The Man From her Wayward Past

by Susan Stephens

  ‘Well, I hope everything works out for you, Lucia—’

  ‘Tonight,’ she cut in with one final burst of desperate lonely energy. ‘That supper you mentioned?’

  When this was met by an ominous silence she realised Luke had probably had second thoughts. Maybe it was time to eat some humble pie.

  ‘I think I could make it tonight.’

  ‘So you have no plans?’ he said flatly. And when she remained silent he added, ‘I never thought I’d see the day when Lucia Acosta stayed home on her birthday … But if it’s a matter of money and you’d rather go out with some friends—’

  ‘Stop that, Luke!’ Money was the way her brothers had always controlled her.

  ‘Don’t be so touchy,’ he fired back.

  ‘Then get it through your head that I don’t need your money. I’ve got everything I need right here.’

  She had birthday gifts from her friends, and a few clothes if she wanted a night out. Well, she had the sale rail spectacular she’d snatched from her room before bolting from the hotel in London, together with some shoes she’d had repaired. She hadn’t stopped to pack a case. She couldn’t have spent a second longer than she had to in the hotel while her body was crawling with invisible insects where the concierge’s hands had touched her.

  ‘It seems you’ve got everything covered,’ Luke was saying, while she shrank like Alice to the size of a pea. ‘I’ll get off your case, Lucia. I was only trying to look out for you.’

  She hugged herself tighter, waiting for the line to be cut, for the silence to grow and gather. But Luke didn’t cut the line.

  ‘Are you really spending your birthday on your own?’ he drawled, in a mock-weary tone.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, stop going on about it,’ she flashed. ‘I don’t need a cake and candles at my age. I’m a big girl now.’

  ‘Good. Then you can have supper with me at the Grand. Eight o’ clock sharp. And, Lucia?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t be late.’

  The Grand? She had been to the elegant hotel many times with her parents, and the entire family had always dressed up for the occasion. She had nothing remotely suitable for an evening at the Grand in her sparse arsenal of clothes.

  So was she going to turn down Luke’s invitation? A warm room, a decent meal, the company of an old friend …

  Her stomach growled in anticipation of its first proper meal in a long time that didn’t include scones, cream and jam, fries or hot chocolate. ‘Don’t worry, Luke. I won’t be la—’

  Luke had cut the line.

  What on earth had she agreed to? The Grand was one of those seriously exclusive hotels that attracted seriously exclusive guests. And if she was going to brave it in her sale rail spectacular, did she really want to prove the fact that sun-starved olive skin looked no better than sun-starved pale white skin?

  Lucia’s gaze strayed to the well-past-its-sell-by-date bottle of fake tan on the shelf, which had been there when she’d moved in. She had to do something to make herself feel better. She couldn’t possibly look any worse than she did now, she reasoned, reaching for it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Get a Tan

  You will have noticed that The Tan was actually item number four on my to-do list, appearing after item number three: The Wax. I think you’ll agree that’s proof positive that the list was written by my fourteen-year-old-self long before the ramifications of turning fuzzy black leg hair a strange shade of green with the overuse of chemicals had actually occurred to me.

  You will also know that a fake tan takes time to develop—something else I had yet to learn. With my olive skin I was naturally sun-kissed in Argentina, thanks to the lovely weather, and even when I was at school in England there were always half-term holidays and trips home, so I was a bit of a fake-tan virgin. When one application didn’t seem to work I applied another … and another … figuring that since it was past its sell-by date maybe it wasn’t as strong as normal.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  I decided to wear my sale rail spectacular for the birthday supper with Luke. It’s a strappy dress in electric blue with a huge wilted rose dotted with shocking pink diamanté pinned at the front, which was probably the reason the dress hadn’t sold. Removing the brooch made a whole world of difference.

  What surprised me most of all was that after working such long hours, and skipping a few meals due to lack of time and money, I had lost a few of my comfort-food pounds. In fact the dress almost fitted me. But, as previously mentioned, those long hours spent indoors had done my olive skin no favours, so the success of the night hung on a bottle of Tanfastic Your World.

