Romancing the Ugly Duckling

by Clare London

  “Ach, he doesn’t say anything about it.” Bridie frowned. “Never has done, since he arrived. It took us a long time to bring him out of his shell, and all he’ll say is that he likes to paint here and will never go back to London. And he has no love for that family o’ his. His brothers treated him badly as a bairn, and mebbe they’re still doing it.”

  “He doesnae think much o’ hisel’,” Lisa said quietly.

  What did she mean? As far as Perry was concerned, Greg had been an opinionated, rude, aggressive arse so far. That wasn’t the behavior of a shrinking violet. Perry sat on the end of the bed between the pair of them. Lisa had a thick bar of chocolate she was encouraging him to share, and he reckoned he deserved a couple of squares after the ordeal he’d suffered.

  Bridie nudged him boisterously with her shoulder. “So tell us about the TV program.”

  “What program?” Perry said cautiously, through a mouthful of chocolate.

  “Ach, is it meant to be a secret? Greg’s already told Dougie enough for us all to know Greg’s family want him back in London for a TV show. They’ve been writing to him. Begging him to come back.”

  “And what does he think about that?”

  Startlingly, both girls snorted, one in each of his ears.

  “Greg says he’d rather drown in a loch,” Bridie said. Lisa nodded vigorously in agreement.

  “It’s a wonderful opportunity,” Perry said recklessly. Promotion wasn’t his usual area, but his loyalty to the agency—and need for success—obliged him to try and cover that role as well. “It could run to a long series, and TV’s well paid. He’d be a household name.”

  “Aye. Like he said.” Bridie winced. “He’d rather drown.”

  “So how d’ye think ye’ll get him tae the mainland if he doesnae want tae go?” Lisa asked.

  “Well, I’m not really in charge of the logistics. That’ll be up to his family, I suppose.”

  “So what are ye here for?”

  Perry supposed if he was ever stuck for more than a couple of weeks in this godforsaken place, he’d get used to the blunt way they communicated. “I’m a stylist. I’m here….” How was he going to phrase it? To make Greg Ventura look less like a wild animal and more like his handsome brothers? To make him look like a city slicker? “I’m here to make sure he has everything he needs to fit back in.”

  “Clothes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Haircut? Manicure, that kind of thing?”

  “Yes, of course.” Perry felt suddenly rather embarrassed at his own perfectly manicured hands. Bridie in particular needed some help with her own nails.

  “But nae makeup?” Lisa asked.

  “Well, yes if it’s needed. At least for the cameras—”

  But Perry never got the chance to finish his explanation. Lisa looked at Bridie, and they both burst into laughter.

  “And if he doesnae want all that?”

  For the first time, Perry felt in a truly alien setting. “It’s quite usual in the media world.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Bridie said. “But this is Greg Ventura we’re talking about. The man who hasn’t bought new clothes for a year, who doesn’t have a decent mirror in his house. The man who thinks he’s barely one step up in looks from Willie Aitken’s pigs.”

  “Willie Aitken?”

  Bridie and Lisa just looked at each other and shook their heads sadly.

  Perry was shocked. “That’s outrageous! He’s different from his brothers, I can see that. But he’s a very good-looking man in his own way.”

  “Aye.” Bridie looked at him curiously. “We agree with you. But he won’t.”

  “Never,” Lisa agreed.

  “So how do you plan on getting around that?”

  Well. And that was Perry’s own personal million-dollar question, wasn’t it?

  Chapter Seven

  GREG had to admit he was startled—and admiring, to be honest—when Perry Goodwood came back downstairs in new clothes. Of course, it was just a selection of country separates from the shop—although why Bridie called them “separates,” when it only made sense to wear them together, Greg had no bloody idea—but Perry had a way of standing that made the outfit look different. Made it look good. Not that Greg ever took any notice of clothes, but… still. The way Perry held himself, the way the fabric followed the lines of his slender body….

  Good. Yes, that was definitely the word.

