The Man Who Saw Her Beauty

‘Everyone in town is going to know about your turnaround in relation to the Miss Showgirl quest now. It’s going to be beautiful to watch.’

Her relish had his mouth kicking upwards. ‘Not going to work.’

She widened her eyes, mock innocent. ‘Work?’

‘You’re not going to get a rise out of me that easily, princess.’

‘Peasant.’

Energy fired through him. He found it suddenly easy to laugh. Then he frowned. When had it become hard to laugh?

‘So tell me …’

He shook the sombre reflection aside and readied himself for her next thrust.

‘What approach are you going to take with the fundraising?’

As far as thrusts went it wasn’t bad. ‘Any ideas?’

‘Oodles—and for every three you come up with I’ll give you one.’

He tried to look injured. ‘That hardly seems fair.’

‘It’s called penance.’

He threw his head back and let loose with another laugh. ‘Why don’t you really stick the knife in? I’m sure there’s a spot here somewhere …’ he pointed to his chest ‘… that you’ve missed.’

She grinned back, and it occurred to him that she was enjoying their exchange as much as he was.

He ushered her though the back entrance of the repair shop, opening the tall gate for her. He watched her take in the large galvanised-iron shed to the left and the neat weatherboard house opposite. The space between was hard-packed earth. There was an outdoor table setting against the far wall. No garden. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

It unsettled him to find he cared what she thought. Light—he had to keep it light. ‘Slave-driver,’ he muttered.

She tossed that long blonde hair of hers. ‘Grease monkey.’

Her good-natured insult released his tension and another laugh.

‘You’re a mechanic, huh?’

‘Yep.’

‘My car needs a service.’

He wasn’t a run-of-the-mill mechanic. He restored classic cars. He had a national reputation for it. These days he could pick and choose what projects he wanted to work on.

None of that stopped him from saying, ‘Bring it in on Thursday or Friday.’

‘Thank you.’

‘No.’ He touched her arm before she could set off towards the house. ‘Thank you for coming here to see Stevie, and for showing me how to make it up to her. I still don’t approve of this preoccupation with looks and fashion, but I do appreciate you coming here.’

She took a step away from him, out of his reach so his hand dropped back to his side. She hitched her chin in just that way. ‘Stevie and I will prove to you how wrong you are.’

‘It doesn’t matter if I’m wrong or right. I need to show Stevie that I trust her enough to support the decisions she makes even if I don’t like them. I ranted at you like an angry bull and you’ve had the grace to overlook it, as well as the generosity to agree to help Stevie. I’m in your debt, city girl.’

Her eyes suddenly narrowed. ‘I’ll be paying for my car service, Nicholas. I wasn’t after a freebie.’

And, because his gratitude had obviously embarrassed her, he made himself laugh and say, ‘I’ll be charging you top dollar.’

Blair didn’t smile back. ‘Just because I used to be a model, you’ve written me off as shallow, frivolous, and incapable of depth, gravity or any kind of finer feeling, haven’t you?’

‘I …’ He rolled his shoulders. It struck him that that was exactly what he’d done. He’d tarred Blair with the same brush as Sonya. On what grounds? After all, what did he really know about Blair Macintyre?

Zilch.

Except that she’d forgiven his bad behaviour. And that she was kind enough to want to help Stevie.

And neither of those things indicated shallowness or a lack of finer feeling. ‘Blair, I—’

She stabbed a finger at him. ‘What would your reaction be, I wonder, if I told you I’d spent a considerable time in front of the mirror this morning putting on my make-up?’

‘What’s a considerable amount of time?’ he ground out. ‘More than half an hour?’ Were these the things that she was going to teach his daughter were important?

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Why the hell is that necessary?’

‘And what would you say if I told you I was wearing false eyelashes?’

No!

‘And what would you think if I told you I was wearing a wig?’

He took a step back. ‘The hell you are.’ He found himself shaking as he moved forward again to push his face in close to hers. ‘Are you wearing a wig, Blair?’

‘I am,’ she shot back at him, her eyes blazing as she tossed her head. All that glorious fake hair swished round her shoulders and down her back, taunting him with the lie it represented. ‘What I want to know is, why does it matter?’

He unclenched his jaw to say, ‘You can even ask me that? You represent everything I hate about the world of fashion.’ Couldn’t she see the damage she and people like her did to mere mortals—to teenage girls? ‘You want to fill my daughter’s head with a load of unrealistic expectations. She’s going to feel compelled to live up to those expectations and—’

‘You should have more faith in your daughter.’ She shot right back again. ‘There’s absolutely nothing wrong with a woman wanting to look the best she can.’

‘Except when it takes over her life.’ A wig? ‘Like it’s obviously taken over yours! Take the damn wig off, Blair. Let my daughter see you as you really are rather than filling her head with a load of fantastic lies.’

Just for a moment he could have sworn that hurt flashed through her eyes. ‘So you think it’s all about vanity, huh?’

He didn’t say anything.

‘Are you giving me an ultimatum—take off my wig or you won’t let me see Stevie?’