by Renee Roszel
Annoyance flickered across Lucas’s face, then he composed himself behind a casual mask. “Thank you, Mrs. Glen,” he intoned, without a hint of the menace Jess knew he harbored because of her dirty trick. “And Happy Thanksgiving to you, too.”
She cast him a sidelong glare and caught his devilish grin. He was plotting revenge, the bum. Still, a thrill raced through her at the sight of that crooked, seductive mouth.
“All right, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, scanning his list. “Here are the condemned ten.” He paused to survey the confused faces. “I say condemned, because I understand you’ll be eating your own cooking, and I’ve tasted it.”
There was a burst of laughter, and Jess found herself staring at him. A joke? Evidently he’d made a few after-dinner speeches in his time. As the giggling died down, Jess wondered why Lucas had made any effort to put the kids at ease. Probably force of habit from years of speech-making.
He began to read, and after each name there was a burst of applause. Jack’s last name was Zeeman, so he’d be the final winner announced. Jess found herself growing eager to see his expression, and was glad now that Lucas had insisted on selecting Jack. Maybe this endorsement would be the turning point he needed in his life.
When Jack’s name was called, no pleasant emotion registered on his face. Not even surprise. His frown merely deepened. Jess called for quiet, because the room had broken up into animated conversations, as well as squeals and hugs from girls who’d discovered that a favorite friend had also been chosen.
Of course, there were downcast faces. She felt the usual pang about that, but clapped her hands for quiet. “Okay, gang, we’ve got a surprise gift for you all in the kitchen.” She gestured in that direction, reminding, “The bus will be here in a few minutes. Enjoy your gift and Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!”
The kids were trailing out where their parting gifts were waiting, the brightly wrapped tokens a ploy for the losers to take their minds off their loss. And besides cupcakes and a pen set, there was a final note to remind them that they were all still in the running for scholarships. Jess looked around. Jack hadn’t moved from his spot on the floor. She went over to him and squatted down. “Hey, congratulations.” She affectionately squeezed a fisted hand. “Are you surprised?”
He avoided looking at her by averting his face. With the force of a blow, it occurred to Jess that Jack was fighting back tears. The poor kid. Never in his wildest dreams, had he expected this. She felt her eyes well up, and unable to form words without sounding quivery, she could only squeeze his hand in understanding.
Not wanting to embarrass him further, she stood and turned away, only to bump into Lucas’s chest. He stepped back and started to speak, then saw her brimming eyes, and frowned in confusion. Overwhelmed by her emotions, Jess was unable to explain. Instead, she touched his chest fondly in mute apology. He’d been right to choose Jack. She knew that now.
Lucas had been the intuitive one, not she; but instead of being upset or jealous at his perceptiveness, she was elated—for Jack’s sake. She hadn’t suspected Lucas had such sensitivity in him. He certainly hid it well. Briefly, Jess met Lucas’s confused glance, tried again to express her feelings, but without success. Brushing away a stray tear, she shook her head and rushed off toward the kitchen.
5
The teenagers were gone, and Lucas’s house was as quiet as an abandoned warehouse. The only sound was the brittle thump of branches tossed about by the night wind as they crashed against the eaves. The noises were unsettling, and Jess felt very alone.
She waited in the kitchen for Lucas, who’d disappeared fifteen minutes before. There was no doubt in her mind that he was on the phone—again—and she found herself thrumming her nails on the kitchen table. Hating that nervous habit, she drew her hands into her lap and fisted them, then looked absently around. The kitchen was large and L-shaped, stark white, with gray accents here and there. She was seated at a round smoked-glass table located in the short leg of the L. There was a fireplace nearby—brick, but painted unobtrusively white.
The floor was made of polished squares of silvery granite. Not a scratch, not a speck of dirt, was to be seen anywhere on its surface. Like the rest of his house, Lucas’s kitchen was as clean as a hound’s tooth—trim, neat and spare.
