No More Mr. Nice

chapter 2


Jess stood in the entrance hall of Lucas Brand’s home, shivering. Her parents would have loved this opulent place, but if she had her way, she’d run screaming in the opposite direction. Of course, she wouldn’t really. That would be childish, and she was a divorced woman of thirty. Her parents’ yearnings and pressures didn’t affect her now. Shouldn’t, anyway. They’d dragged her behind them in their single-minded lust for exactly this sort of pretension, showing her off along with their paintings and trendy furniture. Her parents’ pursuit of money had colored so much of her childhood.

As a result, she felt a grudging distaste for any exorbitant show of wealth.

Admittedly Lucas Brand’s house was beautiful, yet it exuded a frigid, intimidating elegance. There were no warm, fuzzy vibrations here.

Ahead was a wall of multipaned doors that opened onto a hallway. Beyond that was another set of glass doors that led outside. She was almost blinded by the glittering reflection of the setting sun on a lake just beyond the doors. The fiery glow of sun and water was the entryway’s saving grace, giving the house’s interior warmth and life. She decided not to credit that phenomenon to either the architect’s foresight or to Lucas Brand’s direction. She was sure it was merely a happy freak of nature, which she’d arrived in time to witness. The sight calmed her slightly, but not enough.

The butler who had answered her knock had disappeared through the first set of doors and rounded the corner a moment ago. Jess waited, trying not to lose her nerve. Being in Lucas Brand’s lake residence—a kind of streamlined plantation house—both awed and upset her, reminding her of old hurts and slights that set her teeth on edge. Her father would have killed to have had an estate like this. Ironically, he’d finally made some big money—though not quite to this degree. But the measure of wealth he now enjoyed was due to Lucas Brand.

Suppressing a surge of bitterness, she reminded herself that she was here as Mr. Roxbury’s employee, on Mr. Roxbury’s business. She needed to stay focused on that. Lucas didn’t know she was related to Clancy Ritter, the man from whom he’d bought a small software firm five years ago to absorb into his own. There was no need for him to know this, and she planned to keep her feelings to herself, for Mr. Roxbury’s sake, now that she was working with Lucas Brand. A despondent sigh escaped her at that miserable thought.

Nibbling her lower lip, she tried to regain her calm. She’d reread the chapter on “Keeping a Cool Head” in the self-help book she’d bought yesterday, in preparation for this meeting. The title—Managing Unmanageable People—had caught her eye. And she’d known Lucas Brand was the pigheaded breed the book dealt with—utterly aloof, utterly confident, with a will of granite and a heart to match.

Though she’d grown up with aggressive parents, she’d never been all that driven, herself; it was a trait her mother and father had tried vainly to encourage in her. At twenty, she married a man who had turned out to be as self-centered and aggressive as her parents. She’d never successfully stood up to any of them—had a horror of dealing with that type—and had become a social-services worker expressly to avoid their sort.

Several years ago, after meeting Norman Roxbury, she’d become fascinated with his Mr. Niceguy program and had asked to be a part of it. When he’d made her his assistant, she’d never realized that one day she’d have to work with the very man who…

She gritted her teeth. Enough negative thinking. She had a job to do, and she would have to “manage” the unmanageable Mr. Brand, if Mr. Roxbury’s wishes were to be carried out. Though their personal contact had been minimal so far, she’d found Lucas to be the most perverse man she’d ever had the misfortune to come in contact with. He could never be reached by phone, and never returned messages. Finally, in desperation, she’d had to resort to dropping in on him, unannounced. She looked forward to it the way she would look forward to life-threatening surgery—necessary but terrifying.

“Mr. Brand is on the terrace, Mrs. Glen,” said the butler, startling her.

“The…terrace,” she repeated, hoping she wasn’t expected to guess where that might be.

The butler, intimidating in a tuxedo, nodded rigidly, and with a small wave indicated the way. “Please follow me.”

She trailed along, feeling as though she were being led to the principal’s office for some infraction. No, no, Jess, she chided herself. You’re a capable, competent adult. You can handle this. Remember, the book says to “be reasonable, but be assertive.” After all, you’re in the right, here. He made a promise.

They entered a huge living area with a two-story window-wall that overlooked the lake. That whole side of the room glowed red-golden with the sunset, making Jess take in a sharp, appreciative breath. The decor appeared muted in color—charcoal gray leather, smoked glass—with accents providing splashes of gold and bloodred.

The ceiling was high, the walls were stark white. Bold, abstract paintings were strategically hung about the space, complementing the decor in a way that seemed handsome and masculine, yet devoid of human warmth—very like her impression of the man who owned them.

