Nora Roberts - Lessons Learned - the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

“Would you care to do the interview for me?” he asked so politely she glanced up.

So, he could be cranky, she mused. “You handle interviews beautifully, Mr. Franconi, but—”

“Carlo.” Before she could open her notebook, he had his hand on her wrist. “It’s Carlo, and put the damn notes away for ten minutes. Tell me, my very organized Juliet Trent, why are we here together?”

She started to move her hand but his grip was firmer than she’d thought. For the second time, she got the full impression of power, strength and determination. “To publicize your book.”

“Today went well, sì?”

“Yes, so far—”

“Today went well,” he said again and began to annoy her with the frequency of his interruptions.

“I’ll go on this local news show, talk for a few minutes, then have this necessary business dinner when I would much rather have a bottle of wine and a steak in my room. With you. Alone. Then I could see you without your proper little business suit and your proper little business manner.”

She wouldn’t permit herself to shudder. She wouldn’t permit herself to react in any way. “Business is what we’re here for. It’s all I’m interested in.”

“That may be.” His agreement was much too easy. In direct contrast, he moved his hand to the back of her neck, gently, but not so gently she could move aside. “But we have an hour before business begins again. Don’t lecture me on timetables.”

The limo smelled of leather, she realized all at once. Of leather and wealth and Carlo. As casually as possible, she sipped from her glass. “Timetables, as you pointed out yourself this morning, are part of my job.”

“You have an hour off,” he told her, lifting a brow before she could speak. “So relax. Your feet hurt, so take your shoes off and drink your cognac.” He set down his own drink, then moved her briefcase to the floor so there was nothing between them. “Relax,” he said again but wasn’t displeased that she’d stiffened. “I don’t intend to make love with you in the back of a car. This time.” He smiled as temper flared in her eyes because he’d seen doubt and excitement as well. “One day, one day soon, I’ll find the proper moment for that, the proper place, the proper mood.”

He leaned closer, so that he could just feel her breath flutter on his lips. She’d swipe at him now, he knew, if he took the next step. He might enjoy the battle. The color that ran along her cheekbones hadn’t come from a tube or pot, but from passion. The look in her eyes was very close to a dare. She expected him to move an inch closer, to press her back against the seat with his mouth firm on hers. She was waiting for him, poised, ready.

He smiled while his lips did no more than hover until he knew the tension in her had built to match the tension in him. He let his gaze shift down to her mouth so that he could imagine the taste, the texture, the sweetness. Her chin stayed lifted even as he brushed a thumb over it.

He didn’t care to do the expected. In a long, easy move, he leaned back, crossed his feet at the ankles and closed his eyes.

“Take off your shoes,” he said again. “My schedule and yours should merge very well.”

Then, to her astonishment, he was asleep. Not feigning it, she realized, but sound asleep, as if he’d just flicked a switch.

With a click, she set her half-full glass down and folded her arms. Angry, she thought. Damn right she was angry because he hadn’t kissed her. Not because she wanted him to, she told herself as she stared out the tinted window. But because he’d denied her the opportunity to show her claws.

She was beginning to think she’d love drawing some Italian blood.

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.