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 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
