Romano's Revenge

by Sandra Marton

  She looked, for all the world, like a woman embarrassed to find herself on a man's turf the morning after a wild night spent in his arms.

  A fist seemed to close around Joe's heart. Yeah, he thought coldly, right. She was about as embarrassed to find herself facing him in the daylight as the Venus de Milo would be to discover she had no arms.

  "Hi," he said briskly. "Sleep well?"

  Her color deepened. Well, dammit, why wouldn't it? What a stupid thing to have said. Joe frowned, cleared his throat.

  "I mean, some people have trouble adapting to the rocking of a boat."

  "Not me." She smiled slightly and lifted her hands to her hair. The action lifted her breasts and he tried not to think about the honeyed taste of them, or their silken feel. "We had a boat when I was growing up. Not a sailboat, like this. A cabin cruiser."

  "In Boston," he said, forcing his eyes from her body to her face.

  "Uh-huh. Well, actually, my father kept it out on the Cape, in this little town..."

  "Boats are expensive."

  "Oh, I know. But my father used to say..." She broke off.

  Joe was looking at her with such a cold expression in his eyes. "Never mind." She gave a quick laugh. "Why would you want to hear about my father's stinkpot?"

  "Yeah." Joe flashed a tight smile in acknowledgment of the little war that had always raged between rag sailors and those who preferred the swiftness of gasoline engines. "Did your family have money?"

  Lucy turned away. "I don't really want to talk about-"

  "Maybe I do." He caught her arm, swung her towards him. He knew he was holding her too hard, that his hands were bruising her, but hell, there was a bruise inside him, too, one he couldn't figure out. "So, what's the deal, Blondie? Poor little rich girl, tired of living the good life, decides to strike out on her own?"

  "Let go of me, Joe!"

  "No. No, seriously, I want to hear about it. I grew up poor, you see. Not a penny in my jeans that I didn't earn, from the time I was maybe ten years old until today."

  "Good for you," she said tightly. "Now, let go."

  "I used to crew on a couple of charter boats, times I wasn't breaking my ass on my old man's fishing boat. And I saw them, the kids who'd grown up rich, the girls who thought it would be fun to get their kicks by rolling around in the mud for a while."

  He saw the quick glitter of angry tears rise in her eyes and he told himself to stop, that how she lived, what she did, wasn't his concern.

  But it was. She'd spent the night in his arms, awakened in his bed. And even though he knew what she was, he was having trouble imagining spending tonight, any night, without her. He couldn't imagine awakening without her in his arms.

  The realization infuriated him.

  "Is that what you've been doing, Blondie? Huh? Taking a walk on the wild side, just to get even with life?"

  'You bastard."

  Her voice was low, tremulous, and she began to weep.

  Good. Let her cry. He wanted to shake her. Shake her hard, until she admitted that when she was in his arms, he made her feel-he made her feel...

  He let go of her, stepped back. "Get your things," he said tonelessly. "I'll drive you home."

  "It's not my home, and they're not my things. They're yours. And I don't want them."

  She looked up at him. His eyes were almost black; his jaw, shadowed and unshaven, was thrust forward. He looked dangerous and exciting, and the love she felt for him, the hate she felt, were almost more than she could bear.

  A choked sound broke from her throat and she put her hand over her mouth and shoved past him.

  "Lucy," he said, but she kept on going, off the boat, onto the dock, towards the clubhouse and the parking lot. She heard him give a muffled curse, and then he strode past her, towards the Ferrari.

  The rain picked up as they drove back to Pacific Heights. Lucy sat stiffly beside Joe, her eyes focused on the wet road, her hands tightly laced in her lap.

  The windshield wipers brushed against the glass. "Luce-in-dah," they whispered. "Luce-in-dah, what have you done?"

  She'd made a mistake, was what she'd done. A terrible mistake. She should never have let Joe make love to her. Never. Nev-

  Let him make love to her? She bit down on her lip to keep from laughing. Or from crying. One or the other, it didn't matter. She hadn't "let" Joe do anything. She'd urged him on, she'd wanted all of it. Everything. Each kiss. Each caress. Each wild, sweet, amazing moment. The feel of him, deep inside her. The ecstasy of his possession.

