Romano's Revenge

by Sandra Marton

  What would Mr. Romano prefer?

  Lucinda bit her lip. She had to stop thinking of him that way. Informality. That was the thing to remember. He'd made that very clear and the last thing she wanted to do was to get on his wrong side because, despite his attempts at small pleasantries, she was fairly certain that was where she almost was.

  But for what reason?

  Perhaps he resented his grandmother's interference. Perhaps he didn't like the idea of having a woman in his life. Well, not in his life. In his home. After all, he was-he was-

  He was gorgeous, was what he was. So big. Such wonderfully broad shoulders. So much muscle. And that face. The dazzling, sky-blue eyes. The lean cheeks and tough-looking jaw. The sexy stubble on it.

  Lucinda shut her eyes and wondered if the idiot last night had looked anything like that. No, of course not. He couldn't have looked anything like her boss. Not too many men did.

  Not too many kissed like the one last night, either.

  It was all still so vivid. The husky voice whispering, "Hello, honey. " The hard mouth, the softening of it against hers as what had begun as a teasing kiss suddenly turned hot and dangerous ...

  Surely, not many men kissed that well. That well?

  Lucinda rushed to the closet and grabbed her white jacket and white trousers. Quickly, she stripped off her clothing, put on her chef's outfit and sensible white working shoes.

  She was a chef. A professional person. Perhaps looking like one would make her think like one again.

  The house was quiet. Empty, she knew, save for her. Knowing that, she searched for a radio when she reached the kitchen, found it housed in what looked like an oversize sugar cube and switched from station to station until she found something worth listening to. An aria from La Boheme filled the room with glorious sound.

  Now, what could she make to impress her employer? The better question was, what could she make that would be edible? She hadn't emptied everything out of her shopping bags, not with Mr. Romano standing by. She had a couple of cookbooks stashed away. A fat volume titled Haute Cuisine. Another called Mangia Italian. And, just in case, a slim one titled Even You Can Learn to Cook. Between them, she'd surely come up with…

  "Hot damn," a male voice said, "who's dying?"

  Lucinda shrieked and spun around. Joe Romano glared at her from the doorway.

  "Dammit," she said, "you're going to have to stop doing..." She caught herself, sank her teeth lightly into her bottom lip, and blushed. "Mr. Romano. Joe. Forgive me. It's just that I-I thought you were out."

  "Obviously." He strode across the room and turned off the radio. "The thing does that, goes on all by itself sometimes. Sorry. I should have warned you."

  Lucinda drew herself up. "It did not go on by itself. I turned it on. I'm sorry if my taste in music annoys you."

  "That was music? That woman screaming at the top of her lungs?"

  "It was opera," she said stiffly. "La Boheme."

  "Well, there's no accounting for tastes, I guess."

  "No," she said, even more stiffly, "there isn't."

  He smiled. It was a devastating smile. She wondered if it meant anything to him that he had a smile women all around the world would gladly die for.

  "Ever try listening to some sixties' rock-and-roll?"

  "No."

  The smile became a grin. "Well, that's plain enough. No 'maybe.' No 'I don't think so.' Just a simple, unadorned 'no.'''

  "I'll be sure not to play my music when you're home, sir."

  "Oh, lighten up, Lucy."

  "Lucinda.'

  "Whichever. You can play your music anytime you like. Just keep it down to a roar, okay?"

  She nodded. "Certainly, sir."

  "Joe. And I didn't mean to startle you."

  "You have every right to startle me. I mean, you have every right to be in your own kitchen. It's just that you said you were going out."

  "I did. I went for a run."

  "And came back and showered again," she babbled before she could stop herself. Color swept into her face. "I, um, I can tell. I noticed. You changed your shirt. And your jeans. You shaved, too. There's no stubble on your jaw. And your hair is-it's wet..."

  Her boss was staring at her as if she'd lost her mind, and maybe she had.

  "Well," she said brightly, "I'll see you tonight, Mr.-Joe."

  She flashed what she hoped was a smile. "About what time do you prefer dinner?"

