Wasn’t this exactly what she’d always promised herself wouldn’t happen? Hadn’t she always picked her way carefully through life so that she could keep everything in perfect focus? She’d made a career for herself from the ground up, and everything she had, she’d earned. She’d never considered it ungenerous not to share it, but simply practical. After all, Juliet had what she considered the perfect example before her of what happened when you let go the reins long enough to let someone else pick them up.

Her mother had blindly handed over control and had never guided her own life again. Her promising career in nursing had dwindled down to doctoring the scraped knees of her children. She’d sacrificed hunks of herself for a man who’d cared for her but could never be faithful. How close had she come to doing precisely the same thing?

If she was still certain of anything, Juliet was certain she couldn’t live that way. Exist, she thought, but not live.

So whether she wanted to or not, whether she thought she could or not, she had to think beyond the next twenty-four hours. Picking up her pad, she went to the phone. There were always calls to be made.

Before she could push the first button, Carlo strolled in. “I took your key,” he said before she could ask. “So I wouldn’t disturb you if you were napping. But I should’ve known.” He nodded toward the phone, then dropped into a chair. He looked so pleased with himself she had to smile.

“How’d the interview go?”

“Perfectly.” With a sigh, Carlo stretched out his legs. “The reporter had prepared my ravioli only last night. He thinks, correctly, that I’m a genius.”

She checked her watch. “Very good. You’ve another reporter on the way. If you can convince him you’re a genius—”

“He has only to be perceptive.”

She grinned, then on impulse rose and went to kneel in front of him. “Don’t change, Carlo.”

Leaning down, he caught her face in his hands. “What I am now, I’ll be tomorrow.”

Tomorrow he’d be gone. But she wouldn’t think of it. Juliet kissed him quickly then made herself draw away. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

Carlo glanced down at his casual linen shirt and trim black jeans. “Of course it’s what I’m wearing. If I wasn’t wearing this, I’d be wearing something else.”

“Hmm.” She studied him, trying to judge him with a camera’s eye. “Actually, I think it might be just right for this article. Something informal and relaxed for a magazine that’s generally starched collars and ties. It should be a unique angle.”

“Grazie,” he said dryly as he rose. “Now when do we talk about something other than reporters?”

“After you’ve earned it.”

“You’re a hard woman, Juliet.”