by them. “This is not the first time I have worked for
Hartington’s, Ms. Carter. Though it is true that when I did it last, I was
still quite young.”
She
blinked at him, thrown. She could hardly think which was more astonishing—that
he had ever been young, or that he had ever actually worked. Neither seemed
possible. He was too dissolute to have ever been a child, surely, and far too
committedly lazy to ever have worked for his living.
“Define
‘worked for Hartington’s,’” she suggested, mildly enough, trying to conceal her
interest. She should not find him fascinating. She should not care that he was
able to fence words with her so easily. She should not let that soften her. “Because,
and do forgive me if I’ve misunderstood, I was under the impression that you
took great pride in the fact that you’ve never worked a day in your charmed
life. Aside, that is, from your vague claims last week of once having been
employed.”
“Perhaps
my charmed life is more complicated than you might imagine,” he said, a hint of
chill in his voice and that uncannily shrewd gaze of his, but only for the
barest moment. Grace was convinced she’d imagined both when he blinked, and
that self-mocking smile of his returned. “My brothers and sister and I were
once the Hartington’s window display at Christmas,” he said, his tone light and
yet, somehow, Grace could hear only the sardonic inflection beneath, the hint
of something much darker. “Decked out in matching outfits like the von Trapps,
merry and bright. A true Christmas card come to life. The punters adored us, of
course. Who could resist a brood of angelic children? They all but emptied
their wallets on the spot.”
“As
a matter of fact, I’ve seen the pictures,” Grace said quietly, uncertain of
him, suddenly. Perhaps he was unaware that there were blown-up photographs of
his family all over the executive office suite: seven bright-eyed, shockingly
good-looking children arrayed around their attractive father, like a series of
Norman Rockwell paintings. They all fairly exuded hearth and home and
happiness. She was not sure he would welcome that knowledge. The atmosphere
inside the car had changed, and he seemed more dangerous, more unpredictable, though
he had not moved at all.
She
was imagining things, she told herself. But she remained on her guard.
“Such
a happy family we looked,” Lucas said in a soft voice that Grace did not
believe at all. “Beyond that, my brother Jacob and I worked in the store during
every school holiday for years. My father felt it was character building,
apparently.” His smile seemed knife-edged now, deeper somehow, and resonated
through her, making her ache in ways she was afraid to examine. “I spent my
time talking the shopgirls out of their pants rather than learning how to
operate the till. I built my character carefully, and with excessive practice.”
Grace
had a sudden, flashing vision of the teenaged Lucas, prowling about the
gleaming sales floors of Hartington’s with this same lean and feral edge to
him. He would have been much less restrained in his youth, she imagined—all
green eyes and cocky swagger and far too much self-awareness. She repressed a
sudden shiver. There was nothing safe about this man. She doubted very much
there ever had been, even when he’d been small. If .
“It
is difficult to imagine you young,” she said, voicing her thoughts without
meaning to, her voice far softer than it should have been. Almost as if she
cared.
Their
eyes met then, and something bright and profound moved through Grace, searing
into her through the gloom of the rainy day and the stuffy confines of the car.
She found she was holding her breath. That she could not look away from him as
she knew
Hartington’s, Ms. Carter. Though it is true that when I did it last, I was
still quite young.”
She
blinked at him, thrown. She could hardly think which was more astonishing—that
he had ever been young, or that he had ever actually worked. Neither seemed
possible. He was too dissolute to have ever been a child, surely, and far too
committedly lazy to ever have worked for his living.
“Define
‘worked for Hartington’s,’” she suggested, mildly enough, trying to conceal her
interest. She should not find him fascinating. She should not care that he was
able to fence words with her so easily. She should not let that soften her. “Because,
and do forgive me if I’ve misunderstood, I was under the impression that you
took great pride in the fact that you’ve never worked a day in your charmed
life. Aside, that is, from your vague claims last week of once having been
employed.”
“Perhaps
my charmed life is more complicated than you might imagine,” he said, a hint of
chill in his voice and that uncannily shrewd gaze of his, but only for the
barest moment. Grace was convinced she’d imagined both when he blinked, and
that self-mocking smile of his returned. “My brothers and sister and I were
once the Hartington’s window display at Christmas,” he said, his tone light and
yet, somehow, Grace could hear only the sardonic inflection beneath, the hint
of something much darker. “Decked out in matching outfits like the von Trapps,
merry and bright. A true Christmas card come to life. The punters adored us, of
course. Who could resist a brood of angelic children? They all but emptied
their wallets on the spot.”
“As
a matter of fact, I’ve seen the pictures,” Grace said quietly, uncertain of
him, suddenly. Perhaps he was unaware that there were blown-up photographs of
his family all over the executive office suite: seven bright-eyed, shockingly
good-looking children arrayed around their attractive father, like a series of
Norman Rockwell paintings. They all fairly exuded hearth and home and
happiness. She was not sure he would welcome that knowledge. The atmosphere
inside the car had changed, and he seemed more dangerous, more unpredictable, though
he had not moved at all.
She
was imagining things, she told herself. But she remained on her guard.
“Such
a happy family we looked,” Lucas said in a soft voice that Grace did not
believe at all. “Beyond that, my brother Jacob and I worked in the store during
every school holiday for years. My father felt it was character building,
apparently.” His smile seemed knife-edged now, deeper somehow, and resonated
through her, making her ache in ways she was afraid to examine. “I spent my
time talking the shopgirls out of their pants rather than learning how to
operate the till. I built my character carefully, and with excessive practice.”
Grace
had a sudden, flashing vision of the teenaged Lucas, prowling about the
gleaming sales floors of Hartington’s with this same lean and feral edge to
him. He would have been much less restrained in his youth, she imagined—all
green eyes and cocky swagger and far too much self-awareness. She repressed a
sudden shiver. There was nothing safe about this man. She doubted very much
there ever had been, even when he’d been small. If .
“It
is difficult to imagine you young,” she said, voicing her thoughts without
meaning to, her voice far softer than it should have been. Almost as if she
cared.
Their
eyes met then, and something bright and profound moved through Grace, searing
into her through the gloom of the rainy day and the stuffy confines of the car.
She found she was holding her breath. That she could not look away from him as
she knew
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