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."