“Just posing as my fiancée will be sufficient.”

“Just falling into your bed, you mean.” She was on him in a second, jabbing a finger into his chest, fire flashing from her angry eyes to his bewildered ones. “Is that how you intend to have me earn my salary, Romano?”

“Yes,” he said. “I mean, no. I mean, I expect you to play the role you agreed to play.”

“The deal was, I pretend to be your fiancée. And when I’m not pretending, I do the cooking. That’s what I’m going to do. You got that?” He looked down at her. She looked enraged, and almost incredibly beautiful.

“Romano? Do we understand each other?”

What he understood was that he ached to make love to her. “Yes,” he said, and he reached out, grasped her shoulders, put her aside and headed out the door.

SANDRA MARTON is an American author who used to tell stories to her dolls when she was a little girl. Today, readers around the world fall in love with her sexy, dynamic heroes and outspoken, independent heroines. Her books have topped bestseller lists and won many awards. Sandra loves dressing up for a night out with her husband as much as she loves putting on her hiking boots for a walk in a southwestern desert or a northeastern forest. You can write to her at P.O. Box 295, Storrs, Connecticut 06268 (please enclose SASE).

Note from the Editor: Some of you will have already met Joe Romano. He’s the brother of Matt Romano, The Sexiest Man Alive (Harlequin Presents #2008). Many readers have got in touch to tell us how much they loved the story of Matt and how he won his lovely bride, Susannah, and asked if Joe might have a book of his own. Sandra Marton hasn’t hesitated; with Matt happily married, Joe deserves his happy ending, too. How does it happen? With laughter, tears, a touch of lighthearted revenge and plenty of passion.…

Romano’s Revenge
Sandra Marton

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

To the blonde who owns Joe’s heart: thank you for offering to share him with so many other women!

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

THE women whose hearts had been broken by Joseph Romano, and the ones who yearned for the same fate, agreed that he was a black-haired, blue-eyed, sexy-as-hell, untamable, gorgeous hunk.

The old-line financial wizards who watched as Joe amassed millions on the San Francisco stock market said he was a cold-blooded, hot-tempered upstart. And they called him things a lot more graphic and less polite than “hunk.”

Joe’s grandmother, who’d adored him for the entirety of his thirty-two years, told anyone who would listen that her Joseph was handsome as a god, sweet-natured as an angel, and as smart as the you-know-what. Nonna had just enough of the Old Country left in her so that she wouldn’t say the devil’s name out loud any more than she’d say any of these things to Joe’s face.

What she did tell him, as often as she could, was that he needed to eat his vegetables, get to bed on time, find a good Italian girl to marry and give her, Nonna, lots of beautiful, bright bambinos.

Joe loved his grandmother with all his heart. She and his brother, Matthew, were all the family he had left. And he tried to please her. He ate almost all his vegetables, except the ones no real man would ever eat. He went to bed on time, though his interest in being there had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with the succession of beautiful women who passed through his busy life.

But marriage…well, a man didn’t put his neck in that noose until he was ready.

Fortunately, Joe had never felt that ready. He didn’t expect to, not for a long, long time.

An intelligent man, Joe never mentioned that to Nonna during the last-Friday-of-the-month suppers they both enjoyed whenever he was in town. Supper with her, and a bachelor party for one of the guys he played racquetball with, was why he’d flown back to San Francisco on a warm Friday in late May.

He’d been in New Orleans, checking out a small start-up company whose stock looked interesting. When the stacked redhead who’d been walking him through the firm’s data leaned in close and said, in a sexy whisper, that she hoped he’d let her give him a more intimate tour of the French Quarter over the weekend, Joe had grinned and started to say he’d surely love that.

Then he’d remembered the bachelor party. More than that, he’d remembered that this was the last Friday of the month. Nonna had made a special point of reminding him that she expected to see him for dinner.

That was unusual. She never had to remind him because Joe never forgot. If anything, Nonna was always telling him that she didn’t want him to feel locked into their once-a-month Fridays.

“You have other things you want to do, Joey,” she’d say, “you do them.”

Joe had hugged her and told her that he’d sooner break a date with the queen than miss a Friday with her.

It was true. Sometimes he figured his grandmother was the only reason he’d made it through childhood in one piece.

She’d taken him in a zillion times when he was a kid and his old man was looking to beat the crap out of him for some numbskull antic. She’d been a rock for him and Matt when their mother died. She’d never given up on him, even after he’d pretty much given up on himself. And, when he’d finally straightened himself out, joined the Navy and then the SEALs, been honorably discharged and completed his college education, Nonna had simply said she always knew he’d make something of himself.

So Joe had flown back to San Francisco that May night, climbed into his cherry-red Ferrari, stopped to buy a bouquet of spring flowers and the smooth-as-silk Chianti he and his grandmother liked. Then he drove to her clapboard house in North Beach. She’d lived in it as long as he could remember, despite the efforts of both Joe and Matt to convince her to leave it.

Nonna greeted him on the back porch.

“Joseph,” she said, “mio ragazzo.” She gave him a big hug. “Come inside, sweetheart, and mangia.”

The hug and the smile were normal. The Italian was not.

His nonna had come to the States as a bride of sixteen. She spoke English with an accent but English was what she spoke, never her native Italian. Not unless she was nervous.

What was there for her to be nervous about? Joe frowned as he stepped inside the old-fashioned kitchen. Her health was excellent. He’d taken her to her doctor himself just a couple of weeks ago for her annual checkup. And he knew all was well with Matt and his wife, Susannah.

But Nonna was definitely behaving strangely. She was babbling—something else she never did, except when she was under some sort of stress—asking him about his trip but not giving him time to answer, telling him about her week without pausing for breath…

Maria Balducci.

The hair rose on the back of Joe’s neck.

That was the last time he’d seen his grandmother in such a state, the night she’d tried to set him up with Maria Balducci, who lived up the street. He’d shown up for supper and Nonna had greeted him just like this, with an unaccustomed flurry of Italian and a table loaded not just with antipasto and lasagna or manicotti but everything imaginable. Veal piccata, shrimp scampi, steak pizzaola.

