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

Genevieve’s breath stalled in her throat. She hoped he hadn’t noticed how aware of him she was. It would be a good idea for her to step away. But would a strong, sensible, seasoned project manager do that just because a good-looking man was standing beside her? Of course not. With a great effort, she modulated her breathing. In. Out. Show no emotion. Try to look professional, Gen.

Thankfully, Lucas stepped aside quickly. He held the papers out to her. “Here’s the agenda, all that has to be accomplished during the next few weeks. I want you to avail yourself of whatever resources you need and if you need additional personnel let me know. You will, of course, have an expense account. Also, for the next few days, until you get acclimated, I’ll drop in from time to time and you can also update me on the way to and from work. Thereafter, I’ll provide you with a driver and we’ll meet at scheduled times for updates just as I do with my other employees and my other business. I’ll be available for any public events you set up. So. are there any questions or concerns? Things you want to talk about?”

Gen looked down at the list. It was long. She was to oversee Thomas and Jorge in the renovation and decoration of the house itself, and introduce herself and the project to the neighbors, possibly by hosting a neighborhood gathering. She was expected to locate sponsors for the women and donors for future projects, contact charities for prospective candidates to live at Angie’s House, establish links between local community colleges for classes and training sessions for the women, contact possible employers for those women who needed work, arrange for the open house, interview candidates and hire a director. In several places, he had noted that she could rely on him and on her own social contacts to smooth the way and drum up interest.

Did she have concerns? She had them in spades, although pulsating fears that turned her legs to jelly might be a better way to phrase it. This was beyond anything she had ever done for her parents and so much of it seemed to rely on using her family name. Genevieve wanted to close her eyes, to try and explain to Lucas just how little influence she had. Her parents had been the movers and shakers, while she had been an insignificant shadow in the background. And after Barry had spread all those ugly, damning and humiliating lies about her, no one was ever in this lifetime going to care what she had to say. About anything. But if she told Lucas that …

“I have to be honest, Lucas. I don’t think my name is going to have much influence. My parents were the ‘capital P’ Patchetts. That’s not me.”

He studied her, looking down at her shoes. “Genevieve, look at yourself. Look at that little patrician nose of yours, that perfect posture and those long, slender artist’s fingers. Listen to the way you enunciate your words. You may be living in less elegant surroundings right now, but you’re still a Patchett.” With that, he reached out and touched the silk of her blouse. His finger didn’t even make contact with her skin, but she felt as if it did. An awareness of him thrummed through her, sending warmth down her body in a rush. “You’re still a princess.”

With some effort, she raised her chin. “I’m sorry if I misled you, but I was never a princess.”

“I see. So … you don’t think you can do this?”

Genevieve swallowed hard. “I just don’t think that anyone who was wild about my parents is going to transfer that esteem to me.”

“No? Do me a favor. Do that thing you did yesterday when you suggested that I didn’t trust you. Give me that look of defiance. Raise your chin just a touch.”

Flustered, Genevieve tried to do as he asked, but she was too self-conscious. And she wasn’t angry at him.

Lucas frowned. “You can do better than that. You know what I need from you. But I’m going to have to let you go if you can’t do this job the way it needs to be done. I won’t want to, but I need someone who can produce and produce quickly. If you can’t do that, then I’m afraid you’re gone.” His voice dropped lower, the last words barely a whisper, but the steel in his tone was unmistakable. He would be ruthless if need be.

And like that, the desperation of her situation kicked in. Anger that she was failing and that yet another person was dismissing her overshadowed all of her fears. This time she didn’t just lift her chin. She threw her shoulders back the way she had been taught by a long-ago posture coach and she raised her head in what could only be called a regal gesture. “I won’t be gone,” she said and though her voice barely carried from her mouth to his ears, there was determination in her tone. “Don’t fire me,” she said. “Just … don’t.”

He stared at her with those fierce, dark, bird-of-prey eyes of his and she managed not to flinch. But when he still hadn’t said anything, she finally dropped her gaze. “Please don’t,” she said.

A low curse issued from his lips. “I hired you for a very good reason. I’m counting on you to be what I need you to be,” he said. “And I’m not firing you.” She waited for the word yet, but it didn’t come. That didn’t mean that he wasn’t thinking it. It was do-or-die time for her. She might not know what she was doing, but that couldn’t matter. She was going to do something.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE WOMAN WAS A DANGER to his composure. Lucas hated that. He had almost told her that she could have the job no matter what she did or didn’t do. And what kind of a mess would that turn out to be? Had he forgotten how important this project was or the promises he had made just a few months ago? To a woman he had wronged and never righted the wrong. To a woman … no—to many women whose anguished eyes still haunted him.

No. He would never forget. He would go to his grave trying to fulfill those promises. And he would not allow anything to stand in the way of completing Angie’s House on time.

Still, he could surely afford a few days to give Genevieve a chance to find her bearings. His controlling ways seemed to be detrimental to her composure and confidence. Maybe if he stayed away from her, she’d have a better chance of success.

“Sure, put it that way, McDowell,” he muttered. The truth was that he just needed to stay far enough away from her to regain his composure. There was just something about Genevieve with her prim, pouty little mouth, her hair that was pulled back so hard that it had to hurt and her slender little body and delicate, haughty chin that made him want to …

Cover that mouth with his own, slide his hands into that hair and send the pins flying, mold that sweet, perfect body to his.

