Romano's Revenge

by Sandra Marton

It wasn't until he was safely back in his library that he began to wonder just what he'd let himself in for.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WHAT did a man do when he had an unwanted woman in his house?

  Okay, Joe thought as he lay wide awake in his bed hours later. Okay, so that wasn't exactly accurate.

  Blondie was here at his request. They'd struck a deal, one that would benefit them both. He'd get the chance to teach his nonna a lesson. Blondie would get some much-needed cash ...

  But he wasn't going to call her that. Not anymore. She'd stood in that hallway, as desperate for money as a woman could possibly be, but her determination to face him down hadn't wavered.

  "My name isn't Blondie," she'd said.

  And he'd figured, okay, what was the harm in humoring her?

  Fine, he'd told her, he wouldn't call her that. He'd call her Lucinda.

  "Lucinda," Joe muttered, and rolled his eyes. What sort of name was that for a woman like her? A man thought of a Lucinda, he thought of high-necked blouses, not sequins and G-strings. Was it her real name, or was it part of her act? Drum roll, curtain up, spotlight...

  And now, gentlemen. for your evening's pleasure, Miss Lucinda Barry ...

  Joe frowned and laced his hands beneath his head. What she did, and who she did it with, wasn't his problem. Nothing about her was his problem. She'd cook his meals, after a fashion, for the next couple of weeks; she'd play at being his fiancée. In return, he'd given her a roof over her head. Soon enough, he'd write out a check, hand it over, and that would be that.

  A deal was a deal. And, as deals went, this one was not just reasonable, it was a win-win situation, all the way around.

  In which case, why was he lying here, every muscle tight as a coiled spring? Why were his eyelids all but pinned open at-he glanced at the clock on the nightstand and groaned at almost 4:00 in the a.m. Why couldn't he stop imagining how Lucinda looked, asleep in the next room, her hair loose and spread out over the pillow, her lashes feathered against her cheeks?

  Dammit, Joe thought. He sat up, grabbed his pillow, punched it into submission and lay down again.

  "Get a grip, Romano," he said.

  It wasn't as if he was desperate for a woman. On the contrary. He'd spent the evening with a woman he could have had for the asking. After he'd settled things with Blondie-with Lucinda-he'd called the redhead, picked her up at eight and taken her out to dinner. Then they'd gone on to a hole wall club and listened to some great blues. He'd thought it was great; Red didn't seem to notice. But afterwards, on the dance floor, she'd melted against him like hot wax.

  "I just love slow dancing," she'd sighed, and her pelvis had moved against his in the kind of vertical tango that would probably have been banned in Boston.

  And, just that quickly, his thoughts had left the woman in his arms and flown across town to his house. To his guest room, and the woman inside it. His unwanted, unexpected cook cum fiancée cum general, all-purpose pain in the butt.

  Was she still in her room, with the door shut and locked? he wondered. Would she be waiting to hear the sound of the garage door opening as he parked his car?

  "I just love the sound of a saxophone," Red had purred, and he'd blinked, said something really brilliant like yeah, so did he. Then he'd all but dragged her off the tiny dance floor, paid the check, popped her into a cab along with a peck on the cheek, a twenty dollar bill for the fare, and a muttered excuse about having a headache ...

  A headache.

  "Hot damn," Joe mumbled, and sat up.

  Men didn't have headaches, for God's sake. Not him, anyway. Not ever, and certainly not the sort that would make him pass on the chance to spend the night with a beautiful, sexy, warm, willing lady.

  Joe tossed back the covers and turned on the bedside lamp. Lucinda hadn't been waiting. She probably didn't even know he'd been out. The house had been dark and silent; not even a sliver of light had spilled from under her door. He'd gone into his own room, peeled off his clothes, stepped into the shower and turned the spray to cold ...

  "This," Joe said aloud, "is ridiculous."

  There was a blonde in the guest room. So what? He didn't even like blondes. Never had. Redheads had more fire. And this particular blonde, especially, had little to recommend her. One minute, she played at being a cold and proper Bostonian. The next, she sizzled in his arms, made him forget he was a civilized man, made him forget everything except the need to possess her, even though a hundred other men had been there before him and kissed that soft, hot mouth. Cupped those delicate breasts. Inhaled her scent, tasted her skin ...