  YES, he had spoken to Nacho. Inviting Lucia for supper was his good deed for the day—make that the year.

  ‘Would you spoil Lucia a bit?’ Nacho had asked him, no doubt overcome with relief that Luke had tracked down his missing sister.

  ‘I’ll buy her supper,’ Luke had offered.

  ‘And a card?’ Nacho prompted.

  He exhaled steadily before answering. ‘I’ll see what the hotel shop can offer.’

  ‘Thanks, Luke.’

  Nacho’s gratitude made him feel guilty, and then he detected another question in Nacho’s voice. ‘You want me to try and buy her a little gift or something?’ he said, anticipating Nacho’s next request.

  ‘Please,’ Nacho said with relief. ‘I’ll wire you the money—’

  ‘Dios, Nacho,’ Luke exclaimed, slipping into the lingo they customarily used. ‘It will all wash through—and I won’t find much in a hotel shop.’

  ‘Just do your best, Luke.’

  He shrugged, reasoning he could throw money at it—though what a wild child with a penchant for scrubbing floors might want for her birthday escaped him.

  Oh, this was nerve-racking. Her hand was actually shaking. She’d never used to be completely useless when it came to men. Quite the opposite, in fact. It had used to come naturally to her—she’d never had to think about it before. Flirting with hot guys, knowing they wanted her, and always, always being in control. But now it was different. She had had a king-sized setback that had spiralled completely out of control, but she was determined not to let it colour her whole life. It was just that going out for supper with a guy she’d had a crush on for what seemed for ever, who looked like a sex god and who probably looked on her as a nuisance at best—well, that took a lot of preparation.

  The dress wasn’t bad on reflection. It was certainly colourful. Retro, she corrected herself, trying to imagine how her former self would have pulled it off. Surely it was just about confidence? If she felt confident she could make it work. If she felt confident …

  Who was she kidding? Lucia thought, blinking back tears as she tried to put her lenses in. Oh, bother them—she’d just have to wear glasses.

  She parked around the back at the Grand, easing her ancient car into a gap between a sleek black limousine and a gleaming off-roader she doubted had ever seen a field. Well—deep breath—this was it.

  She marched along the gravel path, dipping once to adjust the heel strap on her stratospheric sandals. That brief swoop was enough to shoot rain from her collar down the Grand Canyon between her breasts. She didn’t have a raincoat smart enough to wear to the Grand to protect her from the elements, so she was wearing the luminous yellow sou’wester Margaret had loaned her for heavy work outside. With nothing to cover her head apart from a handbag, it was probably safe to say her make-up had washed off and her hair was a mat of black frizz.

  The doorman ignored her. How could he not see the plump girl in luminous yellow oilcloth with a handbag balanced on her head?

  Oh, well.

  ‘Lucia.’

  ‘Luke …’ She gazed at the vision in designer jeans, a crisp white shirt and tailored jacket, standing at the open door. ‘Amazing,’ she breathed, squinting at him through her rainspeckled glasses.

  ‘Are you coming in?’ Luke said briskly. ‘Or am I supposed to stand here al
l night?’

  The uniformed doorman took the hint and hurried out of his regular position to take control of the door. ‘My apologies, sir,’ he said effusively, while Lucia blinked owlishly at the two men.

  Luke linked her arm through his as if he had been waiting for this moment all his life. ‘How good to see you,’ he added warmly.

  As Luke led her away she glanced behind her and had the satisfaction of seeing astonishment colour the doorman’s face. She thought about sticking her tongue out, and then thought better of it when Luke cautioned her, ‘No!’ reading her with his usual ease.

  Luke escorted her to the cloakroom, where he helped her with the sou’wester. ‘At least you’re dry underneath,’ he said, ignoring the surprised look of the pretty girl behind the desk, who couldn’t seem to take her eyes off Lucia as Luke handed her oilskin cover. ‘Your ticket,’ he said. ‘Put it in your bag before you lose it,’ he prompted.

