What would Mr. Romano prefer?
Lucinda bit her lip. She had to stop thinking of him that way. Informality. That was the thing to remember. He'd made that very clear and the last thing she wanted to do was to get on his wrong side because, despite his attempts at small pleasantries, she was fairly certain that was where she almost was.
But for what reason?
Perhaps he resented his grandmother's interference. Perhaps he didn't like the idea of having a woman in his life. Well, not in his life. In his home. After all, he was-he was-
He was gorgeous, was what he was. So big. Such wonderfully broad shoulders. So much muscle. And that face. The dazzling, sky-blue eyes. The lean cheeks and tough-looking jaw. The sexy stubble on it.
Lucinda shut her eyes and wondered if the idiot last night had looked anything like that. No, of course not. He couldn't have looked anything like her boss. Not too many men did.
Not too many kissed like the one last night, either.
It was all still so vivid. The husky voice whispering, "Hello, honey. " The hard mouth, the softening of it against hers as what had begun as a teasing kiss suddenly turned hot and dangerous ...
Surely, not many men kissed that well. That well?
Lucinda rushed to the closet and grabbed her white jacket and white trousers. Quickly, she stripped off her clothing, put on her chef's outfit and sensible white working shoes.
She was a chef. A professional person. Perhaps looking like one would make her think like one again.
The house was quiet. Empty, she knew, save for her. Knowing that, she searched for a radio when she reached the kitchen, found it housed in what looked like an oversize sugar cube and switched from station to station until she found something worth listening to. An aria from La Boheme filled the room with glorious sound.
Now, what could she make to impress her employer? The better question was, what could she make that would be edible? She hadn't emptied everything out of her shopping bags, not with Mr. Romano standing by. She had a couple of cookbooks stashed away. A fat volume titled Haute Cuisine. Another called Mangia Italian. And, just in case, a slim one titled Even You Can Learn to Cook. Between them, she'd surely come up with…
"Hot damn," a male voice said, "who's dying?"
Lucinda shrieked and spun around. Joe Romano glared at her from the doorway.
"Dammit," she said, "you're going to have to stop doing..." She caught herself, sank her teeth lightly into her bottom lip, and blushed. "Mr. Romano. Joe. Forgive me. It's just that I-I thought you were out."
"Obviously." He strode across the room and turned off the radio. "The thing does that, goes on all by itself sometimes. Sorry. I should have warned you."
Lucinda drew herself up. "It did not go on by itself. I turned it on. I'm sorry if my taste in music annoys you."
"That was music? That woman screaming at the top of her lungs?"
"It was opera," she said stiffly. "La Boheme."
"Well, there's no accounting for tastes, I guess."
"No," she said, even more stiffly, "there isn't."
He smiled. It was a devastating smile. She wondered if it meant anything to him that he had a smile women all around the world would gladly die for.
"Ever try listening to some sixties' rock-and-roll?"
"No."
The smile became a grin. "Well, that's plain enough. No 'maybe.' No 'I don't think so.' Just a simple, unadorned 'no.'''
"I'll be sure not to play my music when you're home, sir."
"Oh, lighten up, Lucy."
"Lucinda.'
"Whichever. You can play your music anytime you like. Just keep it down to a roar, okay?"
She nodded. "Certainly, sir."
"Joe. And I didn't mean to startle you."
"You have every right to startle me. I mean, you have every right to be in your own kitchen. It's just that you said you were going out."
"I did. I went for a run."
"And came back and showered again," she babbled before she could stop herself. Color swept into her face. "I, um, I can tell. I noticed. You changed your shirt. And your jeans. You shaved, too. There's no stubble on your jaw. And your hair is-it's wet..."
Her boss was staring at her as if she'd lost her mind, and maybe she had.
"Well," she said brightly, "I'll see you tonight, Mr.-Joe."
She flashed what she hoped was a smile. "About what time do you prefer dinner?"
"Seven, seven-thirty is fine." Joe sauntered across the room and eased onto a stool. "Actually, I haven't had breakfast yet. And I thought-"
"You thought?" Lucinda said politely, and then she blinked. "Oh. Would you like me to make you something?"
