Romano's Revenge. Sandra Marton
As if he were standing there nearly naked, and waiting for another man’s juicy kiss.
Joe could feel heat shooting up into his face.
“Look, miss, this isn’t what—I mean, it isn’t—I mean, I’m not…” He hissed out a breath. What was he doing, explaining himself to a stranger? Any broad who went door to door at seven something on a Saturday morning had to take what she got, no excuses asked or given.
Funny, though. There was something about her. Something that made him think he’d met her before…
“Mr. Romano?”
Joe nodded. “Yes?”
“Mr. Joseph Romano?”
“That’s my name, honey. What do you want?”
Lucinda swallowed hard. Oh, this was fine. Just fine. She’d spent the entire night—well, most of it—pacing the floor of the bedroom she’d once called home, alternately wishing she’d done more than slug last night’s idiot and worrying about this morning’s interview, until, finally, she’d told herself to forget last night. It was over.
Today—this meeting—was what counted.
Then why was she standing on her new employer’s porch with her mouth hanging open and her brain on hold?
Say something, she told herself, something more than his name…But honestly, did he think this was a proper way to come to the door? Naked. Well, almost naked. And—and talking about juicy kisses from a man named Matthew—
“Lady?” Her prospective employer’s words dripped with impatience. “If you want something, you’d better spit it out.”
Lucinda’s eyes narrowed. Men. They were all alike, whether they were pretending to be superstuds like that jerk last night, or like this jerk this morning. One had thought nothing of grabbing her and kissing her, while this one figured it was perfectly fine to answer a door wearing nothing but a towel.
What did she want? For him to put on some clothes, for starters. He was so big. So tall. So broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, and long-legged. That handsome, strong face. The ruffled black hair and sexy blue eyes…
And he liked men, who gave him big, fat birthday kisses.
A good thing, too. No way would she ever share a house with a man who looked like this. No way would she ever share a house with a man—a real man—at all. They were all sneaky, self-serving SOBs. Just look at the way her ex-fiancé had treated her. And that Neanderthal last night…
What had he looked like? Without her glasses, the man had been a blur. A big blur, but a blur, nevertheless. And it had all happened so quickly. Jumping from the cake. Her feet tangling. The man’s arms going around her. Hard arms, holding her against a hard body. His husky, teasing voice. That mouth, coming down on hers. Claiming hers. Heating hers…
Joe scowled. He folded his arms over his chest. “Lady, if you have something to say, say it. I haven’t got all day.”
Lucinda took a fortifying breath and fixed her gaze to his.
“I’m sorry. I, ah, I just wasn’t expecting…”
“Before you get yourself in gear, I already gave at the office.”
“You what?”
“I said, I’ve already donated to whatever you’re collecting for. Girl Scouts. Boy Scouts. Penguins in Peril. You name it, I gave to it. And if you want a bit of advice, lady—”
“Lucinda. Lucinda Barry. But—”
“…advice you’d do well to heed in the future,” he said, his voice rising over hers, “try remembering that the take would be better if you waited until a decent hour to start knocking on doors.”
“The take?” Lucinda frowned. “I’m not asking for donations, Mr. Romano.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all say. You want to sell me magazines, right?”
“No, sir. As I said, I’m Lucinda Barry, and—”
This time the name registered. Joe blinked. “Bari?” he said, giving it the same rolling “r” as his grandmother.
Lucinda shook her head. “Barry. B-A-R-R-Y.”
Joe’s eyebrows rose. “Did you say your first name was Lucinda?”
“Yes.” Her eyebrows rose, too. “Is that a problem?”
“No. Of course not. It’s just that my grandmother told me it was Luciana. I’m surprised she got it wrong.”
Lucinda forced a smile to her lips. “It’s an easy error to make, I suppose, for an elderly woman who doesn’t speak much English.”
“My grandmother? But she speaks…” What did it matter? Luciana or Lucinda, the woman was here. Joe cleared his throat. “So. You’re the—the cook,” he said, staring at her and congratulating himself for not saying what he’d been thinking, which was, “You’re the lesbian.”
“I—” Yes, Lucinda reminded herself, absolutely, she was the cook. Didn’t the certificate in her pocket prove it? The fact that Chef Florenze hadn’t wanted to give it to her was immaterial.
“You have ruined me,” he’d screamed after they were back in the kitchen and he’d said she wasn’t going to get her certificate, after all. But her fellow students had rallied to her defense, crowding around with grim faces, and finally Florenze had yanked all the certificates from his pocket and thrown them on the floor. “Take them,” he’d snarled.
Of course, he hadn’t give her the two hundred and fifty dollars. But she had that piece of paper, the one that counted, in her pocket.
“Yes,” Lucinda said proudly, and straightened her shoulders, “That’s who I am, Mr. Romano. I am your birthday gift.”
Joe winced. He looked around to see if any neighbors were out on their own porches and could possibly have overheard what she’d said. This proper-looking martinet with her annoying, unmistakably Bostonian accent, was hardly what a man wanted as a “gift.”
For once, his grandmother hadn’t stretched the truth. Lucinda Barry, of the pulled-back hair, the wire-framed glasses and the shapeless skirt and blouse, was truly a dog. A veritable bow-wow.
“Great,” he muttered, grasping her arm and hustling her inside the house.
Lucinda held her breath, as if that would keep her body from brushing against his. It was difficult to imagine that body—that very hard-looking, masculine body—as belonging to a man who would, uh, who would accept a juicy kiss from another man.
The shopping bags shifted. She made a wild attempt at recovery but it was too late. The one in her right arm tilted, spilling some of its contents to the floor. She bent down. He did, too.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I’m not usually such a—”
“Klutz?”
Something in the way he said the word made her look up. They were almost nose to nose, and the way he was staring at her made her uneasy.
“Yes. It’s just that—” She frowned. A little prickle of awareness danced along the skin at the nape of her neck. “Have we—have we met before, Mr. Romano?”
His eyes narrowed. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“I don’t—I don’t think so.”
“No.” He cleared his throat. “No, I’m sure we haven’t.”
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