No More Mr. Nice - By Renee Roszel Page 0,63

mean, you being right here and all.”

A dark brow lifted sardonically. “I’ve seen you naked,” he reminded harshly. “You made sure of it. Remember?”

She floundered before the intensity of his look. “I—Well that was—”

“I know what it was,” he cut in, and went back to readying the fire. “And since we’re past having any sexual interest in each other, you should have no problem shedding wet clothes in front of me.”

She hestitated. “Of—of course,” she answered feebly, and scurried across the room. She wrapped the quilt from the bed around her and skinned out of her sopping clothes. Lucas didn’t turn in her direction as he added pieces of kindling to the fire, gradually coaxing it into a healthy blaze.

She perched on the bed, pulling her legs up to hug her knees beneath the quilt. Unable to help herself, she watched his profile. His thick black hair, lit by the flickering firelight, gleamed a rich mahogany. His square jaw was tense, and something like pain was etched into the grave lines of his face.

She felt suddenly restless, and got up. Remembering her discarded clothes, she swept the quilt about her, taking the clammy things to the fireplace to drape them from the stone mantel. The two photographs sitting there drew her attention, and she picked them up to move them into a better light.

Settling on the rag rug before the glowing hearth, she peered at the silver-framed images. One was an elderly woman, kindly looking, dressed in overalls and a man’s plaid shirt, her gray hair twisted into a bun atop her head. She looked careworn but lively, and there was something familiar about her eyes. The other photograph was of a small boy standing between a scroungy mutt and a swaybacked horse. The child was dark-headed, and had the most wonderful smile….

Her mouth dropped open in mute surprise. “Why, Lucas.” Holding up the boy’s picture, she said, “This is you, isn’t it?”

He’d stopped stoking the fire, and was just sitting there beside her, watching, apparently dreading the question. A muscle worked in his jaw, as he nodded. “In another life.”

She frowned at his sad response, holding out the photo of the woman. “Who’s this?”

Clearly impatient, he grabbed the pictures and stood to replace them. “I’ll go tell your mother to gather some dry clothes when the hayride’s over. Then I’ll—” He dragged a hand through his hair. There was frustration in his gruff voice—the same frustration that had settled in the depths of his eyes. Unexpectedly, he turned away and strode toward the door. “Somebody will bring you your clothes and get you home.” Before she could object or even register that he was leaving her there, alone, he was gone. The only sound was the echo of the slamming door.

Jess tried to rest as she waited, but couldn’t. She wandered restlessly about the cottage, haunted by the memory of Lucas’s troubled face. She was forced to finally admit to herself that she cared about Lucas. Since it was clear he didn’t plan to tell her about his past, she felt compelled to search through the cabin’s meager contents. She desperately needed to know everything she could about him.

As she rummaged in drawers and cabinets, she carried with her the two framed pictures. She didn’t find much. Dishes, pots and pans, an old metal jewel box with a few trinkets inside. The thing that drew her interest in the box was a folded, hand-drawn Valentine inscribed with the childishly scrawled message, “I love you, Grandma Jane.” The signature had read, simply, “Lucas.”

There was also a faded snapshot of a man and woman. The man bore a striking resemblance to Lucas. Jess guessed that these were his parents, in happier times, before addiction to drugs had ruined their lives.

From these skimpy keepsakes, she gleaned a great deal about how Lucas had become the man he was. It seemed he’d lost everyone he’d ever loved, one way or another. As a small child, he must have felt utterly abandoned, first by his parents’ desertion, then by his grandmother’s death.

He’d mentioned he’d been married once. Jess had a feeling his marriage had come at a time when he was beginning to heal, to reach out. When it ended, he’d simply closed himself off entirely. A tear trailed down her cheek. She brushed it away, closed the box and replaced it in the dresser beside the bed.

So, this was the reason Lucas Brand tried so not to care for people. He feared abandonment