  "Seven, seven-thirty is fine." Joe sauntered across the room and eased onto a stool. "Actually, I haven't had breakfast yet. And I thought-"

  "You thought?" Lucinda said politely, and then she blinked. "Oh. Would you like me to make you something?"

  "If you wouldn't mind."

  "Mind? No. No, of course not."

  She felt her heart give an unsteady thump as she turned away, but how difficult could breakfast be? She knew how to scramble eggs. She could even make waffles, so long as she checked with the cookbook. Pancakes, too, unless her luck ran out and they stuck to the griddle.

  "Let's see," she said, almost falling into the stadium-size fridge as she peered inside. "What do we have? Ah... Eggs. And bacon. And seven-grain bread." She turned and smiled at him. "Bacon and eggs, and toast. How does that ... Is something wrong?"

  Joe was staring at the floor. Or at her feet. Had she stepped in something unmentionable? No, she thought, looking down. No, her white shoes were as pristine as half an hour's worth of polishing each night could make them.

  "Your shoes." Slowly he raised his eyes to her face.

  "Yes?"

  "They're, urn, they're very sensible."

  Those were his words, but his eyes said something else. The blue had gone the color of a midnight sky, and a pair of vertical lines had appeared just between his black eyebrows.

  "I know," Lucinda said, trying not to sound as puzzled as she felt. "I'm on my feet a lot. And kitchen floors are usually hard. Wood, or tile..." Her voice trailed away. He was looking at her feet again, as if he'd never seen feet before. Or as if he had, but never feet quite like hers. First opera, now sensible shoes. Life was not going to be easy in this house. "Is there a problem with my shoes, Mr. Romano??" ., .

  His head came up. His eyes were still dark, still impossible to read.

  "No, of course not." He smiled, though she thought it looked as if it hurt his lips to do it. "Well. You were saying you'd make bacon and eggs, is that right?"

  "Yes. If that's okay with you."

  "Sure. Bacon and eggs would be great."

  Joe watched as his pale blond, flower-scented, sensibly shod, high-cheek boned, soft-mouthed little cook opened one cabinet drawer after another, searching, he figured, for a skillet. He began to rise, to help her find one, then thought better of it. Her cheekbones. Her smell. Her hair. Her mouth, and now her shoes...

  Okay, two and two didn't necessarily add up to four. Learning that had helped him make his first million. Still, the best thing to do, when in doubt, was to sit back and observe. That was another principle he'd picked up on his way to the top.

  Lucinda. Little Lucy, he thought, narrowing his eyes, I am just going to sit here and watch.

  After a lot of clattering, she found what she'd been looking for. She took a big pan from a cabinet and put it on the stove. Then she opened the package of bacon and slipped out several strips.

  Even Joe knew that laying the stuff in a skillet, without turning on the heat beneath it, was not going to work.

  "You have to turn the burner on," he said.

  "Oh, I know that." She kept her back to him but he could see the stiffness in her shoulders. "It's just that I've never seen a stove quite like this one."

  Well, that was possible. The stove was a high-tech monster. Nobody had ever seen anything like it, except Toni, who'd oohed and aahed as if it were the Hope diamond. If his new cook wasn't mechanically inclined, she could, indeed, have trouble figuring out how to operate the thing.

  On the other hand. the dials that said On an
d Off were pretty easy to distinguish.

  "You have to push that button on the back. That's it. Now touch the pad to the right. There you go."

  "Thank you."

  "You're welcome." He waited a minute, watched as she took out the eggs, found a bowl, and broke them into it, trying not to wince when most of one egg plopped onto the counter. "Tricky little devils," he said pleasantly.

  "Mmm," she said, breaking another one.

  A chunk of shell fell into the bowl. Delicately, she fished it out.

  Joe folded his arms. "How about some coffee?"

  "Coffee?"

  "Yes. You know, that black, caffeinated stuff that kick-starts the day."

  "Coffee," she repeated, and shot a sideways look at the two coffeemakers lined up on the counter. One was a drip filter. The other was a spaceship. "Is-is drip okay?"

  "I thought cappuccino would be nice."

  "Cappuccino."

  "Yes."

  "Cappuccino," she said again, but very softly. His eyes narrowed as she touched the espresso machine with one finger, then reached for the steam spigot.

