believe I would know if I were expecting a young American guest,’ he cut in with calm deliberation.
Chelsea’s eyes widened with disbelief as the full implication of his words hit her. This man, this harshly suspicious man, couldn’t possibly be Lucas McAdams! She remembered him as being youthfully handsome, rather serious, but not a man with a harsh hardness that repulsed as much as it attracted. But seven years ago she had been only twelve, still a child, with a crush on an older man, a man who had seemed almost god-like to her. At nineteen she could see that the ambition that had always been such a driving force in his life in the past, that had taken him to the top of his profession, had also taken all the youth and happiness from him and left only the harsh shell of a man. No wonder she hadn’t recognised him; there seemed to be little of the old, exuberant Lucas left, just an automaton without a heart or soul.
‘I thought that piece of information might surprise you,’ he derided disdainfully.
‘It did,’ she nodded dully. ‘You’re nothing at all like I remember you.’
Impatience flared in the dark brown eyes. ‘I think it’s time to stop this game——’
‘So do I,’ she sighed wearily. ‘You couldn’t have got my father’s message.’
‘Don’t you think——’ he broke off, the arrogance replaced with confusion, then uncertainty, the hand that had been tightly gripping her arm moving slowly up to remove the woollen hat from her head. The long silver-blonde hair cascaded from its confinement to fall almost to her waist in gentle waves from the centre parting, giving her face an elfin appearance, her wide eyes framed by dark lashes, her nose short and pert, her mouth wide and full-lipped, her chin pointed. ‘Chelsea …?’ Lucas spoke slowly, almost disbelievingly. ‘Chelsea Stevens?’
‘Yes,’ she confirmed huskily, wishing they would get out of this elevator so that she could sit down, before she fell down.
Lucas seemed to become aware of their surroundings at the same time, making an impatient noise in his throat before guiding her over to one of the four doors leading off the long hallway, unlocking it quickly, glancing at the mail that lay on the table just inside the spaciously furnished apartment.
‘You didn’t get Jace’s cable,’ she repeated as she, too, saw the amount of letters lying there; there must be at least several days of mail.
‘Obviously not,’ he bit out dismissively, putting down his overnight case in the hallway. ‘But now that you’re here you can tell me what was in it.’ His eyes narrowed as he looked across the room at her. ‘Are you in trouble?’
‘Pregnant, you mean?’ She was passed being shocked by his suspicions about her.
‘Yes,’ he nodded.
‘You know, at any other time I would find all this amusing,’ she gave a wan smile, putting a hand up to her temple. ‘But at this precise moment in time I don’t think I could find anything funny.’
‘Tell me,’ he instructed abruptly.
‘Do you mind if I take my coat off first?’ The heat in the apartment was making her feel dizzy.
‘Go ahead,’ he invited, his eyes narrowed.
Chelsea shrugged out of the sheepskin jacket, feeling warm for the first time in days, too warm considering she was only wearing a thin black sweater under the jacket, Lucas taking the jacket from her as she looked around for somewhere to put it. ‘Thanks,’ she murmured gratefully, sitting down in one of the black leather armchairs without being invited to do so, her legs feeling too weak to support her any longer.
‘Chelsea?’ Lucas prompted impatiently, throwing the jacket down on another chair with his own, the three-piece suit he wore a charcoal grey colour, tailored to his magnificent physique, the waistcoat taut against his flat stomach, his shirt snowy white against his darker skin.
She took all this in about him without really being aware that she was doing so, her mind as numb as her emotions. How could she tell this man, this complete stranger, her reason for being here?
Lucas seemed to guess at her dilemma. ‘Is it Jace?’ His voice had gentled a little.
She shook her head. Jace was always the same, a handsome rogue of a man who succeeded in charming millions of viewers to his chat-show every week, one of the highest paid and well-liked men in television. No, Jace was indestructible.
‘Gloria, then?’ Lucas prompted again.
Her mother, an older more sophisticated version of herself, the silver-blonde hair kept in a shorter feathered style, faint lines about her blue eyes and vividly painted mouth disputing the mistake people often made of them being sisters. Gloria wasn’t as strong and forceful as Jace, possessed a fragility of character and body.
‘She’s dead,’ Chelsea stated flatly.
Lucas looked taken aback, almost disbelieving, as if he suspected her of lying.
And why shouldn’t he, women of thirty-nine didn’t just die, especially ones as beautiful as her mother had been. ‘It’s true,’ she told him without emotion, her pale face pinched with sorrow now, dark shadows of pain in her eyes.
‘Is that why Jace sent you here?’ Lucas probed.
‘Yes. He—I—The publicity. He didn’t want me involved in that.’ She moistened lips that suddenly seemed devoid of all feeling, having trouble articulating. ‘He said he would contact you,’ she repeated faintly.
‘Maybe he did,’ Lucas nodded grimly. ‘I’ve been unreachable the last few days.’
She had guessed that from the overnight bag and the amount of mail waiting for him. ‘Did you go anywhere nice?’ she asked numbly.
‘Chelsea——’
‘Sorry,’ she grimaced, the heat of the room suddenly overwhelming her. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she murmured vaguely just before she fainted.
She had no idea how much time had passed before she awoke to the feel of a hand gently tapping against her cheek, fighting back the blackness to find Lucas bending over her as she now lay full-length on the leather sofa, Lucas obviously having carried her here. He sat back as her eyes flickered open completely, a mask of polite concern making everything but his eyes seem emotionless, a depth of feeling in the brown eyes that he couldn’t control or hide.
‘I really am sorry.’ She pushed her hair back from her face as she pushed herself up into a sitting position. ‘I’ve never fainted before.’
‘Your——’ He broke off, his mouth firming in self-condemnation.
‘My mother never died before,’ Chelsea finished dryly. ‘No, as far as I know I only had the one.’
‘Chelsea!’
His anger had little effect on her, too much having happened to her the last few days for anything to have much effect, aware only that her mother was dead.
‘I’ve made some coffee.’ Lucas stood up to pour two cupfuls from the pot that stood on the silver tray on the low table in front of the sofa.
‘Was
