The Man From her Wayward Past

‘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.’