Unmasking Juliet (22 page)

Leo supposed he was right. There would be time to deal with the feud situation. Later. Assuming the Mezzanottes still had a store to compete with the Arabellas. “This isn’t the first time, is it? This is why you called me here from Paris. So I could help you get out of debt.”

A tiny nod of Uncle Joe’s head was his only admission. Somehow the smallness of the gesture only underscored its magnitude.

Leo could have sworn he felt the scratch of a rope slip round his ankle and the weight of the anchor that was family responsibility dragging him off his bar stool.

It had been a long time since he’d worn that particular accessory. It didn’t fit now any better than it had when he’d been eighteen. Or when he’d been a kid and his dad had made him promise to keep his secrets. “How bad is it? Just give me the bottom line.”

Uncle Joe cleared his throat and took his time answering. The urge to wring his neck intensified with each passing second. “We’re in danger of losing the shop. The proceeds from the candy bar side have been slipping for the past few years, and I’ve incurred other...expenses.”

Expenses. As in gambling debts, no doubt.

“I took out a second mortgage,” he continued. “There’s a balloon note on the store due next month.”

“Next month.” Marvelous. “What exactly were you planning on doing if the Rome festival wouldn’t let me compete?”

“Leo, don’t be upset. Please. I had things perfectly under control. Of course I thought you’d win the chocolate fair. And we had the contract with Royal Gourmet all negotiated....”

The contract that George Alcott had ripped up and thrown in Leo’s face.

“Do not try to turn this back on me,” he said through gritted teeth.

He was tempted to walk out the door and never look back. He hadn’t made this mess. Why should he be the one to clean it up? Just because his last name was Mezzanotte didn’t mean he had to be the one to save the family business.

He could go home, grab Sugar and get on a plane back to Paris. And...

Then what?

La Maison du Chocolat would probably jump at the chance to rehire him now that he was allergic to chocolate, wouldn’t they?

He was stuck. As much he wanted to resent it, this store, this business was all he had. At least for now.

He muttered a heartfelt expletive.

“So you’ll go to Rome, then?” At least his uncle had the decency to ask this time.

Now that the secret was out, Leo’s days of ignoring his uncle’s attempts at ordering him around were over. “Yes, I’ll go. On one condition.”

“What condition might that be?” Uncle Joe pulled at his shirt collar. His tie went slightly askew.

It was funny how that one small detail could make him look older somehow. Vulnerable, which was a word Leo had never before associated with his uncle.

“If I win, the store is one hundred percent mine. Mine and mine alone. Got it?” If he was going to be the one to save it, then he’d be the one to make sure it stayed that way. Safe.

Of course, there was no guarantee he’d actually win. Especially now.

“All right.” His uncle, in no position to argue, simply nodded.

“And this is the final contest. No more.” He didn’t need this kind of stress. For all practical purposes, he’d be competing with one arm tied behind his back.

Uncle Joe frowned.

“I mean it. No more. No more competing for me. No more gambling for you. If we get this straightened out, and you mess up again and the candy bar business goes down the drain, so be it. Is that understood?”

Another reluctant nod. “Any particular reason?”

“I’ve never been a fan of the mass production side of things. You know that.” Leo had no interest in off-the-shelf chocolate. If that side of everything caved in, he could live with it.

He wondered if his willingness to sacrifice that part of the business had anything to do with the fact that it had been the root of the whole Mezzanotte-Arabella feud. Then he decided that maybe it wasn’t best to examine his motivation right now. Rome...his chocolate allergy...Uncle Joe...

He felt as if he was juggling fire. And that was without even adding his feelings for Juliet Arabella into the mix. Feelings that he was in no way prepared to identify, yet were very much there.

Uncle Joe spoke up again. There was a tremor in his voice. Paired with the crooked tie, it gave Leo the sense that his uncle had aged ten years since he’d walked through the front door. “I meant the competing. Why no more contests? You’re great at it.”

Leo leveled his gaze at his uncle, fully intending to tell him the truth. He would worry. He would think the contest in Rome was hopeless. He would think Mezzanotte Chocolates would soon be a thing of the past.

He might be right.

Great at it.

I
was
great at it. Now? Who knows?

