скачать книгу бесплатно
The Man From her Wayward Past
Susan Stephens
Would the real Lucia Acosta please stand up? Fun-loving and feisty Lucia Acosta was the girl everybody wanted at their party. With her sultry South American looks she captured every man’s attention. One terrible secret later, a paler, quieter Lucia’s gone from owning the dance floor to cleaning it, when a ghost from parties past walks in…Luke Forster would recognise those curves anywhere – he grew up hypnotised by them! But as his best friend’s little sister she was strictly off-limits. He’s shocked to see her fallen so low, but relieved her pride’s still intact! The real Lucia Acosta is still in there somewhere, and he’s the man to tempt her out…‘I think I must be Susan’s biggest fan; I can’t get enough of her books!’ – Ruth, Web Developer, Brighton
‘Lucia?’ Luke rapped sternly, staring down at her with knife-sharp eyes as she scrubbed the floor of the club. ‘Are you working here?’
Of course she should have said, What’s it to you? But a row might draw attention, and she couldn’t afford to lose this job.
‘No, of course I’m not working here,’ she protested with a laugh, glancing around to make sure no one had heard Luke calling her by her real name. ‘I come here so often they let me hang my coat in the stockroom.’
‘Really?’ Luke drawled, with an even more contemptuous expression in his brooding amber gaze.
‘Okay, I work here from time to time,’ she admitted, brushing it off as she continued to stare at a face that was mesmerising in its harsh masculine beauty. If you wanted hard there was no better hard to be had than Luke Forster—as her yearning and thoroughly confused body could now attest.
The crowd on the dance floor fell back at Luke’s advance like the Red Sea parting, and Luke paused at the entrance to the casino just long enough to shoot a stare at Lucia that assured her this wasn’t nearly over yet.
About the Author
SUSAN STEPHENS was a professional singer before meeting her husband on the tiny Mediterranean island of Malta. In true Modern™ Romance style they met on Monday, became engaged on Friday, and were married three months after that. Almost thirty years and three children later, they are still in love. (Susan does not advise her children to return home one day with a similar story, as she may not take the news with the same fortitude as her own mother!)
Susan had written several non-fiction books when fate took a hand. At a charity costume ball there was an after-dinner auction. One of the lots, ‘Spend a Day with an Author’, had been donated by Mills & Boon® author Penny Jordan. Susan’s husband bought this lot, and Penny was to become not just a great friend but a wonderful mentor, who encouraged Susan to write romance.
Susan loves her family, her pets, her friends and her writing. She enjoys entertaining, travel, and going to the theatre. She reads, cooks, and plays the piano to relax, and can occasionally be found throwing herself off mountains on a pair of skis or galloping through the countryside. Visit Susan’s website: www.susanstephens.net She loves to hear from her readers all around the world!
Recent titles by the same author:
A TASTE OF THE UNTAMED
THE ARGENTINIAN’S SOLACE
THE SHAMELESS LIFE OF RUIZ ACOSTA
THE UNTAMED ARGENTINIAN
To find out more about the wild Acosta family visit: http://www.susanstephens.com/acostas/index.html
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
The Man
From her
Wayward Past
Susan Stephens
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For the Angry Sparrow
PROLOGUE
THE SINGLE GIRL’S TO-DO LIST
All roads lead to Rome and there is only one goal here.
He sits proudly at number 10!
1. Get a job
2. Get a flat
3. Get a wax
4. Get a tan
5. Get a hairdo
6. Get a cool new wardrobe
7. Get a gym membership
8. Get a great dance teacher
9. Get a gag for her polo-playing brothers
10. Get a (non-polo-playing) man
AS THE only girl in a family of four polo-playing brothers I’ve had enough—and I mean ENOUGH!—of whips, spurs and raging machismo morning, noon and night.
CHAPTER ONE
Get a job
Not exactly the job I imagined, but I have my reasons. What are these reasons?
Actually, I landed the dream job: management trainee in a top London hotel. It was the icing on the cake after achieving a good degree in Hotel Management back home in Argentina, where a career in hospitality seemed the obvious choice to me after years honing my craft on four demanding brothers. But I would rather eat my own feet than keep that dream job by sleeping with a slime-ball concierge who tried to blackmail me by threatening to reveal who ‘Anita Costa’ really was.
People who knew me before this diary entry might ask, what has happened to wild child Lucia, the glamorous, glitzy, fun girl who was always the life and soul of the party, and who now seems to have sunk lower than a whore’s drawers? If you ‘re one of them you’d better read on.
You will note that the one thing I have retained is my sense of humour. Just as well, as right now things couldn’t be much bleaker.
NO ONE knew better than Lucia that a nightclub in daylight was a dismal, skanky place.
