No More Mr. Nice - By Renee Roszel Page 0,21

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