Riches to Rags Bride (3 page)

“I'd like the job, please,” she said. “I'll be your…”

“Project manager.”

She nodded. The title was that belonging to a bolder person, one who knew how to take charge of situations and not be tricked or bullied into doing things she didn't want to do.

“I'll be your project manager. I'm your woman.”

For a moment, those gray eyes turned fierce. Genevieve realized just how little she knew about this man.

“Good.” Lucas held out his hand, and Genevieve automatically reached out. His fingers closed around hers, his hand much larger than hers. She should have felt trapped, insignificant. Instead, as heat seeped from his skin to hers, she was suddenly aware of him as a man more than as her new boss. That could be a problem if she let it. She wouldn't.

“You should know that I believe in being hands-on in a project like this, Genevieve,” he said, releasing her. “If you and I are going to oversee and sell this project, we have to know it from the ground up. Every higher level employee at every factory and store I own spent some
time in the trenches so that they could fully understand the business, so we'll get started on your ground-floor experience right away. I'll pick you up tomorrow. We're headed straight for Angie's House. Dress for work.”

“What kind?”

“The dirty kind. Do you have clothing you can mess up?”

She had clothing. It was the one thing she still had in abundance. Whether or not she had what Lucas meant, however, was questionable.

“No problem,” she said, hoping her smile was reassuring. “Let me give you my address.”

“I have it already.”

Once again, Genevieve had that feeling of being overwhelmed, too small and insignificant next to this man. She felt vulnerable, and vulnerable was the last thing she wanted or needed to feel right now.

“I won't let you get to me, Mr. McDowell,” she muttered to herself later when she scoured her closet looking for something that could rightfully be called work clothes.

But she knew she lied. The man seemed to know everything about her. He felt like a powerful dark tornado that drops out of the sky, wreaks havoc in your life and then roars off again. He had her at a disadvantage, and she had sworn she would never be at a disadvantage with a man again. She would have to work on that and just start ignoring all the unnerving things about Lucas. She hoped that was possible.

 

Lucas shook his head after Genevieve was gone. This might well be a disaster in the making. She was young, destitute and had never worked at a job in her life. Despite her telling him that she wanted the job, she
might change her mind later if there were complications or strife or if something better came along. He'd spent most of his youth dealing with people who thought they wanted to do something good but later changed their minds when things hit a rough patch.

What's more, she was far too pretty. Even with her hair scraped back from her face so brutally, or maybe because of it, her classic features were striking. And also…a vision of her legs and those luscious knees crept in, and he quickly slapped that right out of his consciousness. The last thing he needed was to get involved with a socialite who was down on her luck and looking to improve her situation. Women…and others had used him or tried to use him before. Repeatedly. As an orphan in the foster system, people had thought taking him in would earn them Good Samaritan points. As a man who'd fought his way to wealth and power, women like Rita thought he'd make a nice trophy or else they wanted his money and power. The only thing that none of them realized was that he had nothing to give them, emotionally or any other way. He'd spent all his emotional capital years ago, wasted it, burnt it, lost it. Now all he had—all he would ever allow himself—was work and guilt.

But he was not going to feel guilty about Genevieve Patchett. Their relationship would be work only, nothing personal. He wasn't responsible for her problems, and she wasn't going to be on his conscience.

And he wasn't going to think about her legs, either, or those gorgeous green eyes. At least not much.

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
Genevieve crawled from bed and faced the dirty, cracked and chalky walls of the small room she had rented.

Today is the day I start working for Lucas McDowell,
she thought, trying to choke back the fear that accompanied the thought. Would she be able to be the kind of employee that Lucas wanted? She'd never even needed to work before. But now…

“I need—”

Her words were interrupted by an angry shout echoing through the paper-thin walls. Something hard hit the wall. Caught off guard, Genevieve jumped. Even though such sounds weren't at all unusual, she had yet to get used to how close and heated everything was. How desperate. How different from the life of luxury that was all she'd known until a few months ago. Tension coiled within her. That old life was gone. It wasn't just this place that seemed desperate.
She
was desperate.

The tension slid up a notch as, once again, the reality of her situation hit home. The sun had already risen and Genevieve knew that anytime now, her landlady might appear, screeching, demanding the rent that Gen didn't have. Threatening.

Before now, no one had ever seriously threatened her in her entire life.

But Mrs. Dohenny would, and she had the right to do that. Genevieve was a full month behind on her rent. She fought the sickness that followed that thought and tried to rush. She hoped to be gone long before Mrs. Dohenny showed up. The last thing she needed was for her new boss to find out that she was, essentially, living here without paying. Gen remembered her father yelling at a doorman who had displeased him in some way. Firing the man as he pleaded for his job so that he could feed his family. Ignoring the man's pleas.

“Stop it,” she whispered weakly.
Don't think about that. It's not helping.
She didn't even know why she was thinking about that incident now.

No, that was a lie. She knew. She was afraid of failing, of becoming the doorman and having Lucas fire her on her first day.