He swallowed. “I have my reasons.”

Then he slid off the bar stool and pushed through the double doors leading to the kitchen. He wasn’t quite sure why he’d spared his uncle the truth. God knows, the man deserved to worry.

But for the time being, Leo was worried enough for the both of them.

19

Juliet should have been delighted beyond reason. After only a handful of days of packing and frantic preparation for the
Roma Festa del Cioccolato,
she was in Rome.

Alone.

For the time being, at least. She’d been in the Eternal City for two days, most of which had been spent finalizing her plans for her entry in the contest’s artisan division. Her first stop upon arriving at Aeroporto Fiumicino had been the Altare della Patria—the building more commonly known as the Wedding Cake.

She’d had her taxi driver take her there even before going to her hotel. With the windows of the little white car rolled down, they’d driven through the outskirts of the city where old met new and clothes dried on outdoor laundry lines strung across tightly packed, semi-modern-looking apartment balconies. The closer the car had crawled to the historic heart of Rome, the narrower the streets became. Pavement gave way to cobblestone, and when they’d passed through the gates of the Aurelian Wall, they left all traces of the modern world behind.

Everywhere she looked, Juliet saw the past. The cab driver had pointed out Circus Maximus, the Pantheon and Palatine Hill. He’d told her that Cleopatra had once ridden an elephant down the winding road that bordered the Roman Forum. Then they’d zipped right past the Colosseum, which of course, needed no introduction.

It was all breathtaking, and Juliet couldn’t help feeling as if she’d stepped back in time. But remarkably, she also felt as if she belonged there. As if she’d been waiting her whole life to see these things, to breathe in the cool Mediterranean air and stand under the tall umbrella pine trees that resembled elegant parasols decorating the city sidewalks.

The car had carried her past churches, clay-colored buildings and piazza after piazza, until she’d spotted a glimpse of the purest white looming above the horizon.

She’d looked at so many pictures of the Altare della Patria in preparation for the trip that she’d recognized it at once. The Wedding Cake. But no photograph would have been preparation for the sight of the monument in its entirety as they cruised past the Piazza Venezia and curved around the busy circular intersection.

It was enormous, and its raised placement, carved into a portion of the Capitoline Hill, only made it look as though it loomed even larger.

“Here we are.” The cab driver had waved a hand. “The Wedding Cake, just as you asked. Although we Romans call it
la macchina da scrivere.
”

He’d made a pecking gesture with his fingers until Juliet had realized he meant
typewriter.
She’d glanced back at the building. It had row upon row of wide stairs which she supposed could pass for typewriter keys. But she preferred the wedding cake nickname. It was far more romantic, for one thing. More importantly, it was the inspiration for her entry in the chocolate contest.

“You now sit in the very hub of Rome,” the driver had said in heavily accented English. “This is the center of everything.”

The center of everything.

Something about that phrase made her heart beat faster. And for some nonsensical reason, it also made her think of Leo.

She’d leaned toward the front seat and pressed three euro coins into the driver’s hand. “Can you wait here for just a minute while I take a closer look?
Per favore?
”

“Sì.”
He’d nodded.

“Grazie.”
She’d grabbed her sketch pad and camera from her carry-on and climbed out of the taxi.

She’d already sketched out a plan for her entry. In great detail. But a few last-minute additions couldn’t hurt. She wanted it to be accurate. As accurate as possible, anyway. There were limitations, of course, when working with food.

Basically, she planned on making the Wedding Cake into an actual, edible wedding cake. Over the course of her career, she’d made only a handful of wedding cakes. None of them had been nearly as decorative or made up of as many layers as the building standing before her. It was an ambitious plan. Overly ambitious, perhaps.

It was also perfect. Perfectly artistic. Perfectly impressive. And perfectly Roman. If she could somehow make it work, if she could make a cake that was recognizable as this famed Roman landmark and also tasted fantastic, she might actually pull off this whole
Roma Festa del Cioccolato
thing. She was here, after all. Not just to finally see Rome, but to compete. She may as well give it her all. If she did well, or possibly even placed on such a worldwide scale, it would be huge news back home in Napa. Those woeful strawberries and her close finish with Leo at the Napa Valley Chocolate Fair would be forgotten. Arabella Chocolate Boutique would once again reign supreme.

