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The Man Who Saw Her Beauty
Michelle Douglas


After a life-threatening illness, there’s only one person who doesn’t mollycoddle Blair. In fact, Nick never holds back his strong opinions, especially when saying exactly what he thinks of her helping his daughter in a beauty contest! Soon Nick is getting under Blair’s skin – and defences. Maybe he’s the one who can show Blair her own true beauty?










Praise for Michelle Douglas

“Packed with a smouldering tension and underlying passion, The Loner’s Guarded Heart by Michelle Douglas will leave readers wanting more… [It] is a keeper that I will treasure. If you are a reader who loves tender, heartfelt stories then this book is a must-buy, because it has all those elements and so much more.” —www.cataromance.com

“Michelle Douglas makes an outstanding debut with His Christmas Angel, a complex, richly emotional story. The characters are handled especially well, as are the many conflicts and relationships. This one’s a keeper.” —RT Book Reviews


She pulled the wig on over her scalp, tugged it into place, and then turned back to the mirror to make whatever adjustments were necessary.

Adjustments that would help her look normal. Adjustments that would help her look whole and healthy. Adjustments that would hopefully ensure people started treating her like a fully functioning adult again.

Finally she stepped back and viewed her face in its entirety. She reached for her pot of blusher. More colour in her cheeks wouldn’t go astray. She applied another coat of tawny pink lipstick, with its advertised stay-put power, and not for the first time gave thanks for the skills she’d learned as a model.

She stepped back again, viewed her face—first from the left side and then the right—and then nodded at her reflection. Her heartbeat slowed. Finally she could recognise herself. When she ventured outside today no one would be able to tell.

And no one was here now to see the way her hand shook as she capped her lipstick, or the trouble she had screwing the lid back onto the pot of blusher.

You have a lot to give thanks for. Chin up!




About the Author


At the age of eight MICHELLE DOUGLAS was asked what she wanted to be when she grew up. She answered, “A writer.” Years later she read an article about romance writing and thought, Ooh, that’ll be fun. She was right. When she’s not writing she can usually be found with her nose buried in a book. She is currently enrolled in an English Masters programme for the sole purpose of indulging her reading and writing habits further. She lives in a leafy suburb of Newcastle, on Australia’s east coast, with her own romantic hero—husband Greg, who is the inspiration behind all her happy endings. Michelle would love you to visit her at her website: www.michelle-douglas.com


The Man Who

Saw Her Beauty







Michelle Douglas












www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For Pa, with love.




CHAPTER ONE


BLAIR peered into the mirror with the kind of fierce concentration she normally reserved for casting judgement on her Blair Mac designs for Spring Fashion Week. She didn’t take in her entire face. She fixed only on her left eye.

She held it wide and very carefully attached the false eyelashes. She blinked. She repeated the procedure for her right eye. As a model, she’d learned how to do this twenty years ago. She hadn’t expected to need it now she was no longer in front of a camera or parading down a catwalk, though.

It just goes to show.

Next she attached the false eyebrows. That was a newly acquired skill. Unlike the lashes, they wouldn’t need to be removed every day. If she took care they should remain in place for several weeks.

Her eyebrows had always been fair, but full. She’d used to get them tinted.

Once upon a time.

She pushed the thought away. No point mooning about the past.

She reached for the wig, removed it carefully from its stand and ran a hand down the long length of blonde synthetic hair. Even a trained eye would find it hard to tell the difference between this wig and her old hair. Her friend Dana, hairdresser extraordinaire, had warned her that the wig was too long, but Blair had chosen it anyway. She’d found comfort in the fact that it looked so much like her old hair.

She pulled the wig on over her scalp, tugged it into place, and then turned back to the mirror to make whatever adjustments were necessary. Adjustments that would help her look normal. Adjustments that would help her look whole and healthy. Adjustments that would hopefully ensure people started treating her like a fully functioning adult again.

Finally she stepped back and viewed her face in its entirety. She reached for her pot of blusher. More colour on her cheeks wouldn’t go amiss. She applied another coat of tawny-pink lipstick with its advertised stay-put power, and once again gave thanks for the skills she’d learned as a model.

