Lessons Learned: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

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 would only be wary of a man if she were attracted in some way.

If he were honest, and he was, he’d admit that most women were attracted to him. It seemed only fair, as he was attracted to them. Short, tall, plump, thin, old or young, he found women a fascination, a delight, an amusement. He respected them, perhaps only as a man who had grown up surrounded by women could do. But respect didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy.

He was going to enjoy Juliet.

“Hello, L.A. is on first tomorrow.” Juliet ran down her notes while Carlo nibbled on pâté. “It’s the top-rated morning talk show on the coast, not just in L.A. Liz Marks hosts. She’s very personable—not too bubbly. Los Angeles doesn’t want bubbly at 8:00 A.M.”

“Thank God.”

“In any case, she has a copy of the book. It’s important that you get the title in a couple of times if she doesn’t. You have the full twenty minutes, so it shouldn’t be a problem. You’ll be autographing at Books, Incorporated on Wilshire Boulevard between one and three.” Hastily, she made herself a note to contact the store in the morning for a last check. “You’ll want to plug that, but I’ll remind you just before airtime. Of course, you’ll want to mention that you’re beginning a twenty-one-day tour of the country here in California.”

“Mmm-hmm. The pâté is quite passable. Would you like some?”

“No, thanks. Just go ahead.” She checked off her list and reached for her wine without looking at him. The restaurant was quiet and elegant, but it didn’t matter. If they’d been in a loud crowded bar on the Strip, she’d still have gone on with her notes. “Right after the morning show, we go to a radio spot. Then we’ll have brunch with a reporter from the Times. You’ve already had an article in the Trib. I’ve got a clipping for you. You’d want to mention your other two books, but concentrate on the new one. It wouldn’t hurt to bring up some of the major cities we’ll hit. Denver, Dallas, Chicago, New York. Then there’s the autographing, a spot on the evening news and dinner with two book reps. The next day—”

“One day at a time,” he said easily. “I’ll be less likely to snarl at you.”

“All right.” She closed her notebook and sipped at her wine again. “After all, it’s my job to see to the details, yours to sign books and be charming.”

He touched his glass to hers. “Then neither of us should have a problem. Being charming is my life.”

Was he laughing at himself, she wondered, or at her? “From what I’ve seen, you excel at it.”

“A gift, cara.” Those dark, deep-set eyes were amused and exciting. “Unlike a skill that’s developed and trained.”

So, he was laughing at both of them, she realized. It would be both difficult and wise not to like him for it.

When her steak was served, Juliet glanced at it. Carlo, however, studied his veal as though it were a fine old painting. No, Juliet realized after a moment, he studied it as though it were a young, beautiful woman.

“Appearances,” he told her, “in food, as in people, are essential.” He was smiling at her when he cut into the veal. “And, as in people, they can be deceiving.”

Juliet watched him sample the first bite, slowly, his eyes halfclosed. She felt an odd chill at the base of her spine. He’d sample a woman the same way, she was certain. Slowly.

“Pleasant,” he said after a moment. “No more, no less.”

She couldn’t prevent the quick smirk as she cut into her steak. “Yours is better of course.”

He moved his shoulders. A statement of arrogance. “Of course. Like comparing a pretty young girl with a beautiful woman.” When she glanced up he was holding out his fork. Over it, his eyes studied her. “Taste,” he invited and the simple word made her blood shiver. “Nothing should ever go untasted, Juliet.”

She shrugged, letting him feed her the tiny bite of veal. It was spicy, just bordering on rich and hot on her tongue. “It’s good.”

“Good, sì. Nothing Franconi prepares is ever merely good. Good, I’d pour into the garbage, feed to the dogs in the alley.” She laughed, delighting him. “If something isn’t special, then it’s ordinary.”

“True enough.” Without realizing it, she slipped out of her shoes. “But then, I suppose I’ve always looked at food as a basic necessity.”

“Necessity?” Carlo shook his head. Though he’d heard such sentiment before, he still considered it a sacrilege. “Oh, madonna, you have much to learn. When one knows how to eat, how to appreciate, it’s second only to making love. Scents, textures, tastes. To eat only to fill your stomach? Barbaric.”

“Sorry.” Juliet took another bite of steak. It was tender and cooked well. But it was only a piece of meat. She’d never have considered it sensual or romantic, but simply filling. “Is that why you became a cook? Because you think food’s sexy?”

He winced. “Chef, cara mia.”

She grinned, showing him for the first time a streak of humor and mischief. “What’s the difference?”

“What’s the difference between a plow horse and a thorough-bred? Plaster and porcelain?”

Enjoying herself, she touched her tongue to the rim of her glass. “Some might say dollar signs.”

“No, no, no, my love. Money is only a result, not a cause. A cook makes hamburgers in a greasy kitchen that smells of onions behind a counter where people squeeze plastic bottles of ketchup. A chef creates…” He gestured, a circle of a hand. “An experience.”

She lifted her glass and swept her lashes down, but she didn’t hide the smile. “I see.”

Though he could be offended by a look when he chose, and be ruthless with the offender, Carlo liked her style. “You’re amused. But you haven’t tasted Franconi.” He waited until her eyes, both wry and wary, lifted to him. “Yet.”

He had a talent for turning the simplest statement into something erotic, she observed. It would be a challenge to skirt around him without giving way. “But you haven’t told me why you became a chef.”

“I can’t paint or sculpt. I haven’t the patience or the talent to compose sonnets. There are other ways to create, to embrace art.”

She saw, with surprise mixed with respect, that he was quite serious. “But paintings, sculpture and poetry remain centuries after they’ve been created. If you make a soufflé, it’s here, then it’s gone.”

“Then the challenge is to make it again, and again. Art needn’t be put behind glass or bronzed, Juliet, merely appreciated. I have a friend…” He thought of Summer Lyndon—no, Summer Cocharan now. “She makes pastries like an angel. When you eat one, you’re a king.”

“Then is cooking magic or art?”

“Both. Like love. And I think you, Juliet Trent, eat much too little.”

She met his look as he’d hoped she would. “I don’t believe in overindulgence, Mr. Franconi. It leads to carelessness.”