She should do. These past few days it had felt as if she spent most of her life on her hands and knees, scrubbing the sticky floor beneath a stark long-life bulb. Glittering and glamorous at night beneath the coloured lights, the club, located on the wild and rugged splendour of Cornwall’s most popular coastline, was high on society’s hot list—thanks to the many opportunities to see and be seen both in the club and on the fabulous beach, where the many sporting activities drew the best pecs around. Lucia’s own dangerously charismatic polo-playing brothers had flaunted themselves in this same area when they were younger, with their hot friend Luke.
Luke …
Was this a good time to be thinking about more muscles and intelligence than was good for a man, captured in one devastatingly desirable package?
A man who was out of Lucia’s reach?
And who just happened to be a polo player. Which meant contravening number ten on her to-do list before she had ticked off numbers two to nine.
‘Don’t you have enough to do?’
Lucia shot up as the club manager hove into view. Van Rickter had been a star on the club circuit in his youth, as he had been at pains to explain to Lucia when she had first begged him for a job—any job. Now he was a middle-aged charmer with a chip on his shoulder the size of a rock, who liked nothing better than to bully his staff. Lucia quickly returned to scrubbing as Grace, another of Van Rickter’s serfs, entered the club.
‘I hear there’s a big do on tonight,’ Grace announced, dropping her bag on a nearby table. ‘Wish I didn’t have these sniffles. A red nose and leaking eyes doesn’t do much for tips. I was hoping to meet someone fabulous tonight who would take me away from all this—’
As Grace gestured around Lucia reflected that not so long ago just the mention of a ‘big do’ would have been a call to arms. She had loved nothing better than to tease and flirt and dance. With four brothers ready to flatten any man who so much as looked at her the wrong way, she had grown up with no concept of danger when she turned it on, and had felt free to be as flirtatious as she liked. Her instant reaction to the merest suggestion of a party would have been on with the five-inch heels, the dress at least a size too small, followed swiftly by slap, glitter, lashes and nails, all topped off by the studiously perfected party pout. But that was then and this was now, and things were very different now.
Turning to Grace, Lucia thought her friend looked unusually pale tonight. ‘Let me take your shift if you’re not feeling well,’ she suggested.
‘Another shift straight after this one?’ Grace shook her head in firm refusal ‘You haven’t stopped working since you got here. You’ll make yourself ill if you go on like this. Put on your heels tonight, walk in like you own the place, see who’s around. Save one for me if there are any likely men.’
Inwardly Lucia shuddered, but as Grace laughed she wiped her hot face on her sleeve and joined in the merriment. Grace had no idea what had happened to Lucia in London, and Lucia wasn’t about to burden her new friend with details of that experience.
‘Uh-oh, here comes trouble,’ Grace warned as Van Rickter returned.
While Grace hurried into the back to get changed for work, Van Rickter picked on Lucia. ‘Hey, Anita from the block,’ he sneered. ‘Put some elbow grease into that scrubbing. I can always find someone to replace you.’ With an ugly laugh, he spun on his Cuban heels.
Everyone at the club knew her as Anita. It was the name of Lucia’s favourite Puerto Rican character from the musical West Side Story. Finding a surname had been easy. Sitting in a coffee bar, she’d thought, Just lose the ‘a’. So Lucia Acosta had become Anita Costa. Why the subterfuge?
It wasn’t possible to have people treat you normally, let alone strike out for independence, when your four polo-playing brothers featured on every billboard in town.
Resting her hands on the small of her aching back, Lucia dreamed of Argentina and the endless freedom of the pampas. Her warm, safe home in South America had never seemed further away, especially when it turned out that she had a real talent for jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. Her life, since that rogue concierge in London had made staying on at her job there impossible, had been one long slide down. It made no difference that she came from a wealthy family, and anyway, she was determined to go it alone.
‘Okay?’ Grace trilled as she hurried past with a crate of drinks.
‘Never more so.’
Brushing her hair back, Lucia returned to scrubbing. After London she was glad to have a job at a club where no one knew her. Before she died, her mother had used to say to Lucia, ‘Keep your wits about you.’ Well, she’d certainly failed at that in London, believing the concierge was her friend.
It was hard to believe her mother had been killed almost ten years ago in a tragic flood. Demelza Acosta had been Cornish, which was why the family had always holidayed in St Oswalds. And why Lucia had fled here, she supposed, seeking refuge in the one corner of England where she remembered being truly happy.
Lucia’s head dipped over her scrubbing brush as Van Rickter came into view.
‘It’s your lucky day, Anita,’ he observed sarcastically. ‘I’ve sent Grace home. No one wants to be served cocktails by a waitress with a runny nose, so you’re on bar duty tonight. And don’t even think of complaining that your cleaning shift doesn’t end until seven,’ he warned. ‘You’ll have plenty of time to get ready.’
Half an hour to race over to the caravan, hose herself down in cold water and get back to the club. If she didn’t stop to eat it should be possible. ‘That’s fine with me.’ She needed the money.
Van Rickter’s piggy eyes almost disappeared into folds of unnaturally pale flesh as he eyed her suspiciously. ‘Make sure you clean yourself up. And put some hand cream on. Those wrinkled mitts are enough to put anyone off their champagne.’