A table without so much as one vegetable on it, unless some crazed nutritionist had suddenly decided olives and garlic were the equal of cauliflower and, even worse, carrots.

A table that had looked, to his suspicious eyes, very much like it looked tonight.

Joe fought back the desire to flatten himself against the wall as he checked the room, but no one else was there. Certainly not Maria, and she would have been difficult to miss.

“Joseph.” Nonna smiled a bright smile and bustled around the room. “Sit down, sit down, mio ragazzo, and have some antipasto. Prosciutto, just the way you like it. Provolone. Genoa, sliced thin as paper…”

“We’re alone?”

Nonna clucked her tongue. “Of course. Do you think I have someone hidden in the broom closet?”

Anything was possible, Joe thought, but he didn’t say so. Instead, he pulled out a chair and eased into it.

“No matchmaking,” he said carefully. “Right?”

“Matchmaking?” Nonna laughed gaily. “Why would you even ask such a thing, Joseph, huh? You’ve told me how you feel. You aren’t ready to marry a nice Italian girl, settle down and raise una famiglia, even though it’s the one wish of my heart. So, why would I try and play matchmaker?”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Anybody ever tell you that you have a way with a phrase?”

“I have a way with food.” His grandmother poked a finger at the platter of antipasto. “Mangia.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Obediently, he dug in, transferring what had to be a billion grams of fat and an equal number of calories to his plate.

“Good?” Nonna asked after a minute.

“Delicious.” Joe reached for the basket heaped with garlic bread, hesitated, then snagged a piece and mentally added two miles to his morning run. “So, what’s this all about?”

“What is what all about?”

He tried not to wince as his grandmother filled two water glasses with the elegant Chianti he’d brought and shoved one at him across the heavy white tablecloth.

“Come on, sweetheart. You made every dish I ever loved. You didn’t even try and disguise carrots and cauliflower the way you always do in hopes you could slip them past me. And there are Italian words falling out of your mouth. Something’s up.”

“Non capisco,” Nonna said.

Their eyes met, his the blue of the Mediterranean, hers as dark as the hills of Sicily. Joe grinned, and his grandmother blushed.

“All right.” Her voice was prim, her shrug small but eloquent. “Perhaps something is, as you say, ‘up.’ But it has nothing to do with matchmaking. Believe me, Joseph, I have given that up, completely.”

Good manners, but mostly the knowledge that his nonna probably wasn’t above boxing his ears, kept him from pointing out that he saw her cross herself as she rose from the table and went to the stove.

“I’ll bet you have,” he said pleasantly. Joe shoved his chair back from the table and folded his arms. “So, I can relax? Some eager female isn’t going to come sailing through that doorway with a tray of cannoli in her arms?”

Nonna swung towards him, a pot of espresso in her hand. “Certainly not. I know full well that you prefer your dimbos to real women.”

“Bimbos,” Joe said, trying not to laugh. “And they aren’t. They’re just pretty young women who enjoy my company as much as I enjoy theirs.”

Nonna sighed as she put the pot on the table. “Monday is your birthday,” she said, taking cups and saucers from the cupboard.

The sudden change in conversation surprised him almost as much as the information.

“Is it?”

“Yes. You will be thirty-three.”

“Now that you mention it, I guess I will.” Joe smiled. “Of course. That’s the reason for the feast.” He grabbed her work-worn hand and brought it to his lips. “And here I thought you were up to something. Sweetheart, can you ever forgive me for being so suspicious?”

“I am your nonna. Of course, I forgive you.” Nonna sat down and poured their coffee. “But, ah, this meal is not your gift.”

“No?”

“No. Surely, a man’s thirty-third birthday deserves more than food.”

“Sweetheart.” Joe kissed her hand again. “This isn’t just food, it’s ambrosia. I don’t want you to spend your money on—”

“You and Matthew give me more money than I could ever use in this lifetime. Besides, I have spent nothing.”

“Good.”

“But I am giving you a gift, nevertheless.” Nonna beamed at him over the rim of her cup. “Giuseppe, mio ragazzo.”

Joe’s eyes turned to slits. In a boardroom he’d have leaned towards the guy trying to scam him and said, bluntly, “Cut the crap.” But this wasn’t a boardroom, and this wasn’t some smart-ass dude in a pin-striped suit. This was his grandma, and he loved her, so he sat up straight, folded his arms over his chest again, and fixed her with a steely look.

“Okay,” he said, “let’s have it.”

Nonna looked pained. “Have what?”

“You’re trying to con me.”

“Con? What does this mean, this ‘con’?”

“It means you want to convince me to do something I don’t want to do.”

“How can you think such a thing, Joseph?”

Joe arched one eyebrow. “How?”

“Yes.” Nonna lifted her chin. “How?”

“Maria Balducci.”

“Oh, not that nonsense again. Honestly, Joseph—”

“It was February,” he said calmly, “and it was snowing. I showed up for supper and you plied me with steak pizzaola, shrimp scampi—”

“What is this ‘plied you’? Did I grab that handsome nose of yours and drag you to the table?”

Joe plucked his napkin from his lap and dropped it on the table. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Grandma.”

“Grandma? I am your Nonna, and don’t you forget it.”

“You’re the biggest matchmaker in North Beach,” Joe said, shooting to his feet. “You dazzled me with goodies that night and then you brought out the big guns.”

“I brought out espresso, as I recall.”

“And Miss Italy 1943.”

Nonna stood up, too. “Signora Balducci was your age, Joseph.”

“She was dressed all in black.”

“She is a widow.”

“She had one giant eyebrow that stretched across her forehead.”

He saw his grandmother’s mouth twitch. “It was two eyebrows that merely needed plucking.”

“How about that long hair growing out of the mole on her chin?” Joe’s mouth also twitched, but he wasn’t going to laugh, not yet. “I suppose that could be plucked, too?”

“You see? That’s your problem, Joseph. There is no way to please you. That time I introduced you to Anna Carbone—”

“The teenybopper at that festival you dragged me to last summer?”

