And saw Joe, standing very still, his eyes locked to her face. A terrible coldness swept through her bones.
Once, a long time ago, she'd gone walking near a salt marsh back home in Massachusetts. She'd noticed a dark splotch on the dead limb of a pine tree. At closer range, she'd recognized it as a bird. A hawk of some kind, its unwavering gaze fixed on something in the distance.
The "something" had turned out to be a rabbit feeding in the grass. The little creature never had a chance. A flap of those great wings, a swoop, a flurry of claws and fur, and the rabbit was no longer a rabbit.
Had it felt, in its last few seconds, as betrayed as she felt now?
"You see?" Joe's voice was cool, calm, almost serene. "You were wrong, Lucy. I do turn you on. And I could have you, if I wanted you." A smile twisted across his face. "But I don't. And that means you lose, baby. Whatever you hoped for, you're not going to get it. No easy score. No rich boyfriend or maybe even a husband to snare, thanks to the foolishness of an old woman." The smile came again, and a lift of his eyebrows. "What's the matter, honey? Run out of names to call me?"
Lucinda told herself not to let him see what he'd done to her. Every word, every action, would count if she were to salvage even a crumb of pride. Carefully, she drew herself up. And she smiled, too, as brightly as he.
"Why would I call you anything, Mr. Romano, when you're so certain you have all the answers?" She turned, started up the stairs. She could feel his gaze on her and she steeled herself not to look back until she was sure the moment was right. "But you don't," she said, and swung towards him. "Not if you think that little performance just now was all yours."
She had the pleasure of seeing the smile slip from Joe's handsome face. His eyes grew dark; his mouth thinned, and he started towards the stairs.
"Liar," he growled. Lucinda turned and fled.
Joe sat at his desk in the library of his house in Pacific Heights, and waited. Five minutes, maybe ten, had passed. There'd been no sound from upstairs, except for the slam of Lucy's door.
Now, he was waiting for her to come down the stairs, exit his home and his life. Once she did, he'd phone his grandmother, tell her the stuff about taking Lucinda Barry as his wife had all been nonsense, give her a stem lecture about interfering in his affairs.
In other words, his life could go back to normal. Damned right, it would.
Joe huffed out a breath, shoved back his chair and got to his feet. As it was, this nonsense had wasted far too much of his time. It was Saturday. He had things to do on Saturday. Get ready for Saturday night, for one. He had a date tonight, with that redhead he'd met at the art show in Ghiardelli Square
on Wednesday. Hadn't he said he'd give her a call, tell her what time he'd be picking her up for dinner?
For dinner, where? That new place in Chinatown? Or maybe that restaurant on the wharf. Yeah. They did great lobster, even better shrimp.
He could imagine what his new cook would do if she found a lobster on the counter. Or a batch of raw shrimp. Scream, probably, when she saw those beady black eyes. Those feathery tentacles ...
Joe frowned.
What in hell did he care what she'd think or do? Lucinda Barry wasn't his cook. She wasn't anybody's cook. And she wasn't his problem, either.
He went back to his desk, reached for the phone and his address book. He'd call the redhead first, then the restaurant for reservations. What was her name? Something Lee. Kimber-lee. Bever-lee. Sara-
Joe's stomach rumbled.
When was the last time he'd eaten? That was a better question. Sometime last night. That awful stuff at the bachelor party, just after Blondie had popped from the cake. The closest he'd come to anything even resembling food since then was this morning, when she'd incinerated breakfast. How could a woman ruin bacon and eggs? Even he could manage them, and he was no cook.
Yeah, he thought grimly, and neither was she. She was a scheming piece of fluff who could drive a man crazy, if a man was foolish enough to let that happen. Well, he wasn't. He'd agreed to take on a cook, not a courtesan.
The sooner the woman was out of his house and out of his life, the better.
What was taking her so long?
Joe shot an angry look at the still-empty hallway. Then he opened his address book and started thumbing through it. Marilee. That was the redhead's name, and there was her phone number. He punched it in, impatiently counted off three rings before a sultry voice said hello.
The tension began easing from his body. That hello told him everything he needed to know. Marilee wouldn't bite a man's head off.
She wouldn't walk around in a shapeless skirt and blouse when he knew there was a body that wouldn't quit hiding beneath it.
She wouldn't wear her hair skinned back from her ears when he knew those golden tresses could spill like silk through a man's hands.
And she damned well wouldn't pretend her response to him was all an act because the truth was, he had only to touch her to make her moan with desire ...
"Hell," Joe snarled, and slammed down the phone.
He shot to his feet, dug his hands into his pockets and stalked from one end of the room to the other.
"It's an act, pal," he muttered. "That's all it is. Little Miss Sunshine turns into a seductress when it suits her. And vice versa. Who knows what she's up to? Who knows..."
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Joe pulled the door open. Lucinda-and who did she think she was kidding with that name?-Lucinda stood at the foot of the steps, her suitcase at her feet.
