"So?"
"So," the chef purred, "I suspect we can agree that our guests would be less than delighted if Mr. Purvis, Mr. Rand or Mr. Jensen leaped from a cake tonight, hmm?"
Lucinda said nothing.
"Can we agree, too, that the venerable Miss Robinson would surely get hurt trying to extricate herself from anything other than an armchair? And that Mrs. Selwyn would never fit inside a cake unless it had the dimensions of Cheops' pyramid?"
"What you're asking me to do is a barbaric, sexist, disgusting custom."
"So are half the things done on this planet, but we are not anthropologists, we are caterers." The chef moved closer. "Our catering contract calls for roast beef, barbecued pork, filet of sole almondine, assorted salads and breads, coffee, beverages-and a giant cardboard cake that contains a young lady. Is that clear?"
'A very strange contract for a catering firm, if you ask me." "I'm not asking you for legal advice, Ms. Barry. I am telling you that you will put on that costume and do what must be done."
"I paid my tuition to be taught to cook."
The chef had smiled slyly at that, and Lucinda had, for the first time, felt the ground slip, ever so slightly, beneath her feet.
"Which you have not learned to do very well."
He was right, but what did that have to do with anything?
"I attended the specified number of classes," she'd said coolly. "I passed all the exams. I earned my certificate."
The chef, damn him, had laughed.
"All your exams but the last," he'd said. "And you won't get your certificate, if you fail tonight's test."
Meaning, Lucinda thought as she looked into the mirror, meaning, she would have to pop out of that miserable cardboard creation or walk away from Chef Florenze's culinary school without the piece of paper she so desperately needed.
With it, she'd be a woman with a skill. She could parlay the cook's job the school had lined up for her into a job as a souse-chef at a restaurant, and go from that into being a full-fledged chef with her own restaurant someday, or her own catering firm ...
Without it, she'd be back to waitressing.
"That's blackmail," Lucinda had protested, and Chef Florenze had shown his teeth beneath his skinny excuse of a mustache and said yes, yes, it was, and she was welcome to try and prove any of this conversation had taken place because it hadn't.
"Just think of this as your fifteen minutes of fame," he'd purred. "Your once-in-a-lifetime moment in the sun-" "Just give me the miserable costume and shut up," Lucinda had snapped, and startled the both of them.
And now, here she stood. In the wings, as it were, dressed in little more than a handkerchief and two halves of a diaphanous, spangled eggshell.
"Lucinda," she said aloud, "are you insane?"
She had to be, even to have contemplated doing this thing. "Ridiculous," she said, and quickly gathered her hair at the base of her neck.
The audacity of Chef Florenze. The nerve! How dare he do this to her? She was a Barry, and Barry's had stood firm on their principles for more than three hundred years. Well, except for her father, of course. But other Barry's had always Done The Right Thing. Hepzibah Barry had been burned alive in Salem, rather than say she was a witch. Could she, Lucinda Barry, do any less in the face of misfortune?
"Lucinda?" The doorknob rattled. "Lucinda, open this door at once!"
The voice was faint but unmistakable. Miss Robinson was demanding entry.
Oh, Lord. Miss Robinson. Eighty years old, at least. Tiny, ramrod-straight Miss Robinson, with her permed silver hair, her black dresses buttoned to the throat and wrist, her parchment-paper skin ...
"Lucinda! Open the door and let me in."
Lucinda undid the lock and cracked the door an inch. "Miss Robinson." She took a breath. "I'm, uh, I'm kind of busy in here. If you need to use the, uh, if you need to use the facilities, I'm afraid you'll have to-"
"I've come to talk to you. Stop babbling and let me inside."
Lucinda grabbed a guest towel from the vanity, clutched it to her bosom and opened the door just wide enough to let the old woman enter.
"Now," Miss Robinson said briskly, "why are you hiding in here? What is this nonsense about?"
Lucinda's brows arched. "Miss Robinson," she said politely, "I appreciate your concern, but this, ah, this situation has nothing to do with~"
"Why are you stumbling all over your words? And why are you holding on to that towel as if it were the last life jacket on the Titanic?"