Jess wondered if her father’s condo in Florida looked like this. Probably. Before he’d retired, Clancy had been very much like Lucas Brand—a cold-blooded businessman. With the five million dollars he’d received when Lucas purchased his company, her dear old dad had probably gone all-out with the decorating. After all, he had a new young wife to please.

Her stomach twisted at the reminder, but she had to concentrate on the business at hand as the butler opened a glass-paned door. “Mr. Brand is on the terrace,” he repeated, as though he assumed she was too dim-witted to remember he’d already told her.

She nodded, trying to smile. “Thank you,” she mumbled, as she picked her way down the broad fan-shaped steps.

Lucas Brand wasn’t hard to spot. He stood by the wall at the end of the brick patio, holding a cell phone to his ear—a tall, black silhouette, solid and substantial against the shimmering splendor of the lake.

Her glance darted skittishly around. A high roof protected comfortable-looking wicker furniture that was scattered about the terrace in conversation areas. Despite the abundance of seating, Mr. Brand remained standing. Jess had the feeling he wasn’t a man to sit when he could stand, stand when he could pace, or rest when he could be active—namely, making money.

Now that she was about to confront him, she was so nervous her legs could barely support her. She had no idea what to do, but she decided he’d keep her waiting as long as she let him, so she trudged out to the edge of the patio where he would have to notice her. Her heart thudded against her ribs as she reminded herself she was right to be assertive. Cowering in a corner would never do. Especially with a man like Lucas Brand. If he sensed her fear, he’d attack, chew her up and spit her out.

“You’re not serious, Fletch,” Lucas demanded. “It’s still locking up? Can you get the diagnostics—You already tried? Hell.” He seemed to notice movement, and turned, his features in a severe scowl. “Takahashi’s going to call for an update in—” he jerked his wrist up to scan his watch “—about an hour. I’ll stall him with some techno-bull, but we’d better find the problem pronto. Get Sol back in. I’ll be down as soon as I can.”

He clicked off, turning to face her with hooded, black eyes. “What is it, Mrs. Glen?”

No, Good evening, Jess, how’s it going? No Nice to see you, Mrs. Glen. What had she expected? Politeness? She hiked her purse strap up on her shoulder more from unease than necessity. It struck her that he looked tired and needed a shave. He was also taller than she’d realized the other day. At least six-four, he was muscular, built more like a football player than a computer nerd.

Computer nerd, indeed! From the first moment she’d met him in Mr. Roxbury’s hospital suite, Jess had sensed tremendous energy in him. Lucas Brand wasn’t a man who would accept second best at anything. Not from himself or from his associates. From the harassed look on his face, and what she’d just heard on the phone, it appeared he was riding both himself and his employees very hard these days.

“Mrs. Glen,” he prodded, his tone weary, “if you have something to say, spit it out. If you’re just here for a staring contest, let’s make it another time. I’m in the middle of something.”

Lucas’s uncaring attitude, coupled with her insecurities, filled her with anger. It took all her restraint to keep from suggesting at the top of her lungs where she’d like to see him go. This man didn’t care about her problems or about the needy kids in the Mr. Niceguy program—and worse, he didn’t care about his debt of honor to Norman Roxbury.

With effort, she collected herself and regrouped, recalling the lesson in chapter two. Be reasonable, but be assertive, she chided herself. Don’t blow this, Jess. Too bad the book hadn’t offered step-by-step instructions—catchy phrases, never-fail dialogue. Oh, well, what had she expected for four ninety-five?

She presented him with the toothpaste smile she’d been long trained to exhibit. Every time her parents had paraded her out like some prize poodle, she’d pasted on her “I’m-so-delighted” face and endured the ordeal. It surprised her that she hadn’t lost the ability, though she wished she’d lost the necessity. “Good evening, Mr. Brand,” she said, extending a hand. “I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice. You have a lovely—”

“If you’ll forgive me,” he interrupted, “I’m too tired to tap dance. Say what you have to say.”

She held fast to her smile, hoping her flinch didn’t show, and counted to ten. “Of course. I understand you’re a busy man.” Belatedly, she realized her rejected hand was still poised before him as though she had designs on his tie. Abruptly she dropped it to her side. “It’s just that I’ve been trying to reach you through proper channels about the Thanksgiving dinner, and, for some reason, we’ve never connected.”

“My secretary’s handling that. I assumed she’d get back to you.”

“She did,” Jess admitted.

“Well, then?”

