Lessons Learned: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down. Нора Робертс
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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,