Best Of Nora Roberts Books 1-6. Nora Roberts

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.

      Settled, she decided, and closed her eyes. It was a nice, comfortable word. But the hot water, bubbles and steam didn’t relax her any longer. A bit resentful, she released the plug and stood up to let the water drain off her. The wide mirror above the counter and sink was fogged, but only lightly. Through the mist she could see Juliet Trent.

      Odd, she thought, how pale and soft and vulnerable a naked woman could look. In her mind, she was strong, practical, even tough. But she could see, in the damp, misty mirror, the fragility, even the wistfulness.

      Erotic? Juliet frowned a bit as she told herself she shouldn’t be disappointed that her body had been built on slim, practical lines rather than round and lush ones. She should be grateful that her long legs got her where she was going and her narrow hips helped keep her silhouette in a business suit trim and efficient. Erotic would never be a career plus.

      Without makeup, her face looked too young, too trusting. Without careful grooming, her hair looked too wild, too passionate.

      Fragile, young, passionate. Juliet shook her head. Not qualities for a professional woman. It was fortunate that clothes and cosmetics could play down or play up certain aspects. Grabbing a towel, she wrapped it around herself, then taking another she wiped the steam from the mirror. No more mists, she thought. To succeed you had to see clearly.

      With a glance at the tubes and bottles on the counter she began to create the professional Ms. Trent.

      Because she hated quiet hotel rooms, Juliet switched on the television as she started to dress. The old Bogart–Bacall movie pleased her and was more relaxing than a dozen bubble baths. She listened to the well-known dialogue while she drew on her smoke-colored stockings. She watched the shimmering restrained passion as she adjusted the straps of a sheer black teddy. While the plot twisted and turned, she zipped on the narrow black dress and knotted the long strand of pearls under her breasts.

      Caught up, she sat on the edge of the bed, running a brush through her hair as she watched. She was smiling, absorbed, distracted, but it would’ve shocked her if anyone had said she was romantic.

      When the knock sounded at her door, she glanced at her watch. 7:05. She’d lost fifteen minutes dawdling. To make up for it, Juliet had her shoes on, her earrings clipped and her bag and notebook at hand in twelve seconds flat. She went to the door ready with a greeting and an apology.

      A rose. Just one, the color of a young girl’s blush. When Carlo handed it to her, she didn’t have anything to say at all. Carlo, however, had no problem.

      “Bella.” He had her hand to his lips before she’d thought to counter the move. “Some women look severe or cold in black. Others…” His survey was long and male, but his smile made it gallant rather than calculating. “In others it simply enhances their femininity. I’m disturbing you?”

      “No, no, of course not. I was just—”

      “Ah, I know this movie.”

      Without waiting for an invitation, he breezed past her into the room. The standard, single hotel room didn’t seem so impersonal any longer. How could it? He brought life, energy, passion into the air as if it were his mission.

      “Yes, I’ve seen it many times.” The two strong faces dominated the screen. Bogart’s, creased, heavy-eyed, weary—Bacall’s, smooth, steamy and challenging. “Passione,” he murmured and made the word seem like honey to be tasted. Incredibly, Juliet found herself swallowing. “A man and a woman can bring many things to each other, but without passion, everything else is tame. Sì?”

      Juliet recovered herself. Franconi wasn’t a man to discuss passion with. The subject wouldn’t remain academic for long. “Perhaps.” She adjusted her evening bag and her notebook. But she didn’t put the rose down. “We’ve a lot to discuss over dinner, Mr. Franconi. We’d best get started.”

      With his thumbs still hooked in the pockets of his taupe slacks, he turned his head. Juliet figured hundreds of women had trusted that smile. She wouldn’t. With a careless flick, he turned off the television. “Yes, it’s time we started.”

      What did he think of her? Carlo asked himself the question and let the answer come in snatches, twined through the evening.

      Lovely. He didn’t consider his affection for beautiful women a weakness. He was grateful that Juliet didn’t find the need to play down or turn her natural beauty into severity, nor did she exploit it until it was artificial. She’d found a pleasing balance. He could admire that.

      She was ambitious, but he admired that as well. Beautiful women without ambition lost his interest quickly.

      She didn’t trust him. That amused him. As he drank his second glass of Beaujolais, he decided her wariness was a compliment. In his estimation, a woman like Juliet