  “What do you think?” Bridie was hopping about behind Perry like a silly girl. Anyone would think she’d been dressing a pop star.

  Greg cleared his throat. “That’s a damn sight more suitable.” Perry now wore sensible trousers with full knees to them, a pair of hiking boots, a polo shirt, and a close-fitting red sweater. Very close-fitting. He had a nicely shaped torso.

  “And?”

  “And what?” Greg stared at them all—Lisa was lurking in the background too—without any idea what Bridie meant.

  “He looks very handsome, don’t you think?”

  “Well. I mean….” What did he mean? He scowled at being backed into some kind of a corner. “It’s not for me to say, is it?”

  Perry looked embarrassed, which he well might, with this stupid scenario going on. He ran his hand through the outrageously wild, blond curls Greg had noticed last night, and said apologetically, “Things will be much better when I can get some hair gel and smooth this mess down—”

  “No, leave it!” Who said that? With a shock, Greg realized it had been him. The thought of ruining the way those cute curls fell over Perry’s forehead, the way they just asked for fingers to run through them…. Dammit, was he going mad?

  Everyone had swiveled to stare at him. Fuck.

  “It looks okay to me,” he muttered. “Don’t know why people use all that stupid product.”

  Bridie lifted her eyebrows.

  Lisa glanced between Perry and Greg. “Time tae go,” she said to Bridie.

  “Aye. I’ll show you out,” Greg growled.

  “Thanks again, Bridie,” Perry called, waving to the girls.

  At the front door, Bridie lingered until Greg was the only one in earshot. “Greg, you’ll be all right with the bonny lad?”

  “Of course I will. He’s on his way home shortly, anyway.”

  Bridie nodded as if she knew something Greg didn’t. It was a familiar gesture he’d learned to expect over the years he’d known her and Dougie. “Give him a chance,” she whispered. “Let him tell you about the show.”

  “I’m not doing it, Bridie. I’m not going back to London, and definitely not for them.”

  “Your brothers? Your anger toward them….” She sighed. “You know, it’s hard for me to understand.”

  Greg’s heart sank. He really didn’t want any more of this, not right now. But he knew Bridie only meant well. “You’re close to Dougie, I know. You’ve always had a good relationship with your family, and I envy that. But it was never like that with my brothers, and it’s never going to be.”

  “Bad feeling eats away at you, Greg. Maybe the show is a way to mend those bridges—”

  “It was their choice, Bridie,” he said abruptly. The sudden pain in his chest startled and scared him. He’d thought he was immune by now. “I didn’t come here to spite them. I came here to save my sanity.” Her eyes widened, and he realized he’d said far more than he’d wanted to.

  Still, she wouldn’t let go. “Then give Perry a chance, just for him. He needs this job.”

  “Did he say something?”

  “Ach, no. I suspect he’s as stubbornly proud as you are. But you saw the state o’ his clothes—the ones he arrived in. They may have been designer in the first place, but he’s had more than his fair wear out o’ them. The shoes are worn through on the sides, and the jacket seams are threadbare. I think old Willie Aitken is more comfortably dressed, and you know he sleeps in his mother’s pig barn.”

  Greg didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or demand to know exactly what Bridie was trying to say.


  “Just go easy on him,” she whispered again as she slipped through the door to join Lisa. “And yourself.”

  GREG loped back into his living room. Perry sat on the edge of the sofa, staring at the door into Greg’s studio. Greg had left it slightly ajar and the midday sun spun a pale brightness through the gap.

  “Is that where you work? Bridie says you paint.”

  Greg ignored him, walked over to the door, and closed it decisively.

  Perry sighed quietly. “Can I offer to make some lunch? I can cook pretty well. Or should I go out and buy something?”

  “What you should do is go home,” Greg said. The shock on Perry’s face was surprisingly hard to bear. But Greg hadn’t had to think before speaking for a long time now, and why should he start for an uninvited stranger?

  “I could stay for a while,” Perry said slowly. “I’m dressed for the part now.”

