Lovechild. Metsy Hingle

been enough women who’ve tried.” Not that she had been one of them. She had only wanted to love him and be loved by him. But even that had proved too much for Jacques.

      “I didn’t realize you knew him so well,” Jane said, a curious gleam in her dark eyes.

      “I don’t.” Despite the fact that they had been lovers, she had never really known Jacques. She had been too caught up in their passion to discover the sad, lonely man that had lain beneath the happy-go-lucky facade he presented to the world. Until it had been too late. “We met a few years ago in New Orleans while I was working for Aimee Gallagher. Jacques was one of her tenants.”

      “So, then you two are old friends?”

      “More like adversaries. We didn’t get along very well.” Except for that short time when they had been lovers. But even then, their relationship had remained volatile. And despite the fact that she had fallen in love with him, she and Jacques had never quite managed to become friends. If they had, perhaps things would not have ended as they did. “We still don’t.”

      “Adversaries, huh? I guess that explains why he’s looking at you like a hungry cat eyeing a tasty little mouse.”

      Liza looked up. Her eyes tangled with the tawny-colored ones staring back at her. For a moment she forgot to breathe. When Jacques winked, she jerked her gaze away. “Don’t read anything into it. Jacques takes his role as a Frenchman seriously. He thinks it’s his duty to flirt with any female from eight to eighty.”

      Her friend gave her a speculative look, then went back to sorting papers. She handed Liza a pile of the agendas that had been scattered on the table. “Still, it sure would be interesting to find out if what they say about Frenchmen is true.”

      “And just what is it they say about Frenchmen?” Jacques asked.

      Liza whipped around. Her heart thundered in her chest.

      Jane’s face split into a welcoming smile. “Why that they’re—”

      “That they’re very...French,” Liza offered quickly, while struggling to keep the color from crawling up her cheeks. Noting the amused look in his eyes, Liza tipped up her chin. “Jacques, I’d like you to meet Jane Burke. Jane, Jacques Gaston.”

      “Mademoiselle Burke.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. The other woman practically swooned.

      “Jane is the person responsible for organizing the committee’s volunteers,” Liza continued, unsure which irritated her more, the dazzled expression on her friend’s face or Jacques’s easy charm. “I was explaining to Jacques earlier that it really wasn’t necessary for him to take Peter’s place on the board and suggested he might want to work with your group of volunteers.”

      “Why, of course, we would love to have you work with our group, Mr. Gaston.”

      “Jacques,” he corrected.

      “Jacques,” she repeated, her face beaming. “And please, you must call me Jane.”

      “A lovely name for a lovely lady,” Jacques said smoothly. “And I am sure you will understand, Jane, that as much as I would enjoy working with you, I believe my time would be better served working with Liza to ensure the success of the fund-raiser.”

      “Why, of course I understand,” Jane agreed, her cheeks flushed. “And you’re right. Despite what Liza says, I know she can use your help—especially with Peter and Aimee both out of the picture.”

      “Is that right?” Jacques shifted his gaze to Liza.

      “Oh, yes,” Jane assured him and then launched into a list of the many details for which Liza was responsible all of which would certainly benefit from any help that Jacques would offer.

      Resisting the urge to strangle both her friend and Jacques, Liza crammed the remaining meeting paraphernalia into her briefcase. She snapped it shut and removed it from the table. “If you’ll both excuse me, need to speak with Robert about the patron party before I leave.”

      Ten minutes later, after declining Robert’s offer to see her to her car, Liza slipped out of the meeting room. At least she had managed to avoid another encounter with Jacques, she told herself as she walked down the hallway toward the exit. Judging by the way Ashley Hartmann had been clinging to his arm when she had seen him last, he would be fully occupied for the rest of the evening.

      Not that it made any difference to her, Liza decided. After all, she and Jacques were history. What he did and who he did it with were of no concern to her.

      Then why did the image of the redheaded divorcée laughing up at him and clutching at his sleeve leave such a foul taste in her mouth and an achy feeling in her chest?

      Because you’re an idiot, Liza O’Malley. You always were, where Jacques was concerned. Frowning, Liza turned the corner and headed toward the elevators.

      “Such a long face. Problem, ma chérie?”

      Liza stopped. Her gaze shot over to where Jacques stood lounging against the wall next to the elevators. “Not at all,” she finally managed to say despite the rush of nerves that tightened like a knot in her stomach. Shifting her briefcase from one hand to the other, she continued over to the bank of elevators and pushed the button for the lobby. “I’m just surprised to see you leaving so early.” Or alone, she added silently.

      “Why is that?”

      “Well, since you’re so eager to serve on the committee’s board, I thought you would take advantage of this opportunity to become better acquainted with the other board members.” And Ashley Hartmann in particular.

      “I would much prefer reacquainting myself with the committee’s fund-raising coordinator.”

      The elevator arrived, saving her from the need to respond. Liza stepped inside the half-filled car, and Jacques followed. The doors slid shut, enclosing them in the small space. The short ride to the lobby suddenly seemed to stretch endlessly. Even with a half dozen other people inside the car, Liza couldn’t help being keenly aware of Jacques standing beside her. She could smell the scents of summer sunshine and damp clay, of pine woods and man—a unique mingling of scents that she had always associated with Jacques. And with the scents came back the memories—the feel of his hands shaping her, his mouth tasting and teasing.

      Liza’s breath snagged in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut against the memory.

      “Liza?”

      At the sound of his voice, Liza opened her eyes immediately. Her body tense, she tightened her fingers around the handle of her briefcase.

      “Is something wrong?”

      “No,” she said quickly.

      Moments later when the elevator doors opened, she raced through them and out into the lobby.

      “Liza, wait.”

      She kept moving down the polished corridor, eager to reach the parking garage elevator and escape Jacques and the rush of memories plaguing her.

      He gripped her arm, bringing her to a halt. Gently, too gently, he caught her chin and forced her to look at him. “What is wrong? Why do you run from me?”

      “I’m not running from you,” she lied. “I have a headache, and I’m just anxious to get home.”

      He hesitated, and Liza grew uncomfortable under his probing gaze. “Then I will take you home.” Still holding on to her arm, he took her briefcase from her and continued toward the parking garage elevators.

      “I appreciate the offer, but it’s not necessary.”

      “You are ill.”

      “I have a headache,” she said, and tugged her arm free. “I promise you I can manage. Besides, I don’t live in the city. ‘Home’ is more than an hour’s drive outside of Chicago.”

      “I do not mind the drive.”

      “But