Unmasking Juliet (25 page)

“I told her there’s nothing to be anxious about. Things could be a lot more troubling. I mean, imagine if Leo Mezzanotte were here.”

A very real wave of nausea washed over Juliet. She hadn’t had much time to think about what Leo’s entry in the contest meant. Was his family in Rome, as well? Probably. That meant they were in for a repeat of the drama of the chocolate fair back home.

Goody.

She removed the washcloth, opened her eyes and found Alegra grinning down at her. Her cousin flashed her a wink. “Yeah. Imagine.”

* * *

The Roma Festa del Cioccolato
was traditionally held at one of the many gourmet cooking schools in the Eternal City. This year, the venue was a seven-hundred-year-old Franciscan monastery that had been converted to a gourmet haven nestled near a quiet corner of Villa Borghese. The school’s name—Il Cucchiaio di Legno—meant The Wooden Spoon, which Juliet found endlessly charming. And when she arrived for the preliminary round of the chocolate competition, she found the surroundings just as delightful as she’d imagined.

The building was square-shaped, with the center being an open courtyard shaded by a tall canopy of umbrella pines that stretched above bountiful herb and vegetable gardens, as well as a thriving cluster of Rome’s ubiquitous lemon trees. A portico with tall arched walkways ran the entire length of the building, overlooking the gardens, ensuring that the lush courtyard could be seen from every room inside. The walls were buttery-yellow, and the floor was earthy tile. Juliet felt as though she’d stepped inside one of the postcards that she’d collected over the years.

She did her best to concentrate on these details and breathe in the essence of Old World Italy rather than think about the very narrow escape she and Leo had experienced just a few hours ago. If she thought too much about it, her hands began to shake. And that was the last thing she needed when she was trying to make a wedding cake.

As steeped in Old World charm as everything was, the commercial-size kitchen where the contestants each had an individually assigned workstation was sleek and modern, with every imaginable up-to-the-minute convenience. And surprise, surprise, Juliet’s workspace was situated right next to Leo’s.

He stood with his back to the countertop, leaning against it as if he didn’t have a care in the world. And of course, he was wearing that impeccable white chef’s coat again. Juliet’s heart did a rebellious flip-flop at the sight of it.

She inhaled a deep breath. There were people milling around everywhere—fellow contestants, contest proctors, judges. People she preferred not to know that she’d spent the night in bed with one of her fellow competitors. It wasn’t the most professional of circumstances.

But now was not the time for romance. Now was the time to kick some serious ass.

She gave Leo a polite nod as she approached her work area. “Mr. Mezzanotte.”

He lifted a brow. “Miss Arabella.”

Why did her name sound so different when he said it? Dangerous. Like poison.

She began checking the inventory of items at her workstation, doing her best to pretend Leo wasn’t standing a mere two feet away.

Which was patently impossible. He was a force of nature.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he murmured without looking at her.

“I couldn’t agree more.” She opened the plastic bins that contained her white chocolate sheet cakes.

Contest rules stated that competitors had eight hours to complete their entries for the artistic round of competition. These hours were to be spent mostly on construction. Certain cooking components, such as basic sheet cakes, simple chocolate or candied fruits, could be prepared in advance. Thank goodness. She would need every bit of those eight hours to carve her sheet cakes into shapes that resembled the Altare della Patria and get it decorated.

She glanced over at Leo. Compared to her crowded countertop, his workspace was barren. It held a single rectangular box that stood about a foot tall and a small leather sheath that held an assortment of odd-looking tools—tiny knives of various sizes, picks and armature wire. She wondered what on earth he was up to, but wasn’t about to ask.

“Got everything you need over there?” she said, simply because she really couldn’t help it. He had the fewest supplies of anyone in the room.

“Worried about me, Miss Arabella?” he asked, once again not looking at her, which for some odd reason made it all the more provocative.

“Of course not. I have my own entry to worry about.” She double-checked to make sure her sketchbook and her grandmother’s recipe book were among the items spread out in front of her.

“That’s my girl,” Leo whispered.

My girl.

She fully expected him to look away again, but he didn’t. Their eyes met, and something intimate and unspoken settled between them. A memory.

A memory of the way he’d looked at her when he’d taken her in the sultry heat of that balcony. The way he’d claimed her.

Mine.

The way she’d given herself to him.

Yours.

Those weren’t words uttered in the heat of the moment. They’d meant something. Still did. Those words echoed between them now. Here in the crowded kitchen.

Juliet could hear them whispering in her soul. She could see them shining in Leo’s fierce blue eyes.

“Do you have any idea how badly I want to touch you right now?” His hands rested on the countertop in front of him, and, as he spoke, his fingertips inched closer.

