Lessons Learned

who compared him with a muscle-bound idiot, who confused passion for lust. He wanted no woman who compared the beauty of lovemaking to—what was it?—a cruise on a water bed. Dio!
    He wanted no woman who could make him ache so—in the middle of the night, in the middle of the day. He wanted no woman who could bring him pain with a few harsh words.
    God, he wanted Juliet.
    He heard the knock on the door and frowned. By the time he’d set his glass aside and stood, it came again.
    If Juliet hadn’t been so nervous, she might have thought of something witty to say about the short black robe Carlo worewith two pink flamingos twining up one side. As it was, she stood in her own robe and bare feet with her fingers linked together.
    “I’m sorry,” she said when he opened the door.
    He stepped back. “Come in, Juliet.”
    “I had to apologize.” She let out a deep breath as she walked into the room. “I was awful to you this afternoon, and you’d helped me out of a very tricky situation with a minimum of fuss. I was angry when you insinuated that I’d led that—that idiot on in some way. I had a right to be.” She folded her arms under her chest and paced the room. “It was an uncalled for remark, and insulting. Even if by the remotest possibility it had been true, you had no right to talk. After all, you were basking in your own harem.”
    “Harem?” Carlo poured another glass of wine and offered it.
    “With that amazon of a brunette leading the pack.” She sipped, gestured with the glass and sipped again. “Everywhere we go, you’ve got half a dozen women nipping at your ankles, but do I say a word?”
    “Well, you—”
    “And once, just once, I have a problem with some creep with an overactive libido, and you assume I asked for it. I thought that kind of double standard was outdated even in Italy.”
    Had he ever known a woman who could change his moods so quickly? Thinking it over, and finding it to his taste, Carlo studied his wine. “Juliet, did you come here to apologize, or demand that I do so?”
    She scowled at him. “I don’t know why I came, but obviously it was a mistake.”
    “Wait.” He held up a hand before she could storm out again. “Perhaps it would be wise if I simply accepted the apology you came in with.”
    Juliet sent him a killing look. “You can take the apology I came in with and—”
    “And offer you one of my own,” he finished. “Then we’ll be even.”
    “I didn’t encourage him,” she murmured. And pouted. He’d never seen that sulky, utterly feminine look on her face before. It did several interesting things to his system.
    “And I’m not looking for the same thing he was.” He came to her then, close enough to touch. “But very much more.”
    “Maybe I know that,” she whispered, but took a step away. “Maybe I’d like to believe it. I don’t understand affairs, Carlo.” With a little laugh, she dragged her hand through her hair and turned away. “I should; my father had plenty of them. Discreet,” she added with a lingering taste of bitterness. “My mother could always turn a blind eye as long as they were discreet.”
    He understood such things, had seen them among both friends and relatives, so he understood the scars and disillusionments that could be left. “Juliet, you’re not your mother.”
    “No.” She turned back, head up. “No, I’ve worked long and hard to be certain I’m not. She’s a lovely, intelligent woman who gave up her career, her self-esteem, her independence to be no more than a glorified housekeeper because my father wanted it. He didn’t want a wife of his to work. A wife of his,” she repeated. “What a phrase. Her job was to take care of him. That meant having dinner on the table at six o’clock every night, and his shirts folded in hisdrawer. He—damn, he’s a good father, attentive, considerate. He simply doesn’t believe a man should shout at a woman or a girl. As a husband, he’d never forget a birthday, an anniversary. He’s always seen to it that she was provided for in the best material fashion, but he dictated my mother’s lifestyle. While he was about it, he enjoyed a very discreet string of women.”
    “Why does your mother stay his wife?”
    “I asked her that a few years ago, before I moved away to New York. She loves him.” Juliet stared into her wine. “That’s reason enough for her.”
    “Would you rather she’d have left him?”
    “I’d rather she’d have been what