Romano's Revenge

“Not to worry, Miss Barry. My tastes are simple.” His smile turned genuine, almost friendly, and he slipped his arm, companionably, around her shoulders. “You won’t find me the least bit demanding.”

“I’m sure I won’t, Mr. Romano.” Lucinda stepped away from him and smiled, too, very politely. “Perhaps we can discuss your favorite foods later today, so I’ll know which ones please you.”

“Well,” Joe said, and grinned. “I’m definitely a sap for a Big Mac and fries.”

He waited for her to smile but she just went on looking at him as if she was afraid he was suddenly going to toss her over his shoulder and make off with her. Okay, so looping an arm around her had been an error, but he’d meant it as a peace offering. Bad move. Evidently, having a man touch Miss Lucinda Barry was not the way to put her at ease.

“Steaks,” he said. “I like steaks, charred on the outside, rare on the inside.”

Still nothing. Joe took a deep breath and tried again.

“Of course, I love anything Italian. And my grandmother says Italian dishes are your specialty.”

“She did?”

“Nonna was very impressed that you’d studied in Florence.”

Florence? As in, Italy? The garlic press slipped from Lucinda’s hand. It looked as if Joseph Romano’s grandmother had gotten more than her name wrong, but Lucinda had the feeling this wasn’t the time to tell him that, or to point out that the only time she’d visited Florence had been in her senior year at Stafford, when all the girls, her included, had gathered around the statue of David and gaped at his, um, his masculinity.

“Uh, yes. Well, actually, I do lots of different sorts of things. French. Spanish. American.” She cleared her throat and bent down to retrieve the press. “You know how it is.”

He didn’t, but he wasn’t about to ask. Joe had bent down for the press, too. Now, he was staring at his new cook’s feet. They were small feet. Delicate, probably…despite the fact that they were shod in very sensible shoes.

Sensible. Not white, but sensible.

Joe stood up, so quickly that he almost bumped heads with his new cook, and shunted the insane thought out of his head.

“That garlic press seems determined to get away,” he said with a strained smile. “I—I, ah, I take it those shopping bags are filled with other tools of your trade?”

“Tools of my…Oh. Yes. Yes, they are.”

“And, ah, your luggage…?”

“It’s on the porch.”

“Right. Well, then, why don’t we stow these bags in the kitchen first, and I’ll bring in the rest of your stuff.”

“You don’t have to do that, Mr. Romano. I can manage.”

She reached for the bag Joe was holding. He pulled it back. She tugged at it again and all but dragged it out of his hands.