  Okay. She'd done it, and now it was over. All of it. Their ridiculous arrangement was finished. As soon as they reached his place, she'd pack and leave. She'd walk downtown, hitch a ride. Get to the bus terminal, buy a ticket for wherever her money would take her, even if it was only twenty miles up the road.

  Goodbye, Joe Romano.

  She glanced at him, saw the thin, tight line of his mouth, the white-knuckled grip of his hands on the steering wheel. A sob caught in her throat and she looked quickly away, fixed her eyes to the windshield and the rain and the road.

  What was there to cry about, dammit? She was a grown woman, she'd given herself to a man. So what? It wasn't as if she'd been "saving" herself. She didn't have any hang-ups about sex between consenting adults. Oh, yeah, maybe, just maybe, she'd had this silly idea tucked away, about someday finding the right man, someone she'd want to give the gift of her virginity.

  God knew, she'd never wanted to give it to the man she'd been engaged to marry.

  Lucy huffed out a breath.

  Some gift. Some "right man." Some stupid, inane, humiliating thing to have done with a guy who thought she was some little rich girl rebelling against her soft life by sleeping her way through half the male population of the United States of America.

  The house was just ahead. Joe hit the remote on the dash; the garage door slid up and he pulled the car inside and killed the engine. Lucy undid her seat belt and reached for the door handle.

  "Lucy."

  She turned and looked at him, her chin lifted. "Yes?"

  "The deal is-"

  "-off." She smiled. She hoped she was smiling, anyway. "Indeed it is. And it won't take me five minutes to pack my-"

  "I'm not going to pretend," he said roughly. "Not to my brother, or my sister-in-law, or my grandmother. It was a stupid thing to do, from the start."

  "I tried to tell you that," she said, and reached for the door handle again. Joe's hands fell on her shoulders and he turned her to face him.

  "They can accept the fact that you're my mistress or not. The choice is--"

  Lucy blinked. "What?"

  "I know I promised to pay you, but things are different now. What I'll do is open a checking account in your name and deposit a sum into it. When you need more, just tell me. I'll arrange for charge cards, too. Saks. Neiman-Marcus. Whatever stores you prefer."

  Obviously, he'd lost his mind. "You've lost your mind," she said.

  "Actually, it's an eminently workable solution."

  He looked truly sincere. She'd seen that look before, on the faces of TV pitchmen.

  "Unfortunately, I can't tell you how long it will last. I mean, I know it's a good deal for both of us, and you'd like to have some sort of timetable, but-"

  She didn't even think about it, she just hit him as hard as she could, her fist flying through the air and connecting with his jaw with a satisfying smack. His head jerked back; his eyes crossed. Good, she thought furiously, good, you miserable, no good, smug, stupid son of a bitch!

  Unfortunately, he recovered fast. She was half out of the car when he reached for her.

  "Oh, hell," Lucy said, and ran.

  "Dammit, Lucinda," Joe roared, and went after her.

  The door that led into the house wasn't locked. She breathed a sigh of relief, shoved it open, raced for the stairs.

  Joe caught her when she was only inches from the safety of her room. She yelped as he swung her around, shoved her back against the wall, pinn
ed her there, his hands clasped around her wrists.

  "Is that all you know how to do? Ball up your fist and let fly?" He leaned closer. "Lucinda. You're driving me crazy. What more do you want from me?"

  His voice was low and menacing. If he'd looked dangerous before, there were no words for the way he looked now.

  Lucy shuddered and tried to break free.

  "I don't know what you want," he said. "And you won't tell me."

  "Just let go of me, Romano. I'll be out of this house and your life so fast, it'll make your head spin."

  He shifted his weight so that his body brushed lightly against hers. She could feel the heat emanating from him like waves of tightly banked fury.

  "Tell me it was all an act last night, and I'll let go."

  He looked down at her, his gaze like a stroke of flame over her parted lips, and she felt the swift, hot swell of desire low in her belly that only he could satisfy.

  Don't be a fool, she told herself, Lucinda Barry, don't be stupid!

  "Just tell me you didn't feel what I felt, when we made love." He bent to her and she tried to twist her face away, but he found her mouth with his, kissed her until her lips parted. "Lucy," he whispered, "Lucy, you know that we're not done with each other yet. Tell me what you want, and I'll give it to you."

