Romano's Revenge

by Sandra Marton

  He lifted her to the countertop. She was so beautiful. Her eyes were dark with desire, her mouth pink and swollen from his kisses. Her hair tumbled around her face like molten gold.

  Joe's hands shook as he stripped his T-shirt over his head and undid the top fastener on his jeans. He wanted to strip off her jacket, see her breasts. Touch them, and taste them. And he would, the next time, but now the need to have her was too close to insanity.

  His control was fast slipping away.

  He ran his hands lightly over her thighs as he moved between them. She felt like satin, even to his callused fingertips.

  "You're beautiful," he said softly.

  Lucy moaned as he stroked the narrow band of cotton that shielded the center of her femininity from him. He put his hand over her, cupped her, and she arched back, her body taut as a drawn bow.

  A cry broke from her throat. "Now," he said hoarsely. "Now."

  Yes. Ooh, yes. That was what she wanted. To give herself to him, now. To have him take her, now. To be his-to be his-his what?

  Lucinda's eyes flew open. The room whirled around her, straightened, and she saw everything, the dark-eyed stranger standing between her legs, the man who'd humiliated her last night and was doing it again, this time, with her help.

  She was revolted by it. His actions. Her response. Revolted. and horrified. She came' off the counter in a blur.

  "You," she shrieked, "you-you-you ... "

  Those weren't the cries of a woman in ecstasy. Even Joe, stumbling backwards, still caught in a haze of sexual heat as he tried to fend off her blows, figured that out.

  "You no-good, rotten, evil, cold-blooded son of a bitch ... " She tried to claw at his face. Joe grabbed her wrists and forced her hands to her sides.

  "Not cold-blooded," he said. "Those other things, maybe, but definitely not-"

  "It was you!" Her eyes were a wild, vivid green. "You were the one who pawed me last night!"

  "Pawed you? Baby, I saved your pretty little ass. If I hadn't grabbed you, you'd have made an entrance nobody in that room would ever forget."

  "You-you kissed me, you bastard!"

  Joe folded his arms over his chest. "Which kiss are we talking about, Lucy?" He narrowed his eyes and flashed a quick, humorless smile. "The one last night, when you tried to deck me?"

  "I wish I had, you rat. And it's not Lucy, it's Lucinda. How many times must I tell you that?"

  , 'Or the kiss just now. The one that ended up with you trying to climb me like a cat shinnying up a tree."

  She snarled, showed her teeth, charged him. Joe laughed, grabbed her by the arms and shoved her back against the counter.

  "I should have known," Lucinda panted. "I should have known it was you!"

  "Yeah, well, you would have, if you'd been wearing your glasses." He smiled coldly. "Glasses spoil the image, I guess, is that right, baby?"

  "Unhand me, Mr. Romano."

  Unhand me, Mr. Romano? Joe laughed again. She was really something, this babe. A second ago her choice of language had suited the kind of woman she really was. Now she was doing her best to sound like a heroine straight out of a Victorian novel, but heroines in Victorian novels didn't pop out of cakes wearing teeny-weeny bikinis.

  She might be able to fool some people, but not him. Not after the last few mind-blowing minutes.

  Lucinda Barry was one clever broad, but he wasn't the village idiot. He knew what she was, a woman who lived by her wits. She could fool a guileless old lady. She could make a man think she was Scheherazade and he was the sultan.

  She was a woman who had a kiss that was a weapon. A kiss that could turn a guy into a quivering mass of jelly. Hormonal jelly. Which, he thought coldly, was the only kind of jelly this gorgeous, conniving, let's-pretend cook would know anything about.

  The more he found out about her, the more questions he had. Why would a woman so beautiful make herself up to look like the head of the Spinsters Forever Foundation? Why would a woman who made her living turning men on, be into what San Franciscans politely called an alternative life-style?

  Why would she want a job as a cook? A cook.

  Joe blew out a noisy breath. Lying Lucy was as much a cook as he was. That she'd managed to make a pot of coffee without a recipe was just short of a miracle. Which brought him back to the beginning. Who was she? Why had she taken this job? And what did she want of him?