There were no baseboards, no architectural excesses. All edges seemed to come together as sharp as knives. His was a world without clutter or sentiment. Admittedly, it was aesthetically pleasing, in a restrained way. She once again thought of this place as an extension of Lucas Brand, himself. He was certainly aesthetically pleasuring—in a restrained way. She bit her lip, not pleased that she was dwelling on the man in any way.
But her mind, drifting against her will, recalled a while ago when Jack had been close to tears, and how she’d glanced back at him on her retreat to the kitchen. She’d stumbled to a halt when she saw Lucas actually hunkering down beside the boy, speaking to him. She’d give a month’s salary to know what he’d said.
A few minutes later, Jack had joined the others in the kitchen to get his parting gift. He looked solemn, showing no trace of emotion. He hadn’t even turned Jess’s way. Whatever Lucas had said, it hadn’t changed the boy, much. Well, she mused, not even Mr. Roxbury performed instant miracles.
Hearing a sound, Jess knew Lucas was finally making an appearance. Stiffening, she turned. “I thought you’d flown to the Bahamas or…” she began, aiming to keep the mood light. Then she noticed that he’d changed clothes. He wore brown dress slacks, a button-down ecru shirt and a tie with splashes of earth tones, and as he walked, he was pulling on a tan sport coat.
Once again he’d donned that sophisticated veneer that was both annoying and intimidating. The unexpected change startled her, and she blurted out, “Do you have a date?” Her question sounded accusatory, and she winced. She hadn’t meant it that way. Of course, he could have a date if it pleased him.
He strolled toward to her, his dress shoes making a crisp clicking sound on the granite floor. “Do I have a what?” he asked.
As he passed to take a seat on the opposite side of the table, his scent surrounded her. She inhaled the clean, freshly showered smell, noting a hint of after-shave that reminded her of cedar and leather. With a tight smile, she thought quickly. “Uh—I was just wondering if I could have some coffee?”
He’d pulled out a chair, then stopped, scanning the kitchen counter nearby. “Looks like there’s some left.” He started in that direction, but she fairly leaped up. “No—don’t bother. I can do it.” She wasn’t sure why, but she couldn’t allow this man to serve her. Maybe she didn’t care to be obliged to him in even a small way. The less involved they were outside strict business dealings, the better.
As she scrambled from her seat, he flicked his wrist up to look at his watch. “Whatever,” he mumbled. “Can we make this quick? I have a meeting at my office in thirty minutes.”
She halted, her lips open, ready to demand, You have a meeting, tonight? But she stopped, the inquiry dying on her tongue. He’d sat down and was pinching the bridge of his nose as though he had a headache. She felt a rush of sympathy for him. If he’d had a meeting at six this morning, and had another one at seven this evening, he was putting in very long days. Instead of making her planned sharp remark, she went over to the coffeemaker and asked, “Would you like a cup?”
He glanced at her, his brows lifting in surprise. “If you don’t mind.”
“How about a couple of aspirin?”
“I’d kill for some,” he admitted quietly.
With trembly hands, she poured two mugs of coffee and returned to the table. From her purse she drew out a tin of aspirin, lifted the lid and held the container toward him. “No improvement with your program?” she asked, surprised that she was actually concerned.
“Not much.” He tipped back his head and downed the headache remedy without benefit of liquid.
She took a sip of coffee—it was strong, but revitalizing after the nerve
-racking day—and murmured against the cup’s rim, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He’d raised his mug halfway to his lips. “Sorry enough to give me a reprieve until spring?”
Her mood lurched from nervousness to dejection. “I’m not your jailer,” she said. “You know you can quit any time.”
Avoiding his face, she added, “You probably ought to know, Mr. Roxbury had another stroke last night.”
She heard Lucas’s raw curse and couldn’t help but peer at his expression. His features had darkened. “How bad?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Thankfully, not as bad as it could have been, but it set back his physical therapy.”
Lucas glared at his watch, then in a harsh voice, demanded, “What did you need to see me about? I can be five minutes late.”