"Well-well, because what I'm wearing is-is-" Lucinda frowned, took a deep breath and dropped the towel to the tile floor. "This is why," she said coolly. "As you can see, I'm not exactly dressed for company."
The expression on the old woman's face didn't change as she looked Lucinda up, then down, then up again.
"Skimpy," she said at last.
Lucinda managed a tight smile. "Indeed."
"But I've seen bathing suits as revealing on the beach."
Miss Robinson shook her head. "The things young women wear nowadays ... "
"Yes, well, not this young woman!" Lucinda swung back towards the mirror and plucked a bobby pin from the counter. "Would you believe that Chef Florenze actually expects me to wear this thing? To scrunch down under a serving cart and ... " Her eyes met the older woman's in the mirror .. "Never mind. It doesn't bear repeating. Suffice it to say, I'm not going to do it."
"Don't be ridiculous," Miss Robinson said irritably. She reached out and snatched the pins from Lucinda's hair as fast as Lucinda anchored them. "Of course, you'll do it."
"Miss Robinson," Lucinda said patiently, "you have no idea what the chef wants."
"He wants you to jump out of a cardboard cake so those silly boys in the ballroom can clap their hands, whistle like banshees and generally make asses of themselves."
Lucinda stared at the other woman in the mirror. Then she turned and stared at her some more.
"He told you?"
"He told everyone. He also told us you've locked yourself in here and refuse to emerge."
"Did he mention that he's threatened to blackmail me? That he won't give me my certificate if I don't cooperate?" Lucinda smiled tightly. "Well, that nasty little man is in for a surprise. He doesn't believe I'll bring charges against him, but I will. I'll take him to court. I'll sue. I'll go to the papers ... What?"
"That 'nasty little man' has expanded the scope of his ultimatum. Either you do as he's ordered, or none of us will get our certificates."
"But-but he can't do that."
Mrs. Robinson stamped her foot. "Don't be so naive, Lucinda! Of course he can do it. He can do whatever he likes. And you can do whatever you like about fighting him, but by the time the problem's resolved, it will be too late."
"That's not so," Lucinda said stubbornly. "The chef will still have to hand over those certificates, whether it's tonight or next week or next month."
"Yes, but that will be too late for Mr. Purvis, who's already accepted a restaurant position, and for the Rand lad. Did you know he took a student loan to pay for this course?" Miss Robinson put her bony hands on her hips. "And definitely too late for me. A woman my age has little time to spare."
"Don't be silly. Why, you don't look a day over-" "Don't patronize me, girl."
"I'm not, I just. .. " Lucinda huffed out a breath. "Miss Robinson, now you're the one who's trying blackmail!"
"It's reality, not blackmail. Is your pride so important you'd ruin things for the rest of us?"
"Pride has nothing to do with this. It's a matter of principle."
The old lady snorted. "Better to concern yourself with the sort of principal that pays bills. ' , Her eyes fixed on Lucinda's face. "How much has that horrid little man offered to pay you?"
"Pay me?"
"For this cake-jumping business."
"Why-why, nothing. He said he wouldn't give me my cerrtificate unless-"
"Tell him you'll do it for two hundred dollars."
Lucinda stared at the old
woman. "There's not a way in the world I'd do this, not even for-"
"Three hundred, then." Miss Robinson lifted a brow. "Unless, of course, you don't need money any more than you need that job you told us about, the one you're supposed to start tomorrow morning."
Lucinda glared at Miss Robinson. Old people were supposed to be sweet-natured and kindhearted but this one looked as if she had the disposition of an alligator.
"Of course I need money," she said coldly. "And the job, too." -
"Then let down your hair, put on some lipstick, and get this over with." A sudden, wicked glint lit the old lady's eyes. "At least, you'll have a bra to wear. I didn't, back in the days when I was a showgirl with the Folies Bergere."
Lucinda's jaw dropped. "When you ... "
"Indeed. When the heating system went on the blink at the Folies, the entire audience could tell you were cold."
Miss Robinson winked and turned around. The door swung shut after her. Lucinda hesitated. Then she turned and met her own gaze in the mirror.
