No More Mr. Nice

by Renee Roszel

  She heard the door close and realized Lucas hadn’t heard her grief-stricken entreaty. But did it really matter? Deep down inside, she knew the answer. She’d sensed it in his kiss, seen it in his tormented face. Lucas had felt affection for her tonight—possibly even love—and he hadn’t been able to cope with it.

  She knew now how utterly useless it was to harbor hopes for a life with him. He’d chosen to exist in a cold meticulous world that had no place for emotional attachments or imperfection. She had no recourse, no argument. She huddled on the bed, shivering, her body still moist and tingling from his loving, wishing she could go back to believing him cold and heartless.

  Aching with sorrow, she understood him now, understood his demons, and knew she loved him, in spite of the fact that he would never allow himself to love her. A heartbroken sob escaped her throat. Surely she must be the world’s biggest fool!

  THE RETREAT ENDED ON a decidedly sour note. The last of the activities, a barn dance, went off without a hitch, but Jess’s head ached so badly she could hardly be civil. Needless to say, Lucas’s riveting presence didn’t help much. Yet, somehow, they both made it through the evening with pasted-on smiles. She gave her Work Hard and Succeed speech, and Lucas made a few unexpectedly charming goodbye remarks.

  Amid the final hugs and parting tears, Lucas surreptitiously passed Moses a package. Jess was confused at first, then realized he hadn’t forgotten his Mr. Prick promise, and had given the boy some condoms. She was surprised he’d remembered, and the act touched her.

  She was surprised again, minutes later, when several of the teens gave him small parting gifts they’d made while on the retreat. Jess watched, saddened. The kids had grown quite fond of their substitute Mr. Niceguy. Unfortunately—so had she.

  His face clouded at being singled out for tribute, and Jess sensed he was feeling more embarrassment than he displayed. He accepted the offerings in a low detached voice. Considering his philosophy of noninvolvement, he would certainly back away from any growing fondness for the kids, just as he’d backed away from his feelings for her. Indignantly, she wondered how long it would be before the humble, heartfelt tokens ended up in Lucas’s trash.

  She glimpsed him as he headed from the barn toward the house. He’d said nothing to her. No goodbye. No smile. Not even a scornful nod of good riddance. He’d simply walked off and disappeared into the darkness.

  A rectangle of golden light appeared in the distance—the broad, black silhouette of Lucas’s familiar torso, signaling the fact that he was entering his mansion. As the door closed, extinguishing the glow framed within it, Howie started the van. More depressed than she’d ever been in her life, Jess sank low in her seat, rubbing her pounding temples. She winced as the vehicle lurched forward.

  “MR. BRAND,” LUCAS’S secretary called loudly near his ear.

  Surprised that he hadn’t heard her before she’d had to resort to shouting, he swiveled around from his discussion with Sol and Fletch. “What is it, Debbie?” he asked. “If it’s Takahashi again, tell him we can make the meeting in Tokyo on Friday.”

  “Yeah,” piped in Fletch, a big smile on his weary, freckled face. “Finally the glove responds, and we’re one-hundred-percent on track. With only Mega-Tech left in the running, I can almost smell that contract.”

  Sol, who’d been wearing the head-mounted display and working the glove, took the equipment off, started to stand, stuttered something, then slid off the chair onto the carpet.

  Lucas, Debbie and Fletch stopped their conversation and stared at the chubby man, crumpled in a heap at their feet. “He looks a little flushed,” Fletch said, more to himself than anyone.

  “Hell, he looks dead,” Lucas muttered, stooping to check his friend’s pulse. “Sol, what is it?” The fallen man blinked as Lucas felt his face. “Damn, you’re burning up.”

  “I’ll call an ambulance,” Debbie cried, rushing from the room.

  “Could be that new flu,” Fletch put in. “Sol’s been working pretty hard. Probably let his resistance get low.”

  Lucas frowned. “I’m surprised we’re not all dead. Let’s get him over to the couch.” He raised Sol up so his friend could lean heavily against him. “Can you walk, or do you want me to carry you?”

  Sol groaned, stumbling. “I’m fine—just a little tired….”

  “Blast it, man,” Lucas ground out as he and Fletch half dragged Sol to the couch situated behind the computer equipment. “People who’ve been hit by trains look healthier than you.”

