‘So Lucas Patrick is a friend of yours…?’
‘Actually I’ve never met the man in my life,’ she admitted. ‘Now if—’
‘You’re a fan, then?’ he theorised, talking across her. ‘If you leave your address, perhaps he’ll send you an autograph.’
‘Do I look stupid enough to give a total stranger my address?’ she demanded.’
The dark, satanically slanted brows lifted, but Megan had no more intention of responding to the gesture than she did the quivery demands of her oversensitive tummy muscles.
‘And I don’t want his damned autograph,’ she grunted, blushing darkly.
‘Then you don’t like his books?’
‘I’ve read some of his earlier ones, I can see why he’s popular,’ she observed diplomatically.
‘But not with you?’ he suggested shrewdly.
‘I think he’s slightly overrated.’ Unfairly she vented her antagonism towards this man on the absent and talented author.
She expelled a silent breath of relief as he finally moved aside to let her pass. As she did so she lifted her head as a thought occurred to her. ‘Have you actually met Lucas Patrick?’
‘In passing.’
Megan’s eyes widened. He didn’t seem to appreciate this put him in a pretty unique category. ‘Really—! And how did he seem?’
‘Seem?’
‘What was he like?’
‘He seemed a pretty ordinary sort of guy to me,’ he divulged disappointingly.
‘Then is he…what does he look like?’ She shook her head. ‘No, on second thoughts, don’t tell me, leave me with my illusions—though if you happened to nod when I said balding, or paunchy, that wouldn’t be totally out of order, would it?’
‘I thought your uncle was his editor?’
‘He is, but Uncle Malcolm’s lips are sealed when it comes to Lucas Patrick,’ she admitted regretfully.
‘And you’re curious…?’
A grin of pure mischief spread across Megan’s face. ‘A girl always likes to know ahead of time what her future husband looks like.’
‘Future husband…?’
The look of horror etched on his dark, dramatically perfect face could not have been more heartfelt had she just announced her intention to marry him. Megan loosed a gurgle of laughter. ‘A joke,’ she placated.
‘He might not think so,’ the tall stranger observed as he scanned her amused face.
‘Then he has no sense of humour,’ Megan proclaimed.
‘You still haven’t said what brought you here…’
Halfway to the door, Megan turned back at the sound of his voice. Why not? the reckless voice in her head suggested. You’re never going to see the man again. Maybe there was something in that old maxim that it was easier to discuss things with a stranger.
‘My mother wants me to be happy.’ She began to experience a familiar tightness in her chest and she sat down cautiously on the arm of a chair.
‘And that’s a problem?’ Luc watched her fumble in her bag.
‘She believes no woman is complete without a man.’
‘And you don’t have one.’
Megan’s chin went up. ‘I don’t want one,’ she rebutted firmly. Her fingers closed over the inhaler she never went out without and she gave a sigh of relief. ‘At regular intervals she tries to set me up with someone she imagines…’
‘Is good breeding stock…’ came the straight-faced suggestion.
Megan’s eyes narrowed. ‘Will make me happy,’ she corrected and raised the inhaler to her mouth. The relief was almost immediate. ‘This is why I avoid cats,’ she said, anticipating his question.
‘You have asthma?’ he queried, watching the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
‘A little,’ she admitted. She went to rise but a large hand fell on her shoulder, anchoring her to the spot. Her eyes slid from his brown fingers to his face.
‘Take a minute to get your breath,’ he suggested, actually it was more than a suggestion, it was a quiet command.
Normally Megan didn’t respond well to commands but on this occasion she found herself strangely willing to let it pass. His concern, even though unnecessary was oddly comforting.
‘Can I get you anything? A glass of water?’
She nodded; her throat felt oddly achy and constricted.
Without a further comment he left and returned with a glass of water. He stood there, arms folded across his chest while she drank. Megan was very conscious of his silent presence. He wasn’t the sort of man you could forget was there.
‘Thank you,’ she said politely, handing back the empty glass. Their fingers touched briefly during the exchange; the contact did uncomfortable things to Megan’s pulse.
‘Can I call anyone for you?’
‘Gracious, no!’ Very conscious of her warm cheeks, she forced a smile but didn’t meet his eyes. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Despite a matchmaking mother.’
The comment brought her head up. ‘I’ve tried everything to put her off,’ she admitted ruefully. ‘Nothing works.’
Head tilted a little to one side, a frown deepening the line between his flyaway brows, he scanned her face. ‘What are you…thirty…?’
The almost-spot-on estimate disconcerted her; she had enough female vanity to feel peeved.
‘Sorry, have I touched a nerve?’
Megan glared at him. ‘No, you haven’t,’ she denied angrily. ‘I have no problem with being thirty…actually, almost thirty.’
‘Good for you,’ he interposed with silken gravity. ‘Don’t you think at almost thirty it’s time you told your mother to mind her own business?’
Megan coloured angrily. He made it sound so simple, but then it probably was, if you had no problem trampling all over the feelings of people you loved. ‘Oh, why didn’t I think of that? Of course, it might be because I don’t want to hurt my mother.’
His shoulders lifted in a disdainful shrug. ‘Well, if you don’t mind people running your life…?’
‘My mother doesn’t run my life!’ she flared.
‘No?’
Megan clenched her teeth. ‘No, she doesn’t. She has had a tough time the last few years,’ she informed him, swallowing past the emotional lump in her throat. ‘She isn’t some cold control freak, she is just a caring mum who wants to see her daughter happy and settled.’ She dragged a frustrated hand through her hair and gave a dejected sigh. ‘Unfortunately happy and settled for her equates with a man and marriage, which is why I had this idea…a sort of line-of-least-resistance thing.’
Luc watched as she gazed abstractedly into the distance, her smooth brow furrowed.
‘Least resistance…?’ he probed softly.
She nodded.