Best Of Nora Roberts Books 1-6. Nora Roberts

      “But I am ambitious.”

      “Oh, yes.” He turned to look at her, starting off flutters she’d thought herself too wise to experience. “But you’re not cold.”

      For a moment, she thought she’d be better off if he were wrong. “Here’s the hotel.” She turned from him, relieved to deal with details. “We need you to wait,” she instructed the driver. “We’ll be going out again as soon as we check in. The hotel has a lovely view of the bay, I’m told.” She walked into the lobby with Carlo as the bellboy dealt with their luggage. “It’s a shame we won’t have time to enjoy it. Franconi and Trent,” she told the desk clerk.

      The lobby was quiet and empty. Oh, the lucky people who were sleeping in their beds, she thought and pushed at a strand of hair that had come loose.

      “We’ll be checking out first thing tomorrow, and we won’t be able to come back, so be sure you don’t leave anything behind in your room.”

      “But of course you’ll check anyway.”

      She sent him a sidelong look as she signed the form. “Just part of the service.” She pocketed her key. “The luggage can be taken straight up.” Discreetly, she handed the bellboy a folded bill. “Mr. Franconi and I have an errand.”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “I like that about you.” To Juliet’s surprise, Carlo linked arms with her as they walked back outside.

      “What?”

      “Your generosity. Many people would’ve slipped out without tipping the bellboy.”

      She shrugged. “Maybe it’s easier to be generous when it’s not your money.”

      “Juliet.” He opened the door to the waiting cab and gestured her in. “You’re intelligent enough. Couldn’t you—how is it—stiff the bellboy then write the tip down on your expense account?”

      “Five dollars isn’t worth being dishonest.”

      “Nothing’s worth being dishonest.” He gave the driver the name of the market and settled back. “Instinct tells me if you tried to tell a lie—a true lie—your tongue would fall out.”

      “Mr. Franconi.” She planted the tongue in question in her cheek. “You forget, I’m in public relations. If I didn’t lie, I’d be out of a job.”

      “A true lie,” he corrected.

      “Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”

      “Perhaps you’re too young to know the variety of truths and lies. Ah, you see? This is why I’m so fond of your country.” Carlo leaned out the window as they approached the big, lighted all-night market. “In America, you want cookies at midnight, you can buy cookies at midnight. Such practicality.”

      “Glad to oblige. Wait here,” she instructed the driver, then climbed out opposite Carlo. “I hope you know what you need. I’d hate to get into the studio at dawn and find I had to run out and buy whole peppercorns or something.”

      “Franconi knows linguini.” He swung an arm around her shoulder and drew her close as they walked inside. “Your first lesson, my love.”

      He led her first to the seafood section where he clucked and muttered and rejected and chose until he had the proper number of clams for two dishes. She’d seen women give as much time and attention to choosing an engagement ring.

      Juliet obliged him by pushing the cart as he walked along beside her, looking at everything. And touching. Cans, boxes, bottles—she waited as he picked up, examined and ran his long artist’s fingers over the labels as he read every ingredient. Somewhat amused, she watched his diamond wink in the fluorescent light.

      “Amazing what they put in this prepackaged garbage,” he commented as he dropped a box back on the shelf.

      “Careful, Franconi, you’re talking about my staple diet.”

      “You should be sick.”

      “Prepackaged food’s freed the American woman from the kitchen.”

      “And destroyed a generation of taste buds.” He chose his spices carefully and without haste. He opened three brands of oregano and sniffed before he settled on one. “I tell you, Juliet, I admire your American convenience, its practicality, but I would rather shop in Rome where I can walk along the stalls and choose vegetables just out of the ground, fish fresh from the sea. Everything isn’t in a can, like the music.”

      He didn’t miss an aisle, but Juliet forgot her fatigue in fascination. She’d never seen anyone shop like Carlo Franconi. It was like strolling through a museum with an art student. He breezed by the flour, scowling at each sack. She was afraid for a moment, he’d rip one open and test the contents. “This is a good brand?”

      Juliet figured she bought a two-pound bag of flour about once a year. “Well, my mother always used this, but—”

      “Good. Always trust a mother.”

      “She’s a dreadful cook.”

      Carlo set the flour firmly in the basket. “She’s a mother.”

      “An odd sentiment from a man no mother can trust.”

      “For mothers, I have the greatest respect. I have one myself. Now, we need garlic, mushrooms, peppers. Fresh.”

      Carlo walked along the stalls of vegetables, touching, squeezing and sniffing. Cautious, Juliet looked around for clerks, grateful they’d come at midnight rather than midday. “Carlo, you really aren’t supposed to handle everything quite so much.”

      “If I don’t handle, how do I know what’s good and what’s just pretty?” He sent her a quick grin over his shoulder. “I told you, food was much like a woman. They put mushrooms in this box with wrap over it.” Disgusted, he tore the wrapping off before Juliet could stop him.

      “Carlo! You can’t open it.”

      “I want only what I want. You can see, some are too small, too skimpy.” Patiently, he began to pick out the mushrooms that didn’t suit him.

      “Then we’ll throw out what you don’t want when we get back to the hotel.” Keeping an eye out for the night manager, she began to put the discarded mushrooms back in the box. “Buy two boxes if you need them.”

      “It’s a waste. You’d waste your money?”

      “The publisher’s money,” she said quickly, as she put the broken box into the basket. “He’s glad to waste it. Thrilled.”

      He paused for a moment, then shook his head. “No, no, I can’t do it.” But when he started to reach into the basket, Juliet moved and blocked his way.

      “Carlo, if you break open another package, we’re going to be arrested.”

      “Better to go to jail than to buy mushrooms that will do me no good in the morning.”

      She grinned at him and stood firm. “No, it’s not.”

      He ran a fingertip over her lips before she could react. “For you then, but against my better judgment.”

      “Grazie. Do you have everything now?”

      His gaze followed the path his finger had traced just as slowly. “No.”

      “Well, what next?”

      He stepped closer and because she hadn’t expected it, she found herself trapped between him and the grocery cart. “Tonight is for first lessons,” he murmured then ran his hands along either side of her face.

      She should laugh. Juliet told herself it was ludicrous that he’d make a pass at her under the bright lights of the vegetable section of an all-night market. Carlo Franconi, a man who’d made seduction as much an art as his cooking wouldn’t choose