  "Who are you?" Joe demanded gruffly. "You know who I am. I'm Lucinda Barry."

  "Come on, lady. You know what I mean.-What do you want here?"

  Lucinda twisted against the grip of his hands. "You're hurting me."

  "Tough." He knew he was; he could feel his fingers pressing on the fragile bones of her wrist, but her bones were the only things fragile about Miss Lucinda Barry-if that really was her name. "I asked you a question, honey, and I want an answer."

  "Don't call me that." "Honey?"

  He laughed. Lucinda could have killed him for doing it. This was the second, no, the third time he'd laughed since he'd grabbed her and all but forced himself on her, and it made her hate him even more.

  How could such a thing have happened?

  She'd been so excited about this job. About working for a sweet-tempered, easygoing man. Instead she'd found herself employed by an arrogant exhibitionist who ran around in a smile and a towel and behaved as if he owned the world. Now, to find out that this-this boor was the person who'd dragged her out of that cake, who'd made her look even more ridiculous than she felt ...

  She hadn't wanted to believe it, not even after he'd called her "honey" in that horrible way that made the word sound obscene, or after he'd pulled off her glasses and she'd stared at him long enough to let the blur of the prior night and the reality of her black-haired, blue-eyed, wide-shouldered employer merge into one hateful image.

  She'd had no choice but to believe it once he kissed her. There was no mistaking the kiss, or those strong arms. The powerful body. The hard mouth-a mouth that had somehow tricked hers into softening beneath it, into making her blood thicken until her heart almost went into overdrive.

  A shudder of rage raced through her body.

  The bastard! Thinking he could treat her like some-some little slut. Thinking he could kiss her and get away with it.

  Thinking he could behave as if he liked women. As if he wanted a woman. Wanted her.

  Outrage gave her the strength she needed. With a wrench, she pulled one hand free of his, knotted it into a fist and pounded it against his chest.

  "I am not your honey," she said furiously. "In fact, just hearing the word come out of your mouth makes me sick."

  "You're breaking my heart," Joe said as he captured her hand and stilled it. "And you still haven't answered my question. Who are you?"

  "You know who I am."

  "What I know is that the Mary Poppins get-up is phony." "Mary Poppins was a nanny. I'm a cook."

  "Lucretia Borgia was a better cook than you."

  Lucinda stiffened. "I am a graduate of-"

  "Yeah." Joe grinned, a feral show of gleaming white teeth.

  "I can just imagine what you're a graduate of. The last I heard, they don't teach broads to cook in those places."

  "Your mind is even more filthy than your insinuations! And your grandmother told me you were a gentleman!"

  "I am, when I'm dealing with a lady. Once again, gorgeous.

  What are you doing in my home?"

  Gorgeous? Her? Was that what he thought? She wasn't "gorgeous," she never had been. She was well-bred. Well-mannered. She could use a fish knife. She knew the difference between tea and high tea.

  But "gorgeous"? Her? Did he really think ...

  Oh, God. She was standing here, arguing with a half-dressed ape who evidently batted from both sides of the plate, wondering if he really thought she was gorgeous-and she didn't have her pants on.

  Where were they? On the floor? On the counter?

  On the toaster, where Joe Romano, the most evil of evil men, had fl
ung them.

  Lucinda drew herself up. "Let go of my wrist." "I will, after you answer some questions."

  "I am not answering anything until I put on my pants." Joe blinked. Her face had turned bright red but she was holding her ground. And she was right. She was still standing in front of him dressed in a white chef's jacket, white panties, white shoes ... and nothing else.

  And no wonder. Her pants were draped over the toaster, like the debris that remains after a hurricane passes.

  He smiled, snagged the pants. When she grabbed for them, he lifted them just out of her reach.

  "These, you mean?"

  Lucinda folded her arms. "Just give them to me."

  "Sure." Joe twirled the pants on one finger. "As soon as you tell me what I want to know."

  Her face turned even redder. "Give me those pants," she said, and lunged. It was definitely a bad move, because it brought her right up against Joe Romano's hard, naked chest.

  Her heart gave a quick, stumbling beat. She pulled back, put as much space between herself and him as she could manage, and glared.

