Her Tycoon Lover. Lee Wilkinson
unless you’ve been here before. How could you have?”
How indeed? Baffled, frustrated and at some deep level frightened in a way he wasn’t about to admit to himself or her, Luke said bluntly, “Then I was wrong. You don’t remind me of anyone. If you don’t want to be late for work, you’d better go.”
Her expression was guarded; certainly he could discern not the slightest trace of relief. She said, “One more thing. Leave me alone from now on. Strictly alone. That way maybe I’ll believe you’re not just another tourist on the make.” Then she turned on her heel and walked away from him.
She moved with a lissome grace: something else her shapeless uniform had disguised. As she entered a grove of poplars, sunshine and shadow played in her hair, sprinkling the curves of her hips and slender lines of her thighs. Luke discovered his fists were clenched at his sides, his breathing trapped in his throat. What was wrong with him?
She was married. Unavailable.
Her ugly glasses and unflattering hairdo were to deflect unwanted male attention. She wasn’t in disguise. There was no mystery after all.
Luke pulled first one heel then the other to his buttocks, stretching his quads. He never behaved like this around a woman. Pushing her for answers. Wanting to know everything about her. Pursuing her. For one thing, he never needed to: the women came to him. For another, his whole focus since he’d run away from Teal Lake at age fifteen had been work. Unrelenting work. Be it underground in mines in the north, then aboveground everywhere else. He’d spent years reading, making contacts, investing his carefully hoarded savings and traveling the world over. He’d endured late hours and setbacks. There’d been times when he thought he was going under, so close to it he could taste defeat, smell the sourness of failure. But he hadn’t gone under. He’d made it to the top, to the sweet smell of success.
And all because he’d driven himself unmercifully. If his expectations for his staff were high, his expectations for himself were astronomical. Work was central to his life, its driving force. Women were peripheral. Decorative, pleasant, but definitely on the sidelines. And that’s where he intended to keep them.
There’d been women during those years, of course. He was no monk. But they had to be the kind who’d accept his conditions. No commitment with nothing long-term.
Although there hadn’t been nearly as many women as some of his colleagues might think.
And now, for no reason that he could discern, a mysterious, argumentative, independent blonde had gotten through all his defenses. A married woman, no less.
He never involved himself with anyone married. He abhorred infidelity. Besides, he thought meanly, his preference was for tall brunettes, and Katrin Sigurdson was of average height and blond into the bargain.
Would he ever forget the way the sun had threaded her hair with gold? Or the delicate shadows under her cheekbones? And then there was her body, so graceful, so exquisitely curved. Calling to him in a way that made nonsense of all his self-imposed rules and defenses.
Because defenses they were. His childhood and adolescence had killed something in him. The ability to love, to reach out to another human being and show his vulnerability. All the gentler emotions, like tenderness and protectiveness, had gone underground. He could add to the list, he thought savagely. But why bother? He was the way he was. And that was that.
He wasn’t going to change now.
Not for anyone. And certainly not for a married woman who didn’t even want to pass the time of day with him.
Luke thudded his foot back on the wharf, stretching his calf. Enough, he thought. More than enough. Right now he was going back to his room to shower, then he was heading for breakfast. And not once at breakfast or dinner was he going to make as much as eye contact with Katrin Sigurdson.
Luke made sure he walked into the dining room that morning accompanied by John, Akasaru and Rupert, who were engaged in an animated discussion about pollution control. Katrin was waiting on their table, wearing her plastic glasses. As if she weren’t there, Luke sat down and ordered his standard breakfast. “And coffee,” he finished with an edge of impatience. “Right away.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Certainly, sir. Luke gritted his teeth, and started discussing the effectiveness of the scrubbers a couple of refineries were using in Hamilton area. Gradually he became aware that Martin and Hans, across the table, were talking about a fishing expedition that had taken place that very morning, during which Martin had landed several pickerel. “We spoke to Katrin,” Hans said in his heavy German accent. “The chef, he will cook them for us for supper. That is right, not so, Katrin?”
“That’s right, sir. He does an excellent job with fresh fish.”
“I’m planning to try the local goldeye this evening,” John intervened. “I hear it’s very tasty.”
Olaf, the maître d’, was just arriving with a new pot of coffee. Luke said in a carrying voice, “I gather Katrin’s husband is a lake fisherman—perhaps we’ll be sampling his catch this evening.”
Olaf stopped in midstride, giving Katrin a puzzled look. She glared at him, her cheeks pink, took the sterling silver pot from him, and said dismissively, “Thanks, Olaf.”
“Married, eh?” Guy said, as she reached over to refill his cup. “Lucky fellow…so when did you tie the knot, Katrin?”
Several drops of coffee spilled on the immaculate linen tablecloth. She said evenly, “I’m so sorry, sir…oh, it was quite a while ago.”
“Like two years?” Guy persisted.
She flinched, her fingers curled tightly around the handle of the coffeepot. “Several years ago, sir.”
“And you did say he was a fisherman, didn’t you?” Luke asked with deliberate provocation, looking right at her even though he’d sworn he wasn’t going to.
She held his gaze. “Yes, I did.”
If she was lying, she was a pro. And if she wasn’t, he had to give her full marks for poise. For a wild moment Luke played with the idea of jumping up, pulling the glasses from her face and kissing her with all his pent-up frustration. Would that tell him the truth about Katrin Sigurdson?
John said casually, “I hear the storms can be very dangerous on the lake.”
“That’s correct, sir. It’s because the lake’s so large and the water’s shallow—consequently, big waves can arise very quickly. A south wind is particularly bad. But the fishermen know all the weather signals, and head for shore before they run into trouble.”
Luke said nothing. He wasn’t going to kiss her in full view of a roomful of his peers. Of course he wasn’t. He wasn’t going to kiss her anywhere. He gulped down his excellent Colombian coffee, thinking very fast. Katrin’s husband had been news to Olaf, Luke would swear to that on a stack of Bibles. So had she produced an entirely fictional husband for Luke’s benefit down on the wharf? And was she now continuing that lie at the breakfast table?
There were ways he could find out. Although asking Olaf wasn’t one of them. A guest asking questions about the marital status of a waitress would be a sure way to get that waitress in trouble. No, he wouldn’t ask Olaf. However, there was a two-hour break in the proceedings right after lunch. He’d planned to corner the delegates from Peru; but that could wait until this evening.
He had to know if she was telling the truth. Because if she wasn’t, then it raised the very interesting question of why she’d bothered lying to him.
Why would Katrin invent a husband who didn’t exist? Was she afraid of Luke? Or of herself?
Either way, he wanted the answer.
CHAPTER FOUR
AT TWO o’clock that afternoon Luke unlocked his rental car and got in, dropping his camera on the passenger