Lessons Learned by Nora Roberts Page A

different. Once I teach you to cook, you’ll understand.”
    “You’ve got as much chance teaching me to cook as you doflying to San Diego without the plane. Now, you know you’ll be giving a demonstration of preparing linguini and clam sauce on A.M. San Diego. The show airs at eight, so we’ll have to be at the studio at six to get things started.”
    As far as he could see, the only civilized cooking to be done at that hour would be a champagne breakfast for two. “Why do Americans insist on rising at dawn to watch television?”
    “I’ll take a poll and find out,” she said absently. “In the meantime, you’ll make up one dish that we’ll set aside, exactly as we did tonight. On the air you’ll be going through each stage of preparation, but of course we don’t have enough time to finish; that’s why we need the first dish. Now, for the good news.” She sent a quick smile to the waitress as their drinks were served. “There’s been a bit of a mix-up at the studio, so we’ll have to bring the ingredients along ourselves. I need you to give me a list of what you’ll need. Once I see you settled into the hotel, I’ll run out and pick them up. There’s bound to be an all-night market.”
    In his head, he went over the ingredients for his linguini con vongole biance. True, the American market would have some of the necessities, but he considered himself fortunate that he had a few of his own in the case at his feet. The clam sauce was his specialty, not to be taken lightly.
    “Is shopping for groceries at midnight part of a publicist’s job?”
    She smiled at him. Carlo thought it was not only lovely, but perhaps the first time she’d smiled at him and meant it. “On the road, anything that needs to be done is the publicist’s job. So, if you’ll run through the ingredients, I’ll write them down.”
    “Not necessary.” He swirled and sipped his brandy. “I’ll go with you.”
    “You need your sleep.” She was already rummaging for a pencil. “Even with a quick nap on the plane you’re only going to get about five hours.”
    “So are you,” he pointed out. When she started to speak again, he lifted his brow in that strange silent way he had of interrupting. “Perhaps I don’t trust an amateur to pick out my clams.”
    Juliet watched him as she drank. Or perhaps he was a gentleman, she mused. Despite his reputation with women, and a healthy dose of vanity, he was one of that rare breed of men who knew how to be considerate of women without patronizing them. She decided to forgive him for Butch after all.
    “Drink up, Franconi.” And she toasted him, perhaps in friendship. “We’ve a plane to catch.”
    “Salute.” He lifted his glass to her.
    They didn’t argue again until they were on the plane.
    Grumbling only a little, Juliet helped him stow his fancy box of tools under the seat. “It’s a short flight.” She checked her watch and calculated the shopping would indeed go beyond midnight. She’d have to take some of the vile tasting brewer’s yeast in the morning. “I’ll see you when we land.”
    He took her wrist when she would have gone past him. “Where are you going?”
    “To my seat.”
    “You don’t sit here?” He pointed to the seat beside him.
    “No, I’m in coach.” Impatient, she had to shift to let another oncoming passenger by.
    “Why?”
    “Carlo, I’m blocking the aisle.”
    “Why are you in coach?”
    She let out a sigh of a parent instructing a stubborn child. “Because the publisher is more than happy to spring for a first-class ticket for a bestselling author and celebrity. There’s a different style for publicists. It’s called coach.” Someone bumped a briefcase against her hip. Damn if she wouldn’t have a bruise. “Now if you’d let me go, I could stop being battered and go sit down.”
    “First class is almost empty,” he pointed out. “It’s a simple matter to upgrade your ticket.”
    She managed to pull her arm away.