The Folies Bergere? She tried to imagine Miss Robinson strutting down a runway dressed in feathers and a smile. Dressed in lots less than this costume, that was for sure.
Okay. So, maybe she had seen swimsuits as revealing on the beach. She'd never worn one, of course; she'd never worn anything more showy than the black tank suit she'd worn when she was a student at the Stafford School.
Only a madwoman would go from that stretched-out nylon tank to this bit of spangles and Lycra.
She turned, poked one shoulder towards the mirror. Besides, even if she were to agree to do this thing-not that she would, but it didn't hurt to pretend-if she did, the men attending the bachelor party would be sorely disappointed.
Lucinda backed up a little, put on her glasses and took a better look.
Her neck was long, her shoulders too bony, her breasts too small.
She turned a little more, narrowed her eyes and took another look.
Well, small, yes. But rounded, and high. She sucked in her breath. Definitely, rounded and high. Her tummy was flat, her waist narrow. That was good. Her hips weren't much but her backside seemed okay. From what she'd heard, men liked women to have okay backsides. Long legs, too. And hers were surely that. She'd always had trouble buying panty hose that was long enough without being saggy and baggy on top ...
What was she thinking? She'd never go out there. Never. Do you want that job, Lucinda?
Oh, Lord. Yes. Yes, she did. She'd interviewed for it with a sweet old woman. A Mrs. Romano, who'd seemed undeterred by her inexperience.
"Never mind," Mrs. Romano had said reassuringly. "My grandson won't be picky, Luciana."
"It's Lucinda," Lucinda had said politely. "He won't be?" "No. You see, he needs you."
"Needs me? I don't understand."
"He is a busy man. Always going here and there. Molto importante, yes? But he lacks something in his life."
"A cook?" Lucinda had said helpfully.
"Exactly. He doesn't eat right. He doesn't touch his vegetables."
"Vegetables." That was good. She could prepare green salads with the best of them.
"You will love working for him, Luciana." "Lucinda. "
"Of course. Lucinda. He's very easygoing. Charming, and gentle." Mrs. Romano had clasped her hands and sighed. "He is caring. And sensitive. My Joseph is the most sensitive man in all of San Francisco."
Gay, was what she'd meant. Lucinda had understood the code word, and the job had become even more appealing, A wealthy gay man who traveled a lot would be easy to work for. Gay men abounded in San Francisco, and the ones Lucinda had met were invariably low-key, gentle, and kind.
Kind enough to hire her, if the chef flunked her out of the cooking school?
"No way," Lucinda said, and knew the time for excuses was long gone.
She kept Miss Robinson firmly in mind as she let down her hair and ran her hands through it until it had the tousled look she'd noticed in magazine ads. She had no lipstick; she rarely used makeup. But there was a little cosmetics bag in the costume box. Inside, she found eye shadow. Eyeliner. Lucinda used them all, then bit her lips to pinken them, Finally, she put on the tiara and squinted at herself in the mirror.
Something was missing, but what? Her hair was okay. The glasses were gone. The costume fit as well as it was going to fit. Still, there was more. She'd forgotten something ...
She jumped as a fist pounded against the closed door. 'Well, Ms. Barry?" Chef Florenze boomed. "Are you going to grace us with your presence?"
Lucinda put her hand to her heart, as if to keep it from bounding out of her chest. Then, before she could change her mind, she unlocked the door and marched out.
"Very sensible of you, Miss Barry," the chef said with an unctuous smile.
Lucinda marched up to him. "Three hundred bucks, or I don't move from this spot."
"Don't be ridiculous." "Three hundred."
Florenze's narrow mustache twitched. "Two." "Two-fifty. "
"Listen here, young woman-" Something in her eyes must have convinced him that she meant it. "Two-fifty," he said, "and snap to it."
"That's the spirit." she heard Miss Robinson say as she strode to the serving cart that held the cardboard cake and climbed under it.
Her stomach gave a dangerous lurch. So did the cart. The rubber wheels squealed as she, and it, were pushed across the floor. Doors slammed against walls as they were opened. She heard the sounds of music and male laughter, and then the pounding of a chord-C major, she thought dispassionately a piano.