  "Stealing a woman's clothes, Romano? Is that the only way a man like you can get a woman naked?"

  It sounded like a good line to her, but Joe only grinned.

  "Anybody who knows me can tell you how wrong you are, honey. Now, let's come at this like reasonable adults. You want the pants? I want answers. Sounds like a fair trade to me."

  Lucinda blew her hair out of her eyes. "All right," she said grimly. "What do you want to know?"

  "That's my girl."

  "I am not your girl. I am not your anything, except your cook."

  "I know. And I appreciate it, Lucy, I really do. Why, the finest restaurants in town were begging you to take over their kitchens, and instead you opted to work for me." Joe slapped the hand holding the pants over his heart. "The thought brings tears to my eyes."

  "Your questions, Romano. And then, my trousers."

  Joe's smile faded. "Question one. What are you doing in my life?"

  "You know the answer to that. I'm your birthday .... " Lucinda frowned. "I'm your cook. I'm here at your grandmother's request."

  "And where, pray tell, did my grandmother find you?;' His slow, knowing smile sent a shiver up her spine. "Under a cabbage leaf in her garden?"

  "She answered an ad I ran in the paper." "An ad in the paper."

  "Yes, that's right. You know, the paper. Newspaper. Some people read them. Some even manage to do it without moving their lips."

  "Somehow or other, I don't think my nonna spends much time reading ads like the one you must have run."

  Lucinda flushed. "'Wanted,'" she said stiffly, "'position as live-in cook in a small household. References upon request.' " "Ah," Joe said softly. "And you supplied those references?"

  "Your grandmother interviewed me. She hired me on the spot and said references weren't necessary."

  Joe's mouth twisted. "How fortunate for you, hmm?"

  "I have references," she replied even more stiffly. "You're welcome to check them."

  "Lots of satisfied customers, huh?"

  Don't rise to the bait, she warned herself. That was what he wanted, to get her riled enough to lose her temper.

  "This is my first job as a cook. I told that to your grandmother."

  "And she said?"

  "She said it would be the perfect first job for me, that you were easygoing and sensitive."

  Joe's brows lifted. "Sensitive?"

  "She also said even the most basic meals would be an improvement over the junk she suspected you ate." Lucinda smiled thinly. "You grandmother foolishly thought it important to provide you with nutrition. I, on the other hand, prefer to think that you manage to take your sustenance from chunks of old cheese without springing the trap."

  "Oh, that's funny. Very funny. Do you do that as part of your act? I bet it wows them."

  "My act?"

  "Sure. You know. A little bump, a little grind, toss out a clever line as you toss off the G-string."

  "The only G-string I'm familiar with is the one on a violin," she said, though she had a good enough idea of what he meant to make her blush. "And I want my trousers."

  Joe looked at her, taking his time, his eyes going slowly from her feet to her face.

  "Seems a pity," he said softly, "to cover up so much of your talent."

  "Dammit, Romano, you gave me your word!"

  "And you haven't fulfilled the terms of the deal. What's the real reason you took this job?"

  "I needed it," she said bluntly. "I had to find a place to live in a hurry, I'm almost flat broke because I spent every penny I had on the course at the culinary institute, and I'd made up my mind I'd sooner scrub bathrooms than flip one more greasy hamburger. Any more questions?"

  Joe cocked his head as he looked at her. She sounded serious enough, but somehow he couldn't imagine her scrubbing bathrooms. Not when she could look like this. Not when she kissed and sighed so that a man was tempted to believe it wasn't all an act, that she really wanted him.

  "It's a great story. But for a babe who claims to know all about flipping hamburgers, you don't seem very at home in a kitchen," he said, and tossed the pants to her.

  She stepped into them so quickly she stumbled, and her hand went out automatically to steady herself. Her fingers brushed his chest. A surge of unadulterated lust shot through his loins and he gritted his teeth against the crazy desire to sweep her into his arms, carry her to his room and finish what they'd both started.

  "Your kitchen," she said loftily, "is not the usual sort of kitchen."

  Joe took a slow look around him. "Stove, sink, fridge. Nothing unusual, as far as I can see."

  "It's very high-tech."

