Romano's Revenge. Sandra Marton

      “Lucinda! Open the door and let me in.”

      Lucinda undid the lock and cracked the door an inch. “Miss Robinson.” She took a breath. “I’m, uh, I’m kind of busy in here. If you need to use the, uh, if you need to use the facilities, I’m afraid you’ll have to—”

      “I’ve come to talk to you. Stop babbling and let me inside.”

      Lucinda grabbed a guest towel from the vanity, clutched it to her bosom and opened the door just wide enough to let the old woman enter.

      “Now,” Miss Robinson said briskly, “why are you hiding in here? What is this nonsense about?”

      Lucinda’s brows arched. “Miss Robinson,” she said politely, “I appreciate your concern, but this, ah, this situation has nothing to do with—”

      “Why are you stumbling all over your words? And why are you holding on to that towel as if it were the last life jacket on the Titanic?”

      “Well—well, because what I’m wearing is—is—” Lucinda frowned, took a deep breath and dropped the towel to the tile floor. “This is why,” she said coolly. “As you can see, I’m not exactly dressed for company.”

      The expression on the old woman’s face didn’t change as she looked Lucinda up, then down, then up again.

      “Skimpy,” she said at last.

      Lucinda managed a tight smile. “Indeed.”

      “But I’ve seen bathing suits as revealing on the beach.” Miss Robinson shook her head. “The things young women wear nowadays…”

      “Yes, well, not this young woman!” Lucinda swung back towards the mirror and plucked a bobby pin from the counter. “Would you believe that Chef Florenze actually expects me to wear this thing? To scrunch down under a serving cart and…” Her eyes met the older woman’s in the mirror. “Never mind. It doesn’t bear repeating. Suffice it to say, I’m not going to do it.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous,” Miss Robinson said irritably. She reached out and snatched the pins from Lucinda’s hair as fast as Lucinda anchored them. “Of course, you’ll do it.”

      “Miss Robinson,” Lucinda said patiently, “you have no idea what the chef wants.”

      “He wants you to jump out of a cardboard cake so those silly boys in the ballroom can clap their hands, whistle like banshees and generally make asses of themselves.”

      Lucinda stared at the other woman in the mirror. Then she turned and stared at her some more.

      “He told you?”

      “He told everyone. He also told us you’ve locked yourself in here and refuse to emerge.”

      “Did he mention that he’s threatened to blackmail me? That he won’t give me my certificate if I don’t cooperate?” Lucinda smiled tightly. “Well, that nasty little man is in for a surprise. He doesn’t believe I’ll bring charges against him, but I will. I’ll take him to court. I’ll sue. I’ll go to the papers…What?”

      “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.