"At least, we agree on something! My Joseph deserves better."
"What your Joseph deserves," Lucinda said hotly, "is a good, swift kick! He's a horrible man."
"He is a saint."
"He's a pig."
"He is the heart of my heart."
"He's the devil incarnate!"
"Joseph," Nonna whispered imploringly, "tell me you are not really going to...oh, I cannot say the words!"
Joe shot his grandmother a quick, assessing look. Her voice trembled but her color was good and the hand she'd clapped over her heart was steady. Her sensibilities were wounded, that was all. His threat had hit her right where she lived, straight in her impossible, Old Country, matchmaking heart.
Good, he thought coolly, and reached for Lucinda again. She squirmed like a fish trying to avoid the hook but he drew her into the circle of his arm and held her there.
"Would I joke about such a thing?"
"I hope so."
"Nonna, sweetheart." He gave a rueful sigh. "I'm disappointed you'd have such an attitude towards my future bride."
Nonna moaned. Blondie made a choked little gasp that he figured would be acceptable to the New England WASP she claimed to be and bared her teeth. Joe, remembering their sharpness, maintained just the right distance.
"Joseph, I know you're upset but you cannot mean this. You cannot possibly marry such a woman."
"No, he cannot," Lucy snapped, and then she paused and fixed Nonna with a narrowed stare. "What do you mean, he can't marry such a woman?" Her lower lip, which had been trembling, fixed in a belligerent pout. "I'll have you know, Mrs. Romano, that I am not 'such a woman.' I am a fine woman, far too good for the likes of your awful grandson."
"My Joseph is a wonderful man," Nonna said hotly. "He deserves a woman who is a woman, not a-a-"
"I am a woman who is a woman," Lucy said just as hotly.
"You like men."
"Yes, I do. I mean, no. No, I don't. Not the way you mean."
"You cannot cook. And you are not Italian."
"I have a certificate from the culinary institute, and what's so special about being Italian?" Lucy glared at Joe. "Will you let go of me, dammit?"
Nonna made the sign of the cross. "She curses, too," she whispered. "Oh, Joseph. Tell me you won't do this."
Slowly, Joe let go of Lucy's arm and looked at his grandmother. Chance number two to say, of course he wouldn't...but then he remembered the day he'd just put in, thanks to this innocent-looking old lady with the braided coronet and the big, dark eyes. His stomach was so empty, it rumbled. His kitchen was a shambles, and had almost burned down around his ears. Worst of all, he'd been seduced into making an ass of himself in that torrid little skin-on-skin encounter with Ms. Lucinda Barry, because what had happened had certainly been her doing, not his.
And why? Because his grandmother couldn't stop meddling in his love life, that was why. Well, enough was enough. Joe wasn't a gambler in the traditional sense of the word but he'd gotten what he had by knowing when to hold his cards and when to fold them.
Now was not the time to fold.
"You wanted me to find a wife," he said calmly.
His grandmother wiped her eyes with the skirt of her apron, looked at him beseechingly.
"I know, darling Giuseppe, but not a girl like this."
"A girl like what?" he said innocently, and looked over her shoulder.
The front door was open and the lady in question was gone. Joe muttered an oath, kissed his grandmother's forehead, told her to concentrate on all the cute little non-Italian babies she'd soon have tumbling around her feet and on what fun it would be for her to do all the cooking for his family because, obviously, his wife would never be capable of producing a meal.
Nonna's cry of anguish almost stopped him, but memories of Miss Eyebrow and the teenybopper dragged him back to reality.
"I love you, Nonna, despite yourself," he said severely, though he softened things a bit with another peck on the cheek before he hurried out the door.
There was no sign of Lucy in the street. Joe cursed, revved up the Ferrari, winced at the sound of mashing gears and headed back towards the main street, the route they'd taken to get here.
Yes, there she was, determinedly puffing up the hill a couple of blocks away. Her hair had come loose and trailed down her back; somehow, she'd managed to lose one of those sensible shoes. Her blouse was still buttoned wrong, one side still hanging at half-mast.