“I did not ‘drag’ you,” Nonna said with dignity. “I merely said I needed you to drive me there. It was coincidence that Anna should have been waiting for me. And she was not a teeny-banger.”

“Bopper. Yes, she was. It’s a miracle she didn’t still have braces on her teeth.”

“She was twenty. But I did not argue when you said she was too young, did I?”

“No,” Joe said coolly, “no, you didn’t. You just waited awhile and found Miss Eyebrow.”

Nonna’s lips twitched again. “Actually, I’d never noticed the eyebrows. Not until that night, in this kitchen. “

“Uh-huh. When the signora just happened to arrive at the door with dessert.”

“And the mole.”

Joe and his grandmother looked at each other and smiled. He sighed, took her in his arms, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Okay,” he said, “let’s have it.”

“Have what?”

“I want to know what ‘gift’ you’re giving me for my birthday, and why you’re buttering up me up beforehand.” He looked over her head, at the door. “Is my dessert arriving by female express?”

Nonna made a face. She bustled past him, opened the freezer and took out a bowl. “Gelato. Just so you know that your dessert is not climbing the porch steps.”

Joe smiled and sat down again. “Homemade ice cream. Nonna, you’re going to spoil me.”

Nonna smiled. She waited until he’d spooned up a mouthful. “Good?”

“Wonderful. The best you ever made.”

Her smile tilted slyly. “Good. But I didn’t make it.”

Joe looked up. “You must have. Not even Carbone’s has gelato this delicious.”

“You’re right. Signor Carbone would kill for this recipe.”

“Well,” Joe said, “if you didn’t get it at Carbone’s and you didn’t make it, who…” The words caught in his throat. Slowly, he put down his spoon and looked at his grandmother. “All right,” he said grimly. “Let’s have it. And don’t embarrass either of us by giving me that wide-eyed, I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about look.”

Nonna folded her hands on the white tablecloth.

“I worry about you, Joseph.”

Despite what she’d said before, here it was. They were going to go over the same old thing again.

“Nonna,” Joe said patiently, “we’ve been all through this. I’m not lonely. I don’t want a wife. I’m happy with my life, just the way it is.”

“You remember once, I asked you who sews the buttons on your shirts, huh? Who irons them?”

“And I told you,” Joe said briskly. “The guy at the laundry. And he does a great job.”

“Yes. And you told me your house is cleaned by a cleaning service.”

“That’s right. The same service I wish you’d let me send here, so you don’t have to bother—”

“I prefer to clean my own house,” Nonna said primly. She leaned forward. “But, Joseph, who cooks your meals?”

Joe sighed. “I told you that the last time around, too. I don’t eat home much. And when I do, there are all these terrific little take-out places a couple of blocks away…What?”

Nonna was smiling, and something about the smile made him want to get out of the chair and run for his life.

“I have accepted that perhaps you will never be ready to marry, Joseph, and that you are happy to let strangers iron your shirts and clean your home. But I have never stopped worrying about your meals.”

“There’s no reason to worry, sweetheart. I eat just fine.”

“I will not worry from now on.” His grandmother dug deep into the pocket of her apron. “Happy birthday, Joey,” she said, and thrust a folded piece of paper at him.

Joe took it and frowned. “What is this?”

“Your birthday gift.” His grandmother was beaming, her eyes bright with joy. “Open it.”

He did. Then he looked up. “I don’t understand. This is just a name.”

“Sì. It is a name. Luciana Bari.”

The vowels and consonants rolled off his grandmother’s tongue. Joe’s jaw tightened.

“And just who in hell is Luciana Bari?”

“Do not curse, Joseph.”

“And don’t you try and change the subject. We just spent an hour talking about teenyboppers, overage widows and your sneaky attempts to marry me off. If you for one minute think you can get away with this—”

Oh, damn. His grandmother’s eyes filled with tears. Joe grabbed her hand.

“Nonna. Sweetheart, I didn’t mean to call you sneaky. But after all we discussed, for you to imagine I’d be pleased by—”

“Luciana Bari isn’t a woman,” Nonna said. “She is a cook.”

A tear rolled down her cheek. Joe took out his handkerchief and gave it to her. “A cook?”

“Yes. A talented one.” Nonna dabbed at her eyes. “She made the gelato and even you admit it was delicious.”

Joe sat back. Trapped! Warning bells began to sound in his head; lights flickered and flashed before his eyes.

“Well,” he said slowly, “yeah. It was. I mean, it is. But what does this Luciana Bari have to do with me?”

“She is your gift, Joseph. “ Nonna’s lip trembled. “My gift to you. And I am saddened that you would think I was trying to, as you say, ‘con’ you.”

Dammit, she was. Joe knew she was—but her lip was still trembling and her eyes were still glittering. And, to be honest, the lingering taste of the gelato was still in his mouth.

“My gift,” he said carefully. “So, what does that mean, exactly? Is this Luciana Bari going to cook me a birthday meal?”

Nonna laughed gaily. “One meal,” she said, waving her hand. “What good would that be? I would still worry that you were not eating right. No, Joey. Signorina Bari is going to work for you.”

“Work for me?” Joe got to his feet. “Now, wait just a minute—”

“She will cost you very little.”

“She will cost me?” His eyes narrowed. His grandmother had reduced him to playing the role of a not terribly smart parrot. “Let me get this straight. You give me a cook as a gift, and I get to pay?”

“Of course.” Nonna stood up. “You wouldn’t want me to spend my money on your cook’s salary, would you?”

Joe’s eyes got even narrower. There was something wrong with her logic. With this entire thing, for that matter…

“What if I say no?”

“Well,” Nonna said, and sighed, “in that case, I suppose I’ll have to phone Signorina Bari and tell her she has no job. It will be difficult, because she needs one so badly.” She turned away and began clearing the table. “She has debts, you see.”

“Debts,” Joe repeated. It was parrot-time again. “She has debts?”

“Yes. The poor woman has not been here long. Just a little while and—”

“She’s from the Old Country?”

