"At least, we agree on something! My Joseph deserves better."
"What your Joseph deserves," Lucinda said hotly, "is a good, swift kick! He's a horrible man."
"He is a saint."
"He's a pig."
"He is the heart of my heart."
"He's the devil incarnate!"
"Joseph," Nonna whispered imploringly, "tell me you are not really going to...oh, I cannot say the words!"
Joe shot his grandmother a quick, assessing look. Her voice trembled but her color was good and the hand she'd clapped over her heart was steady. Her sensibilities were wounded, that was all. His threat had hit her right where she lived, straight in her impossible, Old Country, matchmaking heart.
Good, he thought coolly, and reached for Lucinda again. She squirmed like a fish trying to avoid the hook but he drew her into the circle of his arm and held her there.
"Would I joke about such a thing?"
"I hope so."
"Nonna, sweetheart." He gave a rueful sigh. "I'm disappointed you'd have such an attitude towards my future bride."
Nonna moaned. Blondie made a choked little gasp that he figured would be acceptable to the New England WASP she claimed to be and bared her teeth. Joe, remembering their sharpness, maintained just the right distance.
"Joseph, I know you're upset but you cannot mean this. You cannot possibly marry such a woman."
"No, he cannot," Lucy snapped, and then she paused and fixed Nonna with a narrowed stare. "What do you mean, he can't marry such a woman?" Her lower lip, which had been trembling, fixed in a belligerent pout. "I'll have you know, Mrs. Romano, that I am not 'such a woman.' I am a fine woman, far too good for the likes of your awful grandson."
"My Joseph is a wonderful man," Nonna said hotly. "He deserves a woman who is a woman, not a-a-"
"I am a woman who is a woman," Lucy said just as hotly.
"You like men."
"Yes, I do. I mean, no. No, I don't. Not the way you mean."
"You cannot cook. And you are not Italian."
"I have a certificate from the culinary institute, and what's so special about being Italian?" Lucy glared at Joe. "Will you let go of me, dammit?"
Nonna made the sign of the cross. "She curses, too," she whispered. "Oh, Joseph. Tell me you won't do this."
Slowly, Joe let go of Lucy's arm and looked at his grandmother. Chance number two to say, of course he wouldn't...but then he remembered the day he'd just put in, thanks to this innocent-looking old lady with the braided coronet and the big, dark eyes. His stomach was so empty, it rumbled. His kitchen was a shambles, and had almost burned down around his ears. Worst of all, he'd been seduced into making an ass of himself in that torrid little skin-on-skin encounter with Ms. Lucinda Barry, because what had happened had certainly been her doing, not his.
And why? Because his grandmother couldn't stop meddling in his love life, that was why. Well, enough was enough. Joe wasn't a gambler in the traditional sense of the word but he'd gotten what he had by knowing when to hold his cards and when to fold them.
Now was not the time to fold.
"You wanted me to find a wife," he said calmly.
His grandmother wiped her eyes with the skirt of her apron, looked at him beseechingly.
"I know, darling Giuseppe, but not a girl like this."
"A girl like what?" he said innocently, and looked over her shoulder.
The front door was open and the lady in question was gone. Joe muttered an oath, kissed his grandmother's forehead, told her to concentrate on all the cute little non-Italian babies she'd soon have tumbling around her feet and on what fun it would be for her to do all the cooking for his family because, obviously, his wife would never be capable of producing a meal.
Nonna's cry of anguish almost stopped him, but memories of Miss Eyebrow and the teenybopper dragged him back to reality.
"I love you, Nonna, despite yourself," he said severely, though he softened things a bit with another peck on the cheek before he hurried out the door.
There was no sign of Lucy in the street. Joe cursed, revved up the Ferrari, winced at the sound of mashing gears and headed back towards the main street, the route they'd taken to get here.
Yes, there she was, determinedly puffing up the hill a couple of blocks away. Her hair had come loose and trailed down her back; somehow, she'd managed to lose one of those sensible shoes. Her blouse was still buttoned wrong, one side still hanging at half-mast.