'Gentlemen," a deep voice cried, "to Arnie and his loss of freedom!"
"To Arnie," other male voices chorused.
"Now, Ms. Barry," Chef Florenze hissed, and Lucinda took a breath and burst through the top of the cake, arms extended gracefully above her head, just as if she were back in Boston, diving not up into the noise and the light but down, down, down into the glassy depths of a warm, blue pool.
But it wasn't a pool, it was a stage, and she hadn't burst free of the cardboard cake. She'd gotten tangled in it. And while she was still blinking and fighting furiously to extricate herself from the horrible chunks of cardboard, two things happened, almost simultaneously.
The first was that she realized that the "something" she'd forgotten were her low-heeled, sensible white shoes. They were still on her feet.
The other was that a man, a blur of muscles and blue eyes and black hair, had come to her rescue.
"Just put your arms around my neck, honey, and hang on." "I am not your honey," Lucinda said. "And I don't need your help!"
She slapped at his hands as he reached for her but his arms closed around her, anyway. The crowd cheered as he hoisted her into his arms.
"Go for it, Joe," somebody yelled, and the man grinned, right into her eyes.
"Love those shoes," he purred, and when the crowd cheered again, he bent his head, covered her mouth with his, and kissed her.
CHAPTER THREE
JOE awoke to the sort of foggy, gray morning that gave San Francisco a bad name, a pounding headache-and the nagging sense that he'd made an ass of himself the night before. .
Carefully, he eased his shoulders up against the headboard of his king-size bed. If he moved slowly enough, maybe his head wouldn't separate from his shoulders the way it was threatening to do.
The fog coiling around the bedroom windows was okay.
Actually, it was fine. He was pretty sure that even a single ray of sunlight would have been enough to trigger the incipient implosion of his skull.
The pain would ease up eventually, he knew, but the feeling that he'd done something incredibly stupid might not. That was different. The feeling just wouldn't go away.
What? What could he have ... "Oh, hell."
He groaned, closed his eyes and slid down against the pillows.
Damned right, he'd made an ass of himself.
How else to describe a man who'd kissed the blond babe who'd come out of that cake?
He'd always watched the proceedings with a bored smile. When Joe Romano took a woman in his arms, the kiss led to something more intimate than providing a couple of laughs at a stag party.
Except for last night.
Joe slid even further down in the bed, rolled on his belly and closed his eyes. Maybe, if he lay still, his head would stop hurting-and the memory of himself, bending the blonde back over his arm like some second-rate actor in a bad movie maybe that would go away, too.
It wouldn't. It didn't. How could it?
He hadn't planned it. All he'd had on his mind was how to come up with a polite excuse that would get him out the door before the entertainment started. And then a chunky little man in a chefs outfit had wheeled out a cart topped by the phoniest looking cake in the world.
"Here comes the babe," the guy next to Joe had murmured happily.
And the next thing he'd known, a blonde in a teeny-weeny bikini had come sailing up out of the top of the cardboard cake as if this were the Olympics and she was determined to take the gold in diving.
Unfortunately, she hadn't.
A hot-looking babe? Definitely. Joe rolled onto his back, put his hands beneath his head and smiled at the ceiling. Gook on her face, but the basics had still been visible. The bottomless green eyes. The elegant, straight nose and the razor-sharp cheekbones. A soft, sexy mouth, so artfully made up that it almost looked as if she wasn't wearing lipstick. No smile on the mouth, but hey, you couldn't expect a babe like that to have everything. .
Not even, as it turned out, a way to make a graceful exit from the cake.
To put it bluntly, the lady was a monumental klutz.
While the top part of her had been coming up out of the cake, the bottom had gotten tangled in the cardboard. Or in something. Whatever, Blondie had emerged maybe hays and then she'd gotten this panicked look, started to flail her arms around ...
Which was when he'd gone into his Sir Galahad act, Joe thought, wincing as he rubbed his hands over his stubbled face.
Romano's Revenge Page 3