She’d finally made her way to her hotel that afternoon with a perfect picture of the Wedding Cake ingrained in her memory. The thing that had made the biggest impression on her hadn’t been the colossal size of it or the elegance of its graceful columns or its many carved sculptures, but the stark whiteness of it. Her research had told her it was crafted of white marble from Botticino in Northern Italy, but book knowledge hadn’t prepared her for the sight of a pure white spectacle sitting among the generally clay-colored backdrop of Rome. All the surrounding buildings were shades of muted brown, soft terra-cotta or creamy Tuscan beige. By contrast alone, the Wedding Cake was a standout.

Her white chocolate icing would have to be pristine. She’d need to give that particular challenge some serious forethought. Juliet had planned on using her grandmother’s white chocolate frosting recipe and had even brought the fragile recipe book along with her from the States. But she was no longer sure it would work. Would it turn out white enough?

For two days, she thought of little else but the Wedding Cake. Her hotel was located a little over a mile away, on a quiet side street with a violinist who stood on the corner playing for change and a bountiful trellis of pink roses that climbed the walls. In the mornings she would drink decadent, creamy Italian cappuccino, then take a walk somewhere on her list of must-see places, like the Trevi Fountain or the lush, green Villa Borghese, an enormous park with sweeping views of Rome’s crowded rooftops and its many domed churches. But she always ended up back at the Wedding Cake, staring at it, memorizing every angle of marble, the number of columns, the exact tilt of the wings on the goddess Victoria statues that topped the monument on either side.

On her final night alone in the city before her family descended, she forced herself to do something else. If anything, she was overprepared. And she still hadn’t seen the place at the top of her list. The Spanish Steps.

She told herself she hadn’t been intentionally avoiding that particular spot. A big, fat lie, of course.

She knew it was nonsensical, but ever since Leo had told her he could see her there—right there at that spot—and suggested they go together some day, an impossible fantasy had lodged in her heart. It was ridiculous. She hadn’t even seen him since the chocolate fair. Just as she’d suspected, once their secret had been exposed, once it was no longer just the two of them alone in a room together, the reality of their impossible situation became all too clear.

She hadn’t heard a word from him. Nor had she made any attempts to contact him. Cold turkey. That was the way to go. Why prolong the agony?

They’d been doomed from the start. But then again, she’d known that much all along.

Such forethought didn’t make the yearning any less intense, though. Sometimes she found herself thinking about him at the oddest times. Case in point—this, her last night alone in Rome. He was invading her thoughts from all sides. She imagined him sitting across the tiny table at the café where she ate a dinner of homemade pasta dusted with pecorino cheese and cracked black pepper. She could have sworn she heard his voice drifting toward her on the salty Mediterranean breeze. She even thought she spotted him in the crowd walking past the gelateria where she’d indulged in a dessert of tiramisu gelato heavily sprinkled with cocoa and powdered sugar.

She shook her head when she realized her feet had automatically started heading in the direction of the Wedding Cake. She could draw a perfect picture of that building in her sleep by now. She didn’t need to go there again. She was going to the Spanish Steps. Hadn’t she been waiting nearly all her life to walk up that grand outdoor staircase? She had a photo of that exact spot tacked to her refrigerator, for crying out loud. Was she really going to skip seeing it in person simply because she harbored some kind of fantastical notion that she should be there with Leo?

No. That would be wholly irrational.

It didn’t feel right going there alone. Which was precisely why she needed to do it.

She turned around and headed in the direction of the Piazza di Spagna, home to the Spanish Steps. It also happened to be one of the busiest piazzas in the city. The steps were a huge draw, obviously. But the piazza was also situated along one of Rome’s most exclusive high-end shopping districts. Shops with names like Gucci, Prada and Armani lined either side of the street. The famed Hotel de Russie was just a block away. And the home where romantic poet John Keats had spent his last days in 1821 was located there, as well, tucked into the right-hand corner of the steps.

