shrugged, affecting a calm she did not feel. After all, she had well-developed internal armor by now. “—I suppose it suits your playboy executive image.”
“Is that what you think I am?” he fairly snarled, having decided to go on the offensive, given that he had blundered his way through her arrival. He knew a brusque attack could set the enemy back, and he was thinking of Rachel as the enemy at this point. Aggression would be his weapon of choice in this case. He certainly had no intention of trying to charm Rachel. This was not the time to question his reasoning, either.
“Actually,” Rachel was answering him, “it’s not something I think about. But I imagine you might see yourself that way. More or less.”
They stared at each other for a few minutes. “Do you want anything to drink?” he inquired grudgingly, professional good manners instinctively forming the words. Maybe there was comfort in small talk.
“Just some water, please. I won’t be here all that long.”
Lucas stabbed a button on his phone. “Jennifer, please bring a glass of ice water and some coffee.” He leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he zeroed in on Rachel again. He needed to shake her composure the way she had shaken his. “Why are you here? Jennifer told me you claimed family business.” He folded his arms across his chest, affecting a bored yet confrontational stance. “Does that mean you’re ready for a divorce?”
She started slightly. “I hadn’t even thought of that, Lucas,” she answered, her eyes momentarily wide with surprise. “We could do that now, I suppose. But I’m actually here because…well, it really is family business. I’m hoping we can…put aside our differences and do what needs to be done.”
She broke off as a knock came at the door. Jennifer entered, pushing a cart holding a coffeepot, a mug and assorted condiments, as well as a pitcher of water and a glass of ice. She wheeled the cart to the side of Lucas’s desk, where she made a great show of pouring a cup of coffee, adding one teaspoon of sugar and handing it to Lucas—demonstrating for Rachel’s benefit her thorough knowledge of Lucas’s preferences. At least where coffee was concerned. Rachel wondered briefly if this woman knew Lucas’s preferences in other ways, too, then forced herself to ignore the question.
Meanwhile, the woman pushed the cart closer to Rachel and left the room with a flourish.
Rachel suppressed a smile, privately noting the receptionist’s continuing silent protest at Rachel’s presence. Rachel knew Lucas would never understand if she tried to explain what had occurred. He had always been oblivious to certain things. Jennifer’s performance had been utterly wasted on him. Silently Rachel poured herself a glass of water and settled back into the couch, openly examining the man who was still her husband.
So there he is, she thought, looking incredibly like Pierce Brosnan at his James Bond best. Only better. Unfortunately.
Seeing him warmed her, she acknowledged, although that, too, was unfortunate. She’d wanted to be immune to him in every way. She needed to be immune. She just needed his help. She didn’t need him. There was a difference.
Still, she could hardly avoid noticing that Lucas was now a full-grown, highly potent man, no longer the boy teetering on manhood he’d been when they had married. That fact was having an impact on her heartbeat, she knew. But there he was. He stood over six feet tall and was still lean and fit, despite having filled out some in the years since she’d seen him. Little lines had etched themselves around his eyes, lines that might be laugh lines or something else. He certainly wasn’t smiling now, so Rachel couldn’t draw any conclusions on that score. He still wore his black hair short, undoubtedly still disgusted at its tendency to curl if allowed to have any length. She didn’t detect any gray in its blackness.
His charcoal-gray eyes were the eyes she remembered—she saw those eyes every day. Dark and yet clear, having always reminded Rachel of Apache Tears, the clear black gemstone found throughout Arizona. She’d always been able to see what he was feeling in those clear gray eyes. But not anymore.
Everything about him was so familiar to her, yet she was not comfortable with this man. She couldn’t be sure she knew him at all. Five years changed a person. They had certainly changed her.
Lucas watched her link her hands around her glass of water. He took in the details: short, well-maintained fingernails—maybe some kind of clear polish. Competent hands, he thought, nothing frivolous there. No rings. Not even the ones he’d given her all those years ago. That change bothered him. He couldn’t—or wouldn’t—consider why.
“So,” he began, trying to steer the conversation back where he thought it was supposed to be heading, attempting to draw in a deep breath, “you were about to mention family business of some kind.”
She sighed and looked away, lending credence to his suspicion that something was wrong. She took another sip from her glass before setting it down.
“Yes, Lucas,” she began. “Well, there’s no easy way to say this, so I guess I’ll just…say it.” She shrugged again, completely unaware of the habit.
“That’s a good way to start,” he responded.
Looking him square in the face, she stated, “I need your help, Lucas.”
“My help?” His eyebrows shot up. “You need money?”
“No, Lucas,” she answered patiently, as if catering to a child’s limited attention span. “I’m not interested in your money. I’ve never asked you for money, and I’m certainly not about to start now. What I need is more…personal, I guess.” She paused, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. Taking a deep breath, she rushed on.
“We have a daughter, Lucas. She’s four. She’ll be five in December. She’s ill. She has leukemia. She needs a bone marrow transplant.” She paused in what was clearly a prepared, carefully rehearsed speech, a speech she was nevertheless having difficulty delivering. “The chemotherapy has done what it can. She can’t really do that anymore. And while bone marrow transplants used to be a ‘last resort’ thing, they’re a lot more common now, especially once a patient has gone into remission. They’re effective with children and used fairly often with the kind of leukemia she has. But—” she swallowed “—a compatible donor must be identified. Usually, the best matches are blood relatives. I’m not that match. No one in my family is. We’ve even done a donor drive at the hospital, and while it did a lot to improve the donor registry we have in this state, especially among Hispanics, it didn’t identify a compatible donor for her. That means we need to explore other options.”
She started to run her hand through her hair, then resorted to patting it when she remembered she had it clipped into a ponytail. “There are options, alternative means for obtaining bone marrow—but we need to exhaust the obvious routes before we turn to less traditional means. Those ways…would not be the first choice left to us at this point.” She took a deep breath. “Siblings are usually the most likely source, but with no siblings…” She shrugged again, letting that serve as an answer. “The best choice now is to test you, Lucas. As her father, as a blood relative, it’s logical that you may be the match she needs. I know she has your blood type, not that that guarantees anything. So,” she drew out the word, heard the quaver in her voice, “I’m hoping you’ll agree to be a donor for her. Or, more precisely, I’m asking you to be typed so we can see if you’re a suitable match for her.”
Lucas sat transfixed in his chair, too overwhelmed to move.
So here it is, he thought vaguely, Rachel’s second visit to my