  Joe cursed, strode into his bathroom and stepped into the shower.

  Maybe he hadn't made such a good deal, after all.

  Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea, after all.

  Agreeing to Joe Romano's scheme had made sense. Well, Lucinda thought as she stared up at the ceiling over her bed, well, perhaps it hadn't really made sense. In truth, his plan was crazy, but that was just the point. It was his plan, not hers. If he thought he could teach his grandmother a lesson by pretending he was engaged to her, so be it. The whole thing would only last a few weeks. Nobody would get hurt, and she'd end up with enough cash to tide her over until she found a job.

  Lucinda sighed and rolled onto her side.

  If it was all that simple, why was she having such trouble falling asleep?

  Because it rankled, that was why. Because it was insulting and humiliating and downright infuriating that Joe Romano should think she was so repugnant that he could get even with his grandmother just by saying he intended to marry her.

  The whole thing was preposterous.

  In real life, she was the one who would never consider marrying him.

  Lucinda rolled onto her back.

  The man obviously thought he was quite a catch. The sexy eyes. The dangerous smile. The boyish good looks and the hard-muscled body. The house on a hill in Pacific Heights and the city at his feet.

  Oh, yes. Joe Romano man had a high opinion of himself.

  But could he trace his ancestors back to the Mayflower? Could he lay claim to a family tree that bristled with a bunch of names known to every American schoolchild?

  Lucinda sat up, punched the pillows into place and folded her arms.

  She could just imagine her mother's reaction if she announced she were engaged to Joe Romano. Why, her mother would probably gasp, just as Nonna Romano had this afternoon. She might even fall into a dead faint. Anyone could see a Romano wasn't equal to a Barry, not by a long shot.

  He was too blunt. Too outspoken. Too rough and ready and altogether macho for his own good or anybody else's. And any idiot could tell he must have once worked with his hands, or else where would he get those muscles?

  Those amazing muscles, that she'd felt under her hands when he'd taken her in his arms and kissed her. Kissed her, as if he'd never wanted a woman as much as he wanted her, as if nothing mattered but her, as if ...

  Lucinda frowned and switched on the bedside lamp. She pushed the blanket aside, got up and went to the dresser where she'd left her stash of cookbooks after she'd unpacked her things again.

  This had been an upsetting day. She needed sleep, but it was obvious she wasn't going to get any. How could she possibly, when she'd made a deal with the devil himself?

  She was pretty sure she knew what Joe Romano thought, that she couldn't cook worth a lick but that he'd make up for a bad bargain by seducing her into his bed.

  "Wrong on both counts, Romano," Lucinda said coldly.

  Then she climbed back into bed, opened the book, and started reading.

  Joe rose at six to gray skies and dreary rain.

  He took a shower-his third since he'd gone to bed-and dressed quickly in an old U.C.L.A. sweatshirt with the sleeves cut out, gray running shorts, and high-top Nikes that had seen better days.

  A glance in the mirror confirmed what he already suspected. His eyes were bloodshot, his expression grim. He looked like a man who neede
d a good night's sleep and, dammit, he did. Each time he'd dozed off, he'd dreamed about the blonde in the next bedroom, dreams that had sent him to the shower stall until, by now, his fingertips were starting to look like prunes.

  But the dreams were gone, and for good. The last one had done it.

  He'd dreamed he was in a big room filled with salesmen.

  Old ones, young ones, car salesmen, drapery salesmen, pharmaceutical salesmen, all kinds of salesmen, all of them seated in a big circle, chanting, "Lu-cin-da. Lu-cin-da."

  A bolt of lightning had sizzled from the ceiling straight down into the center of that circle and ignited a puff of white smoke. And when the smoke cleared, there was Lucinda, dressed in a white chef's cap, a frilly white apron, a pair of sensible white shoes and nothing else.

  "Hi, boys," she'd purred. "It's time to turn up the heat and start cooking."

  The men had cheered, Lucinda had laughed, and somewhere in the distance a fire alarm had started to wail. Joe had shot up in bed, awakening from sleep with a pounding heart and a pounding head. He'd taken one last cold shower and while he stood under the spray, it had occurred to him that this dream would be his last.

