He patted her hand. “You’re only thinking of numbers. You should think instead of my pasta con pesto. In a few hours, everyone else will.”

“I don’t think about food the way you do,” she muttered. It still amazed her that he’d lovingly prepared the first linguini at 6:00 A.M., then the second two hours later for the camera. Both dishes had been an exquisite example of Italian cooking at its finest. He’d looked more like a film star on holiday than a working chef, which was precisely the image Juliet had wanted to project. His spot on the morning show had been perfect. That only made Juliet more pessimistic about the rest of the day. “It’s hard to think about food at all on this kind of a schedule.”

“That’s because you didn’t eat anything this morning.”

“Linguini for breakfast doesn’t suit me.”

“My linguini is always suitable.”

Juliet gave a mild snort as she stepped from the cab into the rain. Though she made a dash for the doors, Carlo was there ahead of her, opening one. “Thanks.” Inside, she ran a hand through her hair and wondered how soon she could come by another cup of coffee. “You don’t need to do anything for another two hours.” And he’d definitely be in the way while things were being set up on the third floor.

“So, I’ll wander.” With his hands in his pockets, he looked around. As luck would have it, they’d entered straight into the lingerie department. “I find your American malls fascinating.”

“I’m sure.” Her voice was dry as he fingered the border of lace on a slinky camisole. “You can come upstairs with me first, if you like.”

“No, no.” A saleswoman with a face that demanded a second look adjusted two negligees and beamed at him. “I think I’ll just roam around and see what your shops have to offer.” He beamed back. “So far, I’m charmed.”

She watched the exchange and tried not to clench her teeth. “All right, then, if you’ll just be sure to—”

“Be in Special Events on the third floor at eleven-forty-five,” he finished. In his friendly, casual way, he kissed her forehead. She wondered why he could touch her like a cousin and make her think of a lover. “Believe me, Juliet, nothing you say to me is forgotten.” He took her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles. That was definitely not the touch of a cousin. “I’ll buy you a present.”

“It isn’t necessary.”

“A pleasure. Things that are necessary are rarely a pleasure.”

Juliet disengaged her hand while trying not to dwell on the pleasure he could offer. “Please, don’t be later than eleven-forty-five, Carlo.”

“Timing, mi amore, is something I excel in.”