  Lucia was incapable of speech. She had just caught sight of herself in the ornate gilt mirror. Now she knew why the girl was staring. Her make-up was smudged, which was only to be expected after braving a rainstorm, and her hair could not have been bushier—but what she couldn’t have anticipated were the tiger stripes of orange and olive where the fake tan had washed off. It was not a good look.

  ‘Would you like to go and freshen up before we go in to supper?’ Luke suggested. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a clean white handkerchief and handed it to her discreetly.

  Nothing would help. Her evening was ruined. Her hair was having an electrical storm and her skin-tight dress was totally unsuitable for a cold night in a posh hotel. Nothing had changed at the Grand, and as Lucia had expected every other woman there had chosen to wear outfits best described as classic and timeless. Certainly they were discreet. No one was wearing anything to compete with Lucia’s electric blue Lycra number and the fake tan dripping down her arms. ‘I’m so sorry, Luke.’

  ‘What are you sorry about?’ he said. Linking her arm through his again, he steered her across the lobby in the direction of the ladies’ restroom. ‘Go wash up. You’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’m so embarrassed …’

  ‘Lucia,’ he said firmly, ‘you’re not going to let a little bit of slapdash painting spoil your birthday, are you?’

  A smile was hovering around Luke’s sexy lips—that sexy mouth was something she must put out of her mind immediately. She had enough on her hands, concentrating on disaster management.

  The disaster was too extreme, Lucia concluded. Fear of men, fear of Luke finding out what had happened in London, and now this. ‘Seriously, Luke—I’d rather go home. Even if the fake tan does wash off, I’m not dressed for this.’

  ‘It’s your birthday,’ he said, as if that made any fashion faux pas acceptable. ‘I’ll wait out here. Take your time, but make a thorough job of it,’ he added with a crooked grin.

  She could just imagine Luke’s report to her brothers—Lucia was fine the last time I saw her, if a bit liverish.

  Going into the restroom, she planted her fists on the side of the basin. She couldn’t even bear to look at herself in the mirror she was such a mess. Finally, pulling herself together, she ran the taps. She was going to scrub and scrub until her skin was clean again—until she really felt clean again. And then she was going to man up and join Luke for supper as if what had happened was a regular part of any date.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said wryly as she exited the restroom. ‘I couldn’t save your hanky.’

  Luke’s lips curved in the same attractive grin. ‘I’ve got plenty more.’

  She gasped as he leaned forward. ‘Oh,’ she murmured as he removed her glasses and stood back to take a really good look at her.

  ‘Wow …’

  ‘Wow, good? Or wow, bad?’ she said tensely.

  ‘Wow, pretty damn fantastic,’ Luke murmured.

  Nodding to the maître d’, Luke linked her arm through his and led her into the glittering crystal and gilt dining room, where it soon became obvious that no one gave a damn what she looked like because everyone was staring at Luke. Waving the waiter away, he insisted on pulling out her chair.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked, staring at the envelope on her plate.

  ‘Damn, that looks like an envelope to me.’ Reaching across the table, Luke put his big paw over hers. ‘Before you open it, can I just say you look amazing tonight, Lucia?’

  ‘And you couldn’t have been more surprised?’ she supplied in a comic voice.

  Luke shook his head as if he gave up. As he called the wine waiter over Lucia wondered if she had freed him from the obligation to work his way through the list of appropriate compliments her brothers must have foisted on him.

  ‘Your best champagne, please,’ Luke requested as the waiter hovered. ‘Well?’ he prompted, turning back to her. ‘Aren’t you going to open the card?’

  ‘Of course.’ She stopped as Luke reached beneath his chair and produced a gift-wrapped present. ‘You really didn’t need to.’

  ‘Just open it,’ he said.

  He felt guilty as Lucia’s eyes lit with surprise and pleasure. He’d spent so much time teasing her over the years he had never really thought about Lucia’s feelings. He didn’t have any—why should she? But Lucia had enough feelings for both of them, he realised as she stared down at the gift. Her surprised expression touched him somewhere deep.