And that was the real reason he was staying away. Maybe that flare-up with Rita and the fact that he had spent most of the past six months alone was just making him crazy for any woman. No matter. He was going to give Genevieve some room to run.

So, he did his best to stay away, concentrate on his legitimate business and not think about Genevieve at all beyond the sphere of work.

Except he still drove her to and from Angie’s House and stopped in for a progress report every single day.

That kept her in his sights, in his thoughts. He hated that. Staying with one woman, letting any woman slip behind his defenses, wasn’t allowed. He had good reasons for that. This was a nonnegotiable item.

As for Genevieve and her progress, at first she was tentative in her reports. “I was thinking that it might be nice for each woman to be able to have some say in what her room, her personal retreat, will be like. So I thought perhaps … maybe … we should make each bedroom look finished but still leave room for more decorating after the women move in. They can perhaps … possibly … accessorize and make the rooms their own.”

Lucas wasn’t a man who smiled much, but he couldn’t hold back a trace of a smile now. “That’s a great idea, Genevieve. No ‘maybe’ or ‘perhaps’ or ‘possibly’ about it,” he teased.

“Oh.” Her lips parted as if he’d caught her by surprise. Her green eyes opened wide, all bright and sparkly. She looked as if he had handed her the keys to a treasure. She was beautiful. Radiant. He wanted to move closer.

It was a terrible idea, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He took her hand, her incredibly soft hand with its long, slender fingers, and her palm with its sweet center just meant for a man’s lips. As if that involuntary thought was controlling his actions, he raised her hand, his mouth only inches away from all that soft skin.

Stop, he warned himself.

She looked taken aback. He hadn’t spoken that stop out loud, had he? Or maybe it was the near kiss that had upset her. Either way …

“It’s a great idea,” he said again, releasing her. “Keep up the good work.” And then he made some stupid excuse and rushed away. He intended to give her several days free and clear of his company. At least as much as possible. He incorporated their daily reports into their drive time. He kept things businesslike, dry. Things should have been totally impersonal as they always were with his employees.

And yet they never were. As they drove down the mean streets, she seemed to notice everything and everyone and her heart bled for all of them. “Look at that poor man,” she said one day, pointing out a man who appeared to be begging for money not for himself but for the sick boy beside him, a boy who was playing kick ball when Lucas drove by the next day. She exclaimed about the woman with a baby carriage struggling over the bumpy parts of the street. Or a stray puppy. Or a man trying to sell newspapers that no one seemed to want to buy.

Genuine tragedy or scam, Genevieve ached for all of them. He had a bad feeling that sooner or later someone would take advantage of her soft heart.

Stop thinking about her, he ordered himself. She wouldn’t want his advice or want to hear of his concern. I have six locks, she had said, clearly disgusted by him even asking. He needed to just forget about her situation.

She wasn’t his concern, was she? Except … she was—damn her—another woman in peril. Another Angie. It almost seemed as if fate were mocking him by sending him someone like Genevieve just when he was trying to effect a change that would enable him to forever be free of her kind of woman. A woman in trouble, one whose situation was beyond his control when control was what he had always needed most, what he couldn’t survive without.

So, he cursed fate. He tried to ignore Genevieve’s situation and just get on with the project as quickly as possible.

Until the night when there was another robbery in her neighborhood.

And there it was. Again. His past breathing down his neck. Hot. Frightening. Careening out of control. No way to control the situation at all. He remembered Angie, who had lived in fear her whole life. Angie, whose life had been changed forever because of two men who should have protected her but who hurt and failed her and, ultimately, destroyed her.

Damn it, he had been one of those men and he could not survive hurting another woman like that or standing by and letting one get hurt when he had the means to stop it. Because he knew—all too well—that it was only a matter of time before someone noticed that a delicate flower like Genevieve was living smack in the middle of a “no holds barred, no crime left uncommitted” zone.

She would end up being hurt because he had left her there.

Because you have absolutely no right to interfere. She told you earlier in every way possible that she wants to fight clear of that place herself. And when that happened, she would no doubt return to the glassed-off world of the privileged, where rough men like him didn’t belong. That was a good thing.

Still, Lucas didn’t do a single push-up that night. His control that he had always relied on failed him.

Because damn it, he knew the streets like he knew his own thoughts. Six locks or eight locks or even ten locks wouldn’t matter if the bad guys wanted in.

One good look at Genevieve and they would want in.

Lucas swore. He waited for the morning. And then he went to Angie’s House.

Surely, if he did this right, he could get Genevieve out of his mind. Then he could go back to moving on with his life. And Genevieve could return to being … someone who didn’t matter to him at all beyond this project.

Thank goodness.

“So get on with it, McDowell. Make a deal with the woman. Get her out of your thoughts. Now. Today.”

Genevieve looked around the small den, which was substantially cleaner than when she had entered it at the beginning of the day. Then she looked down at herself. Okay, the delicate piping around the edge of the neckline of her top was slightly damp, there were a few dust smudges here and there, but unlike some of the other outfits she’d been wearing, this one might live to see another day.