Nonna squirted dishwashing detergent into the sink and turned on the hot water.

“The poor soul only came here five, six months ago. She knows nothing of our ways. As for money, well, you know how expensive it is in this city, Joseph, especially for someone new. And she is not young, which makes it even more difficult to start over.”

Joe sank down in the chair, turned his eyes to the ceiling and huffed out a breath. A little old immigrant lady, probably with no more than a dozen words of English, alone and adrift in the complex seas of San Francisco…

“Not to worry, Joseph.” Nonna cast a sad smile over her shoulder. “I’ll tell her I made a mistake, offering her a job with you. I’m sure she can convince her landlord to permit her to stay on in her apartment another month. Not even he would be so cruel as to put her out on the street.”

“Her landlord,” Joe muttered, and shook his head.

“Yes. He wants her out by Monday, so she was thrilled when I said she could have that extra room in your house.”

Joe blinked. “Now wait just a minute—”

“Hand me that pot, would you? The one on the back burner.”

Slowly, like a man holding an impossibly heavy weight on his shoulders, Joe got to his feet, handed his grandmother the pot and reached for a dish towel.

“Ah, Joseph, just look at you.” Nonna put her hand on his. “I’ve taken the smile from your handsome face.”

“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “Well, I hate to think of some little old lady out on the street.”

“That’s because you have a kind heart.” Nonna sighed. “But, truly, this is not your problem. I was wrong to tell the signorina you would employ her, I know that now. Not to worry, bambino. We have so many wonderful things here in America. Soup kitchens. Welfare offices—”

“I suppose I could let her work for me for a little while,” Joe said slowly.

He’d expected his grandmother to say it wasn’t necessary, to argue just a little. Instead she swung towards him, beaming.

“You are a good boy, Joseph! I knew you would do this for her.”

“I’m doing it for you. And I won’t do it for long.”

“No. Certainly not.” Nonna’s smile broadened. “Two months, three—”

“Two weeks,” Joe corrected. “Three, max. By then, I’ll expect the signora to have found herself a real job and a real place to live.”

“Signorina.” Nonna made a face. “Not that it matters,” she said, plunging her hands into the soapy water. “The poor woman.”

“What?” Joe frowned. “Is there something else I should know about her?”

“Honesty compels me to point out that the signorina is not at all attractive.”

Joe thought back to the widow and that eyebrow.

“No?”

“No. The signorina is very pale. And very thin. She is shapeless, like a boy.” Nonna made curving motions over her own ample bosom. “She has no—no—”

“I get the message,” Joe said quickly. He arched an eyebrow. “You sure she’s Italian?”

Nonna chuckled. “Of course. She learned to cook in Fiorenze.” Her smile dimmed and she heaved a huge sigh as she opened the drain, then wiped her hands on her apron. “She is, how do you say, over the hill. Not young, Joseph. Not young.”

A pasty-faced, skinny crone who spoke no English. Talk about good deeds…Joe sighed. People had told him he was born to be hung, but at this rate he’d end up in heaven, after all.

“Well,” he said kindly, “as long as she can cook, that’s okay.”

Nonna turned and faced him. “And, just in case you are still worried, I can assure you that she will not bother you with her attentions. This, I promise.”

And a good thing, too, Joe thought. The last thing he needed was to find himself fending off an old lady.

“I know how the women fall all over you, Joey.”

“Uh, yeah.” He tried for a modest smile. “Some of them seem to, I guess.”

“But the signorina will not do so.”

“Yeah, well, considering her age…”

“She does not like men.”

“Fine.”

“No, Joseph. What I mean is…” His grandmother leaned closer. “She does not like men.”

The words dripped with significance. Joe stared at her.

“You mean…?” No. He couldn’t say the word, not to his nonna. “You mean,” he finished inanely, “she really doesn’t like men?”

“Exactly.” Nonna put her hands on her hips. “You see? It’s perfect. She will never be a bother to you, nor you to her. And I can go to my grave in peace, knowing you are eating properly.”

Joseph’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not going anywhere, you old reprobate. Not for a very long time.”

“I am not whatever it is you call me,” Nonna said sweetly. “I am simply a doting grandmother, giving her favorite grandson a gift.”

“Some gift,” Joe said, but he smiled, tossed the towel aside and put his arms around her waist. “You’re precisely what I called you, which is why I’d never play poker with you, or sit across from you at a boardroom table.”

“Flatterer.” Nonna batted her lashes and smiled up at him. “You’re much too clever for an old lady like me.”

“Yeah,” Joe said, and grinned, “I’ll bet.”

“Now,” Nonna said briskly, “how about more espresso?”

Joe shook his head. “I wish I could, sweetheart, but I’m going to have to run.”

“So soon?”

“I have an appointment. One of the guys I play racquetball with is…” Getting married, he’d almost said, but the last thing he wanted to do was bring up that subject again. “He’s having a party at his place on Nob Hill. I promised I’d be there.”

“Ah.” Nonna smiled, framed Joe’s face in her hands, drew it down to her and kissed him on each cheek. “How nice. Would you like to take along some food? I can put a little of everything into some Tupperware…”

“No,” Joe said quickly, “uh, really, it would just upset the, uh, the caterer.”

“Oh. Of course. I didn’t think of that.” Nonna stuffed her hands into her apron pockets. “Well, you have a good time, Joey.”

“I’ll try.” Joe reached for his suit jacket. He put his arm around his grandmother and they walked together to the door. “I love you, Nonna.”

“And I love you.” Nonna lifted her face for his kiss. “Remember now. Your new cook will be at your door tomorrow morning, bright and early.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah.” For a minute there he’d almost forgotten that he’d agreed to this crazy plan. Well, it wouldn’t kill him to let the woman cook a few meals for him before he found her another job. The city had to be full of people who’d want the services of a talented Italian cook, even if she was old, ugly, and a lesbian. “I’m looking forward to meeting her. What was her name again?”

“Luciana. Luciana Bari.”

