No More Mr. Nice - By Renee Roszel Page 0,5

beautiful gossamer sight in the clear, Oklahoma sky. From that day, he never saw a swan without thinking of Norman Roxbury—the father he’d never had.

Forcibly shutting out the memory, he responded in a tone that brooked no opposition, “Norman, it’s like this—I’ll do it.”

Lucas frowned. Who the devil had said that? It had sounded a lot like his own voice, but it hadn’t sounded much like “no.” When he realized he’d just offered to take on the Mr. Niceguy project, he squeezed the arms of the chair so tightly he could hear the wood creak.

What had happened to his famous—no, his infamous—control and mastery over situations? God help me now, he fumed silently. He must be more exhausted than he’d thought to allow millions of dollars to go right down the toilet. He wouldn’t be surprised if his board of directors had him declared incompetent and booted him into the street! Not if he could help it, he vowed. Even though he’d stuck his foot into his mouth and made this idiotic promise, he damn well wouldn’t lose this deal!

His gaze roamed to the woman on the other side of the bed. She looked stunned. No doubt their expressions were mirror images of each other. Her fidgety, tapping sounds had stopped. The thump of her purse dropping from her lap and hitting her briefcase was all that broke the stillness.

Lucas cast his glance back at Norman Roxbury, the only person in the room who seemed completely serene. The old man simply continued to smile that gentle, benign smile.

2

Jess stood in the entrance hall of Lucas Brand’s home, shivering. Her parents would have loved this opulent place, but if she had her way, she’d run screaming in the opposite direction. Of course, she wouldn’t really. That would be childish, and she was a divorced woman of thirty. Her parents’ yearnings and pressures didn’t affect her now. Shouldn’t, anyway. They’d dragged her behind them in their single-minded lust for exactly this sort of pretension, showing her off along with their paintings and trendy furniture. Her parents’ pursuit of money had colored so much of her childhood.

As a result, she felt a grudging distaste for any exorbitant show of wealth.

Admittedly Lucas Brand’s house was beautiful, yet it exuded a frigid, intimidating elegance. There were no warm, fuzzy vibrations here.

Ahead was a wall of multipaned doors that opened onto a hallway. Beyond that was another set of glass doors that led outside. She was almost blinded by the glittering reflection of the setting sun on a lake just beyond the doors. The fiery glow of sun and water was the entryway’s saving grace, giving the house’s interior warmth and life. She decided not to credit that phenomenon to either the architect’s foresight or to Lucas Brand’s direction. She was sure it was merely a happy freak of nature, which she’d arrived in time to witness. The sight calmed her slightly, but not enough.

The butler who had answered her knock had disappeared through the first set of doors and rounded the corner a moment ago. Jess waited, trying not to lose her nerve. Being in Lucas Brand’s lake residence—a kind of streamlined plantation house—both awed and upset her, reminding her of old hurts and slights that set her teeth on edge. Her father would have killed to have had an estate like this. Ironically, he’d finally made some big money—though not quite to this degree. But the measure of wealth he now enjoyed was due to Lucas Brand.

Suppressing a surge of bitterness, she reminded herself that she was here as Mr. Roxbury’s employee, on Mr. Roxbury’s business. She needed to stay focused on that. Lucas didn’t know she was related to Clancy Ritter, the man from whom he’d bought a small software firm five years ago to absorb into his own. There was no need for him to know this, and she planned to keep her feelings to herself, for Mr. Roxbury’s sake, now that she was working with Lucas Brand. A despondent sigh escaped her at that miserable thought.

Nibbling her lower lip, she tried to regain her calm. She’d reread the chapter on “Keeping a Cool Head” in the self-help book she’d bought yesterday, in preparation for this meeting. The title—Managing Unmanageable People—had caught her eye. And she’d known Lucas Brand was the pigheaded breed the book dealt with—utterly aloof, utterly confident, with a will of granite and a heart to match.

Though she’d grown up with aggressive parents, she’d never been all that driven,