“No, shh. We experiment.” Gently, watching her, he brushed his lips over one cheek, then the other. He heard her breath catch then shudder out. Nerves—these he accepted. When a man and woman were attracted and close, there had to be nerves. Without them, passion was bland, like a sauce without spice.

But fear? Wasn’t that what he saw in her eyes? Just a trace of it, only briefly. Nerves he’d use, play on, exploit. Fear was something different. It disturbed him, blocked him and, at the same time, moved him.

“I won’t hurt you, Juliet.”

Her eyes were direct again, level, though her hand was balled into a fist. “Won’t you?”

He took her hand, slowly working it open. “No.” In that moment, he promised both of them. “I won’t. Now we’ll eat.”

Juliet held off the shudder until he’d turned around to stir and drain his pasta. Perhaps he wouldn’t hurt her, she thought and recklessly tossed back her wine. But she might hurt herself.

He didn’t fuss. He merely perfected. It occurred to Juliet, as she watched him put the last touches on the meal, that he was no different here in the little hotel kitchen than he’d been before the camera. Juliet added her help in the only way she’d have dared. She set the table.

Yes, it was a mistake, she told herself as she arranged plates. But no one but a fool would walk away from anything that smelled like that sauce. She wasn’t a fool. She could handle herself. The moment of weak fear she’d felt in the kitchen was past. She’d enjoy a take-your-shoes-off meal, drink two glasses of really excellent burgundy, then go across the hall and catch eight hours’ sleep. The merry-go-round would continue the next day.

She selected a marinated mushroom as Carlo brought in the platter of spaghetti. “Better,” he said when she smiled at him. “You’re ready to enjoy yourself.”

With a shrug, Juliet sat. “If one of the top chefs in the world wants to cook me dinner, why should I complain?”

“The top,” he corrected and gestured for her to serve herself. She did, barely conquering greed.

“Does it really relax you to stand in a kitchen?”

“It depends. Sometimes it relaxes, sometimes it excites. Always it pleases. No, don’t cut.” With a shake of his head, he reached over. “Americans. You roll it onto the fork.”

“It falls off when I do.”

“Like this.” With his hands on her wrists, he guided her. Her pulse was steady, he noted, but not slow. “Now.” Still holding her hand, he lifted the fork toward her mouth. “Taste.”

As she did, he had the satisfaction of watching her face. Spices exploded on her tongue. Heat seeped through, mellowing to warmth. She savored it, even as she thought of the next bite. “Oh, this is no little sin.”

Nothing could have delighted him more. With a laugh, he sat back and started on his own plate. “Small sins are only small pleasures. When Franconi cooks for you, food is not a basic necessity.”