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The lack of animation in her response earned her a reproachful glare from her mother. God, he seemed to be enjoying himself…! If he wasn’t a con man he’d missed his calling, she decided grimly. A man like that could convince a girl of almost anything, especially if she wanted to believe it! This was something worth keeping in mind the next time her hormones went haywire, she told herself.
‘Megan will show you to your room, won’t you, darling?’
‘Thank you, Megan.’
‘My pleasure,’ she replied with equal insincerity.
‘Please call me Luc,’ he invited them.
‘I have a French friend called, Luc,’ Laura commented.
‘My grandfather on my mother’s side was French.’
‘I knew there was something Gallic about you the moment I saw you…French men have such style,’ Laura observed. ‘Is your mother alive, Luc?’
‘No, she died when I was nine. She named me after her own father, my grandfather.’
Behind her mother Megan shook her head and telegraphed a warning with her eyes. Her fake lover smiled back enigmatically.
‘Do you speak French, Luc? I’ll get someone to bring your luggage in…’
‘No need, I travel light,’ he said, extracting a rucksack from the back seat of the Land Rover.
‘How refreshing,’ Laura said, as though she were used to guests turning up carrying a rucksack that looked as if it was about to disintegrate. ‘Show Luc up to the red room, Megan, then bring him down for tea…Then you can meet the other guests. Megan shot Lucas a questioning look.
‘A quick shower and I’m all yours,’ he promised.
Ignoring her mother’s hissed instruction to, for God’s sake, smile, he’s gorgeous, she stalked towards the house with a face like thunder. She kept a tight-lipped silence until they reached the kitchen. Reaching the door that led to the back staircase, she turned and found that he was no longer at her shoulder but standing some yards away looking around the vast room.
‘There really are an amazing number of original features intact,’ he observed, opening the door of an original bread oven set in an alcove of the cavernous inglenook.
‘Save it for my mother,’ Megan, in no mood to discuss the architectural merits of her home, snapped. ‘Did you have to lay it on with a trowel?’ she demanded. ‘Why on earth did you say you spoke French?’
‘I didn’t say I did.’
‘You implied.’
‘I do speak French.’
‘Oh! And what was all that stuff about a French grandfather…?’
‘My grandfather was French.’
Which was probably where he had inherited his dark Mediterranean colouring. ‘You’re not meant to be you, you’re meant to be Lucas Patrick.’
‘I am Lucas Patrick,’ he contradicted.
Megan sighed. ‘There’s such a thing as overconfidence. Let’s just hope the real Lucas Patrick isn’t a litigious man.’
‘You’re an awful worrier, aren’t you? Do you always assume the worst?’
‘I only worry when there’s something to worry about.’ She scanned his dark face resentfully—he wasn’t meant to be enjoying this. ‘Aren’t you even slightly nervous?’
‘Not especially.’
‘Well, you should be. From now on say as little as possible and follow my lead. Do you understand?’ she asked him sternly. It was about time, she decided, to remind him just who was in control here. Her lips curved in a self-derisive smile; had she ever felt less in control in her life?
‘Perhaps if you could write it down for me?’
‘Very funny.’ She sniffed. ‘Come on, I suppose I’d better show you to your room. We’ll take the back stairs.’
‘Anyone would think you were ashamed of me,’ he reproached.
Megan dished up a repressive glare but wasn’t surprised when he didn’t look unduly subdued. ‘There are six other people staying other than you. There’s…’
When they reached the room her mother had allocated to him, she decided not to mention it was next to her own and that all the other guests were in a different wing entirely—she asked him to repeat the names of his fellow guests.
He ran his fingers across some carving in an ancient beam above the low doorway. ‘Is this a test?’
‘Were you actually listening to me?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘I was listening; your voice is like honey.’
Megan, her hand on the door handle, stilled. She was certain she had misheard what he had said. ‘Pardon…?’
‘You have a beautiful voice. It flows…’ His hands moved in an expressive fluid gesture before he sighed. ‘I could listen to it all day…’ Her voice was part of the reason he was here. Her voice—his eyes dropped—her legs and, yes, her mouth.
‘Will you stop that? It isn’t funny,’ she croaked crossly.
His glance moved upwards to the full soft pink contours of her lips. Yes, they had all been factors—they and the fact he thought that the sexy and stuck-up Dr Semple needed to be taught a lesson. You really shouldn’t judge by appearances.
‘Of course what you actually say isn’t always riveting,’ he conceded in an attitude of regret as he ducked to enter the bedroom. He looked around with interest.
‘Not bad!’ He walked over to the canopied half tester and patted the mattress. ‘Firm, but I like that.’
Megan responded to the fact he was looking at her body and not the bed when he said this with an irritated air. Actually she would have welcomed some irritation at that moment, if he said the things his seductive eyes managed to convey he could probably be arrested.
He fell back onto the bed and, crossing one leg over the other, tucked his hands behind his head so that he could look at her. ‘Where’s your room?’
‘Next door,’ she admitted reluctantly.
‘Handy.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘The moment you begin to believe that, you’re out of here.’
To her intense annoyance he seemed to find her threat wildly amusing. Maybe, she thought darkly, it was the idea of any woman saying no to him that struck him as funny…?
‘My mother is a firm believer in propinquity. I am not,’ she told him drily. ‘Perhaps we should lay down a few ground rules.’
‘I should tell you I’m not big on rules,’ he confided, stifling a yawn.
‘Now there’s a surprise.’