As she approached the piazza, the buzz of happy conversation reached her ears and grew louder the closer she came. Then, before she knew it, she’d rounded a corner, and the grand staircase stretched before her. One hundred thirty-five impossibly wide steps leading from the street level to the Trinità dei Monti church at the top.

She paused for a moment in the middle of the street to appreciate the glory of the sight. While she’d been strolling with her gelato, the sun had fallen, leaving the sky a heavenly cerulean blue. The steps were awash in the pale golden glow of surrounding street lamps and overflowed with enormous pots of colorful azaleas. Crimsons, purples and hot, fiery pinks.

It was so
romantic,
she realized with a pang.

Around her, couples strolled hand in hand. Lovers sprawled on the steps, sharing bottles of wine and languid, sensual kisses. She was suddenly acutely aware of her aloneness. And in that quiet, vulnerable moment, Leo’s words came floating back to her.

I can see you there, in Rome, drinking wine on the Spanish Steps, wandering through cobblestone streets with the Mediterranean breeze blowing through your hair.

Her throat grew tight. It had been a mistake to come here. She’d managed to keep thoughts of Leo at bay—mostly—but here they all came flooding back. And she realized just how very much she missed his touch, the warmth of his breath against her skin and, quite simply,
him.
She couldn’t be here. Not without him.

This was the problem with wanting more. More life. More passion. More
everything.

She’d been perfectly fine before she’d kissed Leo in the vineyard. Her career had been going well. Her family didn’t blame her for ruining the chocolate shop. Her grandmother hadn’t been rolling in her grave at the things she’d done.

She should have never played with fire. She would have been better off if she’d stayed inside the ballroom that night and never walked barefoot among the grapevines. Because now she knew exactly what it was she’d been missing for so long.

She stopped halfway up the world’s most famous staircase to turn around abruptly.

And tumbled headfirst into another meandering tourist.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She teetered on the edge of the narrow step, arms flailing, and the unknown victim of her hasty about-face grabbed her by the shoulders to keep her from falling.

“Careful there,” he said, his hands solid and warm through the wispy fabric of her sundress.

At the sound of his melted caramel voice, her heart went still. She knew that voice. Intimately.

She breathed out a sigh. What was wrong with her? Was she really mooning over Leonardo Mezzanotte so much that now she was hearing things? She needed to get her head out of the clouds at once before she completely sabotaged her chances in the contest, or worse, broke both her legs falling down the Spanish Steps.

“So sorry,” she mumbled, wanting nothing more than to escape to her hotel room and a bottle of Prosecco. She lifted her gaze to thank her rescuer for keeping her in one piece.

And everything went hazy, as if she were looking at the world through the emerald-green glass of a wine bottle.

She couldn’t be seeing what she was seeing.
Who
she was seeing. It simply wasn’t possible.

“Leo.”

* * *

It took a moment for Leo to realize what was happening.

When he’d caught his first glimpse of the back of her head, that graceful curve of her neck, he’d thought it was her.

But he’d convinced himself he was imagining things. He hadn’t seen Juliet’s name mentioned anywhere in conjunction with the
Roma Festa del Cioccolato.
Her name wasn’t on the list of competitors he’d received with his registration materials. Of course, neither was his. His late entry meant he’d slipped in under the radar. Apparently unbeknownst to him, Juliet had been flying stealthily alongside him the whole time.

Still, that familiar glimpse of creamy white skin and upswept hair had been enough to cause him to turn and follow. Only he’d thought he’d been following a ghost. An ethereal being conjured from the desire for her he still carried around like his love for good chocolate. Something he couldn’t indulge, but at the same time refused to leave him.

“Juliet.” He didn’t know whether to release his hold on her at once or to follow his bone-deep instinct to pull her against him, wrap his arms around her and never let go.

Juliet. Here. In Rome.

She stared at him for a long moment until her gaze drifted to his fingertips, still resting on her shoulders. With no small amount of reluctance, he removed his hands from her.

She looked back up at him. “You’re here.”

It wasn’t what he’d expected her to say. He’d anticipated questions.
What are you doing here? Why are you in Rome?
She seemed alternately surprised to see him and not shocked in the least. As if she’d fully expected to run into him on the Spanish Steps, a world away from the chocolate war in Napa Valley.