Lessons Learned

She wasn’t a fool. She could handle herself. The moment of weak fear she’d felt in the kitchen was past. She’d enjoy a take-your-shoes-off meal, drink two glasses of really excellent burgundy, then go across the hall and catch eight hours’ sleep. The merry-go-round would continue the next day.
    She selected a marinated mushroom as Carlo brought in the platter of spaghetti. “Better,” he said when she smiled at him. “You’re ready to enjoy yourself.”
    With a shrug, Juliet sat. “If one of the top chefs in the world wants to cook me dinner, why should I complain?”
    “ The top,” he corrected and gestured for her to serve herself. She did, barely conquering greed.
    “Does it really relax you to stand in a kitchen?”
    “It depends. Sometimes it relaxes, sometimes it excites. Always it pleases. No, don’t cut.” With a shake of his head, he reached over. “Americans. You roll it onto the fork.”
    “It falls off when I do.”
    “Like this.” With his hands on her wrists, he guided her. Her pulse was steady, he noted, but not slow. “Now.” Still holding her hand, he lifted the fork toward her mouth. “Taste.”
    As she did, he had the satisfaction of watching her face. Spices exploded on her tongue. Heat seeped through, mellowing to warmth. She savored it, even as she thought of the next bite. “Oh, this is no little sin.”
    Nothing could have delighted him more. With a laugh, he sat back and started on his own plate. “Small sins are only small pleasures. When Franconi cooks for you, food is not a basic necessity.”
    She was already rolling the next forkful. “You win that one. Why aren’t you fat?”
    “Prègo?”
    “If I could cook like this…” She tasted again and sighed. “I’d look like one of your meatballs.”
    With a chuckle, he watched her dig in. It pleased him to seesomeone he cared for enjoying what he’d created. After years of cooking, he’d never tired of it. “So, your mother didn’t teach you to cook?”
    “She tried.” Juliet accepted a piece of the crusty bread he offered but set it aside as she rolled more spaghetti. First things first. “I never seemed to be very good at the things she wanted me to be good at. My sister plays the piano beautifully; I can barely remember the scales.”
    “So, what did you want to do instead of taking piano lessons?”
    “Play third base.” It came out so easily, it stunned her. Juliet had thought she’d buried that along with a dozen other childhood frustrations. “It just wasn’t done,” she said with a shrug. “My mother was determined to raise two well rounded ladies who would become two well rounded, successful wives. Win some, lose some.”
    “You think she’s not proud of you?”
    The question hit a target she hadn’t known was exposed. Juliet reached for her wine. “It’s not a matter of pride, but of disappointment, I suppose. I disappointed her; I confused my father. They still wonder what they did wrong.”
    “What they did wrong was not to accept what you are.”
    “Maybe,” she murmured. “Or maybe I was determined to be something they couldn’t accept. I’ve never worked it out.”
    “Are you unhappy with your life?”
    Surprised, she glanced up. Unhappy? Sometimes frustrated, harassed and pressured. But unhappy? “No. No, I’m not.”
    “Then perhaps that’s your answer.”
    Juliet took a moment to study him. He was more than gorgeous, more than sexy, more than all those qualities she’donce cynically attributed to him. “Carlo.” For the first time she reached out to touch him, just his hand, but he thought it a giant step. “You’re a very nice man.”
    “But of course I am.” His fingers curled over hers because he couldn’t resist. “I could give you references.”
    With a laugh, Juliet backed off. “I’m sure you could.” With concentration, dedication and just plain greed, she cleared off her plate.
    “Time for dessert.”
    “Carlo!” Moaning, Juliet pressed a hand to her stomach. “Please, don’t be cruel.”
    “You’ll like it.” He was up and in the kitchen before she found the strength to refuse again. “It’s an old, old, Italian tradition. Back to the empire. American cheesecake is sometimes excellent, but this…” He brought out a small, lovely cake with cherries dripping lavishly over it.
    “Carlo, I’ll die.”
    “Just a taste with the champagne.” He popped the cork with an expert twist and poured two fresh glasses. “Go, sit on the