Oh, yes. The neat little world Ms. Barry had built on a pack of lies-with the help of a meddlesome grandma-was coming apart. And she had the audacity to behave as if he were the bad guy!
Joe pulled closer to the curb and put down the window. "Get in the car."
Blondie didn't answer. She didn't even look at him, or slow her pace.
His jaw tightened.
"I said, get in the damned car!"
"Go to hell," she said, and quickened her pace.
Joe slammed the engine into neutral, got out, and grabbed her. She shrieked as he tossed her over his shoulder and marched back to his car. A couple out walking their poodle stopped and gaped in astonishment.
"Help," Lucinda screamed.
"Lover's quarrel," Joe said with a smile that was all teeth.
He dumped her, unceremoniously, into the passenger seat and drove off.
To her credit, Blondie didn't do any more yelling or shouting. She simply sat beside him, ramrod-straight. He could almost feel the ice cubes forming in the air but that was better than it turning blue.
For a woman who claimed to be a Boston Brahmin, Ms. Barry had an interesting vocabulary.
Joe's eyes narrowed.
She was probably as much a blueblood as he was. The lady was a stripper, plain and simple, albeit one with an interesting facility for creating stories about herself.
He glanced over at her, taking in the tense profile, the folded arms, the dopey outfit.
Oh, yes, he thought grimly. Miss Lucinda Barry, of the Boston Barry's, was getting exactly what she deserved.
Joe pulled into his garage. Blondie got out of the car, slammed the door hard enough to rattle the dashboard, and strode through the door that connected to the kitchen. Once inside, she swung towards him.
"If you try to touch me," she said, "I swear, Romano, I'll kill you."
He believed her. The look in her eyes said it all.
"Baby, you're breaking my heart," Her fists came up as he reached out, but he easily avoided her flailing hands, clasped her shoulders and moved her aside. "Does this mean you're not pleased with our engagement?" he said as he tossed his keys on the counter.
"Engagement?" He heard the hiss of her breath as he headed down the hall, then the slap-slip of one sensible shoe and one bare foot as she hurried after him. ''I'd sooner be engaged to an ax murderer!"
"Trust me, Blondie. The feeling is mutual."
He turned and looked at Lucy, his eyes hard, and she could see that he meant it. But she'd figured he hadn't meant what he'd said about marrying her. Of course he hadn't, and a damned good thing, too.
"I only said that for my grandmother's benefit."
She watched as he leaned back against the staircase banister and tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The snug, faded denim tightened across his hips and thighs. Oh, it was definitely a good thing he hadn't meant it. What woman would let a man force her into marrying a macho, arrogant, stubborn, oversexed, under-brained stud? Certainly, not her. Not her, even if that first touch of his lips on hers, after he'd made his incredible announcement, had almost stopped her heart ...
"After this, the old girl won't dare interfere in my love life again."
What a smug, self-satisfied expression the man had on his face. Lucinda lifted her chin.
"I see," she said coldly. "You decided to administer shock treatment to your own grandmother."
"Something like that."
"With me as the source of the current."
He grinned. "Uh-huh."
"Your
grandmother loves you. And yet, you'd treat her this way?"
"Like you said, Blondie, it's shock treatment."
"Don't call me that!"
"Sorry, honey."
"Don't call me that, either. I am not your 'honey.'''
"Well, what else would a man call his fiancée. Baby? Darling? Sweetie?" One dark brow lifted. "You don't strike me as the 'Lambykins' type."
"I am not your type at all, Romano. And I am, most definitely, not the type of woman who enjoys being used."
"Out of bed, you mean."
The drawled words were insolent but Lucinda knew there was no sense in letting him draw her into a discussion about her morals, or the supposed lack of them.
"Did it ever occur to you," she said, "that I might not enjoy being part of your nasty little scheme?"
"It isn't nasty, it's necessary. And no, it didn't occur to me. Not in the slightest. Why would it, when you're as much to blame for this nonsense as my grandmother?"
"My God, you're a horrible man!"
"So you keep telling me."
A moment passed. Then Lucinda folded her arms. "Well?"