Oh, yes. The neat little world Ms. Barry had built on a pack of lies-with the help of a meddlesome grandma-was coming apart. And she had the audacity to behave as if he were the bad guy!
Joe pulled closer to the curb and put down the window. "Get in the car."
Blondie didn't answer. She didn't even look at him, or slow her pace.
His jaw tightened.
"I said, get in the damned car!"
"Go to hell," she said, and quickened her pace.
Joe slammed the engine into neutral, got out, and grabbed her. She shrieked as he tossed her over his shoulder and marched back to his car. A couple out walking their poodle stopped and gaped in astonishment.
"Help," Lucinda screamed.
"Lover's quarrel," Joe said with a smile that was all teeth.
He dumped her, unceremoniously, into the passenger seat and drove off.
To her credit, Blondie didn't do any more yelling or shouting. She simply sat beside him, ramrod-straight. He could almost feel the ice cubes forming in the air but that was better than it turning blue.
For a woman who claimed to be a Boston Brahmin, Ms. Barry had an interesting vocabulary.
Joe's eyes narrowed.
She was probably as much a blueblood as he was. The lady was a stripper, plain and simple, albeit one with an interesting facility for creating stories about herself.
He glanced over at her, taking in the tense profile, the folded arms, the dopey outfit.
Oh, yes, he thought grimly. Miss Lucinda Barry, of the Boston Barry's, was getting exactly what she deserved.
Joe pulled into his garage. Blondie got out of the car, slammed the door hard enough to rattle the dashboard, and strode through the door that connected to the kitchen. Once inside, she swung towards him.
"If you try to touch me," she said, "I swear, Romano, I'll kill you."
He believed her. The look in her eyes said it all.
"Baby, you're breaking my heart," Her fists came up as he reached out, but he easily avoided her flailing hands, clasped her shoulders and moved her aside. "Does this mean you're not pleased with our engagement?" he said as he tossed his keys on the counter.
"Engagement?" He heard the hiss of her breath as he headed down the hall, then the slap-slip of one sensible shoe and one bare foot as she hurried after him. ''I'd sooner be engaged to an ax murderer!"
"Trust me, Blondie. The feeling is mutual."
He turned and looked at Lucy, his eyes hard, and she could see that he meant it. But she'd figured he hadn't meant what he'd said about marrying her. Of course he hadn't, and a damned good thing, too.
"I only said that for my grandmother's benefit."
She watched as he leaned back against the staircase banister and tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The snug, faded denim tightened across his hips and thighs. Oh, it was definitely a good thing he hadn't meant it. What woman would let a man force her into marrying a macho, arrogant, stubborn, oversexed, under-brained stud? Certainly, not her. Not her, even if that first touch of his lips on hers, after he'd made his incredible announcement, had almost stopped her heart ...
"After this, the old girl won't dare interfere in my love life again."
What a smug, self-satisfied expression the man had on his face. Lucinda lifted her chin.
"I see," she said coldly. "You decided to administer shock treatment to your own grandmother."
"Something like that."
"With me as the source of the current."
He grinned. "Uh-huh."
"Your
grandmother loves you. And yet, you'd treat her this way?"
"Like you said, Blondie, it's shock treatment."
"Don't call me that!"
"Sorry, honey."
"Don't call me that, either. I am not your 'honey.'''
"Well, what else would a man call his fiancée. Baby? Darling? Sweetie?" One dark brow lifted. "You don't strike me as the 'Lambykins' type."
"I am not your type at all, Romano. And I am, most definitely, not the type of woman who enjoys being used."
"Out of bed, you mean."
The drawled words were insolent but Lucinda knew there was no sense in letting him draw her into a discussion about her morals, or the supposed lack of them.
"Did it ever occur to you," she said, "that I might not enjoy being part of your nasty little scheme?"
"It isn't nasty, it's necessary. And no, it didn't occur to me. Not in the slightest. Why would it, when you're as much to blame for this nonsense as my grandmother?"
"My God, you're a horrible man!"