“Leo.” She bit her lip.

His gaze dropped instantly to her mouth. “Juliet.”

“We can’t do this here. You know that.” She felt as if she was holding her breath, and she was so very desperate to exhale.

His fingers clenched on the edge of the counter, his knuckles turning white. “I know nothing of the sort. What’s to stop me from taking you in my arms right here and now and kissing you within an inch of your life?”

It sounded very much like when he’d threatened to kiss her the night they’d met at the masquerade ball, for all the world to see. And she wondered suddenly what would have happened if she’d let him. Would they still be pretending they were mortal enemies when they were really anything but? Or would time and honesty have worked their magic, and allowed them to be free to love?

She blinked. Love? Was she in love with Leo? Surely not. “Oh, I don’t know...the fact that we’ve both traveled all the way across the Atlantic Ocean to compete against one another in this contest?”

But even as she said the words, she realized the competitive fire that had burned in her since Leo had shown up back in Napa Valley had started to cool. She was tired. Tired of trying to beat him at every turn. Tired of pretending not to care for him. To herself and to everyone else.

“Try me.” He moved toward her. Just a fraction.

Then a loud voice echoed off the ancient kitchen walls. Juliet jumped backward. Leo stilled.

“Competitors,
Benvenuti a Roma!
” The contest proctor stood in the center of the room, arms spread open wide in the universal gesture of welcome.

He scanned the room, his gaze finally landing on Leo and Juliet. “Let the
Roma Festa del Cioccolato
officially begin!”

22

Leo wondered if it was possible to absorb chocolate into his bloodstream through his skin. He hoped to hell not. If so, he was in deep trouble.

Chocolate was caked underneath his nails, in every possible crevice of his hands, in every tiny ridge and swirl of the pads of his fingers. If the kitchen in Rome had been a crime scene, he would have left his mark in an incriminating abundance of chocolate fingerprints.

He hadn’t really thought about this inevitable result of his chosen project for the artistic round of the contest. He’d simply been searching for a way to avoid actually having to consume chocolate. He hadn’t realized he would be taking a virtual bath in the stuff.

“That is really something.” Juliet stared, wide-eyed, at his half-finished creation. It was only the first or second time she’d looked up from the pristine, white, oh-so-ambitious project she had going on beside him.

“Thank you,” he said and nodded at the wedding cake within a wedding cake in front of her. The Altare della Patria. As an actual wedding cake. Brilliant. “So is your cake.”

“Thanks.” She looked almost bashful. That hidden smile and those pink cheeks, coupled with the smear of white chocolate frosting on her forehead and that creative mind she possessed, was enough to bring Leo to his knees with desire.

He’d had about enough. Even if he crossed the river and made a quick trip to the Vatican, and the Pope somehow managed to miraculously cure his chocolate allergy, he was done. No more competing. At least not against Juliet. He was ready to end this whole feud once and for all.

“I had no idea they taught sculpting at Le Cordon Bleu.” She nodded at his project.

It was a replica of one of Italy’s most well-known treasures—Michelangelo’s David—carved from a solid block of chocolate. The head, face and shoulders were pretty much done, but he still had a good deal of work to do on the rest.

“They don’t.” Leo smiled. “I did a fair bit of sculpting at La Maison.”

None as complicated as what he was attempting with the David statue. Not even close. At least he had some experience, though. With any luck, he’d make it through the first day of the contest and survive to compete on day two. If he could manage whatever the cooking challenge might be on the second day without consuming a morsel of chocolate, it would be a flat-out miracle. But he’d deal with that bridge when he came to it.

“Well, it looks great.” Juliet pushed a wisp of hair from her eyes and ended up with another swipe of frosting on her face. Her cheek this time. Adorable.

He focused his attention back on his replica of David. “So long as his head doesn’t topple off, I’m good.”

Juliet eyed his sculpting mallet. “Don’t put ideas in my head.”

The naughty minx. “Watch yourself. That mallet could really do a number on a wedding cake. You know, if it were to fly out of my hand. Accidentally.”

“Accidentally?” She narrowed her gaze. “You know what Freud said about accidents, right?”

“Refresh my memory.”

“He said there are no accidents. My mother says the same thing. No accidents. Only fate. So watch your grip on that mallet, mister.”

He slid it away from Juliet, just to be on the safe side. “Will do. Tell me, though. What do you suppose Freud would have had to say about the rest of our situation? I can venture a guess as to your mother’s opinion, but what about our friend Freud?”

She flushed. “I’m not sure I’d want to know. The mind reels, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed it does, Miss Arabella.” He shot her a wink.

He didn’t want to contemplate what Freud would say. He couldn’t even make sense of it himself, and he was neck deep in it.

