Lucas grinned, then started walking toward the woman, instinct telling him this time things might be different. Because this time, he knew in his heart he’d just stumbled across…something beautiful.
And then the cameras started flashing.
Lucas blinked twice, watched as the tranquil woman whirled and with a loud groan took off in a mad dash toward the house, her long hair and long dress flying around her as if she were a runaway bride.
The cameras followed her. Two of them with big zoom lenses, carried by two rather burly-looking men who’d popped out from behind a cluster of camellia bushes.
“Willa?” one of the men shouted. “Just one picture, Willa. C’mon, people want to know why you backed out of that runway show in New York!”
“Go away,” the woman shouted in a voice that was as cultured and gleaming as the single strand of pearls she wore around her neck. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”
But the two determined photographers kept right on coming. Like a set of hound dogs chasing a rabbit into the swamp, they practically fell over each other in their haste to get to the elusive woman.
Lucas watched, angered and amazed, as one of the overstuffed men stomped right through Aunt Hilda’s prized miniature rose garden then almost tripped over his own feet as he sprinted to get a close-up of the woman he’d called Willa.
“Get away from me,” the woman said, her hands on her hips, her stare full of anger and defiance.
The cameras took it all in, clicking with a constant whine. One of the men laughed. “Good shot. That’ll make the cover.”
“I’ll get a better one for my cover,” the other one snarled.
Lucas took two long strides and stepped between the beauty and the beasts.
“You heard the woman,” he said on a low growl, one hand shoving at the first man while he held his other hand in warning toward the second photographer. “Get away from her now.”
“And who are you?” Burly Number One asked, his double chin jutting over his cheap navy and red striped tie.
Lucas grinned, then shifted his gaze from one man to the other. Slapping a hand across the rough denim of his jeans, he turned and winked at the beauty who’d automatically taken up a position behind his protective back. “Who am I? Moi?” He chuckled low, then shook his head. “I’ll tell you who I am. I’m Lucas Dorsette. I live here. And you two seem to be pestering this lovely lady, not to mention trespassing on private property.”
Burly Number Two looked at Number One, rolled his eyes, then adjusted his heavy camera. “Let’s go, man.”
“We weren’t talking to him,” Number One replied, frowning at Lucas. “And I just wanted a minute with you, Willa. Just a couple of pictures for this week’s issue.”
“Me, too,” Number Two added, glaring at the other photographer. “We have a much bigger circulation than that rag he works for.”
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