Something Beautiful and Lacey's Retreat: Something Beautiful / Lacey's Retreat

Lucas turned to smile at the woman and felt the up-close essence of her beauty in a gut punch right to his stomach. It was hard to speak, but he managed to keep his cool so he could continue defending that beauty and look good in her eyes. “Willa, do you have anything to say to these two…gentlemen?”

“Not a word,” she replied, gratitude sparkling like rainwater in her breathtaking crystal-blue gaze. “I’d really like them to just go away,” she added through a perfect row of clenched gleaming white teeth.

Lucas shrugged, then dropped his hands to his sides. “Then I guess that settles it, hein?” Taking a step toward the two photographers, he said, “Get off my property right now or I will call the sheriff.”

“Let’s go,” Number Two told Number One, backing away. “We got enough pictures, anyway.”

“Speak for yourself,” Number One retorted, posing his camera toward Willa. Until he saw the look in Lucas’s eyes. Then he shrugged and brushed past the apparent competition. “Okay, guess I do need to get back to my hotel room and get these developed—so I can beat you to the scoop.”

The race was on as the two jostled each other.

“Hey, hold on there, fellows,” Lucas said, surprising the entire group. Then he turned to the woman. “Do you want these two to have pictures of you?”

“No,” she said, her incredible eyes burning holes through the two motley, perspiring men.

Lucas held his hand up, motioning to the two. “Let’s have it, please.”

“Have what?” It was a whining chorus.

“The film,” Lucas replied, a smile forming on his lips. “Now.”

“You can’t take our film,” Burly Number One protested, sweat popping on his pale forehead.

“Watch me, mon ami.” Lucas grabbed the man’s camera, opened it and took the film out, inch by inch.

“Hey, you just ruined that!”

“Yes, I did.” Then he turned to the other man, his hand outstretched. “Hand it over, unless you want me to report you to the authorities.”

Reluctantly, and with great disgust, the man handed over the roll of film from his camera. “That belongs to me, you know. To Famous Faces magazine.”

“Yeah, well, now it belongs to me,” Lucas stated as he dropped the ruined film on the ground and rubbed his suede hiking boot across it, disdain evident in his actions. “Now, leave the way you came in—which was probably over the side fence.” He’d have to remember to have Tobbie check that broken fence again.

“Can’t you let us out the gate?” Number One whined.

Lucas turned his head in a gesture of disbelief. “Since I didn’t invite you in, why should I be gracious in letting you out?” Then he motioned toward the driveway that wound around the gardens. “Dig a trench, for all I care, but get out of here, and don’t let me catch you back again. Ever. Or mine will be the only famous face you remember.”

“You’ll be hearing from my publisher,” one of the men called as they trudged away, both huffing and puffing.

“I’ll look forward to it,” Lucas replied, chuckling.

He pulled a walkie-talkie off his leather belt.

“Tobbie, you there?” At Tobbie’s crisp answer, Lucas said, “Two men are approaching the side fence, that place near the tulip gardens where the fence needs repairing. Would you kindly escort them off the property?”

“With pleasure, for true,” Tobbie said, his hoot of laughter echoing over the static.

Satisfied that the oversize Tobbie Babineaux would scare the living daylights out of the two and send them packing, Lucas grinned.

And then her turned to her. “Fans of yours?”

Willa O’Connor looked at the man who’d come to her rescue and wished she knew how to answer his question.

“Not exactly,” she replied, still in shock after being ambushed in what she’d taken to be an isolated, secluded spot. “They work for some of those supermarket tabloids. Celebrity Exposé and, as you heard, Famous Faces. They like to travel in packs so they can attack from several different angles, then fight each other for the best shots.”

“So you’re a celebrity, then?”

“Somewhat,” she replied, not wanting to reveal too much.

She waited as the man took his time letting that little tidbit settle in. While he did that, he looked her over, his dark eyes full of doubt and mirth, his olive skin alive with a fine sheen of sweat in spite of the early morning breezes. He was certainly a handsome thing, with his long, curling brown-black hair and those chocolate-colored eyes that seemed to take in everything around him with a careless, lazy observation.

“Lucas,” she said, recognition making her gasp as she remembered the name he’d given the two reporters. “You’re Lorna’s brother, right?”

“Oui, and her favorite brother, at that,” he said, his grin full of promise and trouble as he reached a hand toward hers. “And from what I gathered from those two camera-toting clowns, your name is Willa?”

Willa tentatively took his hand, shaking it as she nodded then tried to pull away. But he held her. His hand was warm and work-callused, with long, artistic fingers that seemed to cling to her palm a bit too much for comfort. Lucas Dorsette didn’t just shake her hand; he held it as if it were a treasure. And then he did something even more unexpected. He bent his head and kissed her hand.

“Hello, Willa,” he said as he lifted his head, those dark, mischievous eyes sparkling with way too much charm. “Where on earth did you come from?”

“She came from New York,” Lorna said from behind him. “And she’d probably like her hand back, big brother.”

Willa watched as Lucas shrugged, then turned his head toward his sister and her husband, Mick, as they strolled down the garden path from the house. But he didn’t let go of her hand. Instead, he kept it tucked in his then brought it down, holding it as if they’d been lifelong friends. “I’ll give it back…in a little bit.”

Willa didn’t wait for him to decide when. She gave him a slight smile, then pulled her hand away so she could wave to Lorna, glad for the distraction and glad to have her tingling hand away from his overly warm fingers. “Hello there. I was just about to explain to your brother what I’m doing here.”

“Let me,” Lorna said, giving Willa a light hug. Then she turned to Lucas. “Lucas, this is my friend Willa O’Connor. She arrived late last night. I met Willa in Paris a few years ago, and we’ve kept in touch since then. She needed a few days to herself, so I invited her to come down here to Bayou le Jardin. And I expect you to give her some much-needed space.” Then she yanked playfully on a silky strand of her brother’s unkempt hair. “And I expect you to behave yourself.”

“Don’t I always now?” Lucas said, his gaze zooming in on Willa with all the bright-eyed intent of someone who never, ever behaved himself.

Oh, she loved his accent—part southern gentleman, part backwoods Cajun, slow and easy and downright irresistible. Lucas Dorsette was everything his sister had described and more. A true contradiction—fierce and gentle, mysterious and gallant. Handsome and fun-loving.

A lethal combination of charm and rebellion.

Lorna had warned her.

But he had come to her rescue like some gallant knight from a romance novel. Only who was she kidding? Willa knew she needed another man in her life like she needed another pair of designer shoes. She’d had way too many of both.

And she’d come down to Louisiana to clean her closet, get the cobwebs out of the attic, so to speak. Decide what to do about her crumbling life. She didn’t need Lorna’s handsome brother complicating her already complicated existence.

And yet, she could still feel the warmth of his lips on the back of her hand.

“Your brother has behaved perfectly this morning,” she told Lorna. “He helped me out of a very sticky situation.”

“What happened?” Lorna asked as she leaned against her good-looking husband’s chest. Mick automatically wrapped his arms around Lorna, holding her close as they waited for Willa to answer.

Willa envied the happiness her friend had found in the spring, envied Lorna’s glowing face and contented newlywed smile. She was glad Lorna had found some peace at last. She’d come to Lorna’s beloved gardens hoping to find some peace of her own.

But apparently, it wasn’t to be.