“Your interview went well?”
“Yes.” He noticed, and approved, that she’d taken the time to dab on her scent. “Perfectly.”
“Good. You can fill me in later. We’d better get started.”
“In a moment.” He reached in his pocket. “I told you I’d buy you a present.”
There was a flutter of surprised pleasure she tried to ignore. Just wired from the coffee, she told herself. “Carlo, I told you not to. We don’t have time—”
“There’s always time.” He opened the little box himself and drew out a small gold heart with an arrow of diamonds running through it. She’d been expecting something along the line of a box of chocolates.
“Oh, I—” Words were her business, but she’d lost them. “Carlo, really, you can’t—”
“Never say can’t to Franconi,” he murmured and began to fasten the pin to her lapel. He did so smoothly, with no fumbling. After all, he was a man accustomed to such feminine habits. “It’s very delicate, I thought, very elegant. So it suits you.” Narrowing his eyes, he stood back, then nodded. “Yes, I was sure it would.”
It wasn’t possible to remember her crazed search for fresh basil when he was smiling at her in just that way. It was barely possible to remember how furious she was over the lackadaisical setup for the demonstration. Instinctively, she put up her hand and ran a finger over the pin. “It’s lovely.” Her lips curved, easily, sweetly, as he thought they didn’t do often enough. “Thank you.”
He couldn’t count or even remember the number of presents he’d given, or the different styles of gratitude he’d received. Somehow, he was already sure this would be one he wouldn’t forget.
“Prègo.”
“Ah, Ms. Trent?”
Juliet glanced over to see Elise watching her. Present or no present, it tightened her jaw. “Yes, Elise. You haven’t met Mr. Franconi yet.”
“Elise directed me from the office to you when I answered the page,” Carlo said easily, more than appreciating Juliet’s aggravation.
“Yes.” She flashed her touchdown smile. “I thought your cookbook looked just super, Mr. Franconi. Everyone’s dying to watch you cook something.” She opened a little pad of paper with daisies on the cover. “I thought you could spell what it is so I could tell them when I announce you.”
“Elise, I have everything.” Juliet managed charm and diplomacy to cover a firm nudge out the door. “Why don’t I just announce Mr. Franconi?”
“Great.” She beamed. Juliet could think of no other word for it. “That’ll be a lot easier.”
“We’ll get started now, Carlo, if you’d just step over there behind those counters, I’ll go give the announcements.” Without waiting for an assent, she gathered up the basil, mortar and pestle and walked over to the area that she’d prepared. In the most natural of moves, she set everything down and turned to the audience. Three hundred, she judged. Maybe even over. Not bad for a rainy day in a department store.
“Good afternoon.” Her voice was pleasant and well pitched. There’d be no need for a microphone in the relatively small space. Thank God, because Elise had botched that minor detail as well. “I want to thank you all for coming here today, and to thank Gallegher’s for providing such a lovely setting for the demonstration.”
From a few feet away, Carlo leaned on a counter and watched her. She was, as he’d told the reporter, fantastic. No one would guess she’d been up and on her feet since dawn.
“We all like to eat.” This drew the murmured laughter she’d expected. “But I’ve been told by an expert that eating is more than a basic necessity, it’s an experience. Not all of us like to cook, but the same expert told me that cooking is both art and magic. This afternoon, the expert, Carlo Franconi, will share with you the art, the magic and the experience with his own pasta con pesto.”
Juliet started the applause herself, but it was picked up instantly. As Carlo stepped out, she melted back. Center stage was his the moment he stepped on it.
“It’s a fortunate man,” he began, “who has the opportunity to cook for so many beautiful women. Some of you have husbands?” At the question there was a smatter of chuckles and the lifting of hands. “Ah, well.” He gave a very European shrug. “Then I must be content to cook.”
She knew Carlo had chosen that particular dish because it took little time in preparation. After the first five minutes, Juliet was certain not one member of the audience would have budged if he’d chosen something that took hours. She wasn’t yet convinced cooking was magic, but she was certain he was.
His hands were as skilled and certain as a surgeon’s, his tongue as glib as a politician’s. She watched him measure, grate, chop and blend and found herself just as entertained as she might have been with a well produced one-act play.
One woman was bold enough to ask a question. It opened the door and dozens of others followed. Juliet needn’t have worried that the noise and conversations would disturb him. Obviously he thrived on the interaction. He wasn’t, she decided, simply doing his job or fulfilling an obligation. He was enjoying himself.
Calling one woman up with him, Carlo joked about all truly great chefs requiring both inspiration and assistance. He told her to stir the spaghetti, made a fuss out of showing her the proper way to stir by putting his hand over hers and undoubtedly sold another ten books then and there.
Juliet had to grin. He’d done it for fun, not for sales. He was fun, Juliet realized, even if he did take his basil too seriously. He was sweet. Unconsciously, she began to toy with the gold and diamonds on her lapel. Uncommonly considerate and uncommonly demanding. Simply uncommon.
As she watched him laugh with his audience, something began to melt inside of her. She sighed with it, dreaming. There were certain men that prompted a woman, even a practical woman, to dream.
One of the women seated closer to her leaned toward a companion. “Good God, he’s the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. He could keep a dozen lovers patiently waiting.”
Juliet caught herself and dropped her hand. Yes, he could keep a dozen lovers patiently waiting. She was sure he did. Deliberately she tucked her hands in the pockets of her skirt. She’d be better off remembering she was encouraging this public image, even exploiting it. She’d be better off remembering that Carlo himself had told her he needed no imagery.
If she started believing half the things he said to her, she might just find herself patiently waiting. The thought of that was enough to stop the melting. Waiting didn’t fit into her schedule.
When every last bite of pasta had been consumed, and every last fan had been spoken with, Carlo allowed himself to think of the pleasures of sitting down with a cool glass of wine.
Juliet already had his jacket.
“Well done, Carlo.” As she spoke, she began to help him into it. “You can leave California with the satisfaction of knowing you were a smashing success.”
He took her raincoat from her when she would’ve shrugged into it herself. “The airport.”
She smiled at his tone, understanding. “We’ll pick up our bags in the holding room at the hotel on the way. Look at it this way. You can sit back and sleep all the way to Portland if you like.”
Because the thought had a certain appeal, he cooperated. They rode down to the first floor and went out the west entrance where Juliet had told the cab to wait. She let out a quick sigh of relief when it was actually there.
“We get into Portland early?”
“Seven.” Rain splattered against the