"It's called a toque," she said touching her hand to her head.
Joe blinked. Had he asked? He didn't think so, but…
"You were staring at my hat." Lucinda cleared her throat. "People sometimes do. I mean, they find these hats strange..."
"No," Joe said, and cleared his throat, too. "No, not at all."
Lucinda nodded and folded her hands at her waist. "I thought it best if I looked professional."
"Uh-huh."
"In case any of your friends should drop by, or anything."
At six in the morning? On a Sunday? "Oh, right. Right."
"I mean, it's one thing for your grandmother to think that we're, uh, that... You know. But other people should be aware that I am your cook."
"My cook," Joe repeated, and blanked his mind to yesterday's eggs. "Uh, right, right. But, the thing is, I'm going for a run. It's, uh, it's very early..."
"I know. But I remembered you liked to run, so I set my alarm clock for five-thirty."
"Your alarm clock." So that was what he'd heard, cutting through his heavy-duty dream.
"Yes." She smiled politely. "I wanted to get a head start on breakfast."
Breakfast. Oh, hell, breakfast.
"I see," he said politely. "But, uh, the thing is, I, uh, I..."
I, what? Improvise, improvise. Last evening, when he'd come up with this scheme, he'd told her he expected her to cook. But he didn't. Of course, he didn't. She couldn't cook; he knew that. The last thing he wanted this morning was to have to live through another session of burned bacon and raw eggs, or vice versa.
As for all those hot dreams ... What hot dreams? Joe thought, and bit back a grin. What he'd felt-thought he'd felt yesterday, had been an aberration. Seeing her in this ridiculous getup, he knew those dreams were most definitely history.
"And," he said with an equally polite smile, "I never eat before I run."
"No, of course not. My fiancé-"
"You have a fiancé?"
Lucinda shook her head. "No. Not anymore. But I did have. And he" -
"You were engaged. To be married."
"Yes." Her voice took on an edge, as did her smile. "Why are you so surprised, Mr. Romano?"
"I don't know. I thought. .. What had he thought? What did he care if she'd had a dozen fiancés?
"Did you think a woman like me couldn't find a man who wanted to marry her?"
"Look, I'm just..." Joe ran a hand through his hair. "Never mind. Your personal life is none of my business."
"Exactly." She stepped back, her hands on her hips, her eyes cool. "I'll have breakfast waiting."
"No. No, thank you. Actually, Blon... I mean, actually, Lucinda, I, ah. I've changed my mind about the cooking. It won't be nec-"
"It will."
"It won't. Just, uh, 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," Joe said. He danced backwards, away from that finger and that furious glare. "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. Her hat had fallen over one eye. She looked enraged, silly, and almost incredibly beautiful.
"Romano? Do we understand each other?"
What he understood was that he ached to strip her out of that jacket and dress and make love to her here, right here, on the floor.
"Yes," he said, and he reached out, grasped her shoulders put her aside and headed out the door without even pausing to do his warm-up stretches.
That was a mistake, yet one more error in a weekend's worth, he thought grimly as he pounded along the narrow, steep streets. A runner should always warm up first, just as a man should always weigh all the possibilities before entering into a business arrangement.
Joe paused at a red light and jogged in place. His muscles were protesting being put to the test without advance notice but he could grit his teeth and run through the pain. It was the protests of his brain that were giving him the most trouble.
What on earth had he been thinking when he'd made that crazy deal with Lucinda?
The light changed. Joe ran across the street, up a hill but halfway to the top, he turned and started down.
Okay. Enough was enough. He knew what Lucinda was, but he couldn't keep his hands off her. And she knew it. She was capitalizing on it. That outfit today, the no-nonsense chef's garb-why would she have worn it, except to drive his hormones wild? She had to know that all he could think about, when he saw her in that getup, was how she'd look out of it.
The minute he got home, the very second he came through the door, he'd get out his checkbook, write her a check for the amount they'd agreed on, and tell her she was free to go.
He'd deal with Nonna some other way. Some way that wouldn't keep him up nights and keep him torn between wanting to throttle his cookless cook and drag her off to bed.
Yes, he thought, and smiled as he let himself in the door, yes, his problem was solved. Solved, and painlessly...
Joe stopped, frowned and inhaled. What was that smell?
It wasn't a bad smell. It wasn't a good smell. It was just ... different. Sort of a cross between charred bacon and chocolate-chip cookies. No, no, it was more like, well, like chocolate. Chocolate,
and bacon and...
"Lucinda?"
And burning rubber, he thought as he raced to the kitchen. "Lucinda? Blondie, are you..."
Oh, hell. Joe's heartbeat stumbled. The room was filled with smoke; the oven door stood open and he could see a thin layer of what looked like soot on the floor beneath it. He had a quick glimpse of a mountain of pots and pans, a sink filled with dishes, and then he was standing over Lucinda, who sat on a stool at the counter, her head-toque and all-buried in her arms.
"Blondie?" He grabbed for her, turned her towards him.
The silly hat fell off as she lifted her eyes to his. His heart stumbled again as he saw the smudges on her cheeks, the wicked-looking slash of red above her lip. "Honey, what happened? Did you burn yourself?" Joe drew her off the stool and into his arms. "Just be calm. Don't get excited. Come with me, baby. I'll drive us straight to the emergency room."
"I did it," she said.
"Yes. I know you did." He slid his arm around her waist, kept his voice soft and low. "But it's okay, honey. You just need a couple of stitches to fix that cut."
"What cut?"
"The one over your mouth. Don't panic, Lucy. It's not a bad one."
Lucinda smiled, flicked out the tip of her tongue and licked at the red slash. "Raspberry," she said, and laughed.
Joe gaped. "Raspberry?"
"Mmm." She touched the tip of her finger to the red that remained, then held it out to him. "See?"
He looked at her finger, looked at her mouth. She brought her finger to his lip. Carefully, he tasted it.
"It is," he said slowly. "Raspberry, I mean."
"Of course." Lucinda smiled, put her hands on Joe's forearms, and looked up at him. "I made chocolate and raspberry pastries, Mr. Romano. For your breakfast."
Joe stared at her. "Chocolate and..."
"Uh-huh. Well, I suppose you really should call them pain au chacolat, for accuracy." Still smiling, she wriggled free of his arms, reached behind her and plucked something that looked like a disfigured oyster from the counter. "And I decided to experiment, to add some jam... What?"
"You mean," Joe said carefully, "this-this mess is the result of a session at the stove?"