No More Mr. Nice - By Renee Roszel Page 0,14

mother,” he said, more to himself than to her. “This other boy, Jack, swears he can’t find much to be thankful about. But he ends his essay with, ‘I guess I’m thankful it doesn’t cost to breathe.’”

Lucas looked at Jess. Along with the displeasure in his eyes, she saw something else. Something not quite readable. “There’s anger in this boy’s essay,” he continued, “but underneath, there’s humor, and a depth that goes beyond any of these other papers.”

She saw his point but had to say, “He’s so bitter. He’s teetering on the edge of dropping out. A good seventy-five percent of these at-risk kids don’t make it through high school, as it is. Jack looks like a really chancy case at best.”

For a minute, Lucas didn’t speak, and Jess watched as a muscle twitched in his jaw. There was a stamp of stubbornness there, in the thrust of his chin, and a boldness in his black eyes. Yet he didn’t argue or snarl at her as she’d assumed he would; he merely shrugged. “You asked for my opinion, I gave it. My experience with troubled kids is—limited.” He paused. For a second, no more, his face seemed bleak. Almost before she’d registered the expression, he was wearing that unreadable mask again.

Jess sensed he’d been speaking of himself, and her heart went out to him, which astonished her. Avoiding the brush of his fingers, she took the essays back. She wouldn’t argue. It was a judgment call, and, he, after all, was Mr. Niceguy—at least for the next week.

“Okay, though I’m not sure I agree. It’s Jack,” she acknowledged without inflection. Stacking the pages, she deposited them in her briefcase before facing him again. When she did, his inspection of her seemed disapproving.

“What?” she asked, fairly sure what he had on his mind.

“You already read them.”

She nodded. “I’m your assistant. I’m helping you, remember?”

His brief, twisted grin was humorless. “Mrs. Glen, you’re going to have to look up that word. For your information, it doesn’t mean jerk around.”

“I’m sorry if you feel that way,” she retorted. Standing, she brushed at her slim suit skirt. “As you’ve repeatedly informed me, you’re a busy man. I won’t keep you any longer.”

He watched her rise, but said nothing.

“I’ll see you first thing in the morning.” She picked up her briefcase and faced him, trying to look pleasant. It was hard. Her nerves were in shreds.

“What, exactly, is ‘first thing’ to you?” he asked.

“I’ll be there at eight sharp, with volunteers to help get the place ready. The kids will arrive at ten.”

He nodded, then stood towering over her. “I’ll schedule my meeting for six and try to be back.”

Her eyes widened, and she felt a new prick of annoyance. Through a tired sigh, she said, “You just won’t give this one-hundred percent, will you?”

His gaze bore into hers for a long moment. Finally, and in a tone courteous but grim, he warned her, “Bottom line, Mrs. Glen—I can’t.”

THANKSGIVING MORNING, a truck arrived at the Brand residence with six big turkeys, a pile of pumpkins, boxes and bags of assorted vegetables, dry goods and utensils.

Instantly and with all the vivid fireworks of an erupting volcano, Lucas’s cook came down with a migraine headache that would have made Camille look like a happy little homemaker. Though Jess tried to assure her that the turkeys would be cooked outside on charcoal grills that had been delivered for that purpose, the thin, nasal woman flailed theatrically, then fumed off into the bowels of the house.

Jess hadn’t seen Lucas, but knew he must have made it back from his meeting. In the distance she heard the cook wailing that she was condemned along with the rest of his staff to endure “The Thanksgiving Dinner from Hell.”

Jess and her volunteers began moving sawhorses and planks into the large garage, emptied of luxury cars for the occasion by a good-natured chauffeur. Minutes later, she saw the cook barreling through the activity, packed suitcases clenched in both hands. It was clear that she was having nothing to do with the Thanksgiving invasion, and had thrown a fit and quit.

Uh-ohhh, Jess thought. This would be another thorn in Lucas’s side. She could see him now, somewhere in his vast house, cursing them for frightening away an employee. She wondered if any other members of his staff were packing up in a huff.

Around nine, as she was spreading paper tablecloths over the makeshift counters, in the garage, she spied Lucas. His tall, broad-shouldered form