Romano's Revenge

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—”

“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.

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