Romano's Revenge

“…advice you’d do well to heed in the future,” he said, his voice rising over hers, “try remembering that the take would be better if you waited until a decent hour to start knocking on doors.”

“The take?” Lucinda frowned. “I’m not asking for donations, Mr. Romano.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all say. You want to sell me magazines, right?”

“No, sir. As I said, I’m Lucinda Barry, and—”

This time the name registered. Joe blinked. “Bari?” he said, giving it the same rolling “r” as his grandmother.

Lucinda shook her head. “Barry. B-A-R-R-Y.”

Joe’s eyebrows rose. “Did you say your first name was Lucinda?”

“Yes.” Her eyebrows rose, too. “Is that a problem?”

“No. Of course not. It’s just that my grandmother told me it was Luciana. I’m surprised she got it wrong.”

Lucinda forced a smile to her lips. “It’s an easy error to make, I suppose, for an elderly woman who doesn’t speak much English.”

“My grandmother? But she speaks…” What did it matter? Luciana or Lucinda, the woman was here. Joe cleared his throat. “So. You’re the—the cook,” he said, staring at her and congratulating himself for not saying what he’d been thinking, which was, “You’re the lesbian.”

“I—” Yes, Lucinda reminded herself, absolutely, she was the cook. Didn’t the certificate in her pocket prove it? The fact that Chef Florenze hadn’t wanted to give it to her was immaterial.

“You have ruined me,” he’d screamed after they were back in the kitchen and he’d said she wasn’t going to get her certificate, after all. But her fellow students had rallied to her defense, crowding around with grim faces, and finally Florenze had yanked all the certificates from his pocket and thrown them on the floor. “Take them,” he’d snarled.

Of course, he hadn’t give her the two hundred and fifty dollars. But she had that piece of paper, the one that counted, in her pocket.

“Yes,” Lucinda said proudly, and straightened her shoulders, “That’s who I am, Mr. Romano. I am your birthday gift.”

Joe winced. He looked around to see if any neighbors were out on their own porches and could possibly have overheard what she’d said. This proper-looking martinet with her annoying, unmistakably Bostonian accent, was hardly what a man wanted as a “gift.”

For once, his grandmother hadn’t stretched the truth. Lucinda Barry, of the pulled-back hair, the wire-framed glasses and the shapeless skirt and blouse, was truly a dog. A veritable bow-wow.

“Great,” he muttered, grasping her arm and hustling her inside the house.

Lucinda held her breath, as if that would keep her body from brushing against his. It was difficult to imagine that body—that very hard-looking, masculine body—as belonging to a man who would, uh, who would accept a juicy kiss from another man.

The shopping bags shifted. She made a wild attempt at recovery but it was too late. The one in her right arm tilted, spilling some of its contents to the floor. She bent down. He did, too.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I’m not usually such a—”

“Klutz?”

Something in the way he said the word made her look up. They were almost nose to nose, and the way he was staring at her made her uneasy.

“Yes. It’s just that—” She frowned. A little prickle of awareness danced along the skin at the nape of her neck. “Have we—have we met before, Mr. Romano?”

His eyes narrowed. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“I don’t—I don’t think so.”

“No.” He cleared his throat. “No, I’m sure we haven’t.”

Of course, they hadn’t. A man would remember a sad little mouse like this, if only because she was such a mouse. Joe began collecting the things that had spilled from the bag. A small strainer. A thing with a sharp end that looked like a dental tool gone mad. Another thing that seemed to be a cross between pliers and a—a—

Her smell. Gardenias. Or maybe old-fashioned roses, the kind Nonna grew behind her house…

Again their eyes met. He saw a flush rise in Lucinda Barry’s cheeks. Good cheeks. Really good. Sharply defined, elegant, razor-sharp bones…

Joe frowned, got to his feet and held out the thing that looked like pliers.

“What in hell is that?” he said brusquely.

She rose, too, and ran the tip of her tongue across her lips. He fought back the sudden, almost overwhelming need to follow the simple motion of her tongue with his thumb.

Good God, he was losing his mind!

“It’s—it’s a garlic press.”

“A garlic press,” he repeated.

“Uh-huh.” She reached out for it. Their fingers brushed, and he heard her catch her breath. “You know. For—for pressing garlic.”

“For pressing garlic,” Joe echoed. What was happening here? For a second, when her hand touched his, he’d felt as if he were having an out-of-body experience, almost as if a bolt of lightning had flamed through his veins. He was pretty sure she’d felt it, too. Looking into her eyes, he’d seen a flash of emerald-green behind the smoky lenses.

A thought flew into his head, then flew out again. A crazy thought, one not worth considering.

“…the kitchen?”

Joe cleared his throat. “Sorry. What did you say?”

“I said, could I see the kitchen, please? That is—that is, if I’m hired.”

“Hired?” Joe offered a thin smile. “My grandmother hired you, not me.”

“Yes. Of course, Mr. Romano. But there was always the chance you wouldn’t—wouldn’t want me.”

“Why, Miss Barry.” Joe’s smile tilted. “What man in his right mind wouldn’t want you?”

She didn’t just blush, she turned crimson. Joe frowned. Why was he teasing her? He was in a foul mood this morning, yes, but it was all because of the woman in the cake. There was no reason to let it out on Lucinda Barry. It wasn’t her fault his grandmother had “gifted” him with her presence, any more than it was her fault he’d been a jerk last night.

“There are those who wouldn’t,” she said politely.

One corner of Joe’s mouth curled up in a smile. The woman was hard on the eyes. She didn’t like men. But she had starch in her backbone. Good. That way, she wouldn’t fall apart when he axed her in a couple of weeks.

“They’d be fools,” he said smoothly, “considering how well you cook.”

“That’s, um, that’s very kind, sir. But, ah, but I’m still new to this, and—”