“Right. Luciana Bari, formerly of Florence, Italy.” He grinned as he stepped onto the porch. “She sounds perfect.”

“She is perfect,” Nonna Romano said, and meant it.

In a house on Nob Hill, Lucinda Barry, of the Boston Barrys, the we-came-over-on-the-Mayflower Barrys, the oh-boy, we-are-broke Barrys…

Lucinda Barry, who had moved from the east coast to the west and sworn off men forever after her fiancé had dumped her for a brainless twit with money…

Lucinda Barry, whose landlord had just tossed her out for nonpayment of rent, who’d taken a quick course in desperation cooking from Chef Florenze at the San Francisco School of Culinary Arts, who was to start her very first job ever tomorrow as a cook for a sensitive, charming, undoubtedly gay gentleman she hoped would be too kind to notice that pretty much all she could do right was boil water and, amazingly enough, whip up terrific gelato…

That Lucinda Barry stood in the marble-and-gold powder room of the house on Nob Hill, eyed herself in the mirror and wondered why Fate should have done this to her.

“I can’t do it,” Lucinda whispered to her blond, green-eyed reflection.

Of course you can, her reflection said briskly. You don’t have a choice.

The girl hired to jump out of the cake had come down with food poisoning.

“Not from our food,” Chef Florenze had said coldly as the ambulance took the writhing young woman away. Then he’d frowned, scanned the little crowd of would-be culinary school graduates gathered around him for the night of cooking that would be their final exam, and pointed a stubby finger at Lucinda. “You,” he’d roared, and when Lucinda stepped back in horror, saying no, no, she was a cook, not a stripper—when she did, the chef smiled unpleasantly and said she wasn’t a cook, either, not until he handed over her graduation certificate…

“Ms. Barry!”

Lucinda jumped at the knock on the door.

“Ms. Barry,” the chef demanded, “what on earth is taking you so long?”

Lucinda straightened her shoulders and looked at herself in the mirror.

How tough could it be to trade her white chef’s hat, jacket and trousers for a gilded tiara, a pair of demitasse cups and a thong, and then jump out of a cardboard cake?

“Not as tough as being broke, jobless and homeless,” Lucinda muttered grimly, and set about the business of transforming herself from a cook into a cookie.

CHAPTER TWO

OKAY. Okay, so the transformation wasn’t going to be easy, but then, she hadn’t expected it to be.

Cinderella had done it with the help of a fairy godmother.

Lucinda looked at the cake costume and shuddered. All she had to rely upon were spangles, sequins and Lycra.

Solemnly, she took off her chef’s hat and laid it aside. She unbuttoned her spotless white jacket, took it off, rebuttoned it, folded it carefully and put it next to the hat. Her trousers went next. Zipped, folded neatly on the crease, she added them to the sad little collection.

Then she took a deep breath, stepped into the bikini bottom and yanked it up over her hips.

It didn’t fit. The thong didn’t fit! Hope rushed through her veins. She couldn’t be expected to jump out of a cake in her chef’s outfit. If the costume didn’t fit…

Oh, hell.

Lucinda moaned softly as she looked at herself in the mirror.

Of course the thong didn’t fit. How could it, when she’d tried pulling it on over her white cotton underpants?

She almost laughed. What a sight she was! Wire-rimmed glasses. No makeup. Hair pulled severely back from her face. A utilitarian, white cotton bra, the white cotton panties…And, over the panties, the thong.

She looked like a cross between Mary Poppins and Madonna.

The desire to laugh slipped away. Lucinda gritted her teeth, shucked off both the thong and the panties, then put the thong on again.

Goodbye, Mary Poppins.

The view wasn’t so bad from the front. Well, it wasn’t good. Still, it covered what had to be covered. But from the back…Her face went from pink to red as she twisted and turned and peered at herself in the mirror. The thong went up. It went straight up. It just went up there and disappeared.

“Ms. Barry!”

The door jumped under the pounding of Chef Florenze’s fist. Lucinda jumped, too.

“Ms. Barry, do you hear me?”

How could she not hear him, she thought bitterly. He was shouting. He had to, she supposed, to make himself heard over the rock and roll music blaring from the ballroom.

Okay, she couldn’t expect a bunch of men at a bachelor party to be listening to Mozart but for heaven’s sake, did they have to listen to some idiot singing that he’d been born to be wild?

Whatever had happened to Chopin?

“You have five minutes, Ms. Barry!”

Five minutes.

Lucinda swung towards the mirror and stared at herself again. The cotton bra did nothing for the thong. Or maybe it was the thong that did nothing for the bra, she thought, and bit down on her lip.

“This is not funny,” she told herself severely.

And it wasn’t. The desire to laugh had nothing to do with seeing anything even slightly humorous in the situation. She was verging on hysteria. She remembered the first time it had happened, that out-of-place, overwhelming bark of laughter. It had been the day after her father’s funeral when his attorney had gently told the truth to her mother, and to her…

Lucinda lifted her chin.

“Just do it,” she said grimly, and she stripped off the cotton bra, put on the spangled demitasse cups, and faced herself in the mirror again.

It was her reflection that seemed to want to laugh this time. Who are you kidding? it seemed to say.

Never mind the silly excuse for a bra and the thong. She looked about as sexy as a scarecrow.

Any self-respecting male would take one look and beg her to jump back into the cake.

Lucinda frowned. Well, so what? Even if—if—she did this, whether she looked sexy doing it or not wasn’t her problem. Popping out of the cake was her problem, but as she’d learned over the past two years, desperation could make you do a lot of things. Like waitressing, and flipping hamburgers. Like admitting that being descended from Cotton Mather didn’t mean scratch compared to being descended from a father who’d left behind a house that was mortgaged to the hilt, a defeated wife and a disappointed mistress.

The mistress had found a new man. The wife—Lucinda’s mother—had found a new husband.

And Lucinda was finding a new life.

At least, that was the plan. It was why she’d put three thousand miles between herself and Boston, come to a city where nobody’s eyebrows would lift when they heard the name “Barry,” and nobody would say, with a little smirk, “Why, Lucinda, however are you, dear?” when what they really meant was, “Oh, Lucinda, how nice to see that the mighty have fallen.”

