“Really?” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “I thought I’d graduated.”

“Cooking,” he told her, giving her a quick pinch where Italian males were prone to.

Juliet tossed back her hair and pinched him back. “I thought you’d forget about that.”

“Franconi never forgets. A quick shower, a change of clothes and down to the kitchen.”

Agreeable, Juliet shrugged. She didn’t think for one minute the management would allow him to give a cooking lesson in their kitchen.

Thirty minutes later, she was proven wrong.

Carlo merely bypassed management. He saw no reason to go through a chain of command. With very little fuss, he steered her through the hotel’s elegant dining room and into the big, lofty kitchen. It smelled exotic and sounded like a subway station.

They’d stop him here, Juliet decided, still certain they’d be dining outside or through room service within the hour. Though she’d changed into comfortable jeans, she had no plans to cook. After one look at the big room with its oversized appliances and acres of counter, she was positive she wouldn’t.

It shouldn’t have surprised her to be proven wrong again.

“Franconi!” The name boomed out and echoed off the walls. Juliet jumped back three inches.

“Carlo, I think we should—” But as she spoke, she looked up at his face. He was grinning from ear to ear.

“Pierre!”

As she looked on, Carlo was enveloped by a wide, white-aproned man with a drooping moustache and a face as big and round as a frying pan. His skin glistened with sweat, but he smelt inoffensively of tomatoes.

“You Italian lecher, what do you do in my kitchen?”

“Honor it,” Carlo said as they drew apart. “I thought you were in Montreal, poisoning the tourists.”

“They beg me to take the kitchen here.” The big man with the heavy French accent shrugged tanklike shoulders. “I feel sorry for them. Americans have so little finesse in the kitchen.”

“They offered to pay you by the pound,” Carlo said dryly. “Your pounds.”

Pierre held both hands to his abundant middle and laughed. “We understand each other, old friend. Still, I find America to my liking. You, why aren’t you in Rome pinching ladies?”

“I’m finishing up a tour for my book.”

“But yes, you and your cookbooks.” A noise behind him had him glancing around and bellowing in French. Juliet was certain the walls trembled. With a smile, he adjusted his hat and turned back to them. “That goes well?”

“Well enough.” Carlo drew Juliet up. “This is Juliet Trent, my publicist.”

“So it goes very well,” Pierre murmured as he took Juliet’s hand and brushed his lips over it. “Perhaps I will write a cookbook. Welcome to my kitchen, mademoiselle. I’m at your service.”

Charmed, Juliet smiled. “Thank you, Pierre.”

“Don’t let this one fool you,” Carlo warned. “He has a daughter your age.”