Juliet flipped her standing mixer to on, and the noise it created put an end to any further conversation. Just as well. He still had quite a great deal of work to do on chocolate David. Those six-pack abs weren’t going to carve themselves.

Leo lost himself in the work. For that he was grateful. He couldn’t very well go all day wondering if he would suddenly stop breathing, nor could he give into his urge to simply stand there and stare at Juliet. Watching her was fascinating. The slightest twist of her slender wrist as she iced her cake was enough to render him spellbound. He could see a world of radiance in that tiniest of movements.

And that cake. It was like nothing Leo had ever seen. Nothing at Le Cordon Bleu or La Maison had come close to the intricacy she was busy weaving beside him. By the time it was finished, she’d crafted a replica of the Altare della Patria so exact that there was no doubt in Leo’s mind who would win the first round of the competition.

“I should probably pack my knives and go,” he said as they made their way to the courtyard where judging would commence.

Juliet laughed. “This isn’t
Top Chef.
And only half us are going home, remember? The rest of us will still have another complete day of competition.”

Leo was well aware. He couldn’t have dreaded Day Two of the
Roma Festa del Cioccolato
more. Gladiators who’d headed to the Colosseum back in the day likely looked forward to their fate with greater enthusiasm. Today’s competition was judged nearly exclusively on artistic merit, but tomorrow’s round was all about taste.
If
he was still around tomorrow. He had no idea what to expect, as the rules varied from year to year. Sometimes the competitors were asked to create a recipe using a list of certain ingredients. In other years, there was one central ingredient that was required to be featured, but chefs could use whatever other ingredients they desired. And, yes, sometimes it was a blind taste challenge like the one from the Napa Valley Chocolate Fair.

He was banking on options one or two. Obviously. He didn’t much care what he had to do, so long as it wasn’t another taste challenge.

As they stepped from the confines of the building into the cool mist of the courtyard, Juliet’s footsteps slowed. She peered up at him. “Good luck, Leo.”

The self-control it took not to kiss her at that moment was staggering. “Thank you. Good luck to you, too.”

He touched her hand with the slightest graze of his fingertips. For the barest of seconds, he felt it. The fire of connection. Every bit as real as it had been on the balcony the night before.

Then she pulled away from him. And she was walking toward the silver wheeled cart that held her cake. The flash of a camera went off. Leo blinked, and when the stars cleared from his vision he saw Juliet’s mother staring at him. Her mouth was a perfect O of surprise. The camera in her hands wobbled for a second, and he thought she might drop it right on top of Juliet’s cake.

Then, as quickly as she’d been thrown off guard, she recovered. Her face changed into its usual mask of cool indifference. Her lip curled in disgust ever so slightly before she looked away.

The woman despised him. Maybe more so now than ever before, since he’d turned up in Rome.

But he couldn’t worry about such things now. The judges were already milling about, moving from one entry to the next. Leo took his place beside his sculpture, ready to answer questions and discuss his entry. But none of the three judges acknowledged him with more than a polite smile and nod.

This is not looking good.

He took a deep breath. The courtyard no longer smelled of lemons as it had earlier. The overwhelming aroma of chocolate hung in the air. Leo took a bigger inhale. He still loved that smell, probably always would.

“
Signore e signori.
Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the first round judging of the
Roma Festa del Cioccolato,
” the head judge said in a booming voice that rose to the tops of the umbrella pines looming overhead and threatened to topple Leo’s chocolate David off its pedestal.

Leo shot a glance at the audience, which seemed to be filled mostly with members of the media. But sure enough, he spotted Uncle Joe in the first row reserved for spectators. He looked drawn and worried, and just pale enough to take the edge off Leo’s lingering anger. In fact, a flicker of genuine worry passed through Leo until he realized that Uncle Joe had parked himself directly beside Juliet’s mother. There they were—the Mezzanottes and the Arabellas, side by side, taking up the entire row.

Why they insisted on hating one another at such close range was a mystery Leo would never understand.

“The judges have evaluated the entries of the artistic round of competition. The competitors with the top five scores will move on to round two of competition tomorrow.”

Leo took a look around. He was one of ten competitors. Half would move on, the other half would be finished.

“Those five, in no particular order, are Enzo St. Lucia, Arnaud Beaulieu, Carla Agostoni, Juliet Arabella and Leonardo Mezzanotte.”

Leo allowed himself to exhale. Of course his name would be called last. The seemingly unending millisecond between hearing Juliet’s name and hearing his own had shaved at least a year off his life. He hadn’t realized quite how much he wanted to win this thing until he’d thought he was out of it.