Lucinda’s shoulders straightened. It had been a silly life, anyway. The theater. The opera. Charity balls, and endless parties for the needy cause of the moment. Well, she was her own needy cause now. But she’d be a productive citizen, once she had her cooking school certificate in hand.

Once she had that job, tomorrow.

And there’d be no job, without that certificate.

Lucinda leaned forward, palms flat on the marble top of the vanity, and stared unflinchingly into the mirror. Oh, yes, she thought wryly. Looking like this, she’d definitely be a big hit at that stag party.

One by one, she took the pins from her chignon and shook out her hair. Unbound, the straight-as-sticks ash-blond tresses fell heavily to her shoulders.

That was better, she thought dispassionately.

Now for the glasses. She usually wore contacts but she’d dropped one getting ready to leave the apartment this evening, and there hadn’t been enough time to crawl around on her hands and knees and search for it. She wouldn’t be able to see that well without the glasses but then, she was going to be the cake decoration, not the decorator.

Lucinda swallowed hard as she set them on the sink. Her reflection was wavy around the edges. Actually, wavy around the edges was an excellent description of how she felt. Her belly had knotted into one gigantic ball that had lodged itself somewhere between her throat and her all-too-visible navel.

Was she really going to be the first Barry female ever to emerge, naked, from the center of a giant cake?

A six-layer white cake, swirled with milk-chocolate frosting and decorated with marzipan hearts and stars. She’d applied them herself, just this afternoon…

Lucinda gave herself a little shake. What did it matter who’d applied what to the damned thing? Besides, Chef Florenze had made it clear she would not actually leap through the real cake. Why ruin the best part of a dozen eggs, two pounds of butter, and all that confectioner’s sugar?

“It will be a cardboard cake,” he’d said while she’d gawked at him. “You will pop from it cleanly.”

Perhaps it was his incredible assumption that she’d even consider doing such a thing. Perhaps it was his solemn assurance that she wouldn’t have to contend with leaping through the butter-cream frosting. Whichever, a wild image had bloomed in Lucinda’s head. She’d pictured herself bursting from the top of a cardboard cake wearing the tiara, the thong, the barely-there excuse for a bra, and a jack-in-the-box mask.

The first semi-crazed snort of amusement had burst from her throat. The chef, naturally enough, had misunderstood.

“Ah,” he’d said with a beaming smile, “I am delighted to see that this little assignment is to your liking, Ms. Barry. I had, if only for a moment, feared you might, ah, might not be pleased with it.”

“Pleased?” Lucinda had repeated, the urge to laugh buried under the stronger urge to connect her fist with Chef Florenze’s chubby triple chins. “Pleased with being told you want me to display myself, naked, to a mob of howling hyenas?” She’d looked down at the small white box that held the costume he wanted her to wear and shoved it back at him. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Ms. Barry. I have explained the situation. The actress hired for the occasion—”

“Actress,” Lucinda said, and gave another snort, though not of amusement.

“She has fallen ill. And you must take her place. I’ve told you that three times.”

“And I’ve told you that I’m here to cook, not to—to entertain a bunch of degenerates.”

The chef drew himself up. “Degenerates, indeed,” he said coldly. “These men are drawn from the finest families in San Francisco. They are captains of industry.”

“They are drunk,” Lucinda replied, even more coldly.

“They’re celebrating. And a girl popping out of a cake is part of the celebration.”

“Call a modeling agency. Call wherever it is you hired that ‘actress’ and hire another.” Lucinda folded her arms and looked the chef in the eye. “I’m not doing it.”

Florenze waved a pudgy hand at the wall clock. “It’s almost ten at night. The agency is closed.”

“A pity.”

“Do you recall culinary lesson three? How to improvise when the soufflé falls?”

“What has that to do with this?”

“I am improvising, Ms. Barry. I am making do with the materials at hand.”

Lucinda’s eyes narrowed. “I am neither an egg white nor a bar of bitter chocolate, Chef Florenze.”

The chef smiled thinly. “Look around you. Go on, look. What do you see?”

“The kitchen in which I’m supposed to be working.”

“What you see,” he said impatiently, “are six students. Three men, three women, yourself included.”

“So?”

“So,” the chef purred, “I suspect we can agree that our guests would be less than delighted if Mr. Purvis, Mr. Rand or Mr. Jensen leaped from a cake tonight, hmm?”

Lucinda said nothing.

“Can we agree, too, that the venerable Miss Robinson would surely get hurt trying to extricate herself from anything other than an armchair? And that Mrs. Selwyn would never fit inside a cake unless it had the dimensions of Cheops’ pyramid?”

“What you’re asking me to do is a barbaric, sexist, disgusting custom.”

“So are half the things done on this planet, but we are not anthropologists, we are caterers.” The chef moved closer. “Our catering contract calls for roast beef, barbecued pork, filet of sole almondine, assorted salads and breads, coffee, beverages—and a giant cardboard cake that contains a young lady. Is that clear?”

“A very strange contract for a catering firm, if you ask me.”

“I’m not asking you for legal advice, Ms. Barry. I am telling you that you will put on that costume and do what must be done.”

“I paid my tuition to be taught to cook.”

The chef had smiled slyly at that, and Lucinda had, for the first time, felt the ground slip, ever so slightly, beneath her feet.

“Which you have not learned to do very well.”

He was right, but what did that have to do with anything? “I attended the specified number of classes,” she’d said coolly. “I passed all the exams. I earned my certificate.”

The chef, damn him, had laughed.

“All your exams but the last,” he’d said. “And you won’t get your certificate, if you fail tonight’s test.”

Meaning, Lucinda thought as she looked into the mirror, meaning, she would have to pop out of that miserable cardboard creation or walk away from Chef Florenze’s culinary school without the piece of paper she so desperately needed.

