The Return Of Antonides. Anne McAllister
in his sailboat, she hadn’t been invited.
“Go play with Martha,” Lukas had said. It had been his answer to everything.
His twin sister, Martha, had spent hours drawing and sketching everything in sight. Holly couldn’t draw a stick figure without a ruler. She’d liked swimming and playing ball and catching frogs and riding bikes. She’d liked all the same things Matt did.
Except Lukas.
If Matt had always been as comfortable as her oldest shoes, Lukas was like walking on nails. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Fascinating in the way that, say, Bengal tigers were fascinating. And perversely, she’d never been able to ignore him.
If Lukas was back, she had yet another reason to be glad she was leaving.
“He’s made a fortune opal mining, apparently,” Althea told her. “And he’s parlayed it into successful businesses across the world. He’s got fingers in lots of pies, your Lukas.”
“He’s not my Lukas,” Holly said, unable to stop herself.
“Well, you should consider him,” Althea said, apparently seriously. “He’s handsomer than ever. Animal magnetism and all that.” Althea flapped a hand like a fan in front of her face. “Seriously hot.”
“Hotter than Stig?”
“No one’s hotter than Stig,” Althea said with a grin. “But Lukas is definitely loaded with sex appeal.”
“And knows it, too, I’m sure,” Holly said. He always had. Once he’d noticed the opposite sex, Lukas had gone through women like a shark went through minnows.
“Well, you should look him up—for old times’ sake,” Althea said firmly.
“I don’t think so.” Holly cast about for a change in subject, then realized happily that she didn’t need to. The taxi had just turned onto her street.
Althea shrugged. “Suit yourself. But I’d pick him over Paul any day of the week.”
“Be my guest.” Holly gathered up her sweater and tote bag.
“Nope. I’ve got my man.” Althea gave a smug, satisfied smile.
Once I had mine, too, Holly thought. She didn’t say it. There was no reason to make Althea feel guilty because she had found the love of her life and Holly had lost hers. “Hang on to him,” she advised, getting out her share of the taxi fare.
“Put that away. The taxi is on me. I’m sorry we didn’t find a dress. Maybe next Saturday...”
“Can’t. I’m going to be kayaking with the kids from school next Saturday.” She’d only missed going today because Althea had begged her.
“Then maybe I’ll take Stig. Do you trust me to do it on my own?”
Trust her? After Althea had dressed her like a cupcake with too much frosting three times before?
Wincing inwardly, Holly pasted on her best resilient-bridesmaid smile. “Of course I trust you. It’s your wedding. I’ll wear whatever you choose.”
Althea gave Holly a fierce hug. “You’re such a trouper, Hol’, hanging in with me through all my weddings.” She pulled back and looked at Holly with eyes the same flecked hazel as Matt’s. “I know it’s been tough. I know it’s been an awful two years. I know life will never be the same. It won’t be for any of us. But Matt would want you to be happy again. You know he would.”
Holly’s throat tightened and her eyes blurred, because yes, she knew Matt would want that, damn him. Matt had never focused on the downside. Whenever life had dealt him lemons or a broken leg—though it had actually been Lukas who’d dealt him that, she recalled—Matt had coped. He would expect her to do the same.
“The right guy will come along,” Althea assured Holly as she opened the cab door. “I know he will. Just like Stig did for me when I’d given up all hope.”
“Sure,” Holly humored her as she stepped out onto the curb and turned back to smile.
Althea grinned. “You never know. It might even be Lukas.”
* * *
Lukas Antonides used to feel at home in New York City. He used to be in tune with its speed, its noise, its color, its pace of life. Once upon a time he’d got energized by it. Now all he got was a headache.
Or maybe it wasn’t the city giving him a headache. Maybe it was the rest of his life.
Lukas thrived on hard work and taking charge. But he had always known that if he wanted to, he could simply pick up and walk away. He couldn’t walk away from the gallery—didn’t want to. But being everything to every artist and craftsperson who was counting on him—and the gallery—when for years he had resisted being responsible for anyone other than himself made his head pound.
Ordinarily, he loved hard physical labor. Throwing himself body and soul into whatever he was doing gave him energy. That was why he’d taken over the renovation of not only the gallery, but the rest of the offices and apartments in the cast-iron SoHo building he’d bought three months ago. But the gallery cut into the time he had for that, and getting behind where he thought he should be was causing a throb behind his eyes.
And then there was his mother who, since he’d got back from Australia, had been saying not so sotto voce, “Is she the one?” whenever he mentioned a woman’s name. He knew she was angling for another daughter-in-law. It was what Greek mothers did. He’d been spared before as there were other siblings to pressure. But they were all married now, busily providing the next generation.
Only he was still single.
“I’ll marry when I’m ready,” he’d told her flatly. He didn’t tell her that he didn’t see it happening. He’d long ago missed that boat.
But more than anything, he was sure the headache—the pounding behind his eyes, the throbbing that wouldn’t go away—was caused by the damned stalagmites of applications for grants by the MacClintock Foundation, which, for his sins, he was in charge of.
“Just a few more,” his secretary, Serafina, announced with dry irony, dropping another six-inch stack onto his desk.
Lukas groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. The headache spiked. He wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing. He was an action man, not a paper-pusher. And Skeet MacClintock had known that!
But it hadn’t stopped the late Alexander “Skeet” MacClintock, Lukas’s cranky friend and opal-mining mentor, from guilting him into taking on the job of running the foundation and vetting the applicants. He’d known that Lukas wouldn’t be able to turn his back on Skeet’s plan for a foundation intended to “Give a guy—or gal—a hand. Or a push.”
Because once Skeet had given Lukas a hand. And this, damn it, was his way of pushing.
Lukas sighed and gave Sera a thin smile. “Thanks.”
“There are more,” Sera began.
“Spare me.”
Sera smiled. “You’ll get there.”
Lukas grunted. For all that he’d rather be anywhere else, he owed this to Skeet.
The old man, an ex-pat New Yorker like himself, had provided the grumbling, cantankerous steadiness that a young, hotheaded, quicksilver Lukas had needed six years ago. Not that Lukas had known it at the time.
He would have said they were just sharing digs in a dusty, blisteringly hot or perversely cold mining area in the outback. Skeet could have tossed him out. Lukas could have left at any time.
Often he had, taking jobs crewing on schooners or yachts. He’d leave for months, never promising to come back, never intending to. But for all his wanderlust and his tendency to jump from one thing to next, there was something about opal mining—about the possibilities and the sheer hard work—that