him if he didnât trust her. Somehow he was sure she wouldnât appreciate him interfering in her life or suggesting that she might want to take her first paycheck and move.
It certainly wasnât the kind of thing he ever did or wanted to do. Keep a distance. Never get too involved was his motto.
And yet, Genevieve Patchettâs naïveté, her dangerous situation, had kept him from completing a task heâd done every night for years. He was still stuck on push-up number seventy-two.
âIdiot. Get control of yourself. Stay out of this. Donâtdo something youâll regret.â With a groan, he forced himself to complete the push-up and all the rest of them. Having withstood the onslaught of doubts and come out ahead, he went to bed. A soft bed. A safe bed. In an exclusive hotel in an exclusive neighborhood.
âAnd everything is perfectly fine,â he mumbled. But in the middle of the night he woke from a dream in a cold sweat, his fears about why Genevieve was bothering him confirmed. Voices from a past he tried never to remember had pushed their way into his dreams. Heâd heard his mother crying in the night. Heâd felt his own failure, his inability to be what she wanted, and his own panic as sheâd walked out the door, never to return. And after his fatherâs death when heâd been left totally alone, there had been other mother figures, women who had tried to help him and recoiled in distress at his wounded animal anger. Some had been nice; most had merely wanted to use him to gild their reputations; one society princess had called him her âstreet childâ until she had a baby of her own, a better, sweeter child, the kind sheâd always wanted. In the end, he had spurned all of them. And thenâ¦
Lucas took a deep breath, knowing that there was no use trying to hold back the next part. Because the next was the worst, the most damning incident. Then, there had been Angie, an innocent girl who had been savagely beaten by her father just because she had been involved with a reckless troublemaker like Lucas. Heâd known what her father was. Heâd selfishly and arrogantly ignored it, urged her to defy her father and stay with him. And she had paid the price.
Anguish rushed over him at the memory of a young woman who had suffered at the fists of a full grownman, a woman who had never fully recovered, he had discovered only a few months ago.
Lucas cursed in the night. There was the connection. Angie. Because heâd known the danger that had existed for Angie and heâd ignored it, downplayed it. Just as he knew the danger for Genevieve.
Donât think about it. Donât get involved. Donât lose control. This is a different woman, a different situation, he told himself.
And the next day, he knew he was right. Genevieve and her situation were nothing like Angie. The Patchett princess got into his car wearing a pair of designer shoes, biscuit-colored slacks that would never survive the day and a gold silk blouse.
He studied her, and without thinking, he raised an eyebrow.
Genevieve stared back at him with just a tiny bit of defiance in her eyes. He was half-convinced that if he said anything about her clothes, she would sass him. But a second later, her cheeks turned pink, she looked away and he realized that he had been mistaken about the sass and the defiance. She was still just a little rich girl flailing around.
The fact that he couldnât keep his eyes off the V of her blouse or the way that sweet pink flush made her seem vulnerable and fragile andâ¦enticing was irrelevant. Wasnât it?
Maybe. But once she was in the car, he was thankful that he had to keep his eyes off of her and on the road. It was a good reminder. Always keep your eyes on the goal, the job, on whatever got you to where you wanted to go. Goals were good. They kept a man from doing something he would regret later. And he woulddefinitely regret doing
It certainly wasnât the kind of thing he ever did or wanted to do. Keep a distance. Never get too involved was his motto.
And yet, Genevieve Patchettâs naïveté, her dangerous situation, had kept him from completing a task heâd done every night for years. He was still stuck on push-up number seventy-two.
âIdiot. Get control of yourself. Stay out of this. Donâtdo something youâll regret.â With a groan, he forced himself to complete the push-up and all the rest of them. Having withstood the onslaught of doubts and come out ahead, he went to bed. A soft bed. A safe bed. In an exclusive hotel in an exclusive neighborhood.
âAnd everything is perfectly fine,â he mumbled. But in the middle of the night he woke from a dream in a cold sweat, his fears about why Genevieve was bothering him confirmed. Voices from a past he tried never to remember had pushed their way into his dreams. Heâd heard his mother crying in the night. Heâd felt his own failure, his inability to be what she wanted, and his own panic as sheâd walked out the door, never to return. And after his fatherâs death when heâd been left totally alone, there had been other mother figures, women who had tried to help him and recoiled in distress at his wounded animal anger. Some had been nice; most had merely wanted to use him to gild their reputations; one society princess had called him her âstreet childâ until she had a baby of her own, a better, sweeter child, the kind sheâd always wanted. In the end, he had spurned all of them. And thenâ¦
Lucas took a deep breath, knowing that there was no use trying to hold back the next part. Because the next was the worst, the most damning incident. Then, there had been Angie, an innocent girl who had been savagely beaten by her father just because she had been involved with a reckless troublemaker like Lucas. Heâd known what her father was. Heâd selfishly and arrogantly ignored it, urged her to defy her father and stay with him. And she had paid the price.
Anguish rushed over him at the memory of a young woman who had suffered at the fists of a full grownman, a woman who had never fully recovered, he had discovered only a few months ago.
Lucas cursed in the night. There was the connection. Angie. Because heâd known the danger that had existed for Angie and heâd ignored it, downplayed it. Just as he knew the danger for Genevieve.
Donât think about it. Donât get involved. Donât lose control. This is a different woman, a different situation, he told himself.
And the next day, he knew he was right. Genevieve and her situation were nothing like Angie. The Patchett princess got into his car wearing a pair of designer shoes, biscuit-colored slacks that would never survive the day and a gold silk blouse.
He studied her, and without thinking, he raised an eyebrow.
Genevieve stared back at him with just a tiny bit of defiance in her eyes. He was half-convinced that if he said anything about her clothes, she would sass him. But a second later, her cheeks turned pink, she looked away and he realized that he had been mistaken about the sass and the defiance. She was still just a little rich girl flailing around.
The fact that he couldnât keep his eyes off the V of her blouse or the way that sweet pink flush made her seem vulnerable and fragile andâ¦enticing was irrelevant. Wasnât it?
Maybe. But once she was in the car, he was thankful that he had to keep his eyes off of her and on the road. It was a good reminder. Always keep your eyes on the goal, the job, on whatever got you to where you wanted to go. Goals were good. They kept a man from doing something he would regret later. And he woulddefinitely regret doing
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