by Renee Roszel
Sitting alone, Lucas viewed the noisy turmoil with bitter melancholy. As far as work went, the day had been an utter waste. Fletch and Sol were at the office, and had called him a half dozen times to confer. Jess had eyed him darkly each time he’d grabbed up his cell to discuss the latest Takahashi problem.
If that hadn’t been enough, memories of the Mr. Niceguy Thanksgiving Dinner he’d attended long ago resurfaced to plague him. It was a part of his life he’d tried to forget, but Mr. Roxbury and his bothersome assistant were dredging it up again, and remembering was painful.
Both as a boy and a young man, he’d felt deeply—maybe too deeply for his own good. He’d suffered several traumatic losses—first his parents, then his grandmother and finally his wife. Over the past fifteen years he’d programmed himself, like one of his computers, to feel nothing, to need no one, and he didn’t like this tug of long-buried emotions he was feeling today.
A shout drew his attention to the makeshift game of touch football that was going on not far away. Jess was playing quarterback, and not for the first time that day, he eyed her thoughtfully. She seemed more secure than he’d ever seen her, obviously in her element with the kids. She was also the worst quarterback he’d ever seen. Strange. The boys and girls on her team didn’t seem to mind her fumbles and wild throws. They laughed, having a good time, even knowing they were losing.
Lucas had never been able to abide losing. Not even a simple game. He watched her fumble another toss, feeling an odd envy for people who could let themselves go the way she did around these kids. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d relaxed and laughed out loud. Over the years, he’d trained himself to be self-contained, and to concentrate on work, and he was proud of his rationality and sense of purpose.
He supposed he was too much like the ant and not enough like the grasshopper for some people’s tastes. Mrs. Jess Glen’s, for instance. He grunted with resentment. Who was she to find fault, being the world’s worst football player?
Glancing around, he spotted Jack, the boy whose essay he’d chosen as the best. The teenager was slouched under another oak not far away, his features glum. He’d acted exactly like Jack at that long-ago Thanksgiving dinner—aloof and unfriendly, feeling out of place and angry, with no control over his life.
His grandmother had been dead two years when he’d come to the Mr. Niceguy dinner. Grandma Jane had been the only stability he could remember in his young life, his parents having deserted him when he was five. After his grandmother’s death, he’d been shuffled around from one dismal foster home to another, where nobody cared if he stayed or ran away. So, he invariably ran.
He hadn’t known why he’d bothered to write his essay that day so long ago. Maybe deep inside him there’d been a dim glimmer of hope that things could get better. He’d figured out that nobody was going to do anything for him. So, if he was ever to have anything, he’d need to take control of his world and keep a stranglehold on it. Fearing that it might be his last chance, he’d written the thing, pouring his heart and his anger onto those pages.
Glancing back at Jack, Lucas recalled when Mr. Roxbury had walked up to the tree under which he’d been sitting that day, very much the way Jack was today—glowering, cursing everybody and everything. Roxbury had sat down and offered Lucas a cup of hot cocoa, saying, “You wrote the best essay of the bunch, my boy. I have a feeling there won’t be any stopping you in this world.”
Lucas winced at the memory. His fingers were laced together, his elbows resting on his knees. He stared at his hands for a long, pensive moment. Why was he thinking about that damned cocoa, now?
He recalled what he’d thought when Norman had brought the cup to him, and he’d caught a whiff of it. He hadn’t had cocoa since before his grandmother’s death. The familiar smell had wrenched at his heart. Upset, he’d sneered at the idea of accepting a cup of hot cocoa—mumbled something about it being for sissies and babies. Acting tough, he’d turned his back, too angry, hurt and mistrustful to be civil.
Still, at that moment, Lucas’s life had changed. He’d sensed it even then. Lucas had a feeling Roxbury had known it, too, for as he rose to leave, he’d touched Lucas’s shoulder. “You’ve been in a dark cage, my boy,” he’d said. “I’m handing you a key, because you’ve got the brains and the nerve to unlock that iron door.” He’d patted again, encouraging, “I’ll be proud to watch when you step into the sunshine.”