  Your love, she thought, but she had some pride left, though not enough to keep her from lifting her tear-stained face to his and opening just enough of her heart to let him see some of what was inside.

  "I don't want your money. I don't want to be your-your kept woman."

  Joe smiled. It was such an old-fashioned phrase and yet, it sounded so right on her lips.

  "Just say you want me," he said gruffly, and released her wrists, and she gave him the only answer she could by thrusting her hands into his hair, drawing his face down to hers, and kissing him.

  "You're kidding," Matthew said, and slammed down his bottle of ale hard enough so some of the liquid sloshed onto the glass-topped table on the patio behind his home.

  Joe gave a dry laugh. "Do I look as if I'm kidding?"

  Matthew looked his brother over cautiously. "No," he admitted, "I guess not." He hesitated, tried to figure out how to phrase the question, then gave up trying. "So, you asked Lucy to, uh, to be your..."

  Joe nodded.

  "Does Nonna know?"

  Joe shook his head again. "She still thinks we're engaged. I keep meaning to tell her, but..."

  "Yeah, okay." Matthew drank some ale. "What about the cooking thing? I mean, Lucy was supposed to--"

  Joe looked up. "If you'd ever tasted a meal Lucy made, you wouldn't even ask the question."

  "Well, who does it, then?'

  "Matt, you know, you are some piece of work. I just told you that I've asked a woman to live with me, and all you can think of is your stomach."

  "Actually," Matthew said in an aggrieved tone, "I'm thinking of your stomach. Eating is another appetite a man has to--"

  Joe shot him a cold look.

  "Sorry," Matthew said quickly. "I only meant-"

  "I know what you meant. And you're right. That's what she's there for, because she's- fantastic in..."

  In bed, he wanted to say. But he couldn't. What in hell was wrong with him? Matt and he had always shared stuff. They'd talked about how tough the old man could be when things hadn't gone right for him. About how they missed their mother. And yes, they'd talked about women, the kind of conversation guys had and women despised them for having...

  Well, not about all women. Matt had never said anything derogatory or intimate about Susannah, but that was to be expected because she was his wife. He loved her. That was why it was crazy, that he Joe, couldn't bring himself to talk about Lucy, and what she was like in bed. She wasn't his wife. She wasn't even his mistress. And heaven knew, he didn't-he didn't...

  Joe frowned, hoisted his bottle of ale and took a long, cold swallow.

  "Actually," he said with what he assumed was an easy smile, "we cook together."

  "You cook? Both of you?"

  "Dh-huh.' ,

  "But you just said-"

  "Well, she's learning, the same as I am. She's pretty good at desserts. Coconut cake, chocolate mousse, stuff like that. And she has this collection of cookbooks, see, so what we do is, we pick a recipe. Then she buys the ingredients..."

  "With what? You said she's broke, and she won't take any money from you."

  "She finally agreed to let me give her a charge card for the supermarket."

  "Ah." Matthew nodded as if he understood what his crazy kid brother was talking about. So far, all he knew was that Joe, who'd never even let a woman spend the entire night in his bed, was living with a woman he'd met fourteen days ago. "So, okay. You pick a recipe. She buys the stuff that goes into it. "

  "Yeah. And then we cook it, together, for supper."

  "You cook it, together."

  Matt tried not to grin. Apparently, he didn't succeed because Joe shot him a belligerent look.

  "What's so funny, Romano? You never heard of a guy learning to cook?"

  "No, no. I mean, of course I have. I even like to putter in the kitchen with Susannah."

  "So?"

  "So, it just sounds so--so domestic."

  Joe flushed. "It's survival, is what it is. Hell, my gut can only tolerate just so much take-out fried chicken."

  "You never used to mind take-out."

  "Yeah, well, a guy needs change."

  "Right," Matthew said, and tried to figure out where to take the conversation next. "So, uh, so if Lucy won't accept any money from you, what's she living on?"

  Joe's mouth thinned into a narrow line. "What in hell is that supposed to mean?"

  "It means what it sounded like, kid. How's she supporting herself? Does she have some kind of talent?"

