Lucy Gordon - For His Little Girl

2000

Luke had chosen his bedroom because it overlooked the golden California coast, glittering water and Manhattan Beach pier. In fact he'd bought his house on the Strand because it had this glorious view, and his first sight of it each morning was precious.

Today, as on every day, he slipped naked out of bed and went to the window. He was about to pull up the blinds when he stopped and cast a fond glance behind him to where he could see a riot of blond curls spilling across the pillow.

Dominique was a darling, but never at her best in the morning. And after the crazy night they'd had together, she deserved her sleep. Her "beauty sleep" she called it, though why the most incredible face and body in the whole of Los Angeles-no, make that the world, he thought generously-should need beauty sleep was beyond him.

He left the blind in place, pulled on some swimming shorts and went downstairs to his oversize kitchen. From his refrigerator he took out the glass of orange juice he'd squeezed the night before as he always did. He drank it slowly, savoring each mouthful of the cold, tangy liquid. He never insulted good food by hurrying it.

When he'd finished it he raced across the Strand, just as he was, and down the beach. The sting of the fresh water drove away the last of his sleep, making him ready for the new day in a life that was good in every way.

Luke Danton, thirty-four, popular, handsome, successful. For as long as he could remember, whenever he'd held out his hands, life's pleasures had fallen into them. Not without effort on his part, for he was a man who worked as hard as he played, which was very hard. But his efforts almost always brought their just rewards.

For an hour he bodysurfed, challenging the waves and enjoying the sense that they were challenging him back. At last he turned and stood, looking back at the panorama of the beach and the houses beyond, fixing his eyes lovingly on his own home, his pride and joy. The price had made him gulp, but it was worth every cent.

As a child he'd played on this beach. As a youth he would bum around it until his mother screamed at him. But in the intervals between screaming she'd taught him to cook, and he'd found his true vocation. As a man he'd returned to buy a house just a couple of blocks away from the Manhattan Pier.

He hurried home to take a shower. Dominique was still asleep, so he closed the bathroom door before bursting into tuneless song under the stream of water.

There wasn't an ounce of fat on his lean, hard body, but he never bothered with workouts. His crazy energy, demon-hard work and hours in the sea kept him in shape. His legs were long and muscular, his hips taut, his shoulders broad.

His face looked younger than his thirty-four years, with a permanent touch of mischief. The dark eyes and black hair might have come from a remote Spanish ancestor, but the generous, laughing mouth echoed his father. Max Danton had been a ne'er-do-well in his youth and wasn't much better now, according to the woman who loved him and had borne his children.

"And you're just as bad," she often reproved Luke. "It's time you got a proper job."

Owning two restaurants and having his own spot on cable television didn't count as a proper job in her book. Luke simply grinned at her criticisms. He loved his mother, while seldom heeding a word she said.

When he'd finished showering, he pulled on a pair of slacks and went back down to the kitchen. Dominique was already there, padding about, dressed in his best silk robe, and Luke moved to forestall her. He hated anyone else in his kitchen, just as an artist would dislike anyone tampering with his brushes.

"What time is it?" she yawned.

"Nearly midday! Hell, how did we sleep so late?"

"We didn't leave that nightclub until four," she said, leaning against his chest, her eyes closed. "Then, when we got back-"

He grinned. "Yes," he said slowly, and they both laughed.

"Where do you keep the coffee?" she asked. "I can never remember.''

"I'll make it," he said hastily, guiding her to a chair. "You sit down and let me wait on you."

She gave him a sleepy smile. "Not too much cream, please.''

"As though 1 didn't know how to care for your figure by now," he said, starting to grind coffee.

She opened the robe wide, giving him a grandstand view of her perfect shape. "It takes work to keep it like this," she observed.

He grinned. "Cover yourself up. I'm still worn-out after last night."

"No, you're not. You're never worn-out, Luke." She came up behind him and put her arms about him, pressing close in a way that nearly made him drop a spoon. "And I'm not worn-out, either-at least, not with you."

"I noticed that," he said, smiling, as some of the riper moments of the night came back to him.

"We go so well together-in every way." When he didn't answer she gave him a squeeze and persisted, "Don't you think so?"

Luke was glad she couldn't see his face right then. A life spent avoiding commitment had left him with antennae on permanent red alert. They were yelling now, warning him where this conversation was leading, telling him that the next few moments would be crucial if his pleasant life was to remain pleasant.

"1 know we go perfectly together in one way." he said lightly. Turning, he kissed the tip of her nose. "And who needs more?"

She pouted. "Sooner or later, everyone needs more."

Oh, Lord, she's going to take it right down to the line!

"Not this baby," he said, still keeping his tone friendly. He kissed her again, this time on the lips. "Let's not spoil a beautiful friendship."

She let it drop, but he didn't think it would be for long. He knew Dominique's awesome willpower. It had gotten her onto the books of the best modeling agency in Los Angeles. It had gotten her the plum jobs by methods that, Luke suspected, wouldn't bear scrutiny. What Dominique wanted, Dominique got. And now, it seemed, she wanted to tie him down.

His heart quailed at the thought of the coming battle. He wasn't afraid he would lose, because where his survival was concerned he had reserves of stubbornness that surprised people who'd seen only his laughter and cheerful kindness. But it seemed such a waste to be fighting when they could be doing other things.

Fight? Hell, no! He never fought with women. There were other ways to let them know where he stood. Subtle ways that left them still feeling friendly enough for a night of pleasure.

Luke both liked and adored women, not merely their bodies but the way their minds worked. He was enchanted by their oddities, their strange little secrets, and the way one of them would unconsciously teach him lessons that he could apply to others.

There wasn't one of his lovers who wouldn't welcome him back to her bed with glee. He wasn't conceited about this; he was profoundly, humbly grateful for their generosity. He wanted to go on being grateful. And no man was grateful for a ball and chain.

Subtlety. That was it!

"You poor darling," he said, kissing her tenderly. "Take this coffee and go back to bed while I make you something very special to eat."

"What do you mean, 'poor darling'? I don't need to go back to bed."

"Don't you? You look a little sleepy still."

"You mean I look tired?" she squealed in horror.

"No, no, just sleepy," he soothed. "And it's no wonder, after last night. You were just great."

"Well, I know what you like," she cooed, moving her hands over his skin.

"Don't do that," he begged, giving a skillful performance of a man afraid of being physically roused. Actually the reverse was true. Now that he knew what was on her mind, his senses seemed to have shut down, as they always did when he heard wedding bells. But it wouldn't be kind to let her suspect this. And Luke always tried to be kind.