Lessons Learned
Nora Roberts
Coordinating the publicity tour for Italy's most famous—and most adorable—chef was just the kind of assignment Juliet relished. Carlo Franconi could gather a crowd just by smiling, and watching him prepare a meal was like witnessing a lesson in passionate lovemaking. By the time the tour was over, Juliet planned to have Carlo packaged as the world's sexiest chef. Women everywhere would fantasize about him preparing an intimate meal for two.
But Juliet hadn't counted on being part of the dinner plans. Candlelight, pasta and romance…Carlo distracted her with his charms, setting his romantic recipes simmering in her heart.
For Jill Gregory, aka The Baby,
one of my favorite roommates.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter One
So he was gorgeous. And rich…and talented. And sexy; you shouldn’t forget that he was outrageously sexy.
It hardly mattered to Juliet. She was a professional, and to a professional, a job was a job. In this case, great looks and personality were bound to help, but that was business. Strictly business.
No, personally it didn’t matter a bit. After all, she’d met a few gorgeous men in her life. She’d met a few rich ones too, and so forth, though she had to admit she’d never met a man with all those elusive qualities rolled up in one. She’d certainly never had the opportunity to work with one. Now she did.
The fact was, Carlo Franconi’s looks, charm, reputation and skill were going to make her job a pleasure. So she was told. Still, with her office door closed, Juliet scowled down at the eight-by-ten glossy black-and-white publicity photo. It looked to her as though he’d be more trouble than pleasure.
Carlo grinned cockily up at her, dark, almond-shaped eyes amused and appreciative. She wondered if the photographer had been a woman. His full thick hair was appealingly disheveled with a bit of curl along the nape of his neck and over his ears. Not too much—just enough to disarm. The strong facial bones, jauntily curved mouth, straight nose and expressive brows combined to create a face destined to sabotage any woman’s common sense. Gift or cultivated talent, Juliet wasn’t certain, but she’d have to use it to her advantage. Author tours could be murder.
A cookbook. Juliet tried, and failed, not to sigh. Carlo Franconi’s The Italian Way, was, whether she liked it or not, her biggest assignment to date. Business was business.
She loved her job as publicist and was content for the moment with Trinity Press, the publisher she currently worked for, after a half-dozen job changes and upward jumps since the start of her career. At twenty-eight, the ambition she’d started with as a receptionist nearly ten years before had eased very little. She’d worked, studied, hustled and sweated for her own office and position. She had them, but she wasn’t ready to relax.
In two years, by her calculations, she’d be ready to make the next jump: her own public relations firm. Naturally, she’d have to start out small, but it was building the business that was exciting. The contacts and experience she gained in her twenties would help her solidify her ambitions in her thirties. Juliet was content with that.
One of the first things she’d learned in public relations was that an account was an account, whether it was a big blockbuster bestseller already slated to be a big blockbuster film or a slim volume of poetry that would barely earn out its advance. Part of the challenge, and the fun, was finding the right promotional hook.
Now, she had a cookbook and a slick Italian chef. Franconi, she thought wryly, had a track record—with women and in publishing. The first was a matter of hot interest to the society and gossip sections of the international press. It wasn’t necessary to cook to be aware of Franconi’s name. The second was the reason he was being pampered on the road with a publicist.
His first two cookbooks had been solid bestsellers. For good reason, Juliet admitted. It was true she couldn’t fry an egg without creating a gooey inedible glob, but she recognized quality and style. Franconi could make linguini sound like a dish to be prepared while wearing black lace. He turned a simple spaghetti dish into an erotic event.
Sex. Juliet tipped back in her chair and wiggled her stockinged toes. That’s what he had. That’s just what they’d use. Before the twenty-one-day author tour was finished, she’ll have made Carlo Franconi the world’s sexiest cook. Any red-blooded American woman would fantasize about him preparing an intimate dinner for two. Candlelight, pasta and romance.
One last study of his publicity shot and the charmingly crooked grin assured her he could handle it.
In the meantime, there was a bit more groundwork to cover. Creating a schedule was a pleasure, adhering to one a challenge. She thrived on both.
Juliet lifted the phone, noticed with resignation that she’d broken another nail, then buzzed her assistant. “Terry, get me Diane Maxwell. She’s program coordinator on the Simpson Show in L.A.”
“Going for the big guns?”
Juliet gave a quick, unprofessional grin. “Yeah.” She replaced the phone and started making hurried notes. No reason not to start at the top, she told herself. That way, if you fell on your face, at least the trip would be worth it.
As she waited, she looked around her office. Not the top, but a good ways from the bottom. At least she had a window. Juliet could still shudder thinking of some of the walled-in cubicles she’d worked in. Now, twenty stories below, New York rushed, bumped, pushed and shoved its way through another day. Juliet Trent had learned how to do the same thing after moving from the relatively easygoing suburb of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
She might’ve grown up in a polite little neighborhood where only a stranger drove over twenty-five miles per hour and everyone kept the grass clipped close to their side of the chain-link fences, but Juliet had acclimated easily. The truth was she liked the pace, the energy and the “I dare you” tone of New York. She’d never go back to the bee-humming, hedge-clipping quiet of suburbia where everyone knew who you were, what you did and how you did it. She preferred the anonymity and the individuality of crowds.
Perhaps her mother had molded herself into the perfect suburban wife, but not Juliet. She was an eighties woman, independent, self-sufficient and moving up. There was an apartment in the west Seventies that she’d furnished, slowly, meticulously and, most important, personally. Juliet had enough patience to move step by step as long as the result was perfect. She had a career she could be proud of and an office she was gradually altering to suit her own tastes. Leaving her mark wasn’t something she took lightly. It had taken her four months to choose the right plants for her work space, from the four-foot split-leaf philodendron to the delicate white-blossomed African violet.
She’d had to make do with the beige carpet, but the six-foot Dali print on the wall opposite her window added life and energy. The narrow-beveled mirror gave an illusion of space and a touch of elegance. She had her eye on a big, gaudy Oriental urn that would be perfect for a spray of equally gaudy peacock feathers. If she waited a bit longer, the price might come down from exorbitant to ridiculous. Then she’d buy it.
Juliet might put on a very practical front to