"If you wouldn't mind."
"Mind? No. No, of course not."
She felt her heart give an unsteady thump as she turned away, but how difficult could breakfast be? She knew how to scramble eggs. She could even make waffles, so long as she checked with the cookbook. Pancakes, too, unless her luck ran out and they stuck to the griddle.
"Let's see," she said, almost falling into the stadium-size fridge as she peered inside. "What do we have? Ah... Eggs. And bacon. And seven-grain bread." She turned and smiled at him. "Bacon and eggs, and toast. How does that ... Is something wrong?"
Joe was staring at the floor. Or at her feet. Had she stepped in something unmentionable? No, she thought, looking down. No, her white shoes were as pristine as half an hour's worth of polishing each night could make them.
"Your shoes." Slowly he raised his eyes to her face.
"Yes?"
"They're, urn, they're very sensible."
Those were his words, but his eyes said something else. The blue had gone the color of a midnight sky, and a pair of vertical lines had appeared just between his black eyebrows.
"I know," Lucinda said, trying not to sound as puzzled as she felt. "I'm on my feet a lot. And kitchen floors are usually hard. Wood, or tile..." Her voice trailed away. He was looking at her feet again, as if he'd never seen feet before. Or as if he had, but never feet quite like hers. First opera, now sensible shoes. Life was not going to be easy in this house. "Is there a problem with my shoes, Mr. Romano??" ., .
His head came up. His eyes were still dark, still impossible to read.
"No, of course not." He smiled, though she thought it looked as if it hurt his lips to do it. "Well. You were saying you'd make bacon and eggs, is that right?"
"Yes. If that's okay with you."
"Sure. Bacon and eggs would be great."
Joe watched as his pale blond, flower-scented, sensibly shod, high-cheek boned, soft-mouthed little cook opened one cabinet drawer after another, searching, he figured, for a skillet. He began to rise, to help her find one, then thought better of it. Her cheekbones. Her smell. Her hair. Her mouth, and now her shoes...
Okay, two and two didn't necessarily add up to four. Learning that had helped him make his first million. Still, the best thing to do, when in doubt, was to sit back and observe. That was another principle he'd picked up on his way to the top.
Lucinda. Little Lucy, he thought, narrowing his eyes, I am just going to sit here and watch.
After a lot of clattering, she found what she'd been looking for. She took a big pan from a cabinet and put it on the stove. Then she opened the package of bacon and slipped out several strips.
Even Joe knew that laying the stuff in a skillet, without turning on the heat beneath it, was not going to work.
"You have to turn the burner on," he said.
"Oh, I know that." She kept her back to him but he could see the stiffness in her shoulders. "It's just that I've never seen a stove quite like this one."
Well, that was possible. The stove was a high-tech monster. Nobody had ever seen anything like it, except Toni, who'd oohed and aahed as if it were the Hope diamond. If his new cook wasn't mechanically inclined, she could, indeed, have trouble figuring out how to operate the thing.
On the other hand. the dials that said On an
d Off were pretty easy to distinguish.
"You have to push that button on the back. That's it. Now touch the pad to the right. There you go."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome." He waited a minute, watched as she took out the eggs, found a bowl, and broke them into it, trying not to wince when most of one egg plopped onto the counter. "Tricky little devils," he said pleasantly.
"Mmm," she said, breaking another one.
A chunk of shell fell into the bowl. Delicately, she fished it out.
Joe folded his arms. "How about some coffee?"
"Coffee?"
"Yes. You know, that black, caffeinated stuff that kick-starts the day."
"Coffee," she repeated, and shot a sideways look at the two coffeemakers lined up on the counter. One was a drip filter. The other was a spaceship. "Is-is drip okay?"
"I thought cappuccino would be nice."
"Cappuccino."
"Yes."
"Cappuccino," she said again, but very softly. His eyes narrowed as she touched the espresso machine with one finger, then reached for the steam spigot.
"On the other hand," he said quickly, "why don't we stay with drip?"
Her sigh of relief was audible. "Where do you keep the coffee?"
"In the freezer. The grinder is right there, near the-"