She inhaled, feeling both grudging and grateful. Lucas’s concern for Mr. Roxbury had won out again—barely. Why does it have to take a man practically on his deathbed to get your attention! her mind raged, but she hid her feelings. Holding fast to her temper, she opened her briefcase and pulled out a typed list. “Okay, we don’t have to discuss all of this. I saw stables and what looked like a bunkhouse a ways back from the house. Do you have horses on the property?”
Again, his coffee cup halted halfway to his lips. “Horses? What would I do with horses? I don’t have time to drive a car, let alone ride a horse.”
She ignored the gibe with effort, jotting a note. “We’ll have to rent some for horseback riding. I’ll handle it, but you have to okay the funds, since you’ll be paying for them.” He took a swallow of coffee as she asked, “What about a hay wagon?”
“What about one?”
She peered up from her list. “Do you have one?”
“Did you see one in the garage?”
Trying to hide the sting his mockery caused, she made another note. “We’ll have to rent one of those, too.”
“What the hell for?” He sounded tired.
“The hayride. That’ll be the next-to-last day.” She tapped the pen against her upper lip. “What have I forgotten?”
“The stagecoach?” he suggested wearily. “Maybe five thousand longhorns for the cattle drive to Abilene?”
Without comment, she deposited her list in her briefcase, refusing to take the bait. “I’ll tend to the horse and wagon rentals first thing in the morning. I just needed your authorization.” Closing her case, she faced him, struggling to retain a pleasant, professional facade. “The kids and I and four volunteers will be here at ten.”
He took another swallow of his coffee. “Are we finished?”
She nodded. Then, recalling the vision of Lucas hunched down, talking to Jack in the living room, she had to add, “Just one thing.”
He’d started to stand, anticipating the end of the meeting, but sat back down, his expression forbidding. “Make it quick.”
She was antsy about asking, and couldn’t figure out why. Apparently some part of her wanted to think there was more to him that was human than his ability to feel physical pain. She’d seen a flash of something entirely charming when she’d embarrassed him out there on the lawn. Charming and unguarded, and worthwhile. He hadn’t quite smiled at her; still, she’d had the oddest feeling he’d wanted to, but had forced himself to remain stern. She’d felt it again when she’d seen him bend down to talk to Jack. She hoped she had, anyway….
Something warm and strong closed about her hand, and her glance fell to see long, male fingers covering hers. Her eyes widening with surprise, she stared up at him questioningly.
“Let me guess,” he said. “Either the British are coming or you’re sinking hard by the bow.”
“What?” she whispered. His fingers squeezing hers seemed to have scattered her wits.
He nodded toward her hand, still covered by his. “Your Morse code.” His penetrating eyes were on her, and his grimness seemed to have thawed slightly, “Jess,” he began. “Is it me, all men, or all adults who make you nervous?”
The room had grown warm. Hot, even. Her brain gave her hand strict instructions about removing itself from his, but nothing happened; her hand remained lightly captured, with no urge to be free.
With monumental effort, she hurriedly withdrew her hand and declared, “Don’t be silly. Why should I be afraid of you?” It sounded more convincing than she’d dared hope.
“I—I was just curious about something, and I wasn’t sure it was my business to ask.” That was true, but not as true as it might have been if she’d told him everything. About her fear of type As, for instance. But what was worse, was a truth she dared not even think about—how his sultry glance bothered her when he stared at her just so, or how his touch…
She swallowed, deciding it would be best not to dwell on that. “I—I was wondering what you said to Jack earlier. When he was sitting on the floor in your living room.”
Lucas’s brows came together, as though the question had come out of left field and wasn’t one he wanted to answer. “What I said?” He shrugged, looking impatient. “I don’t recall.”
She prodded, “When you squatted down beside him.”
His lids slipped down over his eyes, masking his thoughts. “I imagine you mean when I asked if he was okay.”
She felt a torrent of relief. How nice. “Yes, he was really overwhelmed about winning, wasn’t he? It was sweet of you to say something.”
“Sweet?” There was contempt in his tone.
She nodded, her smile faltering. “Of course. You noticed he was near tears and you cared enough to check on him. I think that’s sweet.”
