That was one thing to be said about Joseph Romano's sexual preferences. He wouldn't have hot-and-cold running females going in and out the door at all hours.
No. He'd have hot-and-cold running males instead. The thought wasn't comforting.
"Oh, hell," she said weakly, and pulled open a drawer. Light from the overhead spotlights glinted on a breathtaking array of stainless steel tools. She picked up one and turned it over and over between her fingers.
What was it? She had no idea. Actually, she had no idea what this whole room was about. You'd need a doctoral degree in physics to operate the stove; you'd have to be fluent in Cuisine art to turn on half the appliances lined up along the counters-
"Finding everything all right?"
Lucinda spun around. Joseph Romano was standing in the doorway. Actually, he was lounging in it arms folded, his body leaning back against the frame. He was fully dressed, for which she was eternally grateful. Dressed as a man like him would, of course, not properly as in the circle in which she'd grown up, but dressed, nevertheless-if you could call a white T-shirt that clung to all those muscles "dressed." If you could call those jeans "dressed." They were faded. And snug.. Oh.. so snug ...
She blinked.
"Just fine and dandy," she said, shooting him a bright smile and shutting the drawer with her hip. She swung away from those piercing blue eyes and went back to unloading the shopping bags, laying things out on the counter as if her life depended on it.
"Fascinating."
Lucinda jumped again. He'd come up behind her. She could feel the faint warmth of his breath on her neck.
Goose bumps rose on her skin.
"Do you really need all those gadgets to cook a meal?"
"Oh, not all of them." She flashed another smile as she slipped past him. "Actually, I don't know that I'll need my things at all. You have a wonderfully equipped kitchen."
"Well, if kitchens could talk, mine would probably be shouting hosannas." Joe slid a hip onto the edge of a stool and smiled. "In gratitude at your arrival, that is. I'm not much of a cook."
An understatement. Maybe even a flat-out lie, but the lady would never know it if he kept as far out of her realm as he could manage and let her take over in here, not just for a couple of weeks but indefinitely.
The more he'd thought about it, as he'd showered and dressed, the more he'd started to think that this might just work out. Maybe his Nonna hadn't been so wrong. A woman who could cook up a storm, with a desirability quotient of zero, living right under his roof and available day or night to whip up a meal or a snack, was starting to sound like a pretty good asset. Better than good, he thought as his stomach rumbled a reminder that he'd yet to have breakfast.
So, he'd be a little nicer. A bit more friendly. It wasn't his cook's fault she wasn't a looker any more than it was her fault she didn't like men.
"I know."
Joe jerked his head up. Lucinda had wandered away again.
She'd opened a drawer and she was looking down into it, her brows drawn together as if she'd found something either unmentionable or unnamable inside.
"Sorry?"
"I said, your grandmother mentioned you didn't do much cooking." Why had she picked this drawer to open? There were beaters in it, for a mixer. She recognized those, but not those other things, the long, wicked-looking hunks of shiny, twisted metal. What on earth could they be?
"What are those things, anyway?"
This time she managed not to jump when she heard Joe Romano's voice behind her. When she felt his breath on her neck. Was he going to keep doing that? Sneaking up when she didn't expect it? Hadn't the man ever heard of the importance of personal space? She didn't like the intrusion on hers. It was too close. Too intimate.
Her pulse rate skidded uneasily.
"What things?" she said, and slammed the drawer shut. Joe reached past her and yanked it open. His shoulder brushed hers; his scent, a combination of soap and man, rose to her nostrils. He was doing it again. Surrounding her, as that-that miserable creature at the bachelor party had done last night.
Lucinda sniffed, then sniffed again. His smell was so clean. So masculine. So familiar. "Lucinda?"
She blinked. "Yes, Mr. Romano?"
"Joe," he said, and smiled politely.
"Joe," she repeated, and cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. Did you say something?"
He lifted one of the twisted spikes of gleaming metal from the drawer. "I was wondering what these are."
"Uh, ah, those?"
"Yeah. When I first bought this house, I was, um, I was going with this wo-with this person who figured to get me interested in something long-term by showing me the joys of domesticity." Have to watch that, Romano. You skate babes, but so does she. Somehow, the thought was distressing. "Toni's house-warming gift was to have the kitchen completely equipped with every conceivable gadget."