  As Sol collapsed on the sofa, Debbie hurried back in, looking more upset than Lucas had ever seen her. “Ambulance is on the way,” she reported, her expression stark with concern. “And—Mr. Brand, there was another call for you, a young lady—Miss Ann Smith-”

  “I don’t know any Ann Smith,” he interrupted, preoccupied with his friend’s condition.

  Debbie nodded, turned to leave, then stopped and added, “It’s only that she asked for Mr. Niceguy, sir. But I’ll tell her you’re busy.”

  Lucas had knelt beside Sol to find out if he was breathing regularly. But something Debbie had said nagged at his brain. Ann Smith? Mr. Niceguy? “Annie?” he intoned, thinking aloud.

  JESS PEEKED INTO THE children’s hospital ward. It had been four days since the retreat ended, and she’d never expected that the next time she saw the kids, they’d be crowded around a hospital bed, and sweet, shy Molly Roberts would be lying in it with a broken leg. Molly’s bed was the one nearest the door in the ten-bed ward. Only four beds were occupied. Jess was glad Molly had friends around her, considering that her foster-home situation was far from ideal. It appeared the kids from the retreat had bonded into an extended family.

  “Hi, Mrs. Glen,” Annie called in a loud whisper. “Join the party.”

  Jack was there, a bit apart, as usual, but not quite frowning. “Hi, everybody.” She checked her watch. Four-thirty. “What did you all do, come here right after school?”

  Moses said, “No sweat. Bus stops in front. But man, this place freaks me out. Too many sickos.”

  Jess laughed, turning to Molly. In the hospital bed, with her cast raised up in a pulley contraption, the young girl appeared thinner, more fragile. “Annie told me you took a header down the school steps,” she said with a sympathetic smile.

  Molly’s big, gentle eyes looked sheepish. “It was dumb. I dropped my glasses and—” she shrugged “—I was trying to grab them before they broke and didn’t watch where I was going. But the school was great, and they’re paying for all this—” she swept a thin arm about “—and they’re fixing my glasses.”

  “That’s fine.” Jess felt a sad tug at her heart and came over to perch on the bed. She noticed the cast held the kid’s autographs. “May I sign?” she asked, indicating the marking pen sitting on the bedside table.

  “Oh, sure.” Molly smiled cheerfully.

  A large bouquet of flowers also sat on the table beside the bed. Jess had noticed them when she first came in—a big bouquet of miniature pink rosebuds and tiny cream-colored carnations amid a delicate cloud of baby’s breath. The arrangment was perfect for a young girl like Molly. One expected to see flowers in a hospital room, of course. This arrangement, Jess realized, must have cost at least one hundred dollars. Far out of the range of Molly’s friends.

  She touched a diminutive rose. “Where did these come from?

  “Mr. Niceguy,” Molly whispered. “He brought them himself.”

  “Oh, that’s lov—” Jess halted, her eyes widening in confusion. “Mr. Who?”

  Molly was looking at the bouquet now, her plain features animated with happiness. She reached for an envelope and handed it to Jess. “Look at this.”

  Jess fished out ten small pieces of cardboard, then realized they were tickets. She scanned them, reading aloud, “‘Taylor Swift Concert. December fifteenth. Oklahoma City Pavilion.’” Her words died away as she looked up at Molly. “These are impossible to get. And they’re right down front,” she murmured,
more to herself than anyone. “Where did these come from?”

  “Mr. Niceguy brought them,” she repeated softly. “He told me to make sure everybody from the retreat got one.” She relaxed back against her pillows with a dreamy expression. “I’m going to get better really fast, now. Taylor Swift is so cool.”

  “She’s thick, man,” Moses added with a leer.

  Jess glanced at him, feeling woozy from the mere possibility that Lucas Brand had not only managed to get tickets—which must have cost him a fortune from some scalper—but he’d delivered them himself. And flowers, too? She scanned Moses’s face, trying to keep her mind on track. “Thick? I presume that no longer means stupid?”

  Moses chortled. “You pre-zoom straight.”

  “It means she has a good body,” Annie explained, sounding irritated. She gave Moses a sharp crack in the ribs with her elbow. “You are so annoying, jerk-face.” She said it with a flirtatious smile, and everybody laughed.