Eyes narrowed, Lucas studied Jack. He looked closed, resentful, sullen. If Norman were here, that kid would be facing a steaming cup of cocoa right now, along with a gentle smile and a pat on the shoulder. After all, Jack’s was the best essay. The boy didn’t know it yet, but he was going to win one of the ten coveted spots on the retreat and, what was probably even more reward as far as the kids were concerned, get to miss a week of school.
Lucas knew he should go over there to say something positive to the boy. But, hell, he wasn’t Norman. What could he say that wouldn’t sound fake and forced? Hey, kid, you wrote a good essay. You’ve got a shot at not becoming an ax murderer. Have some cocoa…
He closed his eyes. It sounded stupid, even to him. What would a street-smart, twenty-first century, borderline juvenile-delinquent do with cocoa?
But that kid was his responsibility, today. For all it was worth, he was Mr. Niceguy. Maybe he ought to—
His cellular phone trilled and he jerked it from his jeans hip pocket. Saved by the bell. All business now, he barked, “Brand, here.” His jaw clenched. Sol was off on another whining, it-can’t-be-done tangent. Lucas cut in impatiently, “Sol, we don’t have time for negative crap. Try this. KW equals VR-to-the-fourth-power minus S—” He was interrupted when Sol misunderstood what he’d said. “No, not F. S as in—” Something thumped solidly against his boot. He heard a shriek and felt someone land like an explosion of TNT in his lap. The agony of being hit hard in his groin was so intense, he barely noticed as a football glanced off his forehead and wobbled away along the ground.
“Shit!” he ground out, pain shooting through his body like red-hot buckshot, transforming him into a bent-over cripple. Though the phone was no longer at his ear, he could hear Sol’s startled inquiry. Lucas brought the phone back up, rasping through clenched teeth, “Yes, S as in shit. I’ll call you back.” He clicked off and dropped the phone to the dry grass, hoping for a quick death.
The human missile that had caused his injury was righting herself. A part of his brain that was still minimally functioning registered that it was Jess Glen. She groaned, squinted around, then seemed to realize who and what had broken her fall. Her cheeks, already pinkened from the game, quickly darkened to a flaming cherry when she noticed she was cradled in Lucas’s lap. Sliding to the grass, she mumbled, “Oh, I—I’m sorry. I was going after a long one.”
Her flinch told Lucas she knew her remark had come out sounding lewd, considering the part of his anatomy she’d collided with. She stuttered on, “Ball—that is…” She bit her lip. “I meant, foot—”
Because speech was difficult for him at the moment, he clutched her arm to stop her babbling. It worked. She went immediately mute, her eyes wide and fretful.
“Forget it,” he finally managed, hoarsely. “I’d planned on having myself gelded for Christmas, anyway.”
Her concerned expression eased slightly at his quip. “Are you—going to be okay? Should I call a doctor. Maybe get some ice?”
“Hell,” he muttered, wishing she’d get off it. “Have you ever seen a man with an ice pack on his…” He let the remark die, jerking his head toward the youngsters who’d gathered around. “Drop it before they start calling me Mr. Nice-Eunuch.”
“You sure?” she asked, hesitant, but a faint light had begun to twinkle in her eyes. “I could help you to the house, or something.”
“I said, drop it.” He released her shoulder. “Men don’t die from this. Now, go.”
She started to stand, then turned back, lips twitching. “This probably isn’t the best time, but
we need to start gathering the kids for the awards ceremony.” Strangled laughter bubbled in her throat and she cleared it, straightening her face. “I’m sorry.”
“You must love a good plane crash.”
“Forgive me, but your ‘Mr. Nice-Eunuch’ remark struck me funny.”
He continued to frown at her, but his rancor had dissipated. That puzzled him, considering his lower gut felt as if it had been slammed by a wrecking ball. “Pain brings out the Jerry Seinfeld in me, I guess.”
She sat back, and with a tentative half grin, suggested, “Maybe you should be in pain more often.”
“I expect you’ll see to that.”
“All in the spirit of giving.” Her expression softened into an actual smile, unforced, even slightly friendly. “When do you think you’ll be able to—er—be mobile?”
