Crystal Green - The Playboy Takes a Wife

To Lucas, Alicia seemed to be the centre of everything.

He thrust the rogue notion away. The Chandler Organisation was the axis that held his world together. Alicia was business.

Just business.

Don’t touch her , his callous side said. Don’t get closer than you have to in order to make this work .

But he couldn’t help himself. He bent down, cupped the back of her neck. “What can I do to make you more at home?”

His heart lurched when he saw all the questions in her beautiful golden eyes. What am I doing here? How do I handle being your wife? But he couldn’t allow things to implode now. Not when he’d already come so far.

He just had to win her over again, right? That’s all there was to it.

CRYSTAL GREEN

lives near Las Vegas, Nevada, where she writes for Mills & Boon ®Cherish and Blaze ®. She loves to read, over-analyse movies, do yoga and write about her travels and obsessions on her website www.crystal-green.com. There you can read about her trips on Route 66 as well as visits to Japan and Italy.

She’d love to hear from her readers by e-mail through the Contact Crystal feature on her web page!

Crystal Green

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Mary Leo and Cheryl Howe:

the best two pals a workaholic could ever have.

Chapter One

The minute Lucas Chandler stepped out of his limousine and onto the hard-packed earth of Rosarito, Mexico, he was swarmed.

Flashbulbs assaulted him, and so did the questions—most of them encouraged by an introduction to this press gathering from David, his half brother and the CEO of The Chandler Organization, otherwise known as TCO.

“How much money did you donate altogether to get Refugio Salvo running, Mr. Chandler?”

Flash .

“Why the sudden interest in an orphanage, Mr. Chandler?”

Flash .

“Can you comment on what happened in Rome with Cecilia DuPont and the police, Mr. Chandler?”

Yeah, there it was—the kind of query into Lucas’s party-hearty lifestyle David had been attempting to circumvent.

Lucas forced a smile for the next photo, already sick of today’s charade. What he wanted to do was get inside the orphanage and leave the cameras in the dust. And, no doubt about it, there was plenty of that covering the dilapidated buildings around them.

But one glance at stone-faced David told him that this was only the beginning of Lucas’s new life: the turning over of a fresh public-relations leaf.

Why the hell had he agreed to this again?

Oh, yeah. To be a decent person. And then there was also the small matter of saving TCO.

Slipping into his most comfortable disguise—the charming act—Lucas shot his brother a brief glance, then dived in to answer questions. David, for his part, stood back, hands folded behind him, as cool and smooth as the Italian designer suit he was wearing.

Lucas ignored the confinement of his own suave wardrobe, all but boiling under the many layers of material. It was warm for December down here.

“Ladies and gentlemen…” Strategically he flashed his dimples, making the lone female reporter light up with a blush. “Thanks for being here. And, when I tell you that I won’t be divulging dollar amounts, I’m sure you’ll understand. Suffice it to say, that we gave a lot to the Angeles Foundation here in Mexico to buy the land, construct the orphanage and supply them with everything they’d need to keep the children in safe comfort. You can be assured that Refugio Salvo will be well taken care of in the future, too. There’re also plans for more sites farther south, but that’s still on the drawing board.”

One of the male journalists raised his hand. “Rumor is that you’ll be cliff diving in Acapulco after you visit the orphanage. You gonna take some orphans with you, or what?”

Ah, the Funny Guy. There was one in every crowd and one in every backside.

As Lucas reined in his temper, most of the other reporters lowered their cameras and notebooks, laughing. Even David, whom Lucas believed was made mostly of granite, smiled. But the gesture was more rueful than amused.

The female journalist answered for him. “That’s great, Denham. Why don’t you give Mr. Chandler a little credit, huh? He’s got enough sense to keep the kids away from all that ‘daredevil playboy’ stuff.” She glanced at Lucas hopefully.

Did they think he was some out-of-control idiot? Obviously. Maybe it was good that he’d promised David that he would lay off all his notorious thrill-seeking for a while.

Still, even the female reporter—Jo, that was her name—didn’t look as though she truly believed he could behave himself.

“Thank you, Jo,” he said, knowing he could use her as an ally. She was from one of TCO’s media outlets, a newspaper that consistently tried to balance out the tabloids and the other entertainment sources that covered Lucas’s colorful adventures.

At the reporter’s modest shrug, Lucas turned to the others. “This is a time to find some serious answers for the troubles these orphaned boys are having. That’s why I’m here—to check up on the progress and make plans for even more.”

It wasn’t the entire truth. He was also trying to show off the “new and improved” Lucas Chandler. TCO required it and so did—

Lucas tensed. Don’t think about the old man , he told himself. You’re doing this for business and business only .

Riding a crest of deep-seated frustration, he added, “I’m here to provide aid for these kids who might otherwise end up on the street without any education or vocational skills.”

Censured, the reporters subjected Lucas to more pictures, and he tolerated it like the man his family had always expected him to be. The man he really wasn’t.

Flash. Pop . Each burst of illumination needled into him.

Finally, a pleased David made his way over, putting a hand near his mouth so the reporters couldn’t see what he was privately saying to his brother.

“Good start. Just so you know, they’re running late in the orphanage because of a greeting the children have put together for you. They’ll be ready in about twenty minutes.”

Lucas presented the journalists with his back. “In twenty minutes, I’ll need five shots of tequila.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw some nuns wearing wimples and stark long skirts with white blouses. They disappeared behind a stucco wall of the orphanage.

Disappear, Lucas thought. What he’d give to be able to take a breather behind that wall, too.

David cleared his throat to regain Lucas’s attention. When he had it, he fixed his ice-blue eyes on him. Funny how a twenty-eight-year-old genius could put a man who was three years older in his place with just a condescending reminder.

“Don’t tell me,” Lucas said, “that I should be used to this kind of attention. I can handle the paparazzi, but this is different. This is business.”

“Yes, I know it’s not your thing, but we agreed.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Agreement, sha-mee-ment.

“Mr. Chandler?” called an impatient reporter.

Something snapped in Lucas. No more questions, dammit. No more apologies for his recently abandoned lifestyle or justifications for “the playboy’s trip to the orphanage.”

“You take over,” he muttered to David while walking away.

“Luke—”

“Buddy, you’re the brains of this outfit, so dazzle the crowd with ’em.” Lucas winked, just to convince David—and himself—that he had his position as the “face” of TCO under control, that he was still the pretty boy who fetched publicity while David actually ran the place.