He thought of telling her that she should have asked him to carry it down. He thought of telling her she had a hell of a nerve to have pushed her way into his life. He thought of walking straight to where she stood, plucking the pins from that ridiculous chignon and stripping her out of the Mary Poppins costume ...
"I'm leaving," she said.
"I'm delighted to hear it."
He certainly didn't look delighted. He was glowering, his mouth was tightly compressed, and his arms were folded over his chest. Still, Lucinda knew what he meant because she felt the same way.
If she never saw Joe Romano again, it would be too soon. First, though, there was a small, uncomfortable scene to play out. It was what had taken her so long. Packing had been a five-minute affair because she'd been too angry to bother folding things neatly. Instead, she'd dumped everything out of the drawers, off the hangers, and into her suitcases. Then she'd picked up her purse... and realized she'd spent most of her last twenty dollars this morning, for the taxi that had brought her here.
In other words, her capital consisted of the change from that twenty and the emergency pair of ten dollar bills she kept tucked in her wallet.
She was broke.
She'd taken all of it-the couple of single bills and the tens-smoothed them out and put them into her change purse, as if it might look like more that way. It hadn't. Her knees had gone weak at the thought of being virtually penniless in San Francisco--and then she'd remembered that she'd put in a day, one long and horrible day, as Joe Romano's employee.
He owed her a paycheck.
Asking him for it would be the final humiliation, but if there was one thing the past months had taught her, it was that you did what you had to do, to survive.
Remember that, she told herself, and cleared her throat. "Mr. Romano."
A taunting smile tilted at the corner of his mouth. "I see we've returned to formal mode."
"Mr. Romano, you owe me money."
"Excuse me?"
"I worked here for-" Lucinda looked at her watch "-for almost seven hours. No-rating my salary by the hour, that means-"
"You did what, Ms. Barry?"
Lucinda flushed. The bastard was going to make her beg. "I put in seven hours as your employee. That means you owe me-"
"We seem to have a communications problem." Lazily, Joe uncoiled from the doorway, tucked his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and strolled towards her. "You used the word 'work.'"
"That's correct. You hired me at eight this morning. You fired me at three this afternoon. And-"
"You told me you were my new cook at eight this morning." His smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "I didn't check the clock but it wasn't much later than that when you tried to set fire to the kitchen."
"That is not true!"
"Then I discovered your qualifications were phony and took you to my grandmother's, where your little scheme unraveled like a ball of twine rolling down a staircase." Joe folded his arms again and arched an eyebrow. "Where, if you don't mind my asking, does the concept of 'work' enter into the scenario?"
Lucinda knew she was blushing. And that she was painfully close to marching up to him, slapping that contemptuous smirk from his handsome face and telling him, in excruciating detail, exactly what he could do with the money he owed her.
Instead, she lifted her chin another notch.
"There's nothing to debate, Mr. Romano. You hired me, you fired me, and you owe me a day's wages." Unhesitatingly, she stuck out her hand. A piece of paper lay in it. The paper trembled, which she figured spoiled the effect, but she was undaunted. "Here's the amount. Check it, by all means, but you'll find it accurate."
Joe peered at the paper in her outstretched palm.
"I'm sure it is," he said politely, lifting his eyes to hers.
"What's inaccurate, however, is your conviction that I'm going to pay you for the time you spent in my home."
"Pay me," Lucinda said quickly, as he started to turn away, "or I'll sue you."
That stopped him. He swung towards her, head cocked as if he hadn't heard her right. "Excuse me?"
"I said, I'll sue you for the money."
"You'll sue me for...?" Joe chuckled. The chuckle became a laugh, the laugh a guffaw. "Oh, hell," he said, and slapped his thigh, "this is wild! You're going to sue me for wages you didn't earn?"
"A matter of opinion. Mr. Romano. I think I did earn them, and I suspect a judge will, too."
He looked at her. She looked at him. Joe's smile slipped.
Damned if she wouldn't do it. He could just see her marching into small claims court, looking prim and proper, suing him for what amounted to what he'd have spent on a couple of bottles of good wine.
The tabloids would love the story. So would his business adversaries. And when it came out, as it surely would, that Lucinda the Cook was really Blondie the Stripper...
Joe gave a throaty growl, dug out his wallet and handed her some bills.
"That's too much. If you check my math-"
"Just keep the change."
Lucinda shook her head, opened her pocketbook, then her purse. She dug inside, and took out a ten dollar bill, two quarters and a dime.
"I only want what's coming to me," she said, holding it out to him.
Her hand was shaking. He'd thought so, before, when she'd first extended it. Now, he was sure of it. Well, so what? So her hand shook. What of it? She was nervous. And she should be.
"Take the money, please."
Joe rolled his eyes and did as she'd asked. Anything to get her out the door.
"Thank you."