“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.”

“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.”