In his head, he went over the ingredients for his linguini con vongole biance. True, the American market would have some of the necessities, but he considered himself fortunate that he had a few of his own in the case at his feet. The clam sauce was his specialty, not to be taken lightly.
“Is shopping for groceries at midnight part of a publicist’s job?”
She smiled at him. Carlo thought it was not only lovely, but perhaps the first time she’d smiled at him and meant it. “On the road, anything that needs to be done is the publicist’s job. So, if you’ll run through the ingredients, I’ll write them down.”
“Not necessary.” He swirled and sipped his brandy. “I’ll go with you.”
“You need your sleep.” She was already rummaging for a pencil. “Even with a quick nap on the plane you’re only going to get about five hours.”
“So are you,” he pointed out. When she started to speak again, he lifted his brow in that strange silent way he had of interrupting. “Perhaps I don’t trust an amateur to pick out my clams.”
Juliet watched him as she drank. Or perhaps he was a gentleman, she mused. Despite his reputation with women, and a healthy dose of vanity, he was one of that rare breed of men who knew how to be considerate of women without patronizing them. She decided to forgive him for Butch after all.
“Drink up, Franconi.” And she toasted him, perhaps in friendship. “We’ve a plane to catch.”
“Salute.” He lifted his glass to her.
They didn’t argue again until they were on the plane.
Grumbling only a little, Juliet helped him stow his fancy box of tools under the seat. “It’s a short flight.” She checked her watch and calculated the shopping would indeed go beyond midnight. She’d have to take some of the vile tasting brewer’s yeast in the morning. “I’ll see you when we land.”
He took her wrist when she would have gone past him. “Where are you going?”
“To my seat.”
“You don’t sit here?” He pointed to the seat beside him.
“No, I’m in coach.” Impatient, she had to shift to let another oncoming passenger by.
“Why?”
“Carlo, I’m blocking the aisle.”
“Why are you in coach?”
She let out a sigh of a parent instructing a stubborn child. “Because the publisher is more than happy to spring for a first-class ticket for a bestselling author and celebrity. There’s a different style for publicists. It’s called coach.” Someone bumped a briefcase against her hip. Damn if she wouldn’t have a bruise. “Now if you’d let me go, I could stop being battered and go sit down.”
“First class is almost empty,” he pointed out. “It’s a simple matter to upgrade your ticket.”
She managed to pull her arm away. “Don’t buck the system, Franconi.”
“I always buck the system,” he told her as she walked down the aisle to her seat. Yes, he did like the way she moved.
“Mr. Franconi.” A flight attendant beamed at him. “May I get you a drink after take-off?”
“What’s your white wine?”
When she told him he settled into his seat. A bit pedestrian, he thought, but not entirely revolting. “You noticed the young woman I was speaking with. The honey-colored hair and the stubborn chin.”
Her smile remained bright and helpful though she thought it was a shame that he had his mind on another woman. “Of course, Mr. Franconi.”
“She’ll have a glass of wine, with my compliments.”
Juliet would have considered herself fortunate to have an aisle seat if the man beside her hadn’t already been sprawled out and snoring. Travel was so glamorous, she thought wryly as she slipped her toes out of her shoes. Wasn’t she lucky to have another flight to look forward to the very next night?
Don’t complain, Juliet, she warned herself. When you have your own agency, you can send someone else on the down-and-dirty tours.
The man beside her snored through take-off. On the other side of the aisle a woman held a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other in anticipation of the No Smoking sign blinking off. Juliet took out her pad and began to work.
“Miss?”
Stifling a yawn, Juliet glanced up at the flight attendant. “I’m sorry, I didn’t order a drink.”
“With Mr. Franconi’s compliments.”
Juliet accepted the wine as she looked up toward first class. He was sneaky, she told herself. Trying to get under her defenses by being nice. She let her notebook close as she sighed and sat back.
It was working.
She barely finished the wine before touchdown, but it had relaxed her. Relaxed her enough, she realized, that all she wanted to do was find a soft bed and a dark room. In an hour—or two, she promised herself and gathered up her flight bag and briefcase.
She found Carlo was waiting for her in first class with a very young, very attractive flight attendant. Neither of them seemed the least bit travel weary.
“Ah, Juliet, Deborah knows of a marvelous twenty-four-hour market where we can find everything we need.”
Juliet looked at the willowy brunette and managed a smile. “How convenient.”
He took the flight attendant’s hand and, inevitably Juliet thought, kissed it. “Arrivederci.”
“Don’t waste time, do you?” Juliet commented the moment they deplaned.
“Every moment lived is a moment to be enjoyed.”
“What a quaint little sentiment.” She shifted her bag and aimed for baggage claim. “You should have it tattooed.”
“Where?”
She didn’t bother to look at his grin. “Where it would be most attractive, naturally.”
They had to wait longer than she liked for their luggage, and by then the relaxing effects of the wine had worn off. There was business to be seen to. Because he enjoyed watching her in action, Carlo let her see to it.
She secured a cab, tipped the skycap and gave the driver the name of the hotel. Scooting in beside Carlo, she caught his grin. “Something funny?”
“You’re so efficient, Juliet.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult?”
“I never insult women.” He said it so simply, she was absolutely certain it was true. Unlike Juliet, he was completely relaxed and not particularly sleepy. “If this was Rome, we’d go to a dark little café, drink heavy red wine and listen to American music.”
She closed her window because the air was damp and chilly. “The tour interfering with your night life?”
“So far I find myself enjoying the stimulating company.”
“Tomorrow you’re going to find yourself worked to a frazzle.”
Carlo thought of his background and smiled. At nine, he’d spent the hours between school and supper washing dishes and mopping up kitchens. At fifteen he’d waited tables and spent his free time learning of spices and sauces. In Paris he’d combined long, hard study with work as an assistant chef. Even now, his restaurant and clients had him keeping twelve-hour days. Not all of his