The Man From her Wayward Past

by Susan Stephens

  Or with giving her gifts, Luke reflected as he climbed into his car.

  It was ironic to think that Lucia had always been the risk-taker while he considered every move. Events in London had changed them both for ever, turning the world as they knew it onto its head. It would be some time before Lucia could trust a man again, and he had been so sure his soulmate would be a soothing, peaceful, calming beauty—no drama, no temperament, no ruffles in the smooth waters of his life.

  When he reached the Grand his head was still full of Lucia. He stormed into his suite, took another shower and dried off. Dressing quickly, he told himself not to be so rash, and that work was the answer. Raking his damp hair impatiently, he crossed to the desk and tried to focus on a line of figures Lucia had asked him to look at. They blurred into her lovely face. Anger followed at the thought of the pain she had suffered when he hadn’t been there to stop it.

  With a violent curse, he slammed the lid down on his laptop. ‘Crazy!’ he exclaimed. She made him laugh. She made him lust. She made him throw up his hands in exasperation.

  He realised he hadn’t known a moment’s peace since his first day in St Oswalds, when he had spotted a wild and lovely young girl on the beach. He’d never seen anything like Lucia before. To him she had seemed like some exotic bird in comparison with the tame canaries back home. There hadn’t been a day since then when he hadn’t thought about her.

  Lucia’s family had been too busy with their own concerns to notice the tightrope she was walking, but he had.

  And now she didn’t need him. How did that feel?

  It stuck in his craw.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Get a wax

  Luke is right. I have to move on. No wonder he gave up and walked out on me. When did I turn into such a wuss? Picking up my old to-do list, I scoured it. Apart from more serious matters, what else have I been avoiding?

  Oh, yes.

  I drew a blank with the fast search company on the phone—maybe I wasn’t frank enough with the man on the other end of the line? Thankfully my chat with Grace from the club bore fruit. Not only will I not have to brave the chi-chi beauticians at the Grand and risk running into Luke, which would be embarrassing to say the least, but apparently there is a new place, a local place, a small and discreet place, tucked away in the backstreets of St Oswalds.

  And, bonus! If the stress of what I am about to do gets too much for me, the salon also offers massage by Britain’s strongest woman.

  Banker’s Bonus: I have managed to score their last appointment.

  THE lights were pink neon; the windows were obscured glass. The words ‘Power Massage’ plastered over a banner didn’t exactly instil confidence in a girl who believed in preserving her body by never using it. But she wasn’t here for a massage, Lucia reassured herself as she opened the door.

  ‘Veruschka will be with you in a moment,’ the receptionist in the well-packed white uniform purred, staring up through a fringe of false black lashes as if she could read Lucia’s fear and knew she was dreading it. ‘Veruschka is verrry good … verrry gentle …’

  Eek.

  The door to the back room creaked open.

  But it was only a really nice young girl, around Lucia’s age, with a high ponytail, hardly any make-up and a nice clean shirt and jeans.

  ‘Come this way, please,’ she said with a friendly smile.

  Oh, this wasn’t going to be at all bad. What on earth had she been worried about?

  Okay, so this might be a bit of a problem, Lucia conceded, holding up the paper thong when the girl had left her in the dressing room. Not that she hadn’t seen a thong before, but as the thin bit was at the back and the waxing wasn’t, which way round should she wear it?

  Never mind. They’d given her a gown, and that nice girl would soon put her right if she’d got it wrong. ‘Veruschka …? I’m ready …’

  ‘This way, please.’

  Had Veruschka turned into a man?

  That wasn’t a young girl’s voice, Lucia reasoned, hovering nervously behind the plastic curtain.

  She gasped as the curtain was ripped aside and a woman as tall as her brothers and at least as wide stood, beefy arms akimbo, waiting for her. ‘I am Veruschka,’ the Titan informed her.

  ‘I’m not here for a massage,’ Lucia explained in a shaking voice.

  ‘No,’ the woman said in basso profundo. ‘You are here for waxing.’