Closing her eyes for a second, she dragged in a deep, shaky breath and tried to proceed with her tasks. Quickly, she showered in the small, cramped tub with its leaking, rusty showerhead and broken, institution-green plastic tiles, exited the bathroom and moved to the battered three-legged dresser that was the only piece of furniture other than the bed and one wooden chair.

Her reflection in the cracked mirror above the dresser was too pale, the meager items on it a sad testimony to how far she had fallen. An almost empty jar of expensive cleansing cream shared space with half a tube of lipstick in a golden, emerald-studded case and a tiny half-used vial of perfume she refused to touch except in emergencies, because it felt like armor, the last little bit she possessed. Once it was gone, there would be no more.

Staring at these remnants of her past life, Genevieve sighed. The cost of these three items new would have paid her rent in this little broom closet of a room several times over, but now they were merely some of the last precious remnants of a lifestyle she'd never, ever know again.

The cheap clock clicked loudly as another minute passed. Genevieve looked at the sagging mattress so unlike the luxuriously soft bed encased in crisp scented sheets she'd once had, and a drumbeat of panic began to pound in her breast. Lucas McDowell was picking her up soon. What if he saw this room with its holes in the plaster and the windows that had bars over them to keep the bad people out? Then he would know that she couldn't even take care of herself, much less be a project manager.

She couldn't let that happen. She grabbed the lipstick with shaky fingers and gathered the few other items. Carefully, sparingly, trying to make these last remnants of her once elegant life last a bit longer, she began to apply her makeup. Then, she picked out the most casual clothing she could find. When Lucas got here, she would need to find a smile and something that looked like confidence. Not for the first time in her life, she wished that she was the outgoing, confident type who won people with her dazzling personality and talent instead of being the quiet, behind-the-scenes type.

But wishing had never made anything happen in her life. It hadn't made her parents love her. It hadn't saved her from her con-man financial-advisor fiancé. All she had to help her right now was the determination to do whatever she had to in order to survive.

No, more than survive, she hoped. She wanted to be…more, to become a different person: bolder, more
successful, independent. Make that completely, totally, “never rely or lean on anyone again in her life” independent.

That meant she had to please Lucas McDowell.

No matter what.

 

Lucas frowned as he pulled up in front of the dark, ugly apartment building that matched the address he had for Genevieve Patchett. He wasn't a native to Chicago, but he'd lived here for a while as a teenager; he'd done business in this city on numerous occasions, and even if he hadn't, he knew a bad neighborhood when he saw one. As a child he'd lived in them, nearly died in them, and this one had “get out of here if you can” written all over it. He'd recognized that before he'd gotten within three blocks of this place. This wasn't your standard debutante living arrangement.

Genevieve had fallen even further than he'd guessed. But then, that wasn't his problem, was it? His new project manager's abode wasn't any of his business. The only reason he was here at all was to escort her to the work site, and he wouldn't even be doing that except for the fact that summer construction had temporarily disrupted public transportation to the area where Angie's House was located.

So ignore this place. Just go get her,
he told himself, reaching for the car door handle.

At that moment he saw her. She exited the building like a rabbit being chased by a fox, zipping out the door, glancing back over her shoulder with fear in her eyes.

Yeah, that was fear. He was familiar with the expression. Something had Genevieve Patchett spooked.

“No, please don't get out,” she said, hurrying to the passenger side of his black sports car. “I—I don't want
to be late on my first day and…and someone might hurt your car if you leave it.”

She reached for the handle, practically dove for the thing.

He exited the car, ignoring her fluttering and flustered admonitions. Despite the fact that she was none of his concern, there were rules to be followed. Rules and discipline kept a person safe and helped maintain distance. They kept things under control, and being in control was…necessary. It had always been of supreme importance ever since he finally—thank the stars—realized that he didn't have to be at the mercy of others' damaging, self-serving whims. So…

“I'm not that worried about the car, Genevieve.” Without another word, he moved to the passenger door and opened it for her. But as they drove away, and despite himself, he couldn't help wondering what it was that she was so afraid of.

And that kind of speculation would have to stop. He had no business thinking anything about Genevieve Patchett beyond the tasks they would share. He liked his world well-ordered—by him—and already he could see that she, with those vulnerable green eyes that betrayed her every emotion, would create the kind of havoc that he never allowed in his life. He didn't get deeply involved. With anyone. Certainly not with his employees, so it was a good thing that she was here to do a job and a short-term job at that. Their paths would only run parallel for a very brief period of time.

Then he would never think about her ever again. Which was a very good thing, he reminded himself.

Still, for the moment, she was here, she was his employee. That alone made her his responsibility, and…she was wearing some pale blue lacy thing. A blouse.
With pencil-slim light-colored pants. Shoes with a little heel. Very stylish. No doubt very expensive, but not the kind of thing that would survive the day ahead.

