Best Of Nora Roberts Books 1-6. Nora Roberts
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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