  His subconscious was smarter than his libido. It knew that Blondie-and hell, that was still what he was going to call her, whether she liked it or not-it knew that Blondie was nothing special.

  And. at last, his libido knew it, too.

  No more dreams, Joe thought as he left his room. No more cold showers. No more wanting a woman he didn't want to want...

  "Good morning."

  Her voice was polite, matter-of-fact, and so unexpected that he barely had time to glimpse Lucinda standing at the bottom of the steps before he tripped over his own feet. He muttered an oath, recovered quickly, and managed to make it down the last few steps without killing himself.

  "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

  "You didn't," Joe said, lying through his teeth.

  Of course, she'd startled him. What man expected to find the subject of his overheated dreams standing in his foyer at six-something in the morning, all decked out in an outfit that made her look like a cross between Dr. Frankenstein and the guy who tossed the dough at Sal's Pizzeria back in the old neighborhood?

  What was she wearing? A white dress and a white jacket, both starched so stiff they probably could have stood upright by themselves. White stockings, those sensible white shoes. She even had on a hat. A tall hat. A ...

  "It's called a toque," she said touching her hand to her head.

  Joe blinked. Had he asked? He didn't think so, but…

  "You were staring at my hat." Lucinda cleared her throat. "People sometimes do. I mean, they find these hats strange..."

  "No," Joe said, and cleared his throat, too. "No, not at all."

  Lucinda nodded and folded her hands at her waist. "I thought it best if I looked professional."

  "Uh-huh."

  "In case any of your friends should drop by, or anything."

  At six in the morning? On a Sunday? "Oh, right. Right."

  "I mean, it's one thing for your grandmother to think that we're, uh, that... You know. But other people should be aware that I am your cook."

  "My cook," Joe repeated, and blanked his mind to yesterday's eggs. "Uh, right, right. But, the thing is, I'm going for a run. It's, uh, it's very early..."

  "I know. But I remembered you liked to run, so I set my alarm clock for five-thirty."

  "Your alarm clock." So that was what he'd heard, cutting through his heavy-duty dream.

  "Yes." She smiled politely. "I wanted to get a head start on breakfast."

  Breakfast. Oh, hell, breakfast.

  "I see," he said politely. "But, uh, the thing is, I, uh, I..."

  I, what? Improvise, improvise. Last evening, when he'd come up with this scheme, he'd told her he expected her to cook. But he didn't. Of course, he didn't. She couldn't cook; he knew that. The last thing he wanted this morning was to have to live through another session of burned bacon and raw eggs, or vice versa.

  As for all those hot dreams ... What hot dreams? Joe thought, and bit back a grin. What he'd felt-thought he'd felt yesterday, had been an aberration. Seeing her in this ridiculous getup, he knew those dreams were most definitely history.

  "And," he said with an equally polite smile, "I never eat before I run."

  "No, of course not. My fiancé-"

  "You have a fiancé?"

  Lucinda shook her head. "No. Not anymore. But I did have. And he" -

  "You were engaged. To be married."

  "Yes." Her voice took on an edge, as did her smile. "Why are you so surprised, Mr. Romano?"

  "I don't know. I thought. .. What had he thought? What did he care if she'd had a dozen fiancés?

  "Did you think a woman like me couldn't find a man who wanted to marry her?"

  "Look, I'm just..." Joe ran a hand through his hair. "Never mind. Your personal life is none of my business."

  "Exactly." She stepped back, her hands on her hips, her eyes cool. "I'll have breakfast waiting."

  "No. No, thank you. Actually, Blon... I mean, actually, Lucinda, I, ah. I've changed my mind about the cooking. It won't be nec-"

  "It will."

  "It won't. Just, uh, just posing as my fiancée will be sufficient."

  "Just falling into your bed, you mean." She was on him in a second, jabbing a finger into his chest, fire flashing from her angry eyes to his bewildered ones. "Is that how you intend to have me earn my salary, Romano?"

  "Yes," Joe said. He danced backwards, away from that finger and that furious glare. "I mean, no. I mean, I expect you to play the role you agreed to play."

