Riches to Rags Bride / The Heiress's Baby: Riches to Rags Bride / The Heiress's Baby

“Will you be living here then, you and your husband?” the woman asked. “I told William there that the two of you were most likely married. Or going to be married. You both spend so much time here.”

That was when Genevieve faltered. She looked up into Lucas’s eyes, as if seeking him out. Or maybe she was just afraid that he had heard.

Slowly, she was shaking her head, that pretty blush spreading up her throat. For some totally foolish, insane reason Lucas couldn’t understand, he wanted to hide her. He didn’t want anyone other than himself to see that intimate color that disappeared beneath the collar of her blouse. Which was, of course, ridiculous. He had no more right to think intimate thoughts of Gen than anyone here.

“Lucas and I merely work together,” Genevieve finally managed to say. “I suppose I should explain a bit about why we’re here.”

He couldn’t help smiling. She was always so honest. The script called for a brief neighborhood social hour followed by a mailing and then another question-and-answer meeting, no explanations given today.

Well, so much for the script. This was a lot like Genevieve’s foray into painting. Wild and uninhibited and … interesting. She was always interesting. And so were her cookies, he thought, looking down at the plates filled with miniature works of art.

But by then, she’d begun to speak. “This house is being transformed into a very special place,” she began. “A place that will offer hope to people who need it very much and a place that will, I’m sure, be a credit to your wonderful, beautiful neighborhood.”

“Hmm,” one man said. “That sounds like a lead-in to something I’m not going to like. This is going to be some sort of home for people we won’t want in our neighborhood, isn’t it?”

Lucas frowned at the man. Maybe he even growled or took a step forward, because Genevieve immediately sent Lucas a pleading glance. Which did no good. All Lucas could think of was his mother, who had been a lost soul, of Angie, who had had abuse heaped upon her, of … Genevieve living in a place where there were bars on the windows. A man like that one could raise an outcry, turn people against this project, stop it from happening.

Stop Lucas from doing this thing he desperately needed and wanted to do. Lucas opened his mouth.

“I suppose that might be true,” Genevieve said softly, halting Lucas’s speech. “That is, if you think someone like me would be bad for the neighborhood. This home will be called Angie’s House and it will house eight women like me. Ones who’ve had some hard times but want to raise themselves up. Women who need good, kind neighbors. Women who will work hard to win your trust and to become contributing members of the community.”

She was putting words into the mouths of women she didn’t even know and yet … that was the goal of Angie’s House, wasn’t it?

For two seconds, she looked into Lucas’s eyes. Was she looking for encouragement? He didn’t know, but he nodded. Although what he really wanted to do was challenge any man who questioned her, he knew that wasn’t what she wanted. Encouragement was all she would want to accept. You’re doing fine. He tried to convey the words with his expression.

Which was ridiculous. He was not a sensitive man. He’d been told many times that he looked cold and foreboding. Reassurance wasn’t in his library of expressions.

“So … are you Angie? Metaphorically, I mean,” a woman asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe I am.”

“Is there a real Angie?”

“Must be. Why would they call it that if there wasn’t an Angie?” a man said.

The questions came hard and fast, but most of them fixated on the name of the place. “Will the real Angie be coming here?”

“Is she alive?”

“Is she dead?”

“Why did you call the place Angie’s House? What’s the story behind it?”

Lucas felt himself closing up inside. He cursed himself for not anticipating this. Of course, people would be curious about the significance of the name. What had he been thinking doing things this way?

And Genevieve … He’d put her in an uncomfortable position. She was supposed to be the all-knowing, all-seeing leader of this project and he had made her look bad by not giving her all the tools she needed.

“I—” She looked up. He thought she was going to look straight into his eyes, but just as her gaze almost met his, she quickly looked away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know all the answers to your questions,” she said. And she didn’t promise that she would seek out the answers, either.