  Perhaps he meant it as a joke, but Greg didn’t feel humorous. “They’re just clothes. Pity you won’t get the wear out of them.”

  “You’re still against working with me?”

  “Of course I am. I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time—”

  “No, you’re not,” Perry interrupted, with spirit.

  Greg was tempted to laugh, but surely now was not the time. He was meant to be chasing this pest out of his life, not enjoying the banter. “No, I’m not, you’re right. I didn’t ask for anyone to come, and I don’t have time or manners to deal with you.”

  “Good God, you’re a rude bastard!”

  “Maybe.” Greg didn’t feel offended. He never had, and plenty had called him the same. “But it’s my life.”

  There was a long moment of silence. Greg had expected Perry to rant, not stare at Greg as if examining a new species of being. Perhaps that’s what he was to Perry.

  “Believe me,” Perry said finally. “I want to leave. But I can’t.”

  “Of course you bloody can.” Greg threw himself down in the armchair by the hearth. He needed to set the fire soon for the evening, but damned if he was going to do that without sorting out the Perry problem first. He often ended up a sooty mess, and he didn’t want to look a fool in front of anyone else.

  Perry’s jaw tightened. “You’re a master class in confrontation, you know? I’ve got a job to do. I can’t go back until it’s finished.”

  “And that job is?”

  “To get Greg Ventura back to London, to present him to the TV producers in the same style and fashion as the other Ventura brothers. That means dressed in something other than jumble and looking as good as they do.”

  “On your own?” Greg heard the scorn in his voice.

  Perry flushed. “The rest of the team is following soon,” he said bravely. “And I have excellent credentials.”

  “I know.” Suddenly, Greg couldn’t resist the mischief. “I saw them in their full glory this morning.”

  Perry went even redder, and his hands instinctively darted toward his groin as if prepared to cover it up. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I’m a good stylist, even without the rest of the department’s resources.”

  “For God’s sake.” Greg groaned, and he leaned back in the armchair. He knew he wasn’t being fair to Perry, but then who was being fair to him? “I’m not casting aspersions on you. I have no idea what makes a good stylist—it’s far down my want-to-know list—but I’m sure you’re good enough. It’s more the fact that the job is an impossible one.”

  “You’ve made it clear that you don’t welcome coming back to London.”

  “Not just that. The makeover thing, as well.” Greg hated feeling uncomfortable and angry, all at the same time. “I’m a lost cause. Didn’t they tell you that, those perfect brothers of mine? Didn’t they tell you I broke the Ventura mold when I was born? I never had their looks or their physical grace, let alone the manners. I’m a clumsy, odd-looking reject, and it’ll take far more than a single stylist to make a silk purse out of this sow’s ear. They should’ve told you what a crap hand they were dealing you.”

  “They showed me a picture of you—”

  “There you are, then.”

  “You were only twelve!” Perry snapped. “No one would judge a man on the basis of that. We all go through that unattrac—awkward stage as a child. You’re well past it now, so what’s your problem?”

  And wasn’t that the point? It was Greg’s problem, and he had to live with it. Alone. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  “Do you know how childish that sounds?”

  “Do you know how little I care?”

  They glared at each other. Greg noticed Perry’s eyes had beautiful little glimmers of azure in them when he was angry. Yes, it was official: he was going mad. He rose from the armchair. “I’ll call Dougie to come and fetch you to the hotel. They can tell you there about the boat times back to the mainland. I have to get some work done or today’s completely wasted.”

  “Work? You mean painting?”

  “That’s only part of it. I have other work.” No, he wasn’t going into it now. He wasn’t going to waste any more daylight hours in idle chat, not even when Perry looked so eager and concentrated on him. There were calls to make to the mainland, bills to invoice. He started to pass Perry, to leave the room.

  “Greg. Mr. Ventura. Please.” Perry put his hand on Greg’s arm.

