Myrna Mackenzie - Riches to Rags Bride / The Heiress's Baby

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.