  Joe shot out of his chair, reached across the table, grabbed a handful of Matthew's shirt and dragged him to his feet.

  "I don't like what you're suggesting."

  "That's the second time you've put your fist in my throat because of this woman. And I don't like it." Matthew's eyes went flat and cold. "Let go, Joe."

  The men glared at each other for a few seconds. Then Joe made a choked sound, let go of Matthew's shirt, and stepped away from the table.

  "I think I'm losing my mind," he said softly.

  Matthew nodded. "That makes it unanimous. What the hell is the matter with you?"

  "I don't know."

  "Look, maybe you're in over your head. Hormones can do weird things, even to adult men." Matthew walked to his brother's side and slung a comforting arm around his shoulders. "Forget what I said the last time. I've changed my mind. Lucy seems like a nice girl. I'm sure, if you explained things to her, that you made a mistake, asking her to stay-"

  "She is nice. She's got a terrific sense of humor. She loves to sail. She's got a green thumb-she bought a bunch of plants for that big window in the living room. Well, she didn't actually buy 'em. She saw them, see, by the' curb outside somebody's house, waiting for garbage pickup. They were all dying, and she said she felt sorry for them, so she brought them home and now they look great. And I taught her to play pool and now she can beat me. Did I mention that?"

  Only two or three dozen times, Matthew thought, and sighed.

  "Okay. So she's wonderful. Still-"

  "She is. Wonderful, I mean."

  "Yeah, but if you feel crowded-"

  "I don't. She has this thing. This, uh, this quality, you know? She can be so quiet, I have to look up to make sure she's there. At night, when we sit in the living room and read, or maybe watch TV-"

  "You stay home and watch TV?"

  "Or read. Or, like I said, play pool." Joe stared at Matthew. "Holy cow," he groaned, "it really does sound domestic."

  "Joe," Matthew said gently, "I think you're in love with Lucy."

  "Hell, no!" Joe broke away from his brother's encircling arm. "I'm never going to fall in love. What's the sense? You love a woman, you ma
rry her, and the two of you end up the way Mom and Pop did, her hoping you haven't had a bad day and cringing if you did, you sitting in the corner, wondering how you ever let yourself get into this mess and hating the world .. ."

  "That was Mom and Pop," Matthew said. "It isn't everybody. Look around you, Joe. People can be happy together. Look at Susannah, and at me."

  Joe tucked his hands in the back pockets of his trousers. "Maybe," he said after a pause. He looked up. "But that doesn't mean I'm in love with Lucy." He gave a wry laugh. "Believe me, you wouldn't want that."

  "Why not? I just said, she seems nice. Sweet, and caring-"

  "She's a stripper, for God's sake!

  Matthew stared at Joe. "A what?"

  "You heard me," Joe snarled. "The first time I saw her, she was wearing a handful of spangles and a smile, and she was popping out of a cake at a private party."

  Matthew felt behind him for a chair and sank into it. "Oh, hell."

  "Exactly." Joe paced the length of the patio, then paced back. "You want me to be in love with a woman like that?"

  "No. No, of course not." Matthew stood up. "No way."

  "Why not?" Joe's eyes grew dark. "You saying she's not good enough for the Romano's?"

  "No," Matthew said cautiously. "But you said-"

  "She says it isn't true. That she never even jumped out of a cake before, or entertained at a bachelor party."

  "Well," Matthew said even more cautiously, "maybe she's telling you the-"

  "She says she comes from this old-line family in Boston. That they were rich."

  "Well, okay. Maybe she's-"

  "She's got some story about only being at that damned bachelor party because it was catered by a cooking school, and she had to agree to do the cake thing so she could get her diploma, because she went to a boarding school where they never taught her how to make a buck and now she has to support herself." Joe's eyes shot sparks. "You tell me, Matt, would any intelligent man swallow that?"

  Matthew shrugged his shoulders. It seemed the only safe thing to do.

  "And she says..." Joe's voice fell to a rough whisper. "She says there's never been anybody but me." He looked up, his very posture daring Matthew to argue. "Okay. She doesn't actually say it. But she acts it." Color striped his cheekbones. "When we-when we make love. If you know what I mean."