  "The deal was, I pretend to be your fiancée. And when I'm not pretending, I do the cooking. That's what I'm going to do. You got that?"

  He looked down at her. Her hat had fallen over one eye. She looked enraged, silly, and almost incredibly beautiful.

  "Romano? Do we understand each other?"

  What he understood was that he ached to strip her out of that jacket and dress and make love to her here, right here, on the floor.

  "Yes," he said, and he reached out, grasped her shoulders put her aside and headed out the door without even pausing to do his warm-up stretches.

  That was a mistake, yet one more error in a weekend's worth, he thought grimly as he pounded along the narrow, steep streets. A runner should always warm up first, just as a man should always weigh all the possibilities before entering into a business arrangement.

  Joe paused at a red light and jogged in place. His muscles were protesting being put to the test without advance notice but he could grit his teeth and run through the pain. It was the protests of his brain that were giving him the most trouble.

  What on earth had he been thinking when he'd made that crazy deal with Lucinda?

  The light changed. Joe ran across the street, up a hill but halfway to the top, he turned and started down.

  Okay. Enough was enough. He knew what Lucinda was, but he couldn't keep his hands off her. And she knew it. She was capitalizing on it. That outfit today, the no-nonsense chef's garb-why would she have worn it, except to drive his hormones wild? She had to know that all he could think about, when he saw her in that getup, was how she'd look out of it.

  The minute he got home, the very second he came through the door, he'd get out his checkbook, write her a check for the amount they'd agreed on, and tell her she was free to go.

  He'd deal with Nonna some other way. Some way that wouldn't keep him up nights and keep him torn between wanting to throttle his cookless cook and drag her off to bed.

  Yes, he thought, and smiled as he let himself in the door, yes, his problem was solved. Solved, and painlessly...

  Joe stopped, frowned and inhaled. What was that smell?

  It wasn't a bad smell. It wasn't a good smell. It was just ... different. Sort of a cross between charred bacon and chocolate-chip cookies. No, no, it was more like, well, like chocolate. Chocolate,
and bacon and...

  "Lucinda?"

  And burning rubber, he thought as he raced to the kitchen. "Lucinda? Blondie, are you..."

  Oh, hell. Joe's heartbeat stumbled. The room was filled with smoke; the oven door stood open and he could see a thin layer of what looked like soot on the floor beneath it. He had a quick glimpse of a mountain of pots and pans, a sink filled with dishes, and then he was standing over Lucinda, who sat on a stool at the counter, her head-toque and all-buried in her arms.

  "Blondie?" He grabbed for her, turned her towards him.

  The silly hat fell off as she lifted her eyes to his. His heart stumbled again as he saw the smudges on her cheeks, the wicked-looking slash of red above her lip. "Honey, what happened? Did you burn yourself?" Joe drew her off the stool and into his arms. "Just be calm. Don't get excited. Come with me, baby. I'll drive us straight to the emergency room."

  "I did it," she said.

  "Yes. I know you did." He slid his arm around her waist, kept his voice soft and low. "But it's okay, honey. You just need a couple of stitches to fix that cut."

  "What cut?"

  "The one over your mouth. Don't panic, Lucy. It's not a bad one."

  Lucinda smiled, flicked out the tip of her tongue and licked at the red slash. "Raspberry," she said, and laughed.

  Joe gaped. "Raspberry?"

  "Mmm." She touched the tip of her finger to the red that remained, then held it out to him. "See?"

  He looked at her finger, looked at her mouth. She brought her finger to his lip. Carefully, he tasted it.

  "It is," he said slowly. "Raspberry, I mean."

  "Of course." Lucinda smiled, put her hands on Joe's forearms, and looked up at him. "I made chocolate and raspberry pastries, Mr. Romano. For your breakfast."

  Joe stared at her. "Chocolate and..."

  "Uh-huh. Well, I suppose you really should call them pain au chacolat, for accuracy." Still smiling, she wriggled free of his arms, reached behind her and plucked something that looked like a disfigured oyster from the counter. "And I decided to experiment, to add some jam... What?"

  "You mean," Joe said carefully, "this-this mess is the result of a session at the stove?"