  ‘Correct.’ Dropping her shoulders, Lucia lifted her chin. Wasn’t this a rigmarole women the world over put up with? Was she less than the rest? Was she a wuss?

  Yes.

  She was lying prone and stiff on the hard, plastic-covered couch, just wondering how to broach the subject of the thong, when Veruschka turned.

  ‘We start with the moustache and then we move on to the big guns.’

  What?

  ‘Oh, good … Perhaps …’

  Too late. The pot, the Titan and the red-hot wax were on their way.

  The wax cooled rapidly. So far so good—though she hadn’t realised her moustache covered half her face before. And …

  Youch!

  Was it supposed to hurt so much?

  ‘Tell you what, Veruschka. Shall we leave it there?’

  She didn’t wait for an answer. By the time Veruschka thundered something in reply Lucia was already in the changing cubicle, tugging on her jeans.

  ‘Just take it,’ she said, thrusting money at the dazed receptionist. ‘No—no change. And definitely no vouchers for a return visit,’ she insisted, waving them away.

  Get a cool new wardrobe.

  It wasn’t all lose-lose. Now she had made a start on her to-do list another item followed swiftly on the heels of the wax. It was late-night shopping in town—the perfect opportunity to choose a couple of smart suits for when the guest house was finished and she was front of house. Being given free rein was quite a novelty after the black suit or black suit choice she had had in London. And she could put something fairly nice together without spending too much money if she shopped around …

  This was so ridiculous she couldn’t believe she was doing it—except it was something she felt compelled to do. It was almost dark and she was down on the beach, showing off her new outfits to her mother. She wanted her to see them. She was wearing one of her new suits—a smart, tailored navy blue number—teamed with a violet top underneath. One exclamation mark per outfit was enough, Lucia’s mother had always told her.

  The suit fitted Lucia like a glove. She had even had to go down a size. Not that she was back to her old self yet—far from it—but with high heels on she didn’t look half bad.

  ‘Just a minute,’ she said, teetering about as first one and then the other heel sank into the sand. ‘There,’ she murmured, imagining her mother watching her. ‘What do you think?’ she said, slowly turning in a circle.

  ‘I think you look amazing …’

  She nearly jumped out of her skin. ‘Luke!’

  ‘Who else were you talking to?’

  She laughed a little nervously. This wasn’t the time to admit she had been communing with her long-dead mother. ‘You really think so?’ she said, frowning. ‘You don’t think the violet top is too much?’

  ‘I think the colour combination is as unique as you, Lucia.’

  Was that good or bad? she wondered wryly. She took a chance. ‘I’m glad you approve.’

  ‘Do you need me to steady you?’ he asked, when she stood like a stork to take her shoes off.

  ‘You’ll never do that, Luke.’

  Humour flashed across his eyes. ‘It won’t stop me trying.’

  She rested one hand on the hard muscles of his upper arm. ‘How did you know I’d be here?’

  ‘Do you really need to ask that question?’

  Luke was right. They had always been in tune with each other’s thoughts. It was reassuring to know they still were—though not quite so reassuring to see the brooding look in his eyes, or to feel her body respond to it. Even she cou
ldn’t misinterpret the growing tension between them. And what if Luke wanted more than kisses?

  ‘So?’ she prompted brightly, shaking off her brush with apprehension. ‘Are you thirsty? Do you want to come back to the house and have a coffee or a beer?’

  ‘Lucia, stop babbling,’ Luke advised, ‘or you’ll have me thinking I make you nervous.’

  ‘As if,’ she scoffed.

  ‘Before I think about a drink,’ he said, turning serious, ‘I’ve drawn up some projected figures you should take a look at.’

  ‘Oh … how interesting.’ And now she felt flat, when surely she should be feeling relieved that Luke was only here to talk business rather than to make her confront more demons than she was ready for. ‘Business comes first,’ she agreed, starting up the packed sand path.

  ‘You never did tell me what you’re doing on the beach in a business suit, talking to yourself,’ Luke remarked casually, strolling alongside her.

  ‘That’s right, I didn’t,’ she said, playing his game as she hurried on.

