"The coffeepot. Yes, I saw it."
There was a funny tightness to Joe's voice. Lucinda stole a glance at him as she took the beans from the freezer. There was a tightness to his mouth, too. And his eyes had gone from midnight-blue to black.
A shudder rippled down her spine. Resolutely, she ground the beans-she always ground her own, so that was a snap. Then she put up the coffee and swung towards Joe.
"Well," she said, her voice resonating with false good cheer, "how would you like your eggs? Scrambled?"
"Fried."
There was a certain quality to his tone, a smugness. Did he think she couldn't fry a couple of eggs? Frying was even easier than scrambling. Well, of course, it was a good thing he hadn't asked her to fry them, then turn them so that the yolks cooked gently without breaking. Over-easy, was the restaurant parlance, though she couldn't imagine why. Flipping eggs without smashing the yolks wasn't easy. It was impossible. For her, anyway. She'd never mastered the-
"Fried," he said softly, "and over-easy. I like the yolks done but not runny, Lucy."
"Lucinda." The correction was automatic. The quaver in her voice was not. "Certainly, sir."
"Joe." His smile was sharp and quick. "If there's anything I hate, it's to have my yolks broken."
If there's anything I hate, she thought savagely, it's dealing with a smug, smarmy male.
"No problem, Mr. Romano." She waited for him to tell her again, that his name was Joe. He didn't. "I never break the yolks."
It was a lie. She always broke them, but she would not break them this time. Until now, she thought she'd passed the interview with Joseph Romano but, quite clearly, this-this ridiculous Flipping Of The Eggs was the true test.
Her new boss was sneaky. "I tell you what, Lucy."
"Luc-"
"I'll make the toast. How's that?"
"Oh, it's not necessary..."
"Sure it is."
His arm brushed hers as he made his way to the bread drawer. So did his shoulder, and his hip. How come he had to pass so close to her in this enormous kitchen?
"If I do the toast," he said, "you'll have all the time in the world to concentrate on the eggs."
Lucinda nodded. The eggs.
She took out another skillet, put in a lump of butter, waited for the butter to melt. She remembered, too late, that she should have heated the pan first. Instead, centuries ground past as she-she and Mr. Romano-waited for the butter to melt.
"You can-you can sit down, sir," she said.
Joe's smile glittered. "Thank you," he replied as he leaned back against the counter, "but I'd rather stand and watch you. It’s fascinating, watching a pro at work. Which reminds me .." He nodded towards the pan. "The butter's turning brown."
Oh, God, it was. Lucinda grabbed the bowl that held the eggs and dumped it over the skillet.
"I prefer letting the butter brown. It gives the eggs a piquant flavor."
"Mmm. Cooks them awfully fast, too. Just look at that."
She looked. The eggs were crisping at the edges.
"Just about ready to flip, wouldn't you say?"
She flashed Joe a look. "Yes. Yes, they are."
His eyes bored into hers. "Flip them, then," he said, and what she heard in those words turned her blood to ice.
Lucinda took a deep breath, reached for a spatula and held it poised over the eggs. Please, she thought, please, please, please ...
The yolks broke. The whites fell apart, those that hadn't already toasted to inedibility. She stared into the pan, at the gold-and-white mess, and tried to will the yolks to roundness, the whites to wholeness.
"My," Joe purred, "that didn't work out too well, did it?"
Lucinda shot him a cold look. He'd been hoping she'd fail, she just knew it.
"No," she snapped, "it didn't." Several locks of hair fell into her eyes. She blew them back, blew them back again, then thrust her hand through the hair in a useless attempt to shove it behind her ear.
"Probably just as well the bacon's burning." Again, he gave her that all-teeth smile. "I mean, what's the point of bacon without eggs?"
"The bacon...?" Oh, it was. The skillet was sending up clouds of dark smoke. Lucinda leaned towards it. Grease splattered against her eyeglasses. She grabbed them, tried to pull them off but one earpiece caught in her hair. She swore, tugged the glasses free, and her hair tumbled over her shoulders as she reached for the pan.