Joe folded his, too. "Well, what?"
"You made your point. Your grandmother believed you."
"So?"
"So, aren't you going to phone her and tell her it was all a hoax?"
"A lesson, not a hoax." Joe lifted one hand, checked his nails, flashed a seemingly lazy smile. "Either way, I'm not calling her yet."
"Fine." Lucinda started past him. "That's your business. She's your grandmother and it's your life, and it doesn't matter to me one little bit how you-"
His hand clamped around her wrist. "Just where do you think you're going?"
"Upstairs to pack." She smiled tightly. "I know this will come as a shock, Romano, but I'm leaving."
"No." Joe's tone was still pleasant, almost thoughtful. "No, you're not."
"I most certainly am. And you'd better let go of my wrist."
"You really think that's it?" Joe didn't ease his grip on her. If anything, he tightened his hold and moved closer, so close that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "You use my innocent grandmother to set up a scam-"
"Innocent?" Lucinda laughed. "She's as innocent as a used car salesman."
"And you'd probably know all about used car salesmen, new car salesmen, out-of-town salesmen, hell, salesmen in general. Wouldn't you, honey?"
"Let go of me, dammit!"
"You used her, so you could invade my home-"
"Invade your...? Oh, please! What are you, huh? One of those conspiracy nuts?"
"-invade my home, damn near incinerate it, and now you think you're going to pack your G-string and sashay off into the night?"
"For the thousandth time, I don't have a- Oh, what's the difference?" Lucinda blew a strand of hair off her forehead. "Yes, that's precisely what I'm going to do. Pack my G-string, walk out of this insane asylum and pretend I never met anybody named 'Romano.'"
"So, you admit it."
"That you Romano's are crazy?"
"That you do what I said you do, for a living."
Their eyes met, his as coldly blue as the sky on a midwinter morning. Of course not, she thought of saying. I don't do those things. I never even knew anybody really did do those things, until last night.
But why should she defend herself to this man? She'd already done that, almost begged him to believe her, and where had it gotten her? No place, that was where. Not that she cared. Mr. Almighty Romano was nothing in her life. An hour from now, she probably wouldn't even be able to conjure up his face.
To hell with explanations and with him, Lucinda thought, and tugged her hand free.
"I don't have to answer to you or anybody else." Her voice was icy and calm. She hoped so, anyway. "My life, and my choices, are my own."
"Why?" A muscle knotted in his jaw. He stepped closer; despite herself, she stepped back but her spine hit the banister. There was nowhere to go, no choice but to face him down. "Why?" he repeated, his voice low and rough. "If you can make your own choices, why choose to flaunt yourself in front of men?"
Color stole into Lucinda's cheeks. "I just told you, I don't owe you any explanations, Romano. My life-"
"Is your own. Yeah, so you said." The muscle danced in his jaw again, flickering tightly just beneath his skin. "Is it because you get a kick out of turning men on?"
"That's none of your business."
"It sure as hell is. You made it my business, lying your way in here."
Lucinda rolled her eyes. "Are we back to that? I didn't lie.
I didn't do anything but accept a job-a job your sainted grandmother offered to me."
"Leave her out of this:'
"I'll be happy to leave all of you out of this. Just let me get up the stairs. Five minutes from now, you'll never know I was here."
"Does it give you a kick?" Joe reached out, touched a callused finger to her cheek. She flinched back but the tip of his finger stayed, slowly following the line of her cheek down to her throat. "Flaunting yourself in front of strangers, I mean. Exhibiting yourself that way."
"Yes," she said, slapping angrily at his hand. "That's right it gives me a kick, knowing men like you won't ever get the chance to do anything but watch me-what did you call it? Sashay around in my G-string?" Her smile glittered. "You can look, Romano, but you can't touch. That's what turns me on."
The change that came over him was swift and frightening. His features hardened, and she knew, instantly, she'd pushed him too far.
"You're a liar," he said, and before she could protest, he reached for her and drew her towards him.
Her heart thudded.