With it, she’d be a woman with a skill. She could parlay the cook’s job the school had lined up for her into a job as a sous-chef at a restaurant, and go from that into being a full-fledged chef with her own restaurant someday, or her own catering firm…

Without it, she’d be back to waitressing.

“That’s blackmail,” Lucinda had protested, and Chef Florenze had shown his teeth beneath his skinny excuse of a mustache and said yes, yes, it was, and she was welcome to try and prove any of this conversation had taken place because it hadn’t.

“Just think of this as your fifteen minutes of fame,” he’d purred. “Your once-in-a-lifetime moment in the sun—”

“Just give me the miserable costume and shut up,” Lucinda had snapped, and startled the both of them.

And now, here she stood. In the wings, as it were, dressed in little more than a handkerchief and two halves of a diaphanous, spangled eggshell.

“Lucinda,” she said aloud, “are you insane?”

She had to be, even to have contemplated doing this thing.

“Ridiculous,” she said, and quickly gathered her hair at the base of her neck.

The audacity of Chef Florenze. The nerve! How dare he do this to her? She was a Barry, and Barrys had stood firm on their principles for more than three hundred years. Well, except for her father, of course. But other Barrys had always Done The Right Thing. Hepzibah Barry had been burned alive in Salem, rather than say she was a witch. Could she, Lucinda Barry, do any less in the face of misfortune?

“Lucinda?” The doorknob rattled. “Lucinda, open this door at once!”

The voice was faint but unmistakable. Miss Robinson was demanding entry.

Oh, Lord. Miss Robinson. Eighty years old, at least. Tiny, ramrod-straight Miss Robinson, with her permed silver hair, her black dresses buttoned to the throat and wrist, her parchment-paper skin…

“Lucinda! Open the door and let me in.”

Lucinda undid the lock and cracked the door an inch. “Miss Robinson.” She took a breath. “I’m, uh, I’m kind of busy in here. If you need to use the, uh, if you need to use the facilities, I’m afraid you’ll have to—”

“I’ve come to talk to you. Stop babbling and let me inside.”

Lucinda grabbed a guest towel from the vanity, clutched it to her bosom and opened the door just wide enough to let the old woman enter.

“Now,” Miss Robinson said briskly, “why are you hiding in here? What is this nonsense about?”

Lucinda’s brows arched. “Miss Robinson,” she said politely, “I appreciate your concern, but this, ah, this situation has nothing to do with—”

“Why are you stumbling all over your words? And why are you holding on to that towel as if it were the last life jacket on the Titanic?”

“Well—well, because what I’m wearing is—is—” Lucinda frowned, took a deep breath and dropped the towel to the tile floor. “This is why,” she said coolly. “As you can see, I’m not exactly dressed for company.”

The expression on the old woman’s face didn’t change as she looked Lucinda up, then down, then up again.

“Skimpy,” she said at last.

Lucinda managed a tight smile. “Indeed.”

“But I’ve seen bathing suits as revealing on the beach.” Miss Robinson shook her head. “The things young women wear nowadays…”

“Yes, well, not this young woman!” Lucinda swung back towards the mirror and plucked a bobby pin from the counter. “Would you believe that Chef Florenze actually expects me to wear this thing? To scrunch down under a serving cart and…” Her eyes met the older woman’s in the mirror. “Never mind. It doesn’t bear repeating. Suffice it to say, I’m not going to do it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Miss Robinson said irritably. She reached out and snatched the pins from Lucinda’s hair as fast as Lucinda anchored them. “Of course, you’ll do it.”

“Miss Robinson,” Lucinda said patiently, “you have no idea what the chef wants.”

“He wants you to jump out of a cardboard cake so those silly boys in the ballroom can clap their hands, whistle like banshees and generally make asses of themselves.”

Lucinda stared at the other woman in the mirror. Then she turned and stared at her some more.

“He told you?”

“He told everyone. He also told us you’ve locked yourself in here and refuse to emerge.”

“Did he mention that he’s threatened to blackmail me? That he won’t give me my certificate if I don’t cooperate?” Lucinda smiled tightly. “Well, that nasty little man is in for a surprise. He doesn’t believe I’ll bring charges against him, but I will. I’ll take him to court. I’ll sue. I’ll go to the papers…What?”

“That ’nasty little man’ has expanded the scope of his ultimatum. Either you do as he’s ordered, or none of us will get our certificates.”

“But—but he can’t do that.”

Mrs. Robinson stamped her foot. “Don’t be so naive, Lucinda! Of course he can do it. He can do whatever he likes. And you can do whatever you like about fighting him, but by the time the problem’s resolved, it will be too late.”

“That’s not so,” Lucinda said stubbornly. “The chef will still have to hand over those certificates, whether it’s tonight or next week or next month.”

“Yes, but that will be too late for Mr. Purvis, who’s already accepted a restaurant position, and for the Rand lad. Did you know he took a student loan to pay for this course?” Miss Robinson put her bony hands on her hips. “And definitely too late for me. A woman my age has little time to spare.”

“Don’t be silly. Why, you don’t look a day over—”

“Don’t patronize me, girl.”

“I’m not, I just…” Lucinda huffed out a breath. “Miss Robinson, now you’re the one who’s trying blackmail!”

“It’s reality, not blackmail. Is your pride so important you’d ruin things for the rest of us?”

“Pride has nothing to do with this. It’s a matter of principle.”

The old lady snorted. “Better to concern yourself with the sort of principal that pays bills.” Her eyes fixed on Lucinda’s face. “How much has that horrid little man offered to pay you?”

“Pay me?”

“For this cake-jumping business.”

“Why—why, nothing. He said he wouldn’t give me my certificate unless—”

“Tell him you’ll do it for two hundred dollars.”

Lucinda stared at the old woman. “There’s not a way in the world I’d do this, not even for—”

“Three hundred, then.” Miss Robinson lifted a brow. “Unless, of course, you don’t need money any more than you need that job you told us about, the one you’re supposed to start tomorrow morning.”

Lucinda glared at Miss Robinson. Old people were supposed to be sweet-natured and kindhearted but this one looked as if she had the disposition of an alligator.