She stepped back again, viewed her face—first from the left side and then the right—and then nodded at her reflection. Her heartbeat slowed. Finally she could recognise herself. When she ventured outside today no one would be able to tell.

And no one was here now to see the way her hand shook as she capped her lipstick, or the trouble she had screwing the lid back on to the pot of blusher.

You have a lot to give thanks for. Chin up!

She averted her gaze from the mirror as she undid her wrap. She snapped her bra and prosthesis into place and pulled a T-shirt on over her head as quickly as she could.

Problem was, she reflected as she tugged on her jeans, it wasn’t gratitude that was in her heart. It was fear. Fear that life would never feel normal again. Fear that Glory would never stop fussing, would never stop being afraid for her. Fear that her beloved aunt would worry herself into an early grave.

Glory was talking about selling up and moving to Sydney to be closer to her! Blair dropped to the bed and pulled on her boots. Glory had lived here in Dungog her entire life. She’d hate the city.

Blair glanced at the mirror again. She put a hand under her chin to physically lift it higher. She owed Glory everything. She had to put her aunt’s mind at rest. She had to. That was why she’d come home. Blair was out of danger. She was healthy again. Once Glory realised that …

She leapt up to toss her cosmetics into her make-up bag. The make-up bag she took everywhere. Just in case. For touch ups. Emergencies. Once she’d succeeded in convincing Glory she was better… Well, then they could all get back to normality.

And that was what she really wanted—normality. Her motives weren’t purely altruistic.

She paused to grip her hands in front of her. Bluff. That was the answer. If she could bluff her way into winning the Miss Showgirl quest twenty years ago, bluff her way into a modelling career and then bluff her way into fashion college, surely she could bluff everyone into thinking she was healthy again?

She pulled in a breath. ‘Piece of cake.’ The mirror proved that she could still present herself to the best possible advantage. Looking at her, nobody would believe that she was anything but healthy and whole.

You are healthy.

‘Oh, Blair, look at you!’ Glory said the moment Blair entered the kitchen. ‘You look fabulous. As if …’

‘As if I’d never been sick,’ Blair finished for her.

‘Well, yes, but …’

Bluff! She twirled on the spot for good effect. ‘I’m as good as new.’ She kissed her aunt on the cheek before taking her seat and pouring muesli into a bowl. Bluff had not got her through surgery and chemotherapy. Glory had done that.

‘Tea?’ Glory lifted the teapot.

‘Yes, please. And stop looking at me like that, Aunt Glory. The last few months have been … hard.’

‘Hell on earth,’ Glory growled.

She reached across to clasp her aunt’s hand. ‘And it’s beyond wonderful to have the opportunity to spend a month mooching around here. I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to it.’

‘I can’t tell you how good it is to have you home.’

Glory’s bottom lip quivered and Blair wanted to kick herself all over again for going back to work so soon, for fainting, for worrying everyone anew. She knew how much her aunt loved her. She knew how much her aunt had feared losing her. She knew what her aunt had gone through.

It was why she’d given herself this month off as a holiday.

She swallowed the hard knot in her throat. ‘Aunt Glory, they got all the cancer. They blasted me with chemo to make sure. I’m getting stronger every day. I’m practically as healthy as any other woman my age. I’m going to live a long and fulfilling life. No more kid gloves, okay? It’s time for things to get back to normal.’

‘No more kid gloves?’ Glory murmured, but she shook her head as she said it.

‘That’s right. So drink your tea before it gets cold.’

Blair waited until her aunt had eaten a piece of toast before saying, ‘You said last night that you have a meeting of the Agricultural Show Society today?’

‘Ooh, yes.’

The enthusiasm in Glory’s voice gladdened Blair’s heart. ‘With the show in three months’ time, I’m guessing this is the first official planning meeting?’

‘That’s right, love, and everyone will be there.’

‘Fabulous! Count me in.’