Be reasonable, be reasonable, be reasonable! Though she was trying to remain civil, she felt her jaw getting tight. “Mr. Brand,” she began, “I heard from your secretary today, about the caterer she’d hired for the dinner.”

Lucas nodded. “My secretary is very capable. Is that all?”

“Almost.” She swallowed to ease a tremor in her voice. “Just one thing. I had to let the caterer go.”

His dark eyes widened slightly in surprise. “You what?”

“I—I said—”

“I heard what you said.” Lucas thumped his phone down on the wide brick railing. “What the devil did you do that for?”



She lifted her chin, praying her voice wouldn’t falter. “Do you recall the Thanksgiving dinner you attended?”

His gaze drifted out over the lake, and his expression softened at some memory. Watching him, waiting for his reply, she had to acknowledge that, even as testy and exhausted as he was, he was handsome, in an unnerving, insolent way. His dark navy suit, white shirt and silver-patterned tie were the epitome of well-heeled elegance. With his tie loosened, and his black hair mussed by the evening breeze, he almost seemed touchable. No, she mused, that had to be an illusion, for there was hard-edged willfulness in the set of his jaw.

“Of course, I remember the damned dinner,” he said gruffly.

“Do you remember what caterer Mr. Roxbury hired?”

“No,” he ground out too quickly.

“Are you sure?”

He faced her again, obviously annoyed. “What are you trying to say? I have to let those kids make the dinner?”

Though she felt a strong urge to look away from his indignant glare, she eyed him squarely. “You helped make the dinner, didn’t you?”

“I scraped pumpkin for pies. What’s so earthshakingly important about that? I would think you’d thank me for hiring a caterer. This way, the kids will have more time to play.”

“Mr. Roxbury could have afforded a caterer. What did he do?” she coaxed, hoping she was still being reasonable, not playing Twenty Questions. Darned half-baked book.



Lucas said nothing for a moment, but Jess thought she saw a change in his demeanor. Was it a wince? “Are you telling me the old man expects me to scrape pumpkins?”

She took a deep breath. “Remember, you’re taking his place as Mr. Niceguy.”

“It’s a waste of time. Forget it. I said I’d be responsible for the dinner, but I’m not going to get involved—personally. I have a meeting that day.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. “On Thanksgiving?”

“I told you we have an important deal, and some problems we have to iron out.”

Counting to ten was becoming difficult. Jess dragged a hand through hair that had been tossed forward in a slight breeze, and smoothed it back from her face. The nip of winter in the air helped cool her scorched cheeks.

Before she could form a rational answer, he echoed her own frustrated thought. “Mrs. Glen, let’s be reasonable about this—”

“I’m trying,” she retorted, then stopped herself and closed her eyes, struggling for patience. “Mr. Brand,” she began again, “when you offered to take over the Mr. Niceguy Thanksgiving Dinner and Retreat, you made a commitment. I don’t doubt that you have a big business deal in the works. I don’t doubt that you always have a big business deal in the works, but right now, you have a Thanksgiving dinner to plan. It’s supposed to be a ‘family atmosphere’ type dinner, with everybody pitching in. A happy, full day of activity and good memories,” she reminded. “Most of these kids have never known family togetherness. We’re trying to show these kids a better way, a way they can live, if they want it badly enough. Can’t you see the importance of doing it according to Mr. Roxbury’s wishes?”

His eyes burned through her, but he didn’t speak. She knew he was trying to intimidate her with that stare, and she wondered if he could tell he was succeeding. But she couldn’t let him. This was too important. For once, she had to be strong, be assertive and stand up to a bullying egotist. He’d made a promise to Mr. Roxbury and for some unfathomable reason, Norman thought the sun rose and set for this man. So for her sweet boss’s sake, she was going to be reasonable and assertive. She was going to show Lucas Brand in a cool-headed manner, why he needed to do this right. She would do it if it killed her! Or he killed her, a nagging voice in her brain hastened to add.

With a thin-lipped grimace, the closest she could come to a smile, Jess motioned toward a seating area. “Why don’t we get more comfortable? I’m sure we can come to an agreement.” Turning away without waiting for a reply, she took a seat in a high-back wicker chair. She crossed her legs in what she hoped was a nonchalant manner before she dared face him. He hadn’t moved. She felt a rush of depression about that, but knew that if he had, she’d have lapsed into a coma from the shock.

She was at a total loss about how she was going to wheedle the man into a nearby seat. Besides, she wasn’t any good at manipulation, and Lucas Brand was a master of it. Who was kidding whom, here? She couldn’t beat him in a psychological battle of wits if she tried for a billion years. With a sigh, she gave him a direct, honest look. “What, exactly, is techno-bull?” she asked, not quite sure why she was bringing it up. But the word had bothered her ever since he’d used it earlier on the phone.