‘In fact,’ he admitted. ‘I see a rule and I feel this almost overwhelming desire to bend it a little,’ he returned, stretching with languid grace.
Megan felt her stomach muscles clench and looked at him in frustration. Without trying he could drive her crazy. What was going to happen if he took it into his head to try? It didn’t bear thinking about.
Her expression fixed she braced her hand on the back of a chair covered in faded tapestry. One day she might be able to work out why she had ever thought this was a good idea. Right now that day seemed awfully far off.
‘Why am I getting the idea you’re not taking this seriously…?’
‘I get the idea you take everything much too seriously,’ he retorted, looking at her curiously. ‘What do you do when you’re not looking down a microscope?’
‘I avoid men like you.’ Actually she had never met a man like him. Were there any other men like him…?
‘Have you seen the ghost?’
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘How do you know we have a ghost?’ she wanted to know.
‘Don’t all old places like this have a ghost…or several…?’
‘I suppose they do,’ she admitted. ‘But I’ve never seen one.’ And frankly a ghost would scare her less than this incredibly sexy man did. ‘Now, seriously, we should lay down some ground rules.’
His head went back, revealing his strong brown throat as he laughed. Oh, God, she thought, he really is just too attractive, in a dangerous what-the-hell-is-he-going-to-do-next sort of way.
‘Right, forget the rules, just keep it simple. If in doubt say nothing; better still, let me do all the talking.’
‘Won’t that make me appear as if I don’t have an opinion of my own?’
‘That’s the way I like my men.’
‘Under your thumb.’ He extended his aforementioned digit towards her.
He had nice hands, she noticed, but then he had nice everything. ‘I like the strong, silent type…’ she crisply corrected. ‘If in doubt just look enigmatic,’ she advised. Her frown deepened as she scanned his face. ‘Do you think you could do that?’
‘I could.’
‘But are you going to do?’ Or was he going to make a total fool out of her?
‘Is this suitably enigmatic…?’
‘You’re a natural,’ she assured him drily. This was all going to go terribly wrong.
‘Relax,’ he advised. ‘This is going to be fun.’
‘If you think this is fun you have a seriously warped mind. Now just try and remember,’ she pleaded, ‘you’re a famous author.’
‘I’m a famous author,’ he repeated solemnly. ‘Do you believe me?’
‘I know you’re not…I don’t count.’
‘Believe me, by the end of tonight I’ll be so good even you will believe I’m a famous author.’
‘Let’s not get too ambitious.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’ve got to get changed for dinner.’ She extended one denim-covered leg to prove the point. ‘I’ll come back for you in half an hour. Don’t,’ she added, wagging a warning finger at him, ‘move until I get here.’
Of course he did.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE French doors had been open all through dinner and the guests had drifted out onto the terrace to sip their drinks and chat. Despite the unpromising start the day had produced a perfect summer evening, warm and balmy, spoilt only by an unexpected shower, which was brief but heavy.
Luc and Megan were caught out in the open when the heavens opened. By the time they reached the shelter offered by the leafy canopy of the ancient oak tree it had stopped raining.
Luc, grinning, shook his head, sending droplets of water everywhere. ‘There’s something exhilarating about a summer shower.’
Easy for him to say, she thought.
Casting a resentful glance from under her lashes at Luc’s classically perfect profile, she pondered the unfairness that made him look incredible with his hair plastered damply to his skull. The moisture that clung to his naturally dark skin only served to emphasise the healthy glow.
She had gone for a vintage look tonight. With a sigh she looked down with distaste at her silk calf-length skirt; it clung damply to her legs. The chiffon overskirt with its beading detail might well be ruined—pity, it had been her favourite. She could feel the excess moisture from her wet hair running in a cold trickle down her neck, she didn’t even want to think about what it looked like.
Luc, his back set against the gnarled tree trunk, watched as she ran her hands down her bare arms to remove the excess moisture that clung to her pale smooth skin. She had great arms; like the rest of her body they were toned and firm.
At least the cotton halter-top wouldn’t be ruined by the rain, Megan thought, concentrating on the positive. Which was more than could be said for her hair…negative thoughts refused to be totally banished.
‘Have you ever danced?’
A line forming between her feathery brows, Megan lifted her head to look at the tall figure standing in the shadows. ‘Dance? What on earth are you talking about?’ She glared up at him, bristling with suspicion.
Luc registered the antagonistic glitter in her eyes, but didn’t comment on it. ‘You’re very graceful.’
Megan felt her cheeks grow hot. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I was simply making an observation. You carry yourself like a dancer. I was wondering if you trained at some point…?’
‘Me, a dancer!’ She looked at him as though he had gone mad. ‘I’m a research scientist.’
‘Does being a boffin preclude you having a sense of rhythm?’
She dealt him a look of exasperation. ‘I don’t dance. I…well, I did have a few lessons when I was a kid,’ she conceded. ‘Singing lessons too. They were meant to help my asthma.’
‘Did they?’
‘Well, it got a lot better.’
‘You’re shivering,’ he observed as a fresh shudder ran visibly through her slender frame. ‘I’d offer you a jacket except…’ his grin made him appear almost impossibly attractive ‘…I’m not wearing one.’
Megan watched him place his hand flat against his chest. A shaft of agonising awareness shot through her—she was conscious of every crease and fold of the white cotton that clung like a second skin to the broad expanse of his chest. She was even more painfully conscious of the shadow of body hair sprinkled over his broad chest and the suggestion of muscular definition.