“Give me five minutes.”
Nodding, she pushed up to stand.
As she walked away, Lucas let out a heavy breath, waiting out the throbbing in his groin. He decided that for all her pushy, puritanical faults, Jess Glen had a fair bedside manner. Too bad she had that liberal, bleeding-heart mentality—the type that lived for a good cause. She probably ran her life flying off on one emotional tangent or another, a bundle of feelings refusing to be reasoned with.
People probably couldn’t be significant in her life unless they were needy or in pain. She’d only really smiled at him when he’d been hurt. Leaning back against the rough tree bark, he found himself reflecting idly that any man who got Mrs. Heart-On-Her-Sleeve Jess Glen into bed no doubt had to bash himself in the head with a tire iron and lapse into unconsciousness, first. Lucas chuckled at his train of thought. What did he care what turned that woman on?
After a minute or two, he noticed Jack, still sitting under the tree. The boy was staring at Lucas and smirking. The way to that damned kid’s funny bone was through debilitating injury, it appeared. As the stinging in his gut ebbed, Lucas muttered under his breath, “Keep it up, little Mr. Marquis de Sade, and you’ll get force-fed a mug of cocoa.”
THE SUN WAS SETTING and the evening had brought with it a brisk north wind, so it was decided the announcement of the essay winners should be held inside. The kids were ushered into Lucas’s great room. While that was going on, the band of volunteers, Mr. Niceguy recipients of years past, or spouses of recipients, were whisking the kitchen and garage clean.
Jess and Lucas, being in charge of the awards, were inside with the kids. The stand-in Mr. Niceguy stood before the window-wall, talking on his cellular phone. Behind him, the glowing sky tinted the room’s white walls and ceiling a soft magenta. The kids, in awe of both the opulence of the house and the grandeur of the sunset, had grown quiet.
Jess helped usher stragglers to empty spots on the carpet—even Lucas’s huge living room, containing two eight-foot couches, twelve dining chairs, a wide brick hearth and various other scattered seating arrangements, couldn’t accommodate forty-three fourteen-year-olds.
As she was trying to coax Jack out of his sullen stance near the kitchen door, Jess risked a glance at her host, clad in faded stone-washed denims. He was finally off the phone, and was leaning against one of the glass-paned doors that led to the terrace.
Shed of attire more suited to his high-powered business persona, Lucas exuded a virility that was hard to ignore. She knew exactly how hard, for she’d been working at it all day. Scanning those close-fitting jeans, Jess was highly suspicious that they’d ever belonged to the chauffeur. The way they molded to Lucas’s hips and thighs was obscene. The chauffeur was scrawnier, bonier. He could never have faded those stress points in such a shamelessly sexy way.
Against her better judgment, she continued to peruse Lucas. He was wearing scuffed, black cowboy boots and a heavy gray turtleneck that accentuated his dark good-looks. She sighed. What a shame such a wickedly handsome exterior was wasted on this cold-blooded man. She reluctantly admitted that he didn’t look the slightest bit cold-blooded, right now. Neither did he look like a computer genius who spent his days crouched over microscopic chips and wires. No. This minute, Lucas Brand held all the allure of an Oklahoma broncobuster—a bold cowboy who lived and loved by the seat of his pants, not a coldly calculating executive whose only passions were raw data printouts and stock-market reports.
It was funny how clothes could transform a person. She found herself hoping those really were his jeans, and that every so often he let himself be recklessly human. He’d certainly confirmed he was human, at least as far as being capable of feeling physical pain. Why, he’d almost been vulnerable, and for a few crazy seconds she’d actually liked the guy.
Her cheeks burned from the memory of crashing into his lap. She bit her lip, guiltily recalling the pleasant hardness of his thighs, the mellow scent of his breath against her cheek and—
Lucas shifted his glance, catching her in the act of studying him. She swallowed, spinning away. “Come on, Jack,” she coaxed, oddly breathless. “There’s a spot up front, next to the coffee table.”