  She was at the top of the cliff before she realised Luke wasn’t following her. He was still down on the beach, watching the last blood-red rays of the sun sizzling and finally going out on a charcoal horizon.

  The temperature had dropped suddenly, and a stiff wind was whipping his hair. He registered those things in some logical storage compartment in his mind while Lucia took up every other nook and cranny. How much time had they wasted?

  Storming up the cliff path, he stopped dead at the top, seeing the guest house was in darkness. Where had she gone instead? He looked around wildly. There, to the left, he could see a light flickering in one of the windows of the caravan.

  Jogging across the field, he stopped outside the door. There was a pause before anything happened, and then she finally wrenched the door open.

  She smiled crookedly at him.

  ‘You’ve been crying. Did you miss me?’ His lips tugged at this suggestion.

  ‘You’re so full of it,’ she said, but at least she was smiling again. ‘As it happens, I’m jealous because Margaret’s gorging herself on freshly churned butter and clotted cream with the farmer across the way. Are you coming in? Or do I have to stand here all night?’

  ‘I can see the lack of clotted cream is as good a reason as any for your tears. I don’t have any Cornish cream,’ he said, brushing past her as he entered the van, ‘but I can offer you some good, honest brawn, if that’s any good?’

  She gave him a look—eyes narrowed, chin up. ‘You’ll do, I suppose,’ she said, pressing back against the side of the van to let him pass. ‘You’re impossible,’ she murmured when he gave her a wry stare back.

  And she was … beautiful. Her face was blotchy from crying, but that only made him want to hold her and make things right for her. ‘So, come on, what’s wrong?’ he said briskly once the door was shut behind him.

  ‘There’s nothing’s wrong,’ she said, with a little too much heat.

  ‘I don’t buy that, Lucia.’

  She bit down on her bottom lip, and her eyes were stormy as she confronted him. ‘Okay, so I was missing my mother,’ she said angrily. ‘Are you satisfied now?’

  Reaching out, he brushed some tendrils of wayward hair from her face. ‘Your mother would be very proud of you.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘I know so. Margaret’s been wearing my ears out telling me how hard you work, how great your ideas are, what a flair you have for the hospitality industry and how she can’t think how she ever managed without you. Damn, this bed’s uncomfortable,’ he said, hunkering down on the edge of the narrow bunk. ‘How the hell do you sleep here?’

  ‘My room’s nearly ready at the guest house, and this guy I know sent me some excellent throws and pillows.’

  ‘Is this guy anyone I know?’

  Scooping up a pillow, she chucked it at him. ‘Does that help jog your memory?’

  ‘There’s only one thing that can help me.’ Reaching out, he took hold of her.

  Still laughing, she shook him off. ‘Let me go, you great oaf!’ She shrieked as he brought her crashing down on the bed at his side. ‘This isn’t the hay barn, and I’m not a child to be manhandled,’ she insisted—but without much heat.

  Feeling the soft cushion of her breasts beneath his arm, he thought he would happily vouch for that.

  ‘And if this is about that work you mentioned, I’ve clocked off.’

  ‘So have I,’ he assured her.

  ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t call this work,’ he said, taking in every adorable aspect of her face.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Sitting up, she looked at him comfortably sprawled on her bed. ‘Are you sure I’m not just work for you, Luke?’

  ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘I just have to look at your track record to date. You come. You go. You report back to my brothers, who tighten the reins until I squeak. Isn’t that how it goes? Or has your role in my life changed?’

  ‘My being here now has nothing at all to do with your brothers,’ he assured her.

  ‘Good, because when you see them you can tell them I’ve found something worth finishing, and I’m not going anywhere until I’ve done just that.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere, either.’ He dragged her close.

  ‘Luke, I—’

  ‘You talk too much.’ As he kissed her, he pushed the jacket down her arms and started on the buttons on her top.

  ‘If this is one of your jokes …’

  ‘This is not a joke, Lucia.’ Her skin felt like warm silk beneath his hands, but there was still space between them, as if they both had to be sure. More than sure, they had to be certain.

