Juliet obliged him by pushing the cart as he walked along beside her, looking at everything. And touching. Cans, boxes, bottles—she waited as he picked up, examined and ran his long artist’s fingers over the labels as he read every ingredient. Somewhat amused, she watched his diamond wink in the fluorescent light.

“Amazing what they put in this prepackaged garbage,” he commented as he dropped a box back on the shelf.

“Careful, Franconi, you’re talking about my staple diet.”

“You should be sick.”

“Prepackaged food’s freed the American woman from the kitchen.”

“And destroyed a generation of taste buds.” He chose his spices carefully and without haste. He opened three brands of oregano and sniffed before he settled on one. “I tell you, Juliet, I admire your American convenience, its practicality, but I would rather shop in Rome where I can walk along the stalls and choose vegetables just out of the ground, fish fresh from the sea. Everything isn’t in a can, like the music.”

He didn’t miss an aisle, but Juliet forgot her fatigue in fascination. She’d never seen anyone shop like Carlo Franconi. It was like strolling through a museum with an art student. He breezed by the flour, scowling at each sack. She was afraid for a moment, he’d rip one open and test the contents. “This is a good brand?”

Juliet figured she bought a two-pound bag of flour about once a year. “Well, my mother always used this, but—”

“Good. Always trust a mother.”

“She’s a dreadful cook.”

Carlo set the flour firmly in the basket. “She’s a mother.”

“An odd sentiment from a man no mother can trust.”

“For mothers, I have the greatest respect. I have one myself. Now, we need garlic, mushrooms, peppers. Fresh.”

Carlo walked along the stalls of vegetables, touching, squeezing and sniffing. Cautious, Juliet looked around for clerks, grateful they’d come at midnight rather than midday. “Carlo, you really aren’t supposed to handle everything quite so much.”

“If I don’t handle, how do I know what’s good and what’s just pretty?” He sent her a quick grin over his shoulder. “I told you, food was much like a woman. They put mushrooms in this box with wrap over it.” Disgusted, he tore the wrapping off before Juliet could stop him.

“Carlo! You can’t open it.”

“I want only what I want. You can see, some are too small, too skimpy.” Patiently, he began to pick out the mushrooms that didn’t suit him.

“Then we’ll throw out what you don’t want when we get back to the hotel.” Keeping an eye out for the night manager, she began to put the discarded mushrooms back in the box. “Buy two boxes if you need them.”

“It’s a waste. You’d waste your money?”

“The publisher’s money,” she said quickly, as she put the broken box into the basket. “He’s glad to waste it. Thrilled.”

He paused for a moment, then shook his head. “No, no, I can’t do it.” But when he started to reach into the basket, Juliet moved and blocked his way.