her gaze and caught the dark, furious look in his eyes. “It’s on your list.”
“Basil!” He went off in a stream of Italian. “You dare call this basil?”
Soothe, Juliet reminded herself. It was part of the job. “Carlo, it says basil right on the can.”
“On the can.” He said something short and rude as he dropped it into her hand. “Where in your clever notes does it say Franconi uses basil from a can?”
“It just says basil,” she said between clenched teeth. “B-a-s-i-l.”
“Fresh. On your famous list you’ll see fresh. Accidenti! Only a philistine uses basil from a can for pasta con pesto. Do I look like a philistine?”
She wouldn’t tell him what he looked like. Later, she might privately admit that temper was spectacular on him. Dark and unreasonable, but spectacular. “Carlo, I realize things aren’t quite as perfect here as both of us would like, but—”
“I don’t need perfect,” he tossed at her. “I can cook in a sewer if I have to, but not without the proper ingredients.”
She swallowed—though it went down hard—pride, temper and opinion. She only had fifteen minutes left until the interview. “I’m sorry, Carlo. If we could just compromise on this—”
“Compromise?” When the word came out like an obscenity, she knew she’d lost the battle. “Would you ask Picasso to compromise on a painting?”
Juliet stuck the can into her pocket. “How much fresh basil do you need?”
“Three ounces.”
“You’ll have it. Anything else?”
“A mortar and pestle, marble.”
Juliet checked her watch. She had forty-five minutes to handle it. “Okay. If you’ll do the interview right here, I’ll take care of this and we’ll be ready for the demonstration at noon.” She sent up a quick prayer that there was a gourmet shop within ten miles. “Remember to get in the book title and the next stop on the tour. We’ll be hitting another Gallegher’s in Portland, so it’s a good tie-in. Here.” Digging into her bag she brought out an eight-by-ten glossy. “Take the extra publicity shot for her in case I don’t get back. Elise didn’t mention a photographer.”
“You’d like to chop and dice that bouncy little woman,” Carlo observed, noting that Juliet was swearing very unprofessionally under her breath.
“You bet I would.” She dug in again. “Take a copy of the book. The reporter can keep it if necessary.”
“I can handle the reporter,” he told her calmly enough. “You handle the basil.”
It seemed luck was with her when Juliet only had to make three calls before she found a shop that carried what she needed. The frenzied trip in the rain didn’t improve her disposition, nor did the price of a marble pestle. Another glance at her watch reminded her she didn’t have time for temperament. Carrying what she considered Carlo’s eccentricities, she ran back to the waiting cab.
At exactly ten minutes to twelve, dripping wet, Juliet rode up to the third floor of Gallegher’s. The first thing she saw was Carlo, leaning back in a cozy wicker dinette chair laughing with a plump, pretty middle-aged woman with a pad and pencil. He looked dashing, amiable and most of all, dry. She wondered how it would feel to grind the pestle into his ear.
“Ah, Juliet.” All good humor, Carlo rose as she walked up to the table. “You must meet Marjorie. She tells me she’s eaten my pasta in my restaurant in Rome.”
“Loved every sinful bite. How do you do? You must be the Juliet Trent Carlo bragged about.”
Bragged about? No, she wouldn’t be pleased. But Juliet set her bag on the table and offered her hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I hope you can stay for the demonstration.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” She twinkled at Carlo. “Or a sample of Franconi’s pasta.”
Juliet felt a little wave of relief. Something would be salvaged out of the disaster. Unless she was way off the mark, Carlo was about to be given a glowing write-up.
Carlo was already taking the little sack of basil out of the bag. “Perfect,” he said after one sniff. “Yes, yes, this is excellent.” He tested the pestle weight and size. “You’ll see over at our little stage a crowd is gathering,” he said easily to Juliet. “So we moved here to talk, knowing you’d see us as soon as you stepped off the escalator.”
“Very good.” They’d both handled things well, she decided. It was best to take satisfaction from that. A quick glance showed her that Elise was busy chatting away with a small group of people. Not a worry in the world, Juliet thought nastily. Well, she’d already resigned herself to that. Five minutes in the rest room for some quick repairs, she calculated, and she could keep everything on schedule.
“You have everything you need now, Carlo?”
He caught the edge of annoyance, and her hand, smiling brilliantly. “Grazie, cara mia. You’re wonderful.”
Perhaps she’d rather have snarled, but she returned the smile. “Just doing my job. You have a few more minutes before we should begin. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just take care of some things and be right back.”
Juliet kept up a brisk, dignified walk until she was out of sight, then made a mad dash for the rest room, pulling out her brush as she went in.
“What did I tell you?” Carlo held the bag of basil in his palm to judge the weight. “She’s fantastic.”
“And quite lovely,” Marjorie agreed. “Even when she’s damp and annoyed.”
With a laugh, Carlo leaned forward to grasp both of Marjorie’s hands. He was a man who touched, always. “A woman of perception. I knew I liked you.”
She gave a quick dry chuckle, and for a moment felt twenty years younger. And twenty pounds lighter. It was a talent of his that he was generous with. “One last question, Carlo, before your fantastic Ms. Trent rushes you off. Are you still likely to fly off to Cairo or Cannes to prepare one of your dishes for an appreciative client and a stunning fee?”
“There was a time this was routine.” He was silent a moment, thinking of the early years of his success. There’d been mad, glamorous trips to this country and to that, preparing fettuccine for a prince or cannelloni for a tycoon. It had been a heady, spectacular time.
Then he’d opened his restaurant and had learned that the solid continuity of his own place was so much more fulfilling than the flash of the single dish.
“From time to time I would still make such trips. Two months ago there was Count Lequine’s birthday. He’s an old client, an old friend, and he’s fond of my spaghetti. But my restaurant is more rewarding to me.” He gave her a quizzical look as a thought occurred to him. “Perhaps I’m settling down?”
“A pity you didn’t decide to settle in the States.” She closed her pad. “I guarantee if you opened a Franconi’s right here in San Diego, you’d have clientele flying in from all over the country.”
He took the idea, weighed it in much the same way he had the basil, and put it in a corner of his mind. “An interesting thought.”
“And a fascinating interview. Thank you.” It pleased her that he rose as she did and took her hand. She was a tough outspoken feminist who appreciated genuine manners and genuine charm. “I’m looking forward to a taste of your pasta. I’ll just ease over and try to get a good seat. Here comes your Ms. Trent.”
Marjorie had never considered herself particularly romantic, but she’d always believed where there was smoke, there was fire. She watched the way Carlo turned his head, saw the change in his eyes and the slight tilt of his mouth. There was fire all right, she mused. You only had to be within five feet to feel the heat.
Between