  "On the other hand," he said quickly, "why don't we stay with drip?"

  Her sigh of relief was audible. "Where do you keep the coffee?"

  "In the freezer. The grinder is right there, near the-"

  "The coffeepot. Yes, I saw it."

  There was a funny tightness to Joe's voice. Lucinda stole a glance at him as she took the beans from the freezer. There was a tightness to his mouth, too. And his eyes had gone from midnight-blue to black.

  A shudder rippled down her spine. Resolutely, she ground the beans-she always ground her own, so that was a snap. Then she put up the coffee and swung towards Joe.

  "Well," she said, her voice resonating with false good cheer, "how would you like your eggs? Scrambled?"

  "Fried."

  There was a certain quality to his tone, a smugness. Did he think she couldn't fry a couple of eggs? Frying was even easier than scrambling. Well, of course, it was a good thing he hadn't asked her to fry them, then turn them so that the yolks cooked gently without breaking. Over-easy, was the restaurant parlance, though she couldn't imagine why. Flipping eggs without smashing the yolks wasn't easy. It was impossible. For her, anyway. She'd never mastered the-

  "Fried," he said softly, "and over-easy. I like the yolks done but not runny, Lucy."

  "Lucinda." The correction was automatic. The quaver in her voice was not. "Certainly, sir."

  "Joe." His smile was sharp and quick. "If there's anything I hate, it's to have my yolks broken."

  If there's anything I hate, she thought savagely, it's dealing with a smug, smarmy male.

  "No problem, Mr. Romano." She waited for him to tell her again, that his name was Joe. He didn't. "I never break the yolks."

  It was a lie. She always broke them, but she would not break them this time. Until now, she thought she'd passed the interview with Joseph Romano but, quite clearly, this-this ridiculous Flipping Of The Eggs was the true test.

  Her new boss was sneaky. "I tell you what, Lucy."

  "Luc-"

  "I'll make the toast. How's that?"

  "Oh, it's not necessary..."

  "Sure it is."

  His arm brushed hers as he made his way to the bread drawer. So did his shoulder, and his hip. How come he had to pass so close to her in this enormous kitchen?

  "If I do the toast," he said, "you'll have all the time in the world to concentrate on the eggs."

  Lucinda nodded. The eggs.

  She took out another skillet, put in a lump of butter, waited for the butter to melt. She remembered, too late, that she should have heated the pan first. Instead, centuries ground past as she-she and Mr. Romano-waited for the butter to melt.

  "You can-you can sit down, sir," she said.

  Joe's smile glittered. "Thank you," he replied as he leaned back against the counter, "but I'd rather stand and watch you. It’s fascinating, watching a pro at work. Which reminds me .." He nodded towards the pan. "The butter's turning brown."

  Oh, God, it was. Lucinda grabbed the bowl that held the eggs and dumped it over the skillet.

  "I prefer letting the butter brown. It gives the eggs a piquant flavor."

  "Mmm. Cooks them awfully fast, too. Just look at that."

  She looked. The eggs were crisping at the edges.

  "Just about ready to flip, wouldn't you say?"

  She flashed Joe a look. "Yes. Yes, they are."

  His eyes bored into hers. "Flip them, then," he said, and what she heard in those words turned her blood to ice.

  Lucinda took a deep breath, reached for a spatula and held it poised over the eggs. Please, she thought, please, please, please ...

  The yolks broke. The whites fell apart, those that hadn't already toasted to inedibility. She stared into the pan, at the gold-and-white mess, and tried to will the yolks to roundness, the whites to wholeness.

  "My," Joe purred, "that didn't work out too well, did it?"

  Lucinda shot him a cold look. He'd been hoping she'd fail, she just knew it.

  "No," she snapped, "it didn't." Several locks of hair fell into her eyes. She blew them back, blew them back again, then thrust her hand through the hair in a useless attempt to shove it behind her ear.

  "Probably just as well the bacon's burning." Again, he gave her that all-teeth smile. "I mean, what's the point of bacon without eggs?"