  Greg stopped dead. It took a huge effort not to wrench away. Perry was far too close. Greg wasn’t used to people living with him in his house, and the personal-space invasion was almost shocking. It felt like a very long time since anyone touched him at all. Nonsense! He was just tired, annoyed, and frustrated. Perry was so slight, but so very obvious, though Greg wasn’t sure why he thought that way. Was it because Perry looked good and smelled gorgeous—how come Greg’s own shower gel smelled so delicious on someone else?—and he wanted to be close to Greg, and he’d looked so lost in Greg’s huge tee shirt that morning, but his long, lean, bare legs had looked so sexy as he sprawled on the floor of the spare bedroom…?

  Greg growled instead. That was his usual defense, and it had always worked before. “You think you can seduce me to go along with this stupid project? Think I’m so hard up I’ll go for any gay man who comes my way?”

  Perry winced and snatched his hand back. “God no! Nothing was further from my mind. Despite Bridie’s bizarre plots.”

  “Plots?”

  Perry laughed nervously. “She thinks you need to get out more. Find a social life. Enjoy yourself. Date some men.”

  “And she thinks I should date you?” It was only when Perry flushed that Greg realized how harsh that sounded. But what the hell was Bridie thinking? Even if Greg had been interested—which he wasn’t, of course he wasn’t—what chance would he have with a bright little button like Perry Goodwood?

  “Like I said.” Perry’s voice was calm, but it seemed to take him an effort. “There’s nothing further from my mind.”

  There was another awkward silence between them.

  Then Perry took a deep breath. “So, what do we do now? You don’t want me here. To be brutally honest, I don’t want to be here either. But can’t we make some kind of a deal? At least for a few days.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Give me some time to talk to you. To make their case. My case.”

  Greg was already shaking his head before Perry had finished his sentence. “I don’t have that time.”

  Perry frowned. “Yes, I know. You work, you told me. So in return, I’ll help you in your work. Then you can make time.”

  Greg stared. Perry hadn’t even asked him what work he did! Didn’t he realize there wasn’t much of a call for personal lifestyle jobs in this part of Uist? He imagined Perry Goodwood—slender, wiry, almost pretty—his delicate hands hauling slabs of peat for the smokehouse. He imagined Perry hauling the sheep in for Alasdair to shear; imagined him dressed for fishing in the middle of the loch; imagined him in full scuba gear on the island coast, diving
for scallops.

  “Why are you laughing?” Perry asked. “Was it that bloody funny?”

  “Yes,” Greg said bluntly. “But I appreciate the offer.”

  “So that’s what we’ll do?”

  Good God. This must be how they trained them nowadays in London. Like Rottweilers. “You’re persistent, aren’t you? Annoyingly so.”

  Perry’s eyes glinted. “Yes. And yes.”

  Greg couldn’t help himself—he grinned. “Okay. You help me out for the next couple of days, then I promise I’ll sit down with you and you can explain about the show. But no promises. You already know how I feel.”

  “But I don’t understand why.”

  “That’s my business.”

  Perry nodded. “You may not always feel like that.”

  “I will. What makes you think you can change that?” He’d had a lifetime with his family, either in person or in mind. Nothing or no one could erase that.

  Perry smiled, just a soft twist of his mouth that maybe Greg wasn’t even meant to see. “Let’s see, shall we? And in the meantime….”

  What now?

  “If it’s just for a couple of days, is there any point in ferrying me off to a hotel? Especially if we’ll be working together. Discussing things. Exploring ideas.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. Greg gave a huge, exaggerated sigh. “I suppose not. You can stay here. But keep out of my way at other times. And you’ll have to share the chores.”

  “No problem!” Perry looked animated again, and inexplicably excited. “I’ll go and rustle up something for lunch, shall I?”

  Chapter Eight

  WHAT the hell had possessed him to say he’d stay at the croft?

  Perry seemed to have spent most of his first day as unpaid kitchen help. A lunch of ham sandwiches had been easy to provide, but afterward, when Greg had locked himself away in his studio, Perry had tried to prepare for supper as well.

  And that went… not so well.