she heard him drawling scornfully when her sneezes subsided. ‘And I don’t play golf…but they let us unskilled labourers into quite a few places these days.’
Megan gave her pink nose a last angry scrub, her china-blue eyes snapping with anger. Where did this man get off automatically assuming she was some sort of snob? There was only one person here guilty of judging by appearances and it wasn’t Megan!
‘In my book decorators aren’t unskilled, although…’ she allowed her gaze to travel significantly over his paint-stained person ‘…in your case…’
‘I’m helping out a friend.’
‘So what is your actual day job?’
‘I do a bit of this, a bit of that,’ he revealed casually.’
‘You don’t have a regular job?’ Megan’s voice lifted in amazement—like most of her friends, her life revolved around the demands of work.
Luc found the fact she was looking at him as though he were a rare specimen amusing. ‘I don’t starve and I don’t sponge.’
Megan was immediately embarrassed. ‘I never imagined that you…it really isn’t any of my business how you live your life, Mr…’
‘Not being tied down to a nine-to-five routine gives me time to write. Some of my work is even now sitting on your uncle’s desk.’
‘You want to be a writer?’ That would explain his instant recognition of her uncle’s name. Though he had to be incredibly naive if he thought the work of every unknown who sent in an unsolicited manuscript ended up on her uncle’s desk. You had to produce something very special indeed to get that far.
Much more likely his work was languishing at the bottom of a pile on some junior’s desk. Being a naturally kind person, Megan didn’t have the heart to explain the brutal facts of the publishing business to him.
‘Is there any reason why I shouldn’t be a writer?’
Her eyes swept over his tall, impressive figure. The truth was he exuded so much vitality and energy Megan couldn’t imagine him doing anything that required long periods of physical immobility.
Megan smiled sunnily and had the satisfaction of hearing his teeth grate. ‘Listen, I don’t know the first thing about publishing and I have no influence with my uncle but if you’re serious about writing I think it would probably be a good idea to find yourself an agent.’
‘Anybody you could recommend…?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Maybe you should see a doctor,’ he observed with a grimace as she began to sneeze loudly again.
‘Look, I’m not in publishing, but good luck and don’t worry—’ Megan sniffed ‘—I’m not ill. I’m allergic to cats,’ she explained as she got to her feet.
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me…?’ She nodded, and slung the soft leather satchel she carried over her shoulder and smoothed down her jacket.
The long, lean, intensely aggravating stranger didn’t step aside to let her pass. Instead he tilted his head back slightly to look curiously down at her and asked, ‘What kind of doctor are you?’
‘I’m a research chemist.’
‘Interesting,’ he said, looking and sounding as though he meant it.
‘It has its moments.’ Her bag hit her thigh as she hitched it on her shoulder and she winced as the fabric of her jeans rubbed against the fresh scratches on her leg.
‘You should put some antiseptic on that; cat scratches can get infected. If you like I’ve got some…’
An image of those long brown fingers moving over her skin flashed into Megan’s head. The reaction to the image was immediate and intense; the surface of her skin broke out in a rash of goose-bumps; her skin tingled; her sensitive stomach muscles contracted violently.
Her wide eyes lifted and collided with a steel-grey interrogative stare. There was a silence. The electric tension in the air had to be a product of her imagination, but it felt disturbingly real.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ she replied huskily. ‘But thanks for the offer.’
Adopting a brisk, decisive air, she stepped forward. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and hesitated when he didn’t move. There was room to edge past, but that would mean touching him. The desire to get away from this man’s disturbing presence was strong, but her reluctance to make physical contact was stronger. ‘I’m sorry to have held you up…’
‘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
