She was already rolling the next forkful. “You win that one. Why aren’t you fat?”

“Prègo?”

“If I could cook like this…” She tasted again and sighed. “I’d look like one of your meatballs.”

With a chuckle, he watched her dig in. It pleased him to see someone he cared for enjoying what he’d created. After years of cooking, he’d never tired of it. “So, your mother didn’t teach you to cook?”

“She tried.” Juliet accepted a piece of the crusty bread he offered but set it aside as she rolled more spaghetti. First things first. “I never seemed to be very good at the things she wanted me to be good at. My sister plays the piano beautifully; I can barely remember the scales.”

“So, what did you want to do instead of taking piano lessons?”

“Play third base.” It came out so easily, it stunned her. Juliet had thought she’d buried that along with a dozen other childhood frustrations. “It just wasn’t done,” she said with a shrug. “My mother was determined to raise two well rounded ladies who would become two well rounded, successful wives. Win some, lose some.”

“You think she’s not proud of you?”

The question hit a target she hadn’t known was exposed. Juliet reached for her wine. “It’s not a matter of pride, but of disappointment, I suppose. I disappointed her; I confused my father. They still wonder what they did wrong.”

“What they did wrong was not to accept what you are.”

“Maybe,” she murmured. “Or maybe I was determined to be something they couldn’t accept. I’ve never worked it out.”

“Are you unhappy with your life?”

Surprised, she glanced up. Unhappy? Sometimes frustrated, harassed and pressured. But unhappy? “No. No, I’m not.”

“Then perhaps that’s your answer.”

Juliet took a moment to study him. He was more than gorgeous, more than sexy, more than all those qualities she’d once cynically attributed to him. “Carlo.” For the first time she reached out to touch him, just his hand, but he thought it a giant step. “You’re a very nice man.”

“But of course I am.” His fingers curled over hers because he couldn’t resist. “I could give you references.”

With a laugh, Juliet backed off. “I’m sure you could.” With concentration, dedication and just plain greed, she cleared off her plate.

“Time for dessert.”

“Carlo!” Moaning, Juliet pressed a hand to her stomach. “Please, don’t be cruel.”

“You’ll like it.” He was up and in the kitchen before she found the strength to refuse again. “It’s an old, old, Italian tradition. Back to the empire. American cheesecake is sometimes excellent, but this…” He brought out a small, lovely cake with cherries dripping lavishly over it.

“Carlo, I’ll die.”

“Just a taste with the champagne.” He popped the cork with an expert twist and poured two fresh glasses. “Go, sit on the sofa, be comfortable.”

As she did, Juliet realized why the Romans traditionally slept after a meal. She could’ve curled up in a happy little ball and been unconscious in moments. But the champagne was lively, insistent.