Sandra Marton - Romano's Revenge

“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.