  "The bacon...?" Oh, it was. The skillet was sending up clouds of dark smoke. Lucinda leaned towards it. Grease splattered against her eyeglasses. She grabbed them, tried to pull them off but one earpiece caught in her hair. She swore, tugged the glasses free, and her hair tumbled over her shoulders as she reached for the pan.

  "You little fool!" Strong hands caught her by the shoulders and pushed her aside. Joe grabbed a dish towel, grabbed the skillet and dumped its smoking, sizzling contents into the sink. Then he swung towards Lucinda.

  The look on his face made her heart rise into her throat. "You're no more a cook than I am," he growled.

  "You're right. I mean, you're wrong." She lifted her hands, as if in supplication. "I mean, what I am is-"

  "I know just what you are, honey."

  The word, and the way he said it, echoed and re-echoed through the room. Lucinda put her hand to her throat.

  "No," she whispered. "No. It can't be. You can't be-"

  Joe's mouth twisted. "On the contrary, honey. It is. I am. And if you need proof..."

  Before she could say a word, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  HE HADN'T planned on kissing her.

  Why would he kiss a lying, cheating blonde with few scruples and no morals?

  Especially if she was a ... Forget that.

  Anyway, he knew why he was kissing her. What better way to prove that he knew who she was and what she was?

  The scam was over. Last night, Blondie had worn a handful of spangles instead of this silly white suit. And he'd been the guy who kissed her.

  Now he was kissing her to make sure she knew it.

  She was struggling against him, trying to twist her face away from his, but he wasn't finished with her. He was making a point and after he'd made it, he'd let her go. Until then, he'd keep her right here, in his arms. .

  Right here, her soft body against his. Her breasts against his chest.

  Her mouth, promising a sweetness unlike anything he'd ever tasted before ...

  With an angry cry, she wrenched her mouth from his. "You bastard! Let go of me!"

  He would. He knew that. He'd never believed any of that bull about a woman of her sexual orientation changing her mind in the arms of the right man.

  He'd let her go. Any minute now. Any second.

  Joe groaned, thrust his hands into Lucinda's silky hair, lifted her face to his and kissed her again.

  "You," she hissed against his mouth, "you ... " "That's right, honey," he murmured. "Me."

  Her eyes
burned with rage but even as he looked deep into the cool, green depths, he saw the anger change to something else, something that made his blood run thick.

  "I said. let go of me."

  But she whispered it this time. And her hands lifted, closed over his wrists and clasped them.

  "Let go.'

  Her voice shook, and her lashes fell to her cheeks. Her lips parted and Joe drew her even closer, bent to her again and kissed her. Her mouth was warm and pliant. She moaned; he thought he did, too.

  "Lucy," he whispered, and then her hands were in his hair, she was lifting herself to him, his tongue was deep in her mouth and he was tasting her.

  Sweet. So sweet. The taste of her was like the smell of her, a mix of gardenias, wild roses and violets.

  He wanted more.

  He shifted his weight, drew her closer so that she was leaning into him, the contours of her body melding with the length of his. He felt the fullness of her breasts, the soft pressure of her thighs, the heat of her, all around him.

  She was trembling. Trembling in his arms like a leaf in a gentle breeze. And she was whimpering, making the sounds a woman makes when a man is loving her, sounds that were going to drive him crazy if he didn't have her soon.

  Joe leaned back against the wall. He slipped one arm around her hips, lifted her, cupped her bottom and brought her against him. He was as hard as a rock, harder than a man could possibly be, and he moved against her, wanting her to know, to feel what she'd done to him.

  What only she could undo. "Oh," she whispered, "oh .. ."

  Her head fell back as he took his mouth from hers and pressed it to her throat. He licked her soft skin, sank his teeth gently into her flesh. She tasted like honey, felt like silk.

  He was drowning in all of it, her taste, her smell, the pliant feel of her heated body in his arms.

  Now. That was all he could think. He was beyond anything else, beyond talking or hearing. All that mattered was his need to possess her. Her need, to be possessed. She was clinging to him, sobbing his name, giving back kiss for kiss.

  Her zipper hissed as he opened it.

  "No," she said, but he knew the word had no meaning because even as she said it, she was helping him free her of those silly white trousers.