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all has to do with style.”
    With this observation, or complaint, the two women disappeared into the crowd.
    At three-fifteen, he was still signing, but the crowd had thinned enough that Juliet could see him. Style, she was forced to agree, he had. No one who came up to his table, book in hand, was given a quick signature, practiced smile and brush-off. He talked to them. Enjoyed them, Juliet corrected, whether it was a grandmother who smelled of lavender or a young woman with a toddler on her hip. How did he know the right thing to say to each one of them, she wondered, that made them leave the table with a laugh or a smile or a sigh?
    First day of the tour, she reminded herself. She wondered if he could manage to keep himself up to this level for three weeks. Time would tell, she decided and calculated she could give him another fifteen minutes before she began to ease him out the door.
    Even with the half-hour extension, it wasn’t easy. Juliet began to see the pattern she was certain would set the pace of the tour. Carlo would charm and delight, and she would play the less attractive role of drill sergeant. That’s what she was paid for, Juliet reminded herself as she began to smile, chat and urge people toward the door. By four there were only a handful of stragglers. With apologies and an iron grip, Juliet disengaged Carlo.
    “That went very well,” she began, nudging him onto the street. “One of the booksellers told me they’d nearly sold out. Makes you wonder how much pasta’s going to be cooked in L.A. tonight. Consider this just one more triumph today.”
    “Grazie.”
    “ Prego. However, we won’t always have the leeway to run an hour over,” she told him as the door of the limo shut behind her. “It would help if you try to keep an eye on the time and pick up the pace say half an hour before finishing time. You’ve got an hour and fifteen minutes before airtime—”
    “Fine.” Pushing a button, Carlo instructed the driver to cruise.
    “But—”
    “Even I need to unwind,” he told her, then opened up a small built-in cabinet to reveal the bar. “Cognac,” he decided and poured two glasses without asking. “You’ve had two hours to window-shop and browse.” Leaning back, he stretched out his legs.
    Juliet thought of the hour and a half she’d spent on the phone, then the time involved in easing customers along. She’d been on her feet for two and a half hours straight, but she said nothing. The cognac went down smooth and warm.
    “The spot on the news should run four, four and a half minutes. It doesn’t seem like much time, but you’d be surprised how much you can cram in. Be sure to mention the book title, and the autographing and demonstration at the college tomorrow afternoon. The sensual aspect of food, cooking and eating’s a great angle. If you’ll—”
    “Would you care to do the interview for me?” he asked so politely she glanced up.
    So, he could be cranky, she mused. “You handle interviews beautifully, Mr. Franconi, but—”
    “Carlo.” Before she could open her notebook, he had his hand on her wrist. “It’s Carlo, and put the damn notes away for tenminutes. Tell me, my very organized Juliet Trent, why are we here together?”
    She started to move her hand but his grip was firmer than she’d thought. For the second time, she got the full impression of power, strength and determination. “To publicize your book.”
    “Today went well, sì? ”
    “Yes, so far—”
    “Today went well,” he said again and began to annoy her with the frequency of his interruptions.
    “I’ll go on this local news show, talk for a few minutes, then have this necessary business dinner when I would much rather have a bottle of wine and a steak in my room. With you. Alone. Then I could see you without your proper little business suit and your proper little business manner.”
    She wouldn’t permit herself to shudder. She wouldn’t permit herself to react in any way.