Lessons Learned

the window without interest. “I prefer New York.”
    “Why?”
    “More grit, less gloss.”
    He liked her answer, and her phrasing. Because of it, he studied her more closely. “Have you ever been to Rome?”
    “No.” He thought he heard just a trace of wistfulness in her voice. “I haven’t been to Europe at all.”
    “When you do, come to Rome. It was built on grit.”
    Her mind drifted a bit as she thought of it, and her smile remained. “I think of fountains and marble and cathedrals.”
    “You’ll find them—and more.” She had a face exquisite enough to be carved in marble, he thought. A voice quiet and smooth enough for cathedrals. “Rome rose and fell and clawed its way back up again. An intelligent woman understands such things. A romantic woman understands the fountains.”
    She glanced out again as the limo pulled up in front of the hotel. “I’m afraid I’m not very romantic.”
    “A woman named Juliet hasn’t a choice.”
    “My mother’s selection,” she pointed out. “Not mine.”
    “You don’t look for Romeo?”
    Juliet gathered her briefcase. “No, Mr. Franconi. I don’t.”
    He stepped out ahead of her and offered his hand. When Juliet stood on the curb, he didn’t move back to give her room. Instead, he experimented with the sensation of bodies brushing, lightly, even politely on a public street. Her gaze came up to his, not wary but direct.
    He felt it, the pull. Not the tug that was impersonal and for any woman, but the pull that went straight to the gut and was for one woman. So he’d have to taste her mouth. After all, he was a man compelled to judge a great deal by taste. But he could also bide his time. Some creations took a long time and had complicated preparations to perfect. Like Juliet, he insisted on perfection.
    “Some women,” he murmured, “never need to look, only to evade and avoid and select.”
    “Some women,” she said just as quietly, “choose not to select at all.” Deliberately, she turned her back on him to pay off the driver. “I’ve already checked you in, Mr. Franconi,” she said over her shoulder as she handed his key to the waiting bellboy. “I’m just across the hall from your suite.”
    Without looking at him, Juliet followed the bellboy into the hotel and to the elevators. “If it suits you, I’ll make reservations here in the hotel for dinner at seven. You can just tap on my door when you’re ready.” With a quick check of her watch she calculated the time difference and figured she could make three calls to New York and one to Dallas before office hours were over farther east. “If you need anything, you’ve only to order it and charge it to the room.”
    She stepped from the elevator, unzipping her purse and pulling out her own room key as she walked. “I’m sure you’ll find your suite suitable.”
    He watched her brisk, economic movements. “I’m sure I will.”
    “Seven o’clock then.” She was already pushing her key into the lock as the bellboy opened the first door to the suite across the hall. As she did, her mind was already on the calls she’d make the moment she’d shed her jacket and shoes.
    “Juliet.”
    She paused, her hair swinging back as she looked over her shoulder at Carlo. He held her there, a moment longer, in silence. “Don’t change your scent,” he murmured. “Sex without flowers, femininity without vulnerability. It suits you.”
    While she continued to stare over her shoulder, he disappeared inside the suite. The bellboy began his polite introductions to the accommodations of the suite. Something Carlo said caused him to break off and laugh.
    Juliet turned her key with more strength than necessary, pushed open her door, then closed it again with the length of her body. For a minute, she just leaned there, waiting for her system to level.
    Professional training had prevented her from stammering and fumbling and making a fool of herself. Professional training had helped her to keep her nerves just at the border where they could be controlled and concealed. Still, under the training, there was a woman. Control had cost her. Juliet was dead certain there wasn’t a woman alive who would be totally unaffected by Carlo Franconi. It wasn’t balm for her ego to admit she was simply part of a large, varied group.
    He’d never know it, she told herself, but her pulse had been behaving badly since he’d first taken her hand. It was still behaving badly. Stupid, she told herself and