“Of course I need money,” she said coldly. “And the job, too.”

“Then let down your hair, put on some lipstick, and get this over with.” A sudden, wicked glint lit the old lady’s eyes. “At least, you’ll have a bra to wear. I didn’t, back in the days when I was a showgirl with the Folies Bergère.”

Lucinda’s jaw dropped. “When you…”

“Indeed. When the heating system went on the blink at the Folies, the entire audience could tell you were cold.”

Miss Robinson winked and turned around. The door swung shut after her. Lucinda hesitated. Then she turned and met her own gaze in the mirror.

The Folies Bergére? She tried to imagine Miss Robinson strutting down a runway dressed in feathers and a smile. Dressed in lots less than this costume, that was for sure.

Okay. So, maybe she had seen swimsuits as revealing on the beach. She’d never worn one, of course; she’d never worn anything more showy than the black tank suit she’d worn when she was a student at the Stafford School.

Only a madwoman would go from that stretched-out nylon tank to this bit of spangles and Lycra.

She turned, poked one shoulder towards the mirror.

Besides, even if she were to agree to do this thing—not that she would, but it didn’t hurt to pretend—if she did, the men attending the bachelor party would be sorely disappointed.

Lucinda backed up a little, put on her glasses and took a better look.

Her neck was long, her shoulders too bony, her breasts too small.

She turned a little more, narrowed her eyes and took another look.

Well, small, yes. But rounded, and high. She sucked in her breath. Definitely, rounded and high. Her tummy was flat, her waist narrow. That was good. Her hips weren’t much but her backside seemed okay. From what she’d heard, men liked women to have okay backsides. Long legs, too. And hers were surely that. She’d always had trouble buying panty hose that was long enough without being saggy and baggy on top…

What was she thinking? She’d never go out there. Never.

Do you want that job, Lucinda?

Oh, Lord. Yes. Yes, she did. She’d interviewed for it with a sweet old woman. A Mrs. Romano, who’d seemed undeterred by her inexperience.

“Never mind,” Mrs. Romano had said reassuringly. “My grandson won’t be picky, Luciana.”

“It’s Lucinda,” Lucinda had said politely. “He won’t be?”

“No. You see, he needs you.”

“Needs me? I don’t understand.”

“He is a busy man. Always going here and there. Molto importante, yes? But he lacks something in his life.”

“A cook?” Lucinda had said helpfully.

“Exactly. He doesn’t eat right. He doesn’t touch his vegetables.”

“Vegetables.” That was good. She could prepare green salads with the best of them.

“You will love working for him, Luciana.”

“Lucinda.”

“Of course. Lucinda. He’s very easygoing. Charming, and gentle.” Mrs. Romano had clasped her hands and sighed. “He is caring. And sensitive. My Joseph is the most sensitive man in all of San Francisco.”

Gay, was what she’d meant. Lucinda had understood the code word, and the job had become even more appealing. A wealthy gay man who traveled a lot would be easy to work for. Gay men abounded in San Francisco, and the ones Lucinda had met were invariably low-key, gentle, and kind.

Kind enough to hire her, if the chef flunked her out of the cooking school?

“No way,” Lucinda said, and knew the time for excuses was long gone.

She kept Miss Robinson firmly in mind as she let down her hair and ran her hands through it until it had the tousled look she’d noticed in magazine ads. She had no lipstick; she rarely used makeup. But there was a little cosmetics bag in the costume box. Inside, she found eye shadow. Eyeliner. Lucinda used them all, then bit her lips to pinken them. Finally, she put on the tiara and squinted at herself in the mirror.

Something was missing, but what? Her hair was okay. The glasses were gone. The costume fit as well as it was going to fit. Still, there was more. She’d forgotten something…

She jumped as a fist pounded against the closed door. “Well, Ms. Barry?” Chef Florenze boomed. “Are you going to grace us with your presence?”

Lucinda put her hand to her heart, as if to keep it from bounding out of her chest. Then, before she could change her mind, she unlocked the door and marched out.

“Very sensible of you, Miss Barry,” the chef said with an unctuous smile.

Lucinda marched up to him. “Three hundred bucks, or I don’t move from this spot.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Three hundred.”

Florenze’s narrow mustache twitched. “Two.”

“Two-fifty.”

“Listen here, young woman—” Something in her eyes must have convinced him that she meant it. “Two-fifty,” he said, “and snap to it.”

“That’s the spirit,” she heard Miss Robinson say as she strode to the serving cart that held the cardboard cake and climbed under it.

Her stomach gave a dangerous lurch. So did the cart. The rubber wheels squealed as she, and it, were pushed across the floor. Doors slammed against walls as they were opened. She heard the sounds of music and male laughter, and then the pounding of a chord—C major, she thought dispassionately—on a piano.

“Gentlemen,” a deep voice cried, “to Arnie and his loss of freedom!”

“To Arnie,” other male voices chorused.

“Now, Ms. Barry,” Chef Florenze hissed, and Lucinda took a breath and burst through the top of the cake, arms extended gracefully above her head, just as if she were back in Boston, diving not up into the noise and the light but down, down, down into the glassy depths of a warm, blue pool.

But it wasn’t a pool, it was a stage, and she hadn’t burst free of the cardboard cake. She’d gotten tangled in it. And while she was still blinking and fighting furiously to extricate herself from the horrible chunks of cardboard, two things happened, almost simultaneously.

The first was that she realized that the “something” she’d forgotten were her low-heeled, sensible white shoes. They were still on her feet.

The other was that a man, a blur of muscles and blue eyes and black hair, had come to her rescue.

“Just put your arms around my neck, honey, and hang on.”

“I am not your honey,” Lucinda said. “And I don’t need your help!”

She slapped at his hands as he reached for her but his arms closed around her, anyway. The crowd cheered as he hoisted her into his arms.

“Go for it, Joe,” somebody yelled, and the man grinned, right into her eyes.

“Love those shoes,” he purred, and when the crowd cheered again, he bent his head, covered her mouth with his, and kissed her.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.