Riches to Rags Bride / The Heiress's Baby. Myrna Mackenzie

He kept things businesslike, dry. Things should have been totally impersonal as they always were with his employees.

      And yet they never were. As they drove down the mean streets, she seemed to notice everything and everyone and her heart bled for all of them. “Look at that poor man,” she said one day, pointing out a man who appeared to be begging for money not for himself but for the sick boy beside him, a boy who was playing kick ball when Lucas drove by the next day. She exclaimed about the woman with a baby carriage struggling over the bumpy parts of the street. Or a stray puppy. Or a man trying to sell newspapers that no one seemed to want to buy.

      Genuine tragedy or scam, Genevieve ached for all of them. He had a bad feeling that sooner or later someone would take advantage of her soft heart.

      Stop thinking about her, he ordered himself. She wouldn’t want his advice or want to hear of his concern. I have six locks, she had said, clearly disgusted by him even asking. He needed to just forget about her situation.

      She wasn’t his concern, was she? Except … she was—damn her—another woman in peril. Another Angie. It almost seemed as if fate were mocking him by sending him someone like Genevieve just when he was trying to effect a change that would enable him to forever be free of her kind of woman. A woman in trouble, one whose situation was beyond his control when control was what he had always needed most, what he couldn’t survive without.

      So, he cursed fate. He tried to ignore Genevieve’s situation and just get on with the project as quickly as possible.

      Until the night when there was another robbery in her neighborhood.

      And there it was. Again. His past breathing down his neck. Hot. Frightening. Careening out of control. No way to control the situation at all. He remembered Angie, who had lived in fear her whole life. Angie, whose life had been changed forever because of two men who should have protected her but who hurt and failed her and, ultimately, destroyed her.

      Damn it, he had been one of those men and he could not survive hurting another woman like that or standing by and letting one get hurt when he had the means to stop it. Because he knew—all too well—that it was only a matter of time before someone noticed that a delicate flower like Genevieve was living smack in the middle of a “no holds barred, no crime left uncommitted” zone.

      She would end up being hurt because he had left her there.

      Because you have absolutely no right to interfere. She told you earlier in every way possible that she wants to fight clear of that place herself. And when that happened, she would no doubt return to the glassed-off world of the privileged, where rough men like him didn’t belong. That was a good thing.

      Still, Lucas didn’t do a single push-up that night. His control that he had always relied on failed him.

      Because damn it, he knew the streets like he knew his own thoughts. Six locks or eight locks or even ten locks wouldn’t matter if the bad guys wanted in.

      One good look at Genevieve and they would want in.

      Lucas swore. He waited for the morning. And then he went to Angie’s House.

      Surely, if he did this right, he could get Genevieve out of his mind. Then he could go back to moving on with his life. And Genevieve could return to being … someone who didn’t matter to him at all beyond this project.

      Thank goodness.

      “So get on with it, McDowell. Make a deal with the woman. Get her out of your thoughts. Now. Today.”

      Genevieve looked around the small den, which was substantially cleaner than when she had entered it at the beginning of the day. Then she looked down at herself. Okay, the delicate piping around the edge of the neckline of her top was slightly damp, there were a few dust smudges here and there, but unlike some of the other outfits she’d been wearing, this one might live to see another day.

      An inordinate sense of accomplishment brought a smile to her face. “I did it,” she said to no one in particular.

      “Did what?” Lucas’s unmistakable deep voice came from the doorway, and Gen whirled to find him studying her intently.

      Automatically some major fluttering began in her stomach. She frowned at her own foolish reaction and squelched it until only a few tiny flutters remained.

      “I …” She held out her hand. “It’s dumb.”

      He waited.

      “I cleaned an entire room by myself. I mean, it’s not perfect.” Because now that he was here, she was noticing that she had missed some dust on the windowsill and there were still a few cobwebs here and there and …

      “It’s good,” he said.

      Which might have seemed like faint praise to most people, but to a woman used to no praise? His words were truthful. Not overblown. He hadn’t said “great,” which she would have known was a lie. He had said “good” … which was the precise word to describe what she’d done.

      “I …”

      “Say thank you, Genevieve,” he suggested.

      “Yes. Thank you. Did you need something? Is there something I need to do?”

      He came into the room then. “Actually, there is. Have Thomas and Jorge gone home?”

      She nodded. “Ten minutes ago.”

      “Good. We need to talk.”

      Uh-oh, the fact that he wanted her out of earshot of anyone else …

      “Is there something I’ve done wrong?”

      “No. It’s simply that I’ve decided that it would be a good idea if you stayed here instead of your apartment.”

      “Here?” Away from that rat hole where she’d been living? Away from Mrs. Dohenny’s shrieks and accusations about the remaining few dollars she still owed? A sudden whoosh of relief rushed in. And then … it rushed out again. There was something calculating in Lucas’s expression and tone. Something wasn’t quite right.

      Perhaps what wasn’t right was the fact that she had been so excited she hadn’t yet asked the obvious question. “Why?”

      He shrugged. “It’s more convenient here, for one thing. Having you here will save time, speed up the process. Are you telling me that you’d rather stay where you are than live here?”

      No. No. No. She just suddenly felt that there was something she was missing. Just as she had with Barry. And she felt as if a man was once again making personal decisions for her when the last time that had happened she had ended up with her self-esteem wrecked and her world in tatters.

      “Mr. McDowell,” she began, trying to create some distance. It didn’t work. He raised that lofty, dark eyebrow. “Lucas,” she amended. “I know my apartment might be a bit … distasteful. And it’s probably a nuisance having to pick me up and bring me home, but I can work around that. You don’t have to drive me. Even with the construction, there’s another bus stop only a mile and a half away. I can walk from there.”

      “I’m not worried about driving into your neighborhood, Genevieve. I lived in places like that long-term and I know what it’s like. It’s no place for a princess.”

      She raised her chin. “I told you, I’m not a princess. Or even a debutante anymore. What I am is a grown woman, Lucas.” She wanted to add that she was a strong woman, but that would be a lie. She wasn’t there yet. Not nearly. Right now she was awkward, with no street sense, and she was making a lot of mistakes. But she wanted to be strong. And much as she wanted out of her apartment, letting a man make that choice for her, even a man she needed to please to keep her job … well, she had to try to have some say in this.

      “You’re a woman, an adult,” Lucas admitted, his voice dark and deep, sending shivers through her. “But if someone bigger, stronger tried to take everything you own, you couldn’t prevent that from happening.”