"You little fool!" Strong hands caught her by the shoulders and pushed her aside. Joe grabbed a dish towel, grabbed the skillet and dumped its smoking, sizzling contents into the sink. Then he swung towards Lucinda.
The look on his face made her heart rise into her throat. "You're no more a cook than I am," he growled.
"You're right. I mean, you're wrong." She lifted her hands, as if in supplication. "I mean, what I am is-"
"I know just what you are, honey."
The word, and the way he said it, echoed and re-echoed through the room. Lucinda put her hand to her throat.
"No," she whispered. "No. It can't be. You can't be-"
Joe's mouth twisted. "On the contrary, honey. It is. I am. And if you need proof..."
Before she could say a word, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
CHAPTER FIVE
HE HADN'T planned on kissing her.
Why would he kiss a lying, cheating blonde with few scruples and no morals?
Especially if she was a ... Forget that.
Anyway, he knew why he was kissing her. What better way to prove that he knew who she was and what she was?
The scam was over. Last night, Blondie had worn a handful of spangles instead of this silly white suit. And he'd been the guy who kissed her.
Now he was kissing her to make sure she knew it.
She was struggling against him, trying to twist her face away from his, but he wasn't finished with her. He was making a point and after he'd made it, he'd let her go. Until then, he'd keep her right here, in his arms. .
Right here, her soft body against his. Her breasts against his chest.
Her mouth, promising a sweetness unlike anything he'd ever tasted before ...
With an angry cry, she wrenched her mouth from his. "You bastard! Let go of me!"
He would. He knew that. He'd never believed any of that bull about a woman of her sexual orientation changing her mind in the arms of the right man.
He'd let her go. Any minute now. Any second.
Joe groaned, thrust his hands into Lucinda's silky hair, lifted her face to his and kissed her again.
"You," she hissed against his mouth, "you ... " "That's right, honey," he murmured. "Me."
Her eyes
burned with rage but even as he looked deep into the cool, green depths, he saw the anger change to something else, something that made his blood run thick.
"I said. let go of me."
But she whispered it this time. And her hands lifted, closed over his wrists and clasped them.
"Let go.'
Her voice shook, and her lashes fell to her cheeks. Her lips parted and Joe drew her even closer, bent to her again and kissed her. Her mouth was warm and pliant. She moaned; he thought he did, too.
"Lucy," he whispered, and then her hands were in his hair, she was lifting herself to him, his tongue was deep in her mouth and he was tasting her.
Sweet. So sweet. The taste of her was like the smell of her, a mix of gardenias, wild roses and violets.
He wanted more.
He shifted his weight, drew her closer so that she was leaning into him, the contours of her body melding with the length of his. He felt the fullness of her breasts, the soft pressure of her thighs, the heat of her, all around him.
She was trembling. Trembling in his arms like a leaf in a gentle breeze. And she was whimpering, making the sounds a woman makes when a man is loving her, sounds that were going to drive him crazy if he didn't have her soon.
Joe leaned back against the wall. He slipped one arm around her hips, lifted her, cupped her bottom and brought her against him. He was as hard as a rock, harder than a man could possibly be, and he moved against her, wanting her to know, to feel what she'd done to him.
What only she could undo. "Oh," she whispered, "oh .. ."
Her head fell back as he took his mouth from hers and pressed it to her throat. He licked her soft skin, sank his teeth gently into her flesh. She tasted like honey, felt like silk.
He was drowning in all of it, her taste, her smell, the pliant feel of her heated body in his arms.
Now. That was all he could think. He was beyond anything else, beyond talking or hearing. All that mattered was his need to possess her. Her need, to be possessed. She was clinging to him, sobbing his name, giving back kiss for kiss.
Her zipper hissed as he opened it.
"No," she said, but he knew the word had no meaning because even as she said it, she was helping him free her of those silly white trousers.