The Playboy Takes a Wife. Crystal Green

dammit. No more apologies for his recently abandoned lifestyle or justifications for “the playboy’s trip to the orphanage.”

      “You take over,” he muttered to David while walking away.

      “Luke—”

      “Buddy, you’re the brains of this outfit, so dazzle the crowd with ’em.” Lucas winked, just to convince David—and himself—that he had his position as the “face” of TCO under control, that he was still the pretty boy who fetched publicity while David actually ran the place.

      But it was about good publicity this time, Lucas thought.

      Too much of his PR had been negative. Especially lately, with all those nonfamily-friendly wild-romance-in-the-streets-of-Rome scenarios he’d been enjoying with Cecilia DuPont, this month’s starlet. Impulsive scenarios that shed a red light on TCO.

      As he left the media circus and headed toward the spot where the nuns had disappeared, he heard David assuming control of the press. Good man. He knew how much of this crap Lucas could handle before blowing.

      Shortly after arriving at the wall, he ducked behind it, finding a cast-iron gate. In back of that, there was a flagstone path strewn with vivid pink flowers. A fountain burbled in the near distance. Sure sounded peaceful to him.

      Opening the gate, he slid behind it before he could be spotted by anyone, then walked over the path toward the running water.

      The fountain was in a side courtyard where red bricks and iron benches hinted at a mellowness Lucas had been craving. Like a collapsing wall, he crumbled onto one of those benches, loosening his tie and rolling his head around to work the cricks out of his neck.

      Now this was more like it. No damned cameras, no pressure. Just for a second—

      A soft giggle hit the fragrant air.

      He cocked an eyebrow and glanced around at the thick foliage surrounding the courtyard.

      “Peekaboos,” said a child’s voice from one of the bushes.

      An orphan? Lucas couldn’t help grinning. Hell, as long as the kid didn’t have a lens aimed at him, he could deal.

      A devilish titter followed. It reminded Lucas of how he used to laugh when he was younger. Everything had been a joke to be told, a riddle to be solved, a game to be played. He still sort of subscribed to that theory, even if it got him into trouble more often than not.

      Suddenly a woman’s voice came from behind the bushes. “Gabriel? Dónde está?”

      The foliage rattled as Lucas spotted a few strands of black hair spiking out from the leaves.

      Two nuns scuttled into the courtyard. They chattered in Spanish, seemingly panicked.

      “Gabriel!”

      They stopped as they saw Lucas rising to a stand, hands in his pants pockets. He merely grinned and shrugged, hating to give the kid’s position away.

      One exasperated nun addressed him in English. “A guest? You are to come in the front door, sir! Not the back.”

      Thrilled that she hadn’t recognized him, Lucas eased her a grin. “Sorry.”

      The nun raised a finger to say more, then stopped, reconsidered and sent him her own sheepish smile. “It is okay, sir.”

      It worked every time, Lucas thought. The Dimples.

      Meanwhile, the other nun—a woman with chubby cheeks and a lively gaze—had caught sight of the little boy’s hair. She parted the bushes, only to jump back when a golden-skinned child with wide brown eyes exploded out of the leaves, squealing. His hair splayed away from his head, wild and free, just as playfully ornery as Lucas suspected the rest of him was.

      Much to the nuns’ horror, Gabriel climbed into the fountain and proceeded to splash around, sending waves of water at them while they tried to approach. The boy’s defense worked wonderfully, because it seemed that the nuns thought they would melt if they got water on their clothing.

      Finally he took pity on the ladies. They were, after all, of good quality, even if they didn’t appreciate the fine art of child’s play.

      Approaching Gabriel from the back, Lucas scooped him up, putting a stop to all the shenanigans. Water dripped from the child’s clothes, but Lucas didn’t mind. His suit would dry.

      “Hey, little guy,” he said, “time to stop being a squirrel.”

      The child looked up at him, and Lucas blinked back. In those dark eyes he saw the same troublemaking, misunderstood expression that stared back at him from the mirror each morning, the glint of rebellion in a confused gaze.

      Another female voice rang through the air. “Gabriel?”

      “Now she comes,” the first nun said, checking her skirt for water damage.

      The chubby-cheeked nun merely caught her breath and flapped a hand in front of her face.

      Gabriel squirmed, but Lucas wasn’t dumb. He kept a hold of him, spinning him around to stand on one of the benches.

      The boy held up his hands and laughed. “Mucho gusto!” He had mile-long eyelashes, chubby, round, smudged cheeks and a secondhand shirt splashed with water and old dirt.

      A tweak of sympathy—that’s what it was—forced Lucas to reach out and ruffle the kid’s hair. Cute bugger.

      “Gabriel,” said the more exasperated nun, “please speak your English. And you are soaking and dirty. How will you be ready for the show?”

      The boy stubbornly shook his head, turning to Lucas. “No show,” he said, repeating the nun’s word.

      English. Suddenly Lucas remembered David’s preparatory briefing: part of the orphanage’s educational program included ESOL—English for Speakers of Other Languages.

      A sound investment of the company’s money, David had said, because it would allow bilingual children more opportunity and make TCO heroic.

      Lucas liked the sound of that. It was a solid deal, even if a boy as young as Gabriel might not have learned that much since Refugio Salvo had only been running for about nine months.

      His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of that third woman. She was out of breath, her head bare, black hair curled in disarray down to her shoulders. Her light brown skin was flushed, her dark gold eyes wide.

      She dressed like a nun but…no wimple. Maybe she was one of those novices or whatever they called them.

      As they locked gazes, she held a hand to her chest, as if surprised by something.

      Lucas’s blood zinged and swerved through his veins. Instinctively, he took things up a notch and offered what the papers called “the smile to end all smiles,” the ultimate way to charm any woman who caught his fancy.

      Even a wannabe nun? he wondered. Say it ain’t so.

      Her stark clothing couldn’t conceal the lush curves of her body. Around her wrist a charm-laden bracelet gleamed. Maybe this order wasn’t traditional, choosing to forgo dressing in regular habits and accessories.

      At any rate, Lucas thought, she’s off-limits. David, Dad and the board of directors would go ballistic if you outdid yourself and big-bad-wolfed a future nun, of all people.

      In welcome, she broke into her own smile, blushing while she allowed her hand to fall to her side as she gathered her composure. The color of her cheeks brought even more animation to her delicate, innocent features: a gently tipped nose, full pink lips and dark angel-wing lashes.

      “I see you’ve met Gabe,” she said breathlessly. Her English was very good, with barely the trace of an accent.

      The cranky nun interjected. “Lord, help the man now.”

      “Sister