He exhibited no reaction to her question at all. She continued to watch him cautiously, wondering what was going on behind that guarded look he was leveling at her.

“What the hell sort of question is that?” he finally asked.

She feared she was getting off the “reasonable-and-assertive” track, but somehow she had a feeling she’d sparked his interest for the very first time. He was really looking at her now, and she sensed he wasn’t quite sure what to think. Flying blind, she went with her instincts. “You used that odd term on the phone. Techno-bull. Is that anything like, ‘That’s a load of bull,’ or ‘You’re full of bull’? Is techno-bull that kind of bull, Mr. Brand? If so, I gather you’re going to lie to someone tonight?”

She shrugged, suddenly feeling beaten down. “Forgive me if I’m naive. I’m sure you have good reasons for lying. But I need to know if your promise to Mr. Roxbury was…techno-bull, too. If it was, I don’t have much time to find a replacement for you.”

He remained impassive, allowing no hint of emotion to cross his features. Still, Jess had the feeling she’d shifted him off-center.

“What is this tactic?” he asked. “You point out my sins and I’m supposed to atone by being an obedient little Mr. Niceguy?”

She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know where she was going with this, so she kept quiet. There was a chapter about keeping quiet in the book. She hadn’t read it, yet. She wished she had, because if there was a whole chapter devoted to its benefits, there must be something to it. Girding herself with resolve, she looked squarely into his face and kept her mouth shut.

The hush grew long and strained. Jess was beginning to wonder what, exactly, keeping quiet was supposed to accomplish besides giving a person a neck cramp from holding still too long. She fought the need to tap her fingers on her purse. Chapter one had said that a show of nervousness was a sure way to lose ground, so she continued to act like a statue, no matter how agonizing the act was.

Just as the craving to tap her fingers had grown overwhelming, he startled her by breaking the silence. “Look, Mrs. Glen…” His tone was as cold as his stare. “No one in his right mind would tell a potential million-dollar-plus client his program is locked up. For one thing, the problem’s temporary. For another, it’s bad business to mention every setback. As for my integrity, it’s never been questioned.”

She felt a shiver along her spine. Why, he was insulted! Jess was shocked to discover it was possible to hurt his feelings. Mr. Icy Insolence—who would have thought? She didn’t think insulting a man, even such an overbearing one, was anything to be proud of, but since she was this close to actual emotional contact with him, she might as well forge on. “I’m relieved to hear you’re a man who keeps his promises,” she said without inflection.

He gave her a hard glance, apparently detecting her subtle sarcasm for what it was. “Look. I told Roxbury I’d do the Mr. Niceguy thing. I just won’t be as hands-on as he was.”



“I see.” Jess could no longer keep the animosity from her voice. “In other words, your pledge involved the use of your secretary, your caterer, and probably your servants, but not yourself.”

“If you want to put it that way,” he stated flatly. “It’s the best I can do right now.”

His frankness sent her anger seething very near the surface, and her attempt to remain reasonable was quickly going up in smoke. She’d had it up to her eyebrows with self-serving, money-hungry types, and Lucas Brand was the most self-serving, money-hungry egomaniac of them all! She’d never been so frustrated by any one human being in her life. His was a debt of honor, for heaven’s sake! And in the same breath that he slithered out of a loophole, he dared suggest his integrity had never been questioned? Well, she was questioning it now!

Suddenly, something inside her snapped, and a raw, primitive fury overwhelmed her, sending her storming to her feet. “When you made that promise to Mr. Roxbury, what was it? A sort of techno-bull token to get him off your back?”

Lucas’s hawklike features grew wary, then hard, but the lid was off now, and she couldn’t halt the words that flowed, angry and unguarded. “Just so we’re clear, Mr. My-Integrity-Has-Never-Been-Questioned,” she cried, stomping toward him. “I don’t like to believe Mr. Roxbury made a mistake, but I think you’re the worst choice in the world for Mr. Niceguy! What do you have to say to that?”

The patio took on the silence of the dead. Mortified by her unprofessional behavior, Jess could only stare back as he watched her, his implacable expression unnerving.

The strained stillness was finally broken by a deep, cynical chuckle. With more weariness than irritation in his manner, he propped a lean hip on the railing. “This may shock you, Mrs. Glen,” he said, his dark eyes glinting scornfully in the fading light. “But for once—and probably for the only time in our dubious association—we are in perfect agreement.”