  ‘What are we doing?’ she whispered.

  ‘I’m making love to you.’

  ‘Can we still be friends?’ she asked, placing her hands flat against his chest in one final and not very convincing last-ditch attempt to hold him off.

  ‘We’ll probably argue more.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  He cut her off. Cupping her face in his hands, he kissed her tenderly and slowly. For a few seconds she resisted him, as if she didn’t want to take the risk of damaging their friendship. In that moment he wondered if he’d called it wrong. He had never been uncertain in his life before, but where Lucia was concerned he was all over the place.

  But just when he was about to pull back she softened against him and said, ‘Again …’

  ‘Why?’ he demanded, smiling against her mouth. ‘Did I get it wrong the first time?’

  ‘I won’t know until you kiss me again,’ she said.

  He dropped kisses on her mouth, teasing her, bringing her to a higher state of arousal, but he could sense that something still wasn’t right. ‘You know I’d never hurt you.’

  ‘I know that.’ She squirmed with embarrassment, and then turned her head so she didn’t have to look at him as she admitted in a voice he could barely hear, ‘There must be something wrong with me.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with you,’ he insisted. ‘Does this have something to do with London?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it, Luke.’

  A bolt of fury hit him as the man who had done more damage than he knew flashed into his head. He was determined to prove to Lucia that fear had no place in her life, but before he could do anything she caught him off guard. He could only describe it as some dark side of Lucia taking her over. Locking her hands behind his neck, she dragged him down to kiss him with a fire that astounded him.

  Seizing her wrists, he held her firmly beneath him, with her hands safely captured on the pillow above her head. He had never seen her like this, with her lips parted to suck in air, her eyes black with passion, but he needed no reminder that his reality did not include mindless sex with a woman he had loved since childhood.

  ‘Lucia.’ Having managed to free her hands, she had started tugging at his clothes. ‘Lucia, stop that!’ he said sharply.<
br />
  Bringing her hands down, he held her as her expression changed from furious passion to shock at what she’d done, and then to something that stabbed at his heart, until finally she turned her face into the pillow as if she had done something wrong.

  ‘Lucia, look at me,’ he said gently. Drawing her into his arms, he stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. ‘I only stopped you because it shouldn’t be like this. Not the first time. Not for you.’

  ‘But it isn’t the first time,’ she confessed, anguish at all her perceived faults making her voice break.

  ‘I’m talking about the first time with me,’ he said, his lips tugging wryly as he stared into her troubled eyes. ‘If you really think I’m that sort of judgemental jerk, what are you doing in my arms?’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone think I’m a party girl?’

  ‘Only those who can’t see through you as I can.’

  ‘I’m not like my mother, Luke.’

  She made it sound like some sort of monumental failure, which really shocked him. He had never realised Lucia’s insecurities cut so deep, or had such history.

  ‘My mother was a free spirit, and I so wanted to be like her. But when I try to do the things she did I just make a mess of everything.’

  ‘You don’t make a mess of anything,’ he argued tensely.

  Lucia’s mother had been more than a free spirit; she had been reckless. If Demelza Acosta hadn’t insisted on going back into the estancia to save some silly trinkets Lucia’s father wouldn’t have tried to save her and they would both be alive today. He would never tell Lucia what he knew about the flood, but she was so wrong to compare herself unfavourably with her mother. Lucia had far more common sense.

  He only realised now what coming back to Cornwall meant for both of them. It meant facing the truth—however unpalatable that truth might be.

  ‘That concierge made me feel as if I’d led him on,’ she said, pulling him back to the present with a jolt. ‘I keep re-running what happened through my head to see if he was right, if it was my fault …’

  ‘You’ve got to stop that right now,’ he insisted pulling her into his arms. ‘That man was sick. He was bad, Lucia. Look at me.’ He cupped her chin with his hand so he could stare deep into her troubled eyes. ‘What you’re thinking is impossible. You would never act like that. I know for certain, because I know you better than anyone. You cover everything with humour and a bold face, but inside you’re as tender as a—’