Her aunt’s teaspoon clattered back to its saucer. ‘Oh, but, Blair …’

She tried not to wince at the anxiety that strained her aunt’s voice. She’d lain awake last night, thinking of ways she could prove to Glory that she was okay again. Being seen out and about in the community, and functioning fully and normally was the best she’d been able to come up with. ‘It’ll be lovely to catch up with people I haven’t seen in a while. And surely there’ll be some small thing or two that I can help out with for the next month or so?’

‘You should be resting!’

‘Oh, I’ll be doing plenty of that too.’ She stretched her arms back behind her and grinned. ‘I’m on holiday—I plan on being lazy and having some fun. The show-planning will be fun. I always loved this time of year when I was a girl.’

‘I remember.’

The wistful note in Glory’s voice had Blair’s throat thickening all over again.

The show meeting was every bit as gruelling as Blair had expected.

There were all the expected stares that made her flinch and cringe inside, and lots of ‘My, aren’t you looking well?’ comments, and genuine surprise that helped ease all that flinching and cringing. She had no intention of being an object of pity.

Oh, poor Blair. It’s so terrible to lose your parents at such a young age.

She’d grown up with that refrain and she’d hated it. There was no way she was adding, Oh, poor Blair. It’s terrible to lose a breast so young, to the litany.

Even if it was terrible.

Even if she couldn’t look at herself in the mirror naked any more.

Nobody else needed to know that.

So she chatted and laughed, drank tea and ate cake, and took a seat at the table when Joan, the chair of the Agricultural Show Society, called the meeting to order. She listened intently as the meeting progressed, and even made an occasional suggestion.

‘Rightio—let’s move on to …’ Joan checked the agenda ‘… the Miss Showgirl quest.’

Blair shifted on her seat. The Dungog Miss Showgirl quest was part-beauty-pageant, part-charity-fundraiser, and part-public-speaking contest, and had been part of the town’s history for as long as anyone could remember.

And twenty years ago she’d won it.

Perspiration prickled her scalp as inevitable comparisons bombarded her. Her body had been perfect once, and she’d never fully appreciated it. Now, it was …

She swallowed and blinked hard. She didn’t want to remember how perfect her body had been twenty years ago and how imperfect it was now. Her hands clenched against the assault of grief. She didn’t want to be reminded of all she’d lost. She risked a glance at Glory. Could she sneak out of the meeting unobserved?

As if sensing Blair’s pain, Glory swung round.

Blair schooled her features. ‘Ooh, what fun!’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘How many contestants are there this year?’

‘Girls?’ Joan called down to the end of the table where a group of teenage girls were gathered. ‘How many of you are entering for the quest?’ She counted the raised hands. ‘Ten? Lovely.’

There’d been a dozen in Blair’s year.

‘Now, we do have a bit of a problem.’

Aware of her aunt’s gaze, still surveying her from the other side of the table, Blair kept her face clear and her attention squarely on Joan.

‘Lexxie Hamilton, who is normally mentor to the contestants, is unfortunately unable to take up the role this year. So we are going to need a new mentor. Would anyone like to volunteer for the role … or put someone’s name forward as a suggestion?’

Nobody said anything.

Joan turned to Blair. ‘Blair, honey, for how long are you in town?’

Out of the corner of her eye she saw her aunt shake her head at Joan. She pushed her shoulders back. ‘I’m here for a whole month and I would love to help out.’ She was aware of Glory stiffening and shaking her head again, and of Joan’s gaze flicking to Glory before moving back to Blair. She lifted her chin and smiled brightly. ‘I would love to be the Miss Showgirl mentor for the next month.’

Joan cleared her throat. ‘We should hate to put you out, Blair. We all know what you’ve been through—’

‘Put me out?’ She snorted, and then deliberately beamed at Glory. ‘From memory, I meet with the showgirl entrants for two hours a week, yes? That’s not putting me out at all. It’ll be fun.’

Glory bit her lip. ‘Fun?’