"Ah. Well, Tony did a great job."
"Yeah, but the first time I went looking for a teaspoon, I pulled open this drawer and saw these things. And I've been trying to figure out what they are, ever since."
Lucinda nodded. "Well, ask Tony."
"Oh, Toni's long gone," Joe said lazily. He looked at his new cook. "Do you always wear your sunglasses in the house?"
"My...? Oh. No. These aren't sunglasses. They're smoked, that's all. Actually, I usually wear contacts. But I lost one yesterday and when I found it this morning, I didn't have time to clean it properly, so..."
Joe nodded, as if he were listening, but he wasn't. Actually, for such a drab little mouse, she had an interesting mouth. Soft. Full. Nice hair, too. A strand had escaped and hung against her temple. Incongruously, it reminded him of the long, sexy hair of the babe who'd popped out of the cake. Could Lucinda's hair possibly feel as silken? His fingers itched with the desire to find out. Maybe even to taste that mouth...
Hot damn.
"So," he said briskly as he took a couple of quick steps back, "what do you do with these spiked things, anyway?"
Lucinda smiled brightly. "Why don't you try and guess?"
"I did try. I decided they must be a medieval torture device." He chuckled, leaned against the counter, crossed his feet at the ankles and tossed the metal object from hand to hand. "But the guy I bought the place from wasn't into S and M."
"S and ... " Lucinda swallowed. This was more about Joe Romano's sexual preferences than she wanted to know. "I see. But, uh, I mean, there's nothing wrong with S and M. If you're into it. Not you. Someone else. Well, two someone else's. If two people are adults, if that's what turns them on..."
Her eyes met Joe's. Color flooded her face. "It's a dough hook," she said, the name for the spike coming back to her in a rush. She plucked it from his hand, dumped it alongside its mate, and slammed the drawer shut. "A person's private life is his private life, is my motto, Mr. Romano. I hope you understand that."
She saw color flood his face, too. "Of course," he said stiffly. "That goes without saying. I'd never sit in judgment on anyone, Lucy."
"Lucinda," she said primly. "And, if you don't mind, I'd like to see my accommodations."
"Certainly. If you'll follow me...?"
She nodded and fell in behind him. Backs rigid, they marched through the house and up the stairs.
Lucinda sat on the edge of her bed, hands folded neatly in her l
ap. She'd put her clothing away, lined up her shoes in the closet, hung her robe on the hook in her private bathroom and put her toothbrush into the holder on the sink.
"I hope your accommodations are to your liking," her new employer had said.
She'd assured him that they were fine-even though they weren't.
Chef Florenze had discussed accommodations. He'd talked about living in the staff quarters of hotels, small inns, and private homes.
"For those of you fortunate enough to find positions as personal cooks to the wealthy," he'd said with a supercilious little smile.
Not that she'd needed the information. She knew how things were done in the home she'd grown up in and in those of her childhood friends. Family lived on one floor, staff on another. A cook might sleep on the staff floor, or in rooms just off the kitchen.
Whatever the arrangement, it didn't include putting a cook into the bedroom next door to her employer's, with the headboards of their respective beds separated by a thin wall.
It didn't matter, she thought briskly. So what if Mr. Romano slept a foot away from where she slept? So what if they might bump into each other in the hall? She would block her mind to the pictures racing through it.
Pictures that would be even worse if he were straight and she had to imagine him in that room, in that bed, with a woman ...
Lucinda frowned. "Ridiculous," she said, and got to her feet.
It was time to brave the dangers of the kitchen, check the fridge and think about making dinner tonight.
"Are you going out?" she'd asked Mr. Romano after he'd shown her to her rooms.
He'd seemed to hesitate and then he'd shrugged and said yes. Yes, he was.
"And will you be here for dinner?"
He'd hesitated again. "Yeah," he'd finally replied, "yeah, I will."
So she had almost an entire day to work up a menu. Good.
That gave her plenty of time to figure out how to prepare a meal he'd never forget.
Lucinda hesitated at the door. Should she change into her uniform? She was unclear as to the protocol. Chefs wore white in restaurant kitchens but in private homes, in her experience, anyway, such things were generally left to the discretion of the employer.