Lessons Learned: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

She’d been in L.A. since the evening before, giving herself time to see personally to all the tiny details. Carlo Franconi would have nothing to do but be charming, answer questions and sign his cookbook.

As she watched him kiss the redhead’s knuckles, Juliet thought he’d be signing plenty of them. After all, didn’t women do the majority of cookbook buying? Carefully smoothing away a sarcastic smirk, Juliet rose. The redhead was sending one last wistful look over her shoulder as she walked away.

“Mr. Franconi?”

Carlo turned away from the woman who’d proven to be a pleasant traveling companion on the long flight from New York. His first look at Juliet brought a quick flutter of interest and a subtle tug of desire he often felt with a woman. It was a tug he could either control or let loose, as was appropriate. This time, he savored it.

She didn’t have merely a lovely face, but an interesting one. Her skin was very pale, which should have made her seem fragile, but the wide, strong cheekbones undid the air of fragility and gave her face an intriguing diamond shape. Her eyes were large, heavily lashed and artfully accented with a smoky shadow that only made the cool green shade of the irises seem cooler. Her mouth was only lightly touched with a peach-colored gloss. It had a full, eye-drawing shape that needed no artifice. He gathered she was wise enough to know it.

Her hair was caught somewhere between brown and blond so that its shade was soft, natural and subtle. She wore it long enough in the back to be pinned up in a chignon when she wished, and short enough on the top and sides so that she could style it from fussy to practical as the occasion, and her whim, demanded. At the moment, it was loose and casual, but not windblown. She’d stopped in the ladies’ room for a quick check just after the incoming flight had been announced.

“I’m Juliet Trent,” she told him when she felt he’d stared long enough. “Welcome to California.” As he took the hand she offered, she realized she should’ve expected him to kiss it rather than shake. Still, she stiffened, hardly more than an instant, but she saw by the lift of brow, he’d felt it.

“A beautiful woman makes a man welcome anywhere.”

His voice was incredible—the cream that rose to the top and then flowed over something rich. She told herself it only pleased her because it would record well and took his statement literally. Thinking of the redhead, she gave him an easy, not entirely friendly smile. “Then you must have had a pleasant flight.”

His native language might have been Italian, but Carlo understood nuances in any tongue. He grinned at her. “Very pleasant.”

“And tiring,” she said remembering her position. “Your luggage should be in by now.” Again, she glanced at the large case he carried. “Can I take that for you?”

His brow lifted at the idea of a man dumping his burden on a woman. Equality, to Carlo, never crossed the border into manners. “No, this is something I always carry myself.”

Indicating the way, she fell into step beside him. “It’s a half-hour ride to the Beverly Wilshire, but after you’ve settled in, you can rest all afternoon. I’d like to go over tomorrow’s schedule with you this evening.”

He liked the way she walked. Though she wasn’t tall, she moved in long, unhurried strides that made the red side-pleated skirt she wore shift over her hips. “Over dinner?”

She sent him a quick sidelong look. “If you like.”

She’d be at his disposal, Juliet reminded herself, for the next three weeks. Without appearing to think about it, she skirted around a barrel-chested man hefting a bulging garment bag and a briefcase. Yes, he liked the way she walked, Carlo thought again. She was a woman who could take care of herself without a great deal of fuss.

“At seven? You have a talk show in the morning that starts at seven-thirty so we’d best make it an early evening.”

Seven-thirty A.M. Carlo thought, only briefly, about jet lag and time changes. “So, you put me to work quickly.”

“That’s what I’m here for, Mr. Franconi.” Juliet said it cheerfully as she stepped up to the slowly moving baggage belt. “You have your stubs?”

An organized woman, he thought as he reached into the inside pocket of his loose-fitting buff-colored jacket. In silence, he handed them to her, then hefted a pullman and a garment bag from the belt himself.

Gucci, she observed. So he had taste as well as money. Juliet handed the stubs to a skycap and waited while Carlo’s luggage was loaded onto the pushcart. “I think you’ll be pleased with what we have for you, Mr. Franconi.” She walked through the automatic doors and signaled for her limo. “I know you’ve always worked with Jim Collins in the past on your tours in the States; he sends his best.”

“Does Jim like his executive position?”

“Apparently.”

Though Carlo expected her to climb into the limo first, she stepped back. With a bow to women professionals, Carlo ducked inside and took his seat. “Do you like yours, Ms. Trent?”

She took the seat across from him then sent him a straight-shooting, level look. Juliet could have no idea how much he admired it. “Yes, I do.”

Carlo stretched out his legs—legs his mother had once said that had refused to stop growing long after it was necessary. He’d have preferred driving himself, particularly after the long, long flight from Rome where someone else had been at the controls. But if he couldn’t, the plush laziness of the limo was the next best thing. Reaching over, he switched on the stereo so that Mozart poured out, quiet but vibrant. If he’d been driving, it would’ve been rock, loud and rambunctious.

“You’ve read my book, Ms. Trent?”

“Yes, of course. I couldn’t set up publicity and promotion for an unknown product.” She sat back. It was easy to do her job when she could speak the simple truth. “I was impressed with the attention to detail and the clear directions. It seemed a very friendly book, rather than simply a kitchen tool.”

“Hmm.” He noticed her stockings were very pale pink and had a tiny line of dots up one side. It would interest his mother that the practical American businesswoman could enjoy the frivolous. It interested him that Juliet Trent could. “Have you tried any of the recipes?”

“No, I don’t cook.”

“You don’t…” His lazy interest came to attention. “At all?”

She had to smile. He looked so sincerely shocked.

As he watched the perfect mouth curve, he had to put the next tug of desire in check.

“When you’re a failure at something, Mr. Franconi, you leave it to someone else.”

“I could teach you.” The idea intrigued him. He never offered his expertise lightly.

“To cook?” She laughed, relaxing enough to let her heel slip out of her shoe as she swung her foot. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m an excellent teacher,” he said with a slow smile.

Again, she gave him the calm, gunslinger look. “I don’t doubt it. I, on the other hand, am a poor student.”

“Your age?” When her look narrowed, he smiled charmingly. “A rude question when a woman’s reached a certain stage. You haven’t.”

“Twenty-eight,” she said so coolly his smile became a grin.

“You look younger, but your eyes are older. I’d find it a pleasure to give you a few lessons, Ms. Trent.”

She believed him. She, too, understood nuances. “A pity our schedule won’t permit it.”

He shrugged easily and glanced out the window. But the L.A. freeway didn’t interest him. “You put Philadelphia in the schedule as I requested?”

“We’ll have a full day there before we fly up to Boston. Then we’ll finish up in New York.”

“Good. I have a friend there. I haven’t seen her in nearly a year.”

Juliet was certain he had—friends—everywhere.

“You’ve been to Los Angeles before?” he asked her.

“Yes. Several times on business.”

“I’ve yet to come here for pleasure myself. What do you think of it?”

As he had, she glanced out the window without interest. “I prefer New York.”