  There was a throat-clearing from the door, and Jess turned to see Jerry, Lucas’s chauffeur. “Say, Jack, dude!” he called with a grin. “Gotta go.”

  Jack, who had been sitting quietly behind the main group, stood and nodded at Molly. “Check you later,” he offered, with the beginnings of a surprisingly charming smile.

  Molly smiled back and blushed. “Give Moron a hug for me.”

  Spitball, who’d been eating what looked like leftover pudding from Molly’s lunch, set the empty bowl aside and kidded, “If that mutt stinks like usual, he’ll have to give him a tomato juice shower first. Peeeuuuu!”

  “Hi there, Ms. Glen,” Jerry said with a wave when he noticed her.

  She smiled and waved back, feeling confused. Once Jack and Jerry were gone, she asked, “Where are they going?”

  “Oh,” Annie said, “Mr. Niceguy hired Jack to come out and do chores, and take care of Moron—like clean him up when he comes home stinking. Jack goes out there every day after school, does his homework and a few other things around the place, eats dinner, then Jerry takes him home.” She leaned back in her straight chair and glanced furtively at Moses. “See, Jack wants to keep Moron, but the apartment building where he lives won’t allow pets, so Mr. Niceguy’s letting him sorta keep Moron this way. That Mr. Niceguy is totally awesome.” She added proudly, “I’m the one who called him and told him about Molly being in the hospital, and we talked about a bunch of stuff.”

  Jess stared. “You did?”

  “Yeah. First time, he had to call me back, but he’s major cool.” She gave Moses a coquettish look and added mischievously, “And a total stud.”

  Moses snorted and rolled his eyes, and Jess detected the touch of jealousy she was sure Annie had been hoping for.

  After that, she lost track of the conversation. The image of Lucas as a “total stud” was too upsetting, considering their fiery sexual past. She tried to think about other things—like the things Lucas had been doing for the kids. Was this the same man she’d met just two weeks ago? It hardly seemed so. Unable to control her unhappiness, her soul cried out to him, knowing even as she did, that it was hopeless. But why, oh, why, couldn’t his softening extend to his feelings for her?

  She supposed she knew the answer. A few tickets, flowers and an after-school job were a far cry from committing to marriage and a family. Lucas had obviously come a long way in two weeks, but he would never allow himself to fill the emptiness in her heart with a vow of love.

  Over the past four days, she hadn’t for one minute been able to put Lucas’s face from her mind—especially as it was that last time she’d seen him, with that haunted expression when he’d left her at his cottage. Why did she have to love a man who couldn’t allow himself to care for people? Overwhelmed by a sense of desolation, she swallowed back a sob.

  “Mrs. Glen?” Spitball asked loudly, obviously trying to get her attention. “What?” she squeaked, then cleared her throat. “Yes, Spitball?”

  He indicated the pudding bowl. “You think they have any more of that brown stuff? It’s funky.”

  Moses grunted. “Hey, man, you come here to see Molly or starve her skinny butt to death?”

  They all laughed and jostled Spitball, who reddened and grinned sheepishly. Jess struggled to concentrate on the kids’ jabbering about what was happening in school and their excitement over the upcoming Taylor Swift concert. She tried to put the elusive Lucas Brand from her mind, and failed, dismally.

  LUCAS SAT IN THE BACK of his limo on the way to the airport, going over some last minute notes. His corporate jet was leaving for Tokyo in thirty minutes. He hadn’t expected to make the trip alone, but Sol was still in the hospital, recovering from flu and exhaustion, and Fletch was on a second honeymoon at the insistence of his wife, who’d hysterically demanded either he go away with her for two solid weeks or she was gone!

  Lucas hadn’t minded giving Fletch the time off. They all needed a rest. Besides, he didn’t relish ruining a friend’s marriage. He’d ruined his own—at least that’s what his wife had said.

  Long ago he’d purposely cast off all involvements. He’d never wanted to deal with the pain of loss again. The last time he’d gotten emotionally involved was when he’d married Karen. She was nineteen and he was twenty. They were both in college, and were happy for a year—until Lucas discovered she was into hard drugs. He’d thought he was doing the right thing when he’d intervened and had taken her, kicking and screaming to get treatment. He’d cared, dammit. He’d loved her, and had done everything in his power to help.

