“Good, I have all that in the file anyway. We can set up a phone session between Detroit and the studio in Boston. You can be on the air there while we’re here.”

“Juliet, you ask for a lot of magic.”

“No, it’s just basic electronics. The host of the show—Paul O’Hara—can put the dish together on the air while you talk him through it. It’s like talking a plane in, you know. Forty degrees to the left—a cup of flour.”

“No.”

“Carlo.”

Taking his time, he pried off his shoes. “You want him, this O’Hara who smiles for the camera, to cook my linguini?”

“Don’t get temperamental on me,” she warned, while her mind leaped ahead to possibilities. “Look, you write cookbooks so the average person can cook one of your dishes.”

“Cook them, yes.” He examined his nails. “Not like Franconi.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Tread softly on the ego, Juliet reminded herself. At least until you get your way. “Of course not, Carlo. No one expects that. But we could turn this inconvenience into a real event. Using your cookbook on the air, and some personal coaching from you via phone, O’Hara can prepare the linguini. He’s not a chef or a gourmet, but an average person. Therefore, he’ll be giving the audience the average person’s reactions. He’ll make the average person’s mistakes that you can correct. If we pull it off, the sales of your cookbook are going to soar. You know you can do it.” She smiled winningly. “Why you even said you could teach me to cook, and I’m helpless in the kitchen. Certainly you can talk O’Hara through one dish.”

“Of course I can.” Folding his arms again, he stared up at the ceiling. Her logic was infallible, her idea creative. To be truthful, he liked it—almost as much as he liked the idea of not having to fly to Boston. Still, it hardly seemed fair to give without getting. “I’ll do it—on one condition.”

“Which is?”

“Tomorrow morning, I talk this O’Hara through linguini. Tonight…” And he smiled at her. “We have a dress rehearsal. I talk you through it.”

Juliet stopped tapping the end of her pencil on the pad. “You want me to cook linguini?”

“With my guidance, cara mia, you could cook anything.”

Juliet thought it over and decided it didn’t matter. The suite didn’t have a kitchen this time, so he’d be counting on using the hotel’s. That may or may not work. If it did, once she’d botched it, they could order room service. The bottom line was saving what she could of Boston. “I’d love to. Now, I’ve got to make those calls.”