He screwed up his mouth in a frown. “Naw.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” she rebuked with a weak laugh and a shake of her head. “Give a girl a break, will ya?” She took his hand and tugged. “If anybody bites you, I’ll sock ’em. Okay?”
He looked her up and down, clearly doubtful that she could do much protecting. “You and who else?” he asked, sounding bored.
“Me and that big dude in the turtleneck sweater.” It surprised her that she was giving Lucas any credit for being interested in the well-being of these kids—a man who cared squat about anything but money.
“I don’t think he likes me much,” Jack bellyached, eyeing Lucas with uncertainty.
She tugged the boy along. “Are you kidding? He’s crazier about you than I am.” That was the truth. Jess doubted Jack’s ability to stick with high school, his attitude being so sulky, but Lucas’s decision was final. “Come on. Let’s get this show on the road.”
Once all the kids were seated, she joined their host at the front of the room. “You want to do this?” she asked him in a low aside.
With narrowed eyes, he said, “Take a wild guess.”
She smiled up at him for the benefit of their audience, making sure he could read the irritation in her glance. “You make an effort, just once, and I’ll have a heart attack and die.”
He grinned down at her, his brief flash of teeth striking and irreverent. “A tempting offer,” he drawled. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
Clearing her throat with dire meaning, she turned around to face the boys and girls. Holding up both hands, she signaled for quiet to the few who were still rustling and wriggling. “Okay, folks,” she began, “it’s time to announce the essay-contest winners who’ll come back here tomorrow and spend a week at Mr. Niceguy’s Thanksgiving Retreat.”
There was renewed buzzing among the teenagers, so Jess waved them quiet again. “As you know, there are a fixed number of slots for the retreat, so we were limited to picking ten essays. But as far as Mr. Niceguy and I are concerned, you’re all winners.”
She’d had a hard time saying “Mr. Niceguy” without making a face. Lucas Brand had proven to be no shining model for the term, but she struggled on: “Every essay was well thought-out and worthy of a prize. And as you know, even if you don’t win today, you’re all still eligible for Mr. Niceguy college scholarships, as long as you finish school and your grades qualify you for college acceptance. Or you can choose a technical school if you prefer.”
She didn’t go into the reasons why these particular young people qualified. All of them were aware of their situations—children of poverty-level single-parent families, or wards of the court in foster care. “At Risk” kids, they were labeled, because statistics indicated that kids in those circumstances were most at risk of dropping out of school and getting involved in drugs and crime.
Sadly, even with the Mr. Niceguy incentives, at least half of these boys and girls would eventually drop out; only a h
andful would go on to receive Mr. Niceguy scholarships. Nevertheless, it was Jess’s belief that each year, Mr. Roxbury’s efforts did save young lives, did turn them away from the ravages of ignorance and crime. That belief was what kept those dedicated to the Mr. Niceguy program going.
Omitting any reference to the negative, she smiled and forged on, “Remember, even if you decide college isn’t for you, if you make it through high school with at least a C-plus grade average, the Mr. Niceguy program will give you two thousand dollars as a reward for your success.”
The kids made appreciative sounds, and she had to hush them again. Two thousand dollars sounded like a fortune to a fourteen-year-old. It was meant to. Money was one of the few things these kids responded to, since money—or the lack of it—dominated their lives, and in all too many cases lured them astray.
She raised her voice to be heard over the low buzzing. “The Mr. Niceguy program is here to compensate you for your hard work and to help you complete your education. And we’d be more than happy to hand out checks on graduation day to every one of you sitting here tonight.”
She scanned the watchful faces, wishing every child there could come to the retreat, hating to disappoint any of them. Every child here was exceptional in Jess’s mind. The Mr. Niceguy program, with the help of area schools, had sent out hundreds of flyers about the contest to eligible students. These forty-three had responded. They wanted a better life, and they’d made an effort. She breathed a silent prayer that they would all succeed, despite the odds against them.
Clearing a lump that had formed in her throat, she said, “Enough lecturing. Let’s get on to the list of winners.” Shifting, she thrust a sheet of paper into Lucas’s hand, eyed him threateningly and declared in a loud, firm tone, “Mr. Niceguy will announce the winners.”