He sat forward, placing his hands flat on the table. The move seemed vaguely ominous. “Damn it to hell,” he ground out. “Look, my little bleeding heart. Don’t make assumptions about me based on your Pollyanna view of the world. I wasn’t being sweet. I stepped on the kid’s hand, and I checked to make sure I hadn’t broken it.” He pushed up to stand. “Don’t make me out to be more than I am. I’m not Norman Roxbury, and I don’t intend to be,” he warned. “I live by one rule, and that is, Never Get Close Enough To Care. I don’t care about that kid or anybody else. Is that clear?”
His words were like ice water pitched in her face, and she sagged back, staring up at him in disbelief. “But-but you care about Mr. Roxbury.”
“I owe the man, damn it. And I’m paying him back. Period.”
“You’re lying.”
He scowled in cold fury. “Not everybody operates at gut level, Mrs. Glen. Some of us live by logic and reason.”
“Don’t forget greed and insensitivity!” she spat.
“Believe what you please.”
She stared at him, and he stared back. The strong lines of his handsome face were rigid and uncompromising. Finally she slumped back, defeated. She’d been wrong, after all. He was not a man capable of gentleness or compassion. For whatever reason, he chose to feel nothing, to care for no one.
Listlessly she checked her watch. “It looks like you’re going to be more than five minutes late, Mr. Brand. You’d better go.”
Anger and fatigue skulking in his eyes, he gave a curt nod of dismissal, and pivoted away. “Maxim will see you out,” he muttered.
“Don’t forget. Ten sharp,” she called, irritation swelling to overcome her depression. Darn it. Heart or no heart, he was going to fulfill his promise to Mr. Roxbury. At least she could see to that.
“I’ll check in when I can,” he said. “Tomorrow, I have a full work load.”
She heard the words, but couldn’t believe them. Suddenly, it was all too much. He’d gone one careless step too far. She shot to her feet. He may not have realized it, but Lucas Brand had just declared war, and the battle was on! “Damn you!” she sputtered, fighting tears. She was thunderstruck by the vehemence in her voice and the hollowness in her heart.
Though she was facing the window and couldn’t see him, she heard his clipped footsteps pause in the vicinity of the kitchen door. Apparently he was as surprised by her stormy oath as
she. From some distance away, he queried darkly, “Did you have something you wanted to add?”
Defying the censure in his tone, she spun on him. “Norman Roxbury has single-handedly headed up his Mr. Niceguy program for thirty-five years. This is the first time he’s had to hand over the reins to somebody else.” She found herself trudging toward him with half a mind to slap his arrogant face. “Compared to Norman Roxbury, you, Mr. Brand, are not Mr. Niceguy. You’re the flipping Prince of Darkness!” Shakily, she sucked in a breath, so livid she felt faint. “As far as I’m concerned, there is no more Mr. Niceguy! If you want the whole, ugly truth, you’ve been nothing to me but a gigantic pain!”
Backlit by the brighter illumination in the living room, Lucas stood rooted in the doorway, tall and broad, looking as sharply elegant as a knight-errant’s sword. “I’d say we’re even, as far as pain goes,” he ground out. “At least, for today.” With the arrogant confidence she was growing accustomed to, and was highly annoyed by, he sauntered away, a man in total control.
Jess found her own emotions in just the opposite state. She was trembling helplessly, her anger so acute, so intense she could barely see for the bloodred haze that blurred her vision. “Jackass,” she hissed as he turned and disappeared into the entry hall.
“I’ve fired people for less than that,” he called back.
Irked that he’d heard, she charged after him, rounding the corner to see his broad back. “Who? Your grandmother?”
He pivoted to face her, almost causing them to collide. “What did you say?” he asked, looking as though he’d heard every word, but was giving her a chance to recant before he hauled off and knocked her through one of the mirrored walls.
She swallowed, realizing she’d gone too far. You didn’t go around insulting a person’s gray-haired old grandmother. The fact that he’d made her furious was no excuse. “Well—” she hedged, her voice still pitched high with annoyance “—I’m sorry about that. But you make me so mad.”