  ‘Don’t get too excited,’ he warned. ‘It’s just something I picked up at the hotel shop.’ On the instigation of your brother, he silently added. But this was the first time he’d bought Lucia anything. If he had even looked at her the wrong way when they were younger Lucia’s brothers would have ripped his head off.

  She opened the card first. He was sorry he hadn’t been able to go somewhere with a wider selection—get something with a funny message on the front, something more appropriate for Lucia. The card was nice enough, but it was one of those ‘suits every occasion’ blank cards that hotels stocked. There were a bunch of flowers on the front in no-nonsense bright colours.

  ‘Lovely,’ she said, reading what he’d written inside: To my old sparring partner—Happy Birthday, Luke. ‘No one could accuse you of forgetting the old days.’ She smiled, as if that pleased her, and then turned the card over to read the script on the back. ‘Anemones are for unfading love, hmm?’ Her eyes were sparkling with humour as they searched his. ‘I’m betting you didn’t think to read the back?’

  ‘You’d be right,’ he admitted gruffly, caught out red-handed.

  ‘Anyway, it’s very nice of you to buy me a card at all, so thank you.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to open your present?’ She was still touching the card with her fingertip, as if there was something meaningful to be gleaned from his bold black writing. ‘Go on—open it,’ he pressed. Was he getting into this? ‘Luke, you shouldn’t have.’

  ‘And risk you having a strop because I hadn’t got you anything?’

  ‘I’m not fourteen any more, Luke.’

  He’d reminded her of her fourteenth birthday party, which Nacho had arranged. It had been heavily policed by her brothers, who had checked up on Lucia and her friends every five minutes. Predictably, the girls had swooned when the boys had walked in, while Lucia had only craved a single glance from Luke. But the older they’d got, the more Luke had pushed her away. She had bumped into him the next day in the hay barn and screamed at him that he hadn’t even wished her a happy birthday, let alone bought her a present.

  ‘I’ve never made your life easy, have I, Luke?’

  ‘At least we’re on the same page where that’s concerned,’ he agreed.

  He had bought a shawl—soft and feminine in moss-green cashmere. He’d thought it would look great against Lucia’s hair and eyes—though, admittedly, it wouldn’t look quite so great with a bright blue dress. ‘If you’d rather change it for another colour …’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ she said, holding it to her face. ‘My brothers generally b
uy me pieces of tack for my pony.’

  When all the teenage Lucia had craved was the latest colour lipstick, or music by whatever group was in vogue, he guessed.

  ‘I loved it that they remembered my birthday,’ she went on, ‘but sometimes …’

  Sometimes she’d missed her mother, he silently supplied.

  Closing her eyes, Lucia rested her cheek against the shawl.

  ‘Good,’ he said briskly, jerking them both out of the spell she had woven. ‘Job done. Shall we order? Are you hungry?’

  ‘Starving,’ she admitted. Her cheeks fired red. ‘I mean—’

  ‘We’re here to eat, Lucia,’ he pointed out.

  Calling the waiter over, he ordered plenty, in case Lucia didn’t order enough, and when the food arrived she ate with such relish it was hard to keep up. Lucia wasn’t just hungry, she was ravenous.

  He tried not to dwell on this, but as she scraped up the last of the Crème Anglaise from her plate and sighed with pleasure he couldn’t hold back any longer. ‘When did you last eat?’

  ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten anything this good,’ she admitted, laying down her spoon.

  ‘Is that it?’ he pressed.

  ‘Lunchtime,’ she said defensively, sitting up straight. ‘One of Margaret’s delicious cream teas.’

  He made no comment. ‘Okay, so now you’re fed and watered, how about coming clean about why you’re working at the club?’

  ‘It’s a job, Luke.’

  ‘Has Van Rickter been bullying you?’

  ‘What is this? The Spanish Inquisition?’

  ‘Has Van Rickter been bullying you?’ he repeated, holding her flickering gaze.

  ‘Of course he hasn’t. I feel sorry for him, really. He’s such a frustrated individual—not that way,’ she said quickly, her cheeks colouring. ‘Are we going to have coffee now?’