Best Of Nora Roberts Books 1-6. Nora Roberts

young girl with the squeaky voice knew about the cooking demonstration. Yes, she knew all about it and wasn’t it going to be fun? Extension cords? Oh my, she really didn’t know a thing about that. Maybe she could ask someone in maintenance. A table—chairs? Well golly, she supposed she could get something, if it was really necessary.

      Juliet was reaching in her bag for her purse-size container of aspirin before it was over. The way it looked now, she’d have to get to the department store at least two hours before the demonstration to make sure everything was taken care of. That meant juggling the schedule.

      After completing her calls, Juliet left the corner phone booth, aspirin in hand, and headed back to the bookstore, hoping they could give her a glass of water and a quiet corner.

      No one noticed her. If she’d just crawled in from the desert on her belly, no one would have noticed her. The small, rather elegant bookstore was choked with laughter. No bookseller stood behind the counter. There was a magnet in the left-hand corner of the room. Its name was Franconi.

      It wasn’t just women this time, Juliet noticed with interest. There were men sprinkled in the crowd. Some of them might have been dragged along by their wives, but they were having a time of it now. It looked like a cocktail party, minus the cigarette smoke and empty glasses.

      She couldn’t even see him, Juliet realized as she worked her way toward the back of the store. He was surrounded, enveloped. Jingling the aspirin in her hand, she was glad she could find a little corner by herself. Perhaps he got all the glory, she mused. But she wouldn’t trade places with him.

      Glancing at her watch, she noted he had another hour and wondered whether he could dwindle the crowd down in the amount of time. She wished vaguely for a stool, dropped the aspirin in the pocket of her skirt and began to browse.

      “Fabulous, isn’t he?” Juliet heard someone murmur on the other side of a book rack.

      “God, yes. I’m so glad you talked me into coming.”

      “What’re friends for?”

      “I thought I’d be bored to death. I feel like a kid at a rock concert. He’s got such…”

      “Style,” the other voice supplied. “If a man like that ever walked into my life, he wouldn’t walk out again.”

      Curious, Juliet walked around the stacks. She wasn’t sure what she expected—young housewives, college students. What she saw were two attractive women in their thirties, both dressed in sleek professional suits.

      “I’ve got to get back to the office.” One woman checked a trim little Rolex watch. “I’ve got a meeting at three.”

      “I’ve got to get back to the courthouse.”

      Both women tucked their autographed books into leather briefcases.

      “How come none of the men I date can kiss my hand without making it seem like a staged move in a one-act play?”

      “Style. It all has to do with style.”

      With this observation, or complaint, the two women disappeared into the crowd.

      At three-fifteen, he was still signing, but the crowd had thinned enough that Juliet could see him. Style, she was forced to agree, he had. No one who came up to his table, book in hand, was given a quick signature, practiced smile and brush-off. He talked to them. Enjoyed them, Juliet corrected, whether it was a grandmother who smelled of lavender or a young woman with a toddler on her hip. How did he know the right thing to say to each one of them, she wondered, that made them leave the table with a laugh or a smile or a sigh?

      First day of the tour, she reminded herself. She wondered if he could manage to keep himself up to this level for three weeks. Time would tell, she decided and calculated she could give him another fifteen minutes before she began to ease him out the door.

      Even with the half-hour extension, it wasn’t easy. Juliet began to see the pattern she was certain would set the pace of the tour. Carlo would charm and delight, and she would play the less attractive role of drill sergeant. That’s what she was paid for, Juliet reminded herself as she began to smile, chat and urge people toward the door. By four there were only a handful of stragglers. With apologies and an iron grip, Juliet disengaged Carlo.

      “That went very well,” she began, nudging him onto the street. “One of the booksellers told me they’d nearly sold out. Makes you wonder how much pasta’s going to be cooked in L.A. tonight. Consider this just one more triumph today.”

      “Grazie.”

      “Prego. However, we won’t always have the leeway to run an hour over,” she told him as the door of the limo shut behind her. “It would help if you try to keep an eye on the time and pick up the pace say half an hour before finishing time. You’ve got an hour and fifteen minutes before airtime—”

      “Fine.” Pushing a button, Carlo instructed the driver to cruise.

      “But—”

      “Even I need to unwind,” he told her, then opened up a small built-in cabinet to reveal the bar. “Cognac,” he decided and poured two glasses without asking. “You’ve had two hours to window-shop and browse.” Leaning back, he stretched out his legs.

      Juliet thought of the hour and a half she’d spent on the phone, then the time involved in easing customers along. She’d been on her feet for two and a half hours straight, but she said nothing. The cognac went down smooth and warm.

      “The spot on the news should run four, four and a half minutes. It doesn’t seem like much time, but you’d be surprised how much you can cram in. Be sure to mention the book title, and the autographing and demonstration at the college tomorrow afternoon. The sensual aspect of food, cooking and eating’s a great angle. If you’ll—”

      “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