  "High-tech, as in you couldn't figure out how to turn on the stove?"

  "I admit, I'm still-I'm still perfecting my art." She felt her face redden when he barked out a laugh. "I'm happy to provide you with such hilarity, Mr. Romano."

  "Sorry. It's just, well, it's surprising to hear a woman who carbonized the bacon and massacred the eggs refer to her talents as 'art.'''

  Lucinda lifted her chin. "I'm learning," she said quietly.

  "I'm not ashamed to admit it."

  Joe looked down into her flushed face. Her eyes glittered, but with what? Anger? Hurt? Perhaps, even, pride? Dammit, he couldn't figure her out.

  Last night she'd looked like an example of every man's dream, except for the silly white shoes. Moments ago, in his arms, she'd been that dream come true-until she'd slugged him and cursed him.

  And yet he had the feeling she could hold her own at a formal dinner in the White House.

  Not that it mattered.

  The woman was no more a cook than he was. Somehow she'd wormed her way into his grandmother's good graces and into his life, but no way was she staying there.

  "Look," he said as politely as he could, "this has gotten out of hand. I mean, you're not, uh, not comfortable with my kitchen. Besides, I don't need a cook. So-"

  "You do. And I need this job." Her voice quavered. He looked at her in surprise, saw a lifted chin, a determined jaw and desperation in her green eyes. "I admit, your kitchen took me by surprise. If your grandmother hadn't told me you didn't know the first thing about cooking ... " Her words trailed away,

  "I don't follow you."

  "Well ... " She sank her teeth lightly into her bottom lip. He watched the simple action, felt his belly knot, and told himself to stop being an idiot. "Well, because she said that, I didn't expect you to have all this fancy equipment. I mean, normally, the high-tech stuff wouldn't surprise me, in the home of a man of --of your persuasion."

  "A man of ... ?"

  "Yes." She lifted her eyes to his, blushed, and looked away.

  "See, if she hadn't told me that-"

  "That I can't cook," Joe said like a man carefully repeating words spoken in a foreign tongue in hopes of figuring out what they meant.

  "Right." Lucinda smiled slightly. "But, of c
ourse, if you could cook, she wouldn't have hired me."

  Joe cleared his throat. "Is all this leading somewhere, Miss Barry? Because right now, I'm pretty well lost."

  She took a deep breath, exhaled it slowly through her nose. "What I'm trying to say is that we had a big book about appliances at the institute. It covered everything from simple gas ranges to convection ovens to glass cook tops, and if I'd stopped to think, I'd have checked through it."

  "Because?" he said, still in that baffled tone.

  "Because," Lucinda said patiently, "even though you can't cook, I suppose it stands to reason you'd have an elaborate kitchen. I mean, everyone knows that men like you love to putter in the-" She caught the look on his face and stopped. This probably wasn't the time to talk about his condition, but it was too late to go back, and she knew it. "Everyone knows that," she said briskly, "and I should have figured that even if you didn't like fussing around in here, your, uh, your-"

  "My?" Joe said helpfully.

  "Your, uh, your male friends might."

  Joe thought about the guys he supposed she'd call his "friends." Jack could whip up a mean taco salad, but that was about it. All of them "cooked" the same way he did, via take out.

  "That's a fascinating explanation, Lucy."

  "Lucinda," she said automatically. "Thank you, Mr. Romano."

  "Joe. Frankly, though, I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

  "Yes, you do. Men of your persuasion-"

  "Dammit, that's the second time you said that. Men of what persuasion? Venture capitalists? Soccer players? Guys with blue eyes?" His patience snapped. Joe reached out, caught hold of Lucinda's elbows and lifted her to her toes. "What are you babbling about?"

  "And that's heaven only knows how many times you've been vile!" Lucinda grunted as she twisted, uselessly, against that powerful grasp. "I should have figured a couple of minutes of sane, decent human behavior were all you could manage, and never mind what your poor, downtrodden grandmother said about your sweet temperament.' ,

  "You leave her out of this! My grandmother isn't poor or downtrodden.' ,

  "She must be," Lucinda said furiously, "otherwise, you'd never be able to get her to say you were good-natured."