‘I will,’ she said, flashing a smile she knew would rattle Van Rickter far more than an exhausted look. She got tips on the bar.
Being nice and clean was more important for work than a full stomach. No one wanted a stinky server leaning over them, and she sure as hell wouldn’t get any tips, Lucia reasoned, teeth chattering as she tied her wild black hair back neatly. She had just showered in shriekingly cold water in the beat-up caravan that came with her other job, and with ice on the insides of the windows it would take some considerable time before she warmed up.
Yes, she’d landed not one but two jobs—though the one that came with the caravan thrown in was rather more complicated than her work at the club, as she didn’t get paid. Not yet. She was trying to help Margaret, the old lady who owned the Sundowner Guest House and Holiday Park, where Lucia had stayed as a child, to get back on her feet.
Teeth chattering, she rubbed herself down on a rough towel whilst shooting anxious glances at Grace’s uniform. The tiny cocktail waitress ensemble looked far too small. She had put on a bit of weight since coming to Cornwall, having been plied with more Cornish cream teas than was good for her by Margaret. Not that she hadn’t been what you might call voluptuous to start with.
Thanks to her handsome Argentinian father and her Cornish mother Lucia had been built to withstand not just the terrifying winds of the pampas but the frigid cold of a Cornish winter—genes that had made her infamous polo-playing brothers giants amongst men, but which had left her with the short straw. Now she was more a dumpy style of windbreak. Not that being curvy had seemed to put men off in the past. In fact at one time she’d used to have men—for men read her brothers’ approved friends—eating out of her hand. Safe to say in London that hand had been well and truly bitten off.
Her brothers had definitely snaffled all the best growing genes, Lucia reflected as she heaved and tugged on Grace’s minuscule boob-tube. Lucia was five foot three, while each of her brothers was at least a foot taller. Their width was breathtaking, whilst hers was merely distance across.
And that distance had never seemed greater, Lucia concluded, as she attempted to stuff one breast inside the elasticated boob-tube only to have the other spring out. And she had yet to tackle Grace’s hot pants. Malevolently gleaming silver beneath the flickering light, they taunted her in silent reproach for a diet high on cheap and comforting junk food.
Having finally managed to subdue both breasts, she approached the hot pants warily, like an enemy that had to be put in its place.
Ouch!
The hot pants were definitely in place.
In tank top and jeans, ripped, tanned and pumped after exercise, Luke Forster was reclining with his cowboy boots crossed on an ornate coffee table at his hotel suite at the Grand Hotel in St Oswalds when he took a call from Argentina.
‘Do me a favour and look Lucia up while you’re there in Cornwall?’ Luke’s closest friend, Nacho Acosta asked him after they had finished discussing their latest polo match.
‘Lucia’s in Cornwall?’
‘That’s what she told me,’ Nacho confirmed.
Luke stalled. Must I? Was his first thought. Lucia was Nacho’s sister, and more trouble than any man needed. As Nacho recited Lucia’s number he processed some swift mental imagery that seemed to centre mainly on Lucia’s breasts.
That was so wrong. Nacho was his best friend and Lucia was the nearest thing Luke had to a sister. Breasts were definitely off the menu.
Lucia’s breasts were pretty spectacular.
‘She’s gone off radar again, Luke.’
He shook himself round to take in what Nacho was saying.
‘Though this time my sister has been good enough to leave a voicemail with the news that she’s revisiting old haunts.’
Luke groaned inwardly. He was doing the same thing, so bang went his excuse not to look for her. Raking tense fingers through his thick brown hair, he added a couple of days to an already crammed schedule. Juggling wide-ranging business interests with his family’s huge charitable foundation, as well as playing polo at the international level, demanded enough of his time without going on some wild goose chase looking for Nacho’s wayward sister. It wasn’t as if Lucia going off radar was anything new. The only female in a family with four forceful brothers, Lucia had broken away as soon as she could, quickly gaining the reputation of being a party girl extraordinaire.
‘I know she’s all grown up now, but I still feel responsible for her,’ Nacho was explaining. ‘You will do this for me, won’t you, Luke?’
How could he refuse? Nacho had assumed responsibility for his siblings when their parents were killed in a flood, which had worked out great for Lucia’s brothers, who were all older than Lucia, and had been okay for Lucia to begin with. But when she’d hit her teens …
‘I’ll find her,’ he confirmed. ‘If she’s revisiting old haunts, what about school?’
‘Which school?’ Nacho demanded.
They both laughed.
Super-bright and super-bad, Lucia had run several headmistresses ragged. ‘If she’s in Cornwall,’ he murmured, thinking out loud, ‘it shouldn’t be hard to find her. The village is dead, apart from the club. Let me follow a hunch,’ he said, remembering Lucia dancing at the wedding. That chick could move.
‘I can’t ask for more than that,’ Nacho agreed.