"Stop it!" She grasped his arms, tried to hold herself rigid, but he was far too strong. Inexorably, inch by inch, he pulled her closer until she was pressed against him. His body was hard, powerfully male; she could feel his swift arousal nudging her belly and her pulse began to race. "Romano, you're not going to prove anything by acting like a thug-' ,
"Maybe flaunting yourself for men who can look but not touch turned you on in the past." His smile was quick and dangerous. "But that isn't what turned you on in my arms this morning."
"That," she said, trying to sound scornful.
"Yeah," he said roughly, "that."
His hand swooped down, cupped her breast. His thumb rolled lightly across the center and instantly, before she could draw a breath, she felt herself ignite, felt her nipple bead and harden under that insolent caress.
"You see?" His other arm swept around her, his hand splaying in the small of her back, and he pulled her tightly against him. "You can't hide what you feel, Blondie. What I make you feel."
"You're wrong." Her throat was dry; she could feel the breath rasp in her lungs but she forced herself to look up at him and meet his eyes with her own. "It was an act, Romano. Acting as if I'm turned on is what I do, remember? And I'm good at it."
"I'll bet you are, honey." His smile was quick and knowing. "But the heat of your skin was real. So was the way your mouth trembled under mine."
"I told you, it was-"
She cried out as he dipped his head and bit gently at her bottom lip.
"You were wet for me," he whispered. "Wet, and hot, and ready..."
"That's a lie," she said as he cupped the back of her head with his hand, "dammit, it's-"
Whatever she'd been going to say was lost against his mouth as it closed over hers.
His determination was reflected in his kiss. His mouth took. Demanded. Sought dominance, and offered nothing in return. Lucinda tried to twist her face from Joe's. She struggled. She fought...
And his kiss changed.
He angled his mouth over hers; his lips softened and clung. They moved against hers, brushed hers like satin whispering over silk.
Don't respond, she told herself, oh, don't. She was being kissed by a man who knew all there was to know about women. This was seduction, nothing else, an exercise designed to prove his maste
ry of her.
Don't, she thought again... and sighed against his mouth. Joe slid his hand down her spine, then up, curved his fingers around the nape of her neck, tilting her head back. His other arm tightened around her. He held her as if she were something precious. As if she were the only woman he'd ever wanted.
As if she'd been meant only for this moment, and for him. He made a sound, something between a groan of anguish and one of need. His mouth brushed hers again with. light, feathering strokes; his teeth teased the fullness of her bottom lip.
"Lucy," he whispered, "open for me."
She told herself he was crazy. That she'd never kiss him that way. But she did. She parted her lips, let him dip his tongue into her mouth, and the taste of him filled her.
Someone moaned. Someone whimpered. Was it she?
Lucinda didn't know. She couldn't think, didn't want to think. She only wanted the kiss never to end as she wound her arms around Joe's neck and kissed him back.
He said something. She couldn't understand it-were the words Italian? But oh, she understood the way he lifted her to him. The way he slid his hands down her sides, caught her skirt and raised it. She felt the slide of his rough fingers against her naked flesh. Felt the rush of hot, wet heat that gathered between her thighs.
Lucinda gasped. She shifted her weight. She hadn't intended to do that, hadn't meant to lean into him...
Don't lie to yourself, Lucinda.
That was just what she'd intended. She wanted this. All of it. Joe's arms, holding her tight. His erection, hard against her belly. The whisper of his breath on her mouth, the taste of him on her lips. The feel of his fingers there, yes, there, just there, teasing her.
Most of all, she wanted him.
Now. Right now. Right here. Their clothes, lying tangled on the floor. His arms, lifting her, carrying her to the sofa. His weight, bearing her down.
"Joe," she whispered, "Joe, please..."
And he dropped his arms to his sides and let go of her. For a moment, for an eternity, Lucinda was too stunned to understand what had happened. She only knew that she'd lost the hard support of Joe's body; the protection of his embrace.
"Please, what?"
His tone was polite, as if he'd asked her the time of day.
She blinked her eyes, forced them open. Her legs felt as if they were going to buckle and she staggered, clutched the banister behind her ...
Romano's Revenge Page 10
