“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.

“Here.” He brought over one plate with a small slice. “We’ll share.”

“One bite,” she told him, prepared to stand firm. Then she tasted. Creamy, smooth, not quite sweet, more nutty. Exquisite. With a sigh of surrender, Juliet took another. “Carlo, you’re a magician.”

“Artist,” he corrected.

“Whatever you want.” Using all the willpower she had left, Juliet exchanged the cake for champagne. “I really can’t eat another bite.”

“Yes, I remember. You don’t believe in overindulgence.” But he filled her glass again.

“Maybe not.” She sipped, enjoying that rich, luxurious aura only champagne could give. “But now I’ve gotten a different perspective on indulgence.” Slipping out of her shoes, she laughed over the rim of her glass. “I’m converted.”