Lessons Learned

twenty years younger. And twenty pounds lighter. It was a talent of his that he was generous with. “One last question, Carlo, before your fantastic Ms. Trent rushes you off. Are you still likely to fly off to Cairo or Cannes to prepare one of your dishes for an appreciative client and a stunning fee?”
    “There was a time this was routine.” He was silent a moment, thinking of the early years of his success. There’d been mad, glamorous trips to this country and to that, preparing fettuccine for a prince or cannelloni for a tycoon. It had been a heady, spectacular time.
    Then he’d opened his restaurant and had learned that the solid continuity of his own place was so much more fulfilling than the flash of the single dish.
    “From time to time I would still make such trips. Two months ago there was Count Lequine’s birthday. He’s an old client, an old friend, and he’s fond of my spaghetti. But my restaurant is more rewarding to me.” He gave her a quizzical look as a thought occurred to him. “Perhaps I’m settling down?”
    “A pity you didn’t decide to settle in the States.” She closed her pad. “I guarantee if you opened a Franconi’s right here in San Diego, you’d have clientele flying in from all over the country.”
    He took the idea, weighed it in much the same way he had the basil, and put it in a corner of his mind. “An interesting thought.”
    “And a fascinating interview. Thank you.” It pleased her that he rose as she did and took her hand. She was a tough outspoken feminist who appreciated genuine manners and genuine charm. “I’m looking forward to a taste of your pasta. I’ll just ease over and try to get a good seat. Here comes your Ms. Trent.”
    Marjorie had never considered herself particularly romantic, but she’d always believed where there was smoke, there was fire. She watched the way Carlo turned his head, saw the change in his eyes and the slight tilt of his mouth. There was fire all right, she mused. You only had to be within five feet to feel the heat.
    Between the hand dryer and her brush, Juliet had managed to do something with her hair. A touch here, a dab there, and her makeup was back in shape. Carrying her raincoat over her arm, she looked competent and collected. She was ready to admit she’d had one too many cups of coffee.
    “Your interview went well?”
    “Yes.” He noticed, and approved, that she’d taken the time to dab on her scent. “Perfectly.”
    “Good. You can fill me in later. We’d better get started.”
    “In a moment.” He reached in his pocket. “I told you I’d buy you a present.”
    There was a flutter of surprised pleasure she tried to ignore. Just wired from the coffee, she told herself. “Carlo, I told you not to. We don’t have time—”
    “There’s always time.” He opened the little box himself and drew out a small gold heart with an arrow of diamonds running through it. She’d been expecting something along the line of a box of chocolates.
    “Oh, I—” Words were her business, but she’d lost them. “Carlo, really, you can’t—”
    “Never say can’t to Franconi,” he murmured and began to fasten the pin to her lapel. He did so smoothly, with no fumbling. After all, he was a man accustomed to such feminine habits. “It’s very delicate, I thought, very elegant. So it suits you.” Narrowing his eyes, he stood back, then nodded. “Yes, I was sure it would.”
    It wasn’t possible to remember her crazed search for fresh basil when he was smiling at her in just that way. It was barely possible to remember how furious she was over the lackadaisical setup for the demonstration. Instinctively, she put up her hand and ran a finger over the pin. “It’s lovely.” Her lips curved, easily, sweetly, as he thought they didn’t do often enough. “Thank you.”
    He couldn’t count or even remember the number of presents he’d given, or the different styles of gratitude he’d received. Somehow, he was already sure this would be one he wouldn’t forget.
    “Prègo.”
    “Ah, Ms. Trent?”
    Juliet glanced over to see Elise watching her. Present or no present, it tightened her jaw. “Yes, Elise. You haven’t met Mr. Franconi yet.”
    “Elise directed me from the office to you when I answered the page,” Carlo said easily, more than appreciating Juliet’s aggravation.
    “Yes.” She flashed her touchdown smile. “I thought your cookbook looked just super, Mr. Franconi. Everyone’s dying towatch