Carlo brightened and nodded. “You’re right. Summer, you’ll call me and tell me how he fell on his face?”

“Naturally.”

“Then it’s settled.” His mood altered completely, he smiled and picked up the conversation as it ended before the mention of the Frenchman’s name. “Next time we come to Philadelphia,” Carlo promised. “You and I will make a meal for Blake and Juliet. My veal, your bombe. You haven’t sinned, Juliet, until you’ve tasted Summer’s bombe.”

There wouldn’t be a next time, Juliet knew, but she managed to smile. “I’ll look forward to it.”

Carlo paused as Juliet opened the door of the cab. “But tonight, we leave for New York.”

Summer smiled as she stepped inside. “Don’t forget to pack your broom.”

Juliet started to climb into the front seat. “Broom?”

Carlo took Summer’s hand in his and smiled. “An old French expression.”

Chapter Twelve

New York hadn’t changed. Perhaps it was hotter than when Juliet had left it, but the traffic still pushed, the people still rushed and the noise still rang. As she stood at her window at the Harley, she absorbed it.

No, New York hadn’t changed, but she had.

Three weeks before, she’d looked out her office window at not so different a view. Her primary thought then had been the tour, to make a success of it. For herself, she admitted. She’d wanted the splash.

She realized she’d gotten it. At that moment, Carlo was in his suite, giving an interview to a reporter for the Times. She’d made a half-dozen excuses why she didn’t have time to sit in on it. He’d accepted her usual list of phone calls and details, but the truth had been, she’d needed to be alone.

Later, there’d be another reporter and a photographer from one of the top magazines on the stands. They had network coverage of his demonstration at Bloomingdale’s. The Italian Way had just climbed to number five on the bestsellers list. Her boss was ready to canonize her.

Juliet tried to remember when she’d ever been more miserable.

Time was running out. The next evening, Carlo would board a plane and she’d take the short cab ride back to her apartment. While she unpacked, he’d be thousands of miles above the Atlantic. She’d be thinking of him while he flirted with a flight attendant or a pretty seat companion. That was his way; she’d always known it.

It wasn’t possible to bask in success, to begin plans on her next assignment when she couldn’t see beyond the next twenty-four hours.