He grinned. He wasn’t out of it. Not yet. And now his odds had increased from one in ten to one in five. He just might be able to pull off a win, after all.

The relief had barely begun to take form in Leo’s mind, wasn’t yet fully crystallized, when the judge spoke again. “Round Two of competition will commence tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. This year, the taste portion of the
Roma Festa del Cioccolato
will consist of a blind taste test.
Buona sera, signore e signori.
And to our competitors,
in bocca al lupo!
”

In bocca al lupo.

Leo hadn’t heard that saying in years. It was the traditional Italian way of imparting good luck and had always been a favorite saying of his father’s. Literally translated, it meant
into the wolf’s mouth.

A blind taste test.

In bocca al lupo.

Leo’s chest grew tight, and he suddenly found it difficult to breathe in a way that he knew had nothing to do with his chocolate allergy. Into the wolf’s mouth, indeed.

* * *

Juliet focused every bit of her concentration on twirling her pasta around her fork.
Cacio e pepe,
a traditional Roman dish, perfectly simple and consisting of only three ingredients—homemade pasta, cracked black pepper and pecorino cheese. Growing up, she’d known it as Italian macaroni and cheese, and for as long as she could remember, she’d wanted to eat it in Italy.

Unfortunately, the experience wasn’t quite as idyllic as she’d always imagined it since her mother was glaring at her from across the table.

“Juliet. What is Leo Mezzanotte doing here in Rome? Explain.”

Juliet winced. As did her father, Alegra and Nico. On any given day, her mother could out-shrill the best of them. But right now, she’d ventured into nails-on-a-chalkboard territory.

“Now, dear, try to relax. We’re having a nice family dinner in Italy.
Salute!
” Her father raised his glass of wine in a feeble attempt at a toast.

Paralyzed by her mother’s death glare, no one else at the table moved a muscle.

“Juliet,”
she screeched. A flock of pigeons picking at crumbs on the cobblestones of the outdoor café where they were having dinner took flight and scattered.

For the first time in her life, Juliet longed to be a pigeon. “Leo is here competing in the chocolate contest. Just as I am. He’s a chocolatier. Is it really so shocking?”

Nico’s eyes widened. Alegra choked on her Chianti.

Juliet stabbed at her pasta again. Yes, she supposed she was being uncharacteristically bold. But since they’d left the cooking school, no one had said a word about her cake. Not a single word.

Did they have any idea how hard she’d worked on that cake? She’d thought of little else for weeks. She’d poured her heart and soul into that cake. It was more than just a pile of chocolate, sugar and flour. It was her heart wrapped up in creamy white frosting.

“He didn’t win the Napa Valley Chocolate Fair. You did. He’s not entitled to be here.” Her mom threw her napkin on the table in disgust.

“Mom, everything is fine. I still made it to the final round, or hadn’t you noticed?” She was a finalist in one of the most prestigious chocolate competitions in the world. It was more than she could have hoped for. And yet, nothing had changed.

“Of course I noticed.” Her mother’s face softened. For a millisecond. “But so did he. And he shouldn’t even be competing.”

“She beat him once. She can do it again,” Nico said.

Her mother shook her head. “That’s not the point.”

Juliet’s dad frowned. “It’s not? Isn’t it a competition? Isn’t that why we’re here? To win?”

Juliet dropped her fork. She couldn’t eat another bite. She’d thought things would be different in Italy. Even when she’d first bumped into Leo on the Spanish Steps, for the most fleeting of moments, she’d thought they just might be so far away from Napa Valley that the feud wouldn’t find them here.

She looked up at the swirling blue Italian sky. Same moon, same stars as back home.

Same problems.

“Actually, no. Winning is not why I came here,” she said softly.

Juliet’s mother narrowed her gaze. “Did you know Leonardo Mezzanotte was going to be here? Tell the truth.”

“Does it really matter? In the grand scheme of life, does any of this really matter?” She didn’t wait for an answer.

Ignoring the shocked expressions of her family members, she folded her napkin into a neat square and laid it beside her half-eaten meal. Then, for the first time her in her life, Juliet Arabella stood up and walked away from her family.

* * *

She couldn’t sleep.

The peal of church bells drifting in through her open window told Juliet it was well past midnight, but she couldn’t bring herself to close her eyes. Her body hummed with adrenaline. Whether she was nervous about the pending conclusion of the
Roma Festa del Cioccolato,
or simply still riding the high of finally refusing to take her mother’s bait, she wasn’t sure.

There had been knocks at her door. Her cell phone had rung. Several times. She’d ignored every single knock and call, choosing instead to take a nice bubble bath and order a split of Prosecco from room service. Then she’d watched
Roman Holiday
on television. In Italian.