Lessons Learned, Page 2

  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.