  Having seen what drugs had done to his parents, he’d tried to save his young wife from the same fate. But, had she thanked him? No. Instead of running into his arms after she’d gotten out of the hospital, she’d divorced him. He’d been devastated, had tried to talk to her for two years, but no. She’d have none of it. None of him. Then, three years later, he’d heard she’d died of an overdose.

  Lucas tried to refocus on his work, but as he’d found so many times over the past six days, it was impossible. Jess’s face kept appearing before him. Damn her. Damn her lovely, animated eyes. Damn her honest, sympathetic heart, her entangling personality. Her effect on him was undeniable. He admitted that. But aside from wanting her, aching for the silken feel of her body, the taste of her lips, moist and hungry against his, had he ever done anything so stupid as fall for her?

  “Dammit, no!” he muttered with angry emphasis. More forcefully than necessary he pressed a switch that opened the window between his chauffeur and the large passenger area. “Jerry,” he barked. “We could make better time if you avoid the construction coming up on—” He halted midsentence, his chauffeur’s squawking police scanner catching his attention. “Did they just say a Mamie Ritter had been missing for over thirty-six hours?”

  “Huh?” Jerry asked, angling the stretch limo into heavy traffic. “What, sir? I—”

  “Quiet!” Lucas sat forward, and strained to listen. The dispatcher was relaying that a woman in her fifties by the name of Mamie Ritter, of Jess’s mother’s description, had been missing since yesterday morning. Lucas scanned the cityscape with apprehension. Snow was coming down hard, driven by an icy wind, making visibility poor, and the forecast called for five to six inches before nightfall.

  He could see Jess now. Distraught, but trying to be brave. “Hell,” he growled between clenched teeth. He had to be in Tokyo tonight. The multi-million-dollar deal rested on his shoulders. Stockholders were depending on him. The board of directors was foaming at the mouth, making dire threats if he didn’t get this contract. There was no way Fletch could be reached, no one who could go to Tokyo in his place. Besides, he told himself sternly, Mamie Ritter was not his concern.

  The rationalization tasted bitter in his throat. He hadn’t realized until this moment what a powerful hold Jess had on his feelings. He was suddenly contemplating tossing away everything he’d worked so hard for, to look for a demented woman who was probably renting a room at the best hotel in town registered as Mamie Eisenh
ower. She was most likely just fine. The intelligent plan would be to go back to his notes, fly to Tokyo, make his presentation, and continue being the successful, solitary millionaire he’d worked so hard to become.

  He exhaled a low oath. Ever since that instant in the cabin with Jess, when he’d realized… Well, he’d panicked and run. He hadn’t stopped running for nearly a week since he’d last seen her, and he was still running. Soon he would be half a world away.

  He was furious with himself for allowing his emotions to manipulate him like this—to even give a thought to Jess and her problems. He’d believed he was beyond caring and the pain it could cause, and he was angry to discover he wasn’t. Why had Norman tossed Jess Glen into his well-oiled life so she could throw it out of kilter? “Damn woman,” he grumbled, and leaned forward to ask Jerry, “What kind of time are we making?”

  “Fine, sir. Snow’s not too bad, yet. We’ll get to the airport with no problem.”

  Lucas could hear the dejection in his driver’s voice. Jerry liked Mamie, and it was clear he wasn’t pleased by the idea of the poor woman out wandering aimlessly in subfreezing weather.

  The afternoon light was dying, with the sun buried alive behind the swirling early-December snow. Lucas gave his watch a harried glance, feeling vacant and spent. Fatigue seeped from every pore. He’d be able to sleep on the plane, he thought. It was damn overdue.

  The elegant limo slithered through the snow and downtown traffic, toward the highway that would take Lucas to the airport and away from any risk of involvement with Jess Glen or her troubles. Good riddance, he swore, mentally.

  He scanned the buildings as they rushed by. Concrete and glass, drab and inhospitable, even when softened by the veil of eddying snowflakes. Never before had he seen his high-rise world with that jaundiced eye. Maybe what Jess had said out there in the woods was true. Maybe, he had changed. One thing he knew: The excitement had gone out of his work. He frowned, at the notion. His work was his life, his passion. Nothing has changed, he told himself sharply. Running a distracted hand through his hair, he slouched back in his seat and called out, “Jerry. Pull over.”