and went out the west entrance where Juliet had told the cab to wait. She let out a quick sigh of relief when it was actually there.

“We get into Portland early?”

“Seven.” Rain splattered against the cab’s windshield. Juliet told herself to relax. Planes took off safely in the rain every day. “You have a spot on People of Interest, but not until nine-thirty. That means we can have breakfast at a civilized hour and go over the scheduling.”

Quickly, efficiently, she checked off her San Diego list and noted everything had been accomplished. She had time for a quick, preliminary glance at her Portland schedule before the cab pulled up to the hotel.

“Just wait here,” she ordered both the driver and Carlo. She was up and out of the cab and, because they were running it close, managed to have the bags installed in the trunk within seven minutes. Carlo knew because it amused him to time her.

“You, too, can sleep all the way to Portland.”

She settled in beside him again. “No, I’ve got some work to do. The nice thing about planes is that I can pretend I’m in my office and forget I’m thousands of feet off the ground.”

“I didn’t realize flying bothered you.”

“Only when I’m in the air.” Juliet sat back and closed her eyes, thinking to relax for a moment. The next thing she knew, she was being kissed awake.

Disoriented, she sighed and wrapped her arms around Carlo’s neck. It was soothing, so sweet. And then the heat began to rise.

“Cara.” She’d surprised him, but that had brought its own kind of pleasure. “Such a pity to wake you.”

“Hmm?” When she opened her eyes, his face was close, her mouth still warm, her heart still thudding. She jerked back and fumbled with the door handle. “That was uncalled for.”

“True enough.” Leisurely, Carlo stepped out into the rain. “But it was illuminating. I’ve already paid the driver, Juliet,” he continued when she started to dig into her purse. “The baggage is checked. We board from gate five.” Taking her arm, and his big leather case, he led her into the terminal.

“You didn’t have to take care of all that.” She’d have pulled her arm away if she’d had the energy. Or so she told herself. “The reason I’m here is to—”

“Promote my book,” he finished easily. “If it makes you feel better, I’ve been known to do the same when I traveled with your predecessor.”

The very fact that it did, made her feel foolish as well. “I appreciate it, Carlo. It’s not that I mind you lending a hand, it’s that I’m not used to it. You’d be surprised how many authors are either helpless or careless on the road.”

“You’d be surprised how many chefs are temperamental and rude.”

She thought of the basil and grinned. “No!”

“Oh, yes.” And though he’d read her thoughts perfectly, his tone remained grave. “Always flying off the handle, swearing, throwing things. It leads to a bad reputation for all of us. Here, they’re boarding. If only they have a decent Bordeaux.”

Juliet stifled a yawn as she followed him through. “I’ll need my boarding pass, Carlo.”

“I have it.” He flashed them both for the flight attendant and nudged Juliet ahead. “Do you want the window or the aisle?”

“I need my pass to see which I’ve got.”

“We have 2A and B. Take your pick.”

Someone pushed past her and bumped her solidly. It brought a sinking sensation of déjà vu. “Carlo, I’m in coach, so—”

“No, your tickets are changed. Take the window.”

Before she could object, he’d maneuvered her over and slipped in beside her. “What do you mean my ticket’s been changed? Carlo, I have to get in the back before I cause a scene.”

“Your seat’s here.” After handing Juliet her boarding pass he stretched out his legs. “Dio, what a relief.”

Frowning, Juliet studied her stub—2A. “I don’t know how they could’ve made a mistake like this. I’d better see to it right away.”

“There’s no mistake. You should fasten your belt,” he advised, then did so himself. “I changed your tickets for the remaining flights on the tour.”

Juliet reached to undo the clasp he’d just secured. “You—but you can’t.”

“I told you, don’t say can’t to Franconi.” Satisfied with her belt, he dealt with his own. “You work as hard as I do—why should you travel in tourist?”

“Because I’m paid to work. Carlo, let me out so I can fix this before we take off.”

“No.” For the first time, his voice was blunt and final. “I prefer your company to that of a stranger or an empty seat.” When he turned his head, his eyes were like his voice. “I want you here. Leave it.”

Juliet opened her mouth and closed it again. Professionally, she was on shaky ground either direction she went. She was supposed to see to his needs and wants within reason. Personally, she’d counted on the distance, at least during flight time, to keep her balanced. With Carlo, even a little distance could help.

He was being kind, she knew. Considerate. But he was also being stubborn. There was always a diplomatic way to handle such things.

She gave him a patient smile. “Carlo—”

He stopped her by simply closing his mouth over hers, quietly, completely and irresistibly. He held her there a moment, one hand on her cheek, the other over the fingers which had frozen in her lap. Juliet felt the floor tilt and her head go light.

We’re taking off, she thought dimly, but knew the plane hadn’t left the ground.

His tongue touched hers briefly, teasingly; then it was only his lips again. After brushing a hand through her hair, he leaned back. “Now, go back to sleep awhile,” he advised. “This isn’t the place I’d choose to seduce you.”

Sometimes, Juliet decided, silence was the best diplomacy. Without another word, she closed her eyes and slept.