He couldn't hold back a frown. How had he let Teresa talk him into this, he thought, then reminded himself that he was the one who had hired Genevieve, not Teresa.
Because Genevieve is a Patchett,
he told himself.
Because she has the required skills and a name that may prove useful.
Having her name attached to this project would engender the kind of attention and cachet that was needed to make Angie's House the next big “it” charity. It would get Angie's House in the newspapers, so how Genevieve looked to him was unimportant.

Which was a good thing, because right now, he thought, glancing to the side, she looked very good. Those clothes might be impractical but they fit her curves to perfection. Her pink mouth looked very…

Small. Pink. Moist.

Darn it, McDowell, stop it. She's off-limits.
“Is that the plainest thing you have?” he asked, scattering all those inappropriate thoughts he was having.

She fidgeted with the door handle in what looked to be a nervous reaction. “I'm sorry. It was the only thing I had that was cotton.”

“Silk and satin more your thing?” He frowned again.

Genevieve took a deep breath. “I…I hadn't anticipated all of this.”

He wasn't sure what “all of this” entailed but she suddenly seemed even more vulnerable than she had before. He wondered once again at the wisdom of hiring her. Could she handle this job?

“I told you about how all my employees get involved on the ground floor, but I didn't explain how monumental
this task is. The building where Angie's House will be located is a total mess. I'm afraid your clothes are going to get pretty dirty.”

She gave a small nod, as if she was used to being handed bad news. And he guessed she was of late, given that her money was all gone.

“If my clothes get dirty, then I'll wash them,” she said in a small, quiet voice. “I need to learn to do things like that. I'm not afraid of work, Mr. McDowell.”

Maybe she believed that, but she hadn't seen the inside of this place yet. Her hands were pale cream, soft. Hands that didn't do manual labor or come into contact with dirt on any kind of a regular basis. And the mere fact that she was
learning
how to do things like wash a blouse practically screamed “privileged.” Unlike her, he hadn't been born to wealth, even if he had plenty of money now. He knew how to use his hands, and with the tight schedule he'd set for the completion of this project, he didn't have time to baby her.

This was a deadline that couldn't be missed…for numerous reasons. The opening date was significant in ways he preferred not to think about, but there was also the fact that delaying things would result in innocent, needy people waiting longer for their chance to move in. Those people had no money and never had. There wasn't a soft-skinned, lace-and-satin princess in the bunch.

“I don't have time to baby you,” he said as if his brain had somehow foolishly directed him to say what he was thinking. Or maybe because a part of him hoped that if he was callous with her, he would stop wanting another glimpse of those big green eyes.

“I assure you that I don't need special treatment.” But despite the softness of her voice, he could tell that he had offended her. That was unprofessional of him. It
was unacceptable. Getting personal with his employees for good or for ill was not allowed.

“What do you need?” he asked.

A slight tremble visibly rippled through her delicate frame. She seemed to consider her words carefully. “Honesty—that is, I would be happy for simple, honest work.”

So she'd started to tell him she needed honesty, then had probably decided that it was the wrong thing to say to her boss. The obvious response was to simply tell her that he would be honest with her. But he wasn't going to say that. He had learned long ago to do what was necessary, and what was necessary wasn't always honest or pretty. He had been raised in a harsh world of broken promises, so the only promises he made were of the most limited variety.

“You'll have honest work and I'll pay you well for it,” he said. It was, after all, all that he had to offer anyone.

“Thank you, Mr. McDowell.”

The weariness in her soft voice made him feel like a jerk. The relationship already felt strained, and that was a problem. For the next few weeks, they would be working together and they would need to work quickly. He needed her cooperation. He needed her
not
to call him Mr. McDowell, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out why. Maybe he didn't want to know why.

“Just Lucas.”

“Lucas, then. I may not have been raised to be self-sufficient, but I intend to learn how to be totally independent. I
have
to be independent, to know that I can rely on myself to do it all. I want that more than anything. So, there's no cheating allowed. No shortcuts such as looking for someone to marry, support or save
me. I need to become totally self-sufficient, to do this and do it well, so don't worry about the blouse.”

She smiled, a bit uncertainly, and he couldn't help but be affected by those tell-all-her-secrets eyes and her naïveté. She had no clue what she was doing, but she was going to do it. Her determination when the odds were stacked against her made him want to learn more about her, and that wasn't allowed. He didn't get involved with anyone and especially not with someone like Genevieve. Because despite, or maybe because of, his association with Angie's House and the situation that had driven him to take on this project, vulnerable women were poison to his soul, a reminder of times he wanted to forget. That wasn't going to change.

 

Genevieve quickly scrambled to exit the car. She didn't want Lucas thinking she expected him to open her door or give her any special favors.

Still, when he threw open the door of the house, she had to fight not to exclaim. The entryway was huge, and while there was very little furniture, what was there was absolutely caked in dust and dirt. Cobwebs hung everywhere, and the few cobwebs she had ever encountered in her life prior to this had sent chills running up her spine. In addition, there was plaster scattered over the filthy floor where part of the chandelier had come loose and pulled part of the ceiling with it. The windows were grimy.