‘You bet.’ While she had control of the floor she glanced to where the entrants sat. ‘Do Thursday nights—six-thirty till eight-thirty—suit everyone?’ Ten hands instantly shot into the air. ‘There—done! And that gives you a whole month to find a replacement for when I go back to the city.’

Joan glanced at Glory again. ‘Well … I …’

Blair smiled at her aunt with deliberate blitheness, as if unaware of her aunt’s objections, effectively preventing Glory from shaking her head at Joan again.

‘Um … thank you, Blair. That will be a great help.’

‘Blair, honey?’ Glory caught up with Blair at the refreshments table after the meeting had ended. ‘I’m going to be held up here for another couple of hours. You must be tired. Why don’t you go on home ahead of me?’

‘I’m not tired.’ The denial sprang from Blair automatically. She immediately tempered it with, ‘But I wouldn’t mind dropping by the newsagent’s and grabbing a couple of fashion magazines. I think I need to swot up.’

Glory huffed out a sigh. ‘I’m vexed with Joan for putting you on the spot like that. Are you sure you really want to take on the role of mentor? I can have a word with her and—’

‘Not at all! I’m looking forward to being involved.’

‘But you’re on holiday! I don’t want you overdoing things.’

Like she had when she’d gone back to work too early? She seized a plate and loaded it with a couple of small triangle sandwiches and piece of sultana cake. ‘Aunt Glory, I’ve learned my lesson. I promise. Besides, two hours a week is hardly going to be overdoing anything.’

‘Well … I guess not.’

‘And you’re more than welcome to join in the fun as assistant mentor.’

‘Me?’ Glory blinked. ‘What on earth do I know about fashion? You know I never understood it. I sent you to school either with skirts too long or too short. And if ankle socks were in I’d buy you knee-high or vice versa.’

Blair laughed. Really laughed. And she couldn’t remember the last time in three or four months when that had happened. ‘I loved growing up with you, Aunt Glory. You know that.’

‘Yes, I do. But a fashion expert …’

‘You’re not,’ Blair finished for her.

‘Those girls are lucky to have you. Promise me you won’t overdo it.’

‘I promise. Now, I don’t want you overdoing things either. You’ve hardly eaten a thing all day. I’m not leaving until you’ve had a cup of tea and eaten that.’

She handed her surprised aunt the plate, poured her a cup of tea and proceeded to outline her plans for the Miss Showgirl meetings. ‘We’ll talk hair and make-up and clothes and deportment and all good things—what could be more fun than that?’

Fun? She had to bite back hysterical laughter. Hair and make-up weren’t fun for her any more. They were essential tools that stopped people staring at her, pitying her. Hair and make-up stopped her looking like a freak.

‘You always did have a knack for those things,’ Glory allowed. She eyed her niece, setting down her now empty plate. ‘Fun, you say?’

She pasted on her brightest smile. ‘Absolutely.’ She hugged her aunt and then wished she hadn’t as the prosthesis that was now masquerading as her right breast pressed again the scar tissue of her chest, reminding her afresh of all the ways she’d changed. ‘It looks like your next meeting is about to start. I’ll leave you to it and see you back home.’

She set off towards the back entrance of the showground office building, reminding herself that Rome hadn’t been built in a day. It would take more than a day to quieten all of Glory’s fears.

As she neared the door voices drifted in from outside. Her steps slowed. She obviously wasn’t the only one using this particular shortcut to access the nearest side street. She hesitated, but only for a moment. She might be all socialised out and ready—make that more than ready—for some downtime, but she hadn’t come back to Dungog to go into hibernation. She forced her feet towards the wide double doors—one of which was closed.

‘You are going to make such a fool of yourself, Stevie Conway, so don’t say you weren’t warned! You know you’re not pretty enough to be Miss Showgirl. Our advice …’ A collection of titters salted the air and brought Blair up short. ‘Quit now while you still can, before you become a laughing stock!’

Blair saw red. In an instant. And the red of anger felt fantastic after the blacks and greys of fear.

With a flash of strength she thrust the heavy wooden door open so hard that it banged against the wall behind. Four girls at the bottom of the stairs spun to face her.

‘I want each and every one of you girls to listen to me very carefully.’

She strode down the steps, there were eleven of them, and used her catwalk stride—a high lift of her knees, a sway of her hips, and a haughty angle to her chin—to ensure that she had their complete attention. She stopped one step short to maintain the height advantage. She deliberately placed her hands on her hips to look as big as she could; she leant forward so it would appear to them as if she loomed.

‘Miss Showgirl is not some trifling beauty pageant. It’s about learning life-enhancing skills that will take you forward in life while raising money for a worthwhile cause. It’s about learning to make the most of yourselves—physically, spiritually, and intellectually.’

Nobody said anything. Instead of feeling helpless and feeble, just for a moment Blair felt powerful again. And that was beyond fantastic.

‘I wasn’t the prettiest entrant the year I won. Go back and look at the photographs. Monica Dalwood was.’ Monica had been a gorgeous redhead with a crippling shyness she hadn’t been able to master.

She met and held each girl’s gaze. It took her less than five seconds to work out which of them was Stevie Conway, and it wasn’t because Stevie wasn’t pretty. She was. She was lovely. She was also an archetypal tomboy—jeans, short-cropped hair, not a scrap of make-up or a single item of jewellery in sight. She made a complete contrast to her three rivals.

Blair pushed her shoulders back. ‘If the only thing you girls are interested in is who’s the fairest in all the land, then I’ll give you a score out of ten now.’

She’d give each of them ten out of ten. She could see, though, that her assertion disconcerted them. They didn’t like being judged on their looks alone and the discovery pleased her.

‘But if you choose to know the score then know this—I will not accept you into my Thursday evening meetings. So, girls, what’s it to be?’

There was a round of murmured ‘Thursday evenings, miss.’

‘Good. Now, one final thing. If I ever hear any of you make a comment like the one I heard as I was coming out through that door then we will have serious words—understand?’

Nods all around.

‘Excellent.’ She dusted off her hands. ‘Now, I’m sure you ladies have much better things to do than hang around here all day.’

They didn’t need any further encouragement. Three of the girls shot off in one direction. Stevie took off in the other.

‘Stevie, wait.’

Stevie stopped, stiffened, and then whirled around. ‘You heard it all, didn’t you? And you know I’m Stevie because I’m not as pretty as they are.’ She waved a hand in the direction the three other girls had gone.

‘I didn’t hear it all,’ Blair countered, ‘but I certainly heard enough. And I know you’re Stevie because you’re walking on your own while the others took off together.’

The younger girl’s shoulders unhitched a fraction.

‘I really hope you didn’t pay any attention to what those girls said. You have as good a chance of being Miss Showgirl as they have.’

‘It’s not true, though, is it? Not even my dad thinks I have a fighting chance of winning!’

It took all of Blair’s strength to prevent her jaw from dropping. Any father worth his salt would be trying to build his daughter’s confidence, not undermining it.

Stevie flung an arm in the air. ‘No matter how hard I try, I’ll never be able to look like those other girls.’

‘Good Lord, why would you want to?’

She was rewarded when Stevie’s chin shot up. ‘What?’

She held up a finger. ‘When you are speaking in public or being interviewed it’s always: I beg your pardon. Not, What. And, sure, those girls who were teasing you are pretty, but they’re blonde clones. It’s hard to tell them apart.’

Stevie choked. ‘You’re not allowed to say that.’

‘Why not?’ Blair steered them towards the gate in the fence. ‘I’m blonde, and some would say pretty, but believe me, if you saw me first thing in the morning before I’d had a chance to fix my hair and make-up you’d get a right fright.’

Wasn’t that the truth!

Exactly how true it was had nausea rising up through her. She swallowed it back. ‘You work with what you have, and, Stevie, you have a lot—the most wonderful olive skin and gorgeous hair.’ Stevie’s hair might be short, but it was shiny and dark, and full and thick. ‘Your eyes are the most amazing colour.’ Blue-grey. ‘Miss Showgirl will be awarded to the contestant who stands out, who proves herself. It won’t go to blonde clones the judges can’t tell apart.’

Stevie thought about that for a moment. ‘But if one of the blonde clones can make herself stand out, if she proves herself …’

‘If she’s worked that hard,’ Blair said gently, ushering Stevie through the gate, ‘then she might deserve to win.’

Stevie stopped. Blair stopped too. ‘You really, truly think I have a chance and you’re not just saying that because you’re our mentor and that’s what you’re supposed to say?’

‘I really, truly mean it.’ Blair crossed her heart. Then she frowned. ‘Is winning that important to you?’

The younger girl shook her head. ‘I just want to know that I have as good a chance as the others, that’s all.’

She sensed there was more. ‘And?’

‘Sometimes I want to be … just more than jeans and T-shirts!’ she burst out. ‘My mum died when I was little so I don’t have anyone to show me how to do all that girly stuff, and when I try I just look stupid!’

No mother? And a father who didn’t think she was pretty? Blair’s heart started to throb for this lovely girl. ‘Scarves,’ she suddenly pronounced.

‘Wha—? I beg your pardon?’

‘I don’t think frills and lots of jewellery are your kind of thing, Stevie. You’d probably find them too fussy. But you can add the most gorgeous feminine touch by using a scarf. And if you wake up in the morning and don’t feel like doing feminine you can change the scarf to something funky or something classic instead. With your lovely cheekbones and long throat you’d look great in a scarf. I’ll do a class on them.’

Stevie stared. ‘Really?’ she breathed.

Something inside Blair’s chest flickered. ‘Sure, why not?’

Stevie continued to stare as if Blair had just given her the secret to the universe. Blair cleared her throat, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Stevie, you want to know my secret?’

The younger girl leant forward, suddenly eager. ‘You mean your secret to winning Miss Showgirl?’ she breathed.

Blair nodded. ‘Bluff.’

Stevie’s face fell. ‘Bluff?’

‘Pretending, play-acting, fooling everyone into believing what you want them to believe—that you’re smart and pretty and confident. If you act like you think you’re pretty and smart and have something to offer the world, if you walk and talk and meet people’s stares head-on with that kind of confidence and belief in yourself, they’ll start to see that you really are something special. And they’ll treat you with respect. It’s not easy to begin with,’ she warned. ‘It’s really, really hard. But it works. And eventually you’ll realise that you’re not pretending any more. You’ll discover that you really are pretty and smart and confident.’

And then, sometimes, something happens that takes it all from you again.

She tried not to flinch at that thought. She tried to banish it to a place where it couldn’t batter her shattered self-esteem further.

‘Bluff?’ Stevie said as if testing the word out.

Blair lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. ‘Bluff.’ And if she said it a little too strongly then so be it. ‘So, will I see you on Thursday?’

Nick slammed his brakes on the moment he saw Stevie. He pulled the car over to the side of the road. What on earth …? She’d told him she was spending the day baking with her best friend Poppy and Poppy’s mother.

So what was his daughter doing here at the exit to the showground, talking to some woman he’d never seen before?

The showground …?

The Miss Showgirl quest?

Nick bit back a groan and rested his head against the steering wheel for a moment before pushing himself out of the car. He dragged a breath into a chest that hurt. ‘Stevie?’

Stevie spun around and her face fell. Almost comically, he noted, only he didn’t feel the least like laughing. Her chin shot up as he drew near. ‘Hey, Dad.’

She said it as if nothing were amiss, but he sensed her defensiveness and it made his hands clench. She said it as if she hadn’t been lying to him. His chest ached harder. ‘What are you doing here?’ He tried to keep his voice even, but he knew his suspicions were about to be confirmed and that made evenness impossible. ‘You told me you were spending the day at Poppy’s.’

She gave a bored shrug and his hands clenched tighter. Where on earth had his madcap, full of laughter, full of fun daughter gone? When had she morphed into all this … attitude?

He didn’t address the unknown woman who’d been talking to Stevie. He didn’t even look at her. This was between him and his daughter. ‘Well?’ He tapped his foot—not that it helped to release much of the tension that had him coiled up tight. ‘Well?’ he demanded again.

Stevie tossed her head. Just for a moment something flickered behind her eyes—something he almost recognised—before her face became an ache of resentment. ‘I’ve just signed on for the Miss Showgirl quest.’

Suspicion confirmed! He hauled in a breath. ‘I told you I would not countenance you taking part in that contest.’

Countenance? When in his life had he ever used that word?

Stevie’s eyes flashed. ‘I decided not to take your advice.’

His control finally slipped. ‘It wasn’t advice. It was an order!’ Stevie enter some stupid beauty pageant? Over his dead body!

He was in charge of his daughter’s moral wellbeing. Letting her get involved in some shallow sham of a contest that objectified women and led young girls to believe their looks were more important than anything else? He snorted. He’d seen what that kind of obsession had done to Sonya. Those weren’t the kind of values he wanted to instil in Stevie. Family, commitment, the long haul—those were things worth pursuing.

‘You can haul your butt back in there and unregister yourself. Now! You are not taking part in that contest!’

‘No.’

The single word chilled him. And it made him blink. Stevie had never openly defied him before.

‘I’m sixteen.’ She planted her hands on her hips. ‘In another two years I’ll be allowed to vote. I have a right to make some decisions about my life and I’m making this one. I’m entering Miss Showgirl whether you like it or not. Whether you support me or not.’

For a moment he could barely think. A part of him even acknowledged that she might have a point.

‘And, regardless of what you think,’ she suddenly yelled at him, ‘Blair Macintyre thinks I have a chance!’

With that she turned and fled in the direction of home.

Blair Macintyre? The name flooded his mind, freezing him. Blair Macintyre? He wished to God that woman had never been born. Or at least that she’d been born and had grown up somewhere other than Dungog. For the life of him he couldn’t remember her, but the constant refrain he’d heard during the course of his marriage to Sonya had been, Blair Macintyre this and Blair Macintyre that. Here she was on the cover of some glossy magazine. There she was on the catwalk in Paris … London … New York. Wherever!

If Blair Macintyre can do it then so can I!

And Sonya had. But that world had destroyed her. He would not let that happen to Stevie. He would do anything to protect his little girl.

The sound of a throat being cleared snapped him to. Damn it, he’d forgotten all about that unknown woman. He turned towards her. ‘I’m Nicholas Conway, and I’m sorry you—’

Everything inside him clenched up tight when he finally came face to face with the woman. He swore once, hard. Then he laughed—only the laughter wasn’t real laughter, it was bitterness. ‘Blair Macintyre, right?’

He might not remember her, but Sonya had shoved enough pictures of Blair beneath his nose for him to recognise her. She was beautiful … gorgeous. Perfect. Magazine-cover perfect. And he knew it was a lie, because no real woman could look this good. She was the kind of woman who would fill a teenage girl’s head with all sorts of unrealistic expectations about herself and her body. With her perfect pout and thick, lush lashes, her perfectly arched brows and her long blonde locks.

He was thirty-four. She had to be at least thirty-six. But she didn’t look a day over twenty-five. More lies.

And yet, to his horror, his body responded to all that perfection. White-hot tendrils of desire licked along his veins, sparking nerve-endings with heat and hunger. Warmth flushed his skin. One knee twitched. His fingers literally ached to reach out and touch her cheek to see if her skin was as soft as it looked. What would she taste like? What would she feel like if he held her close? What would—?

He snapped off the images that bombarded him; thrust them out of his head. He was an experienced adult. If she could manipulate him like this, what kind of impact would she have on an impressionable sixteen-year-old?

Her lips suddenly twisted. ‘Let me guess. I don’t look any different, right?’

The words drawled out of her, their husky notes caressing his skin. She raised one of those perfectly shaped eyebrows and his body reacted with heat, his tongue reacted with anger. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

For some inconceivable reason she seemed to brighten at that.

It disappeared a moment later when he leant towards her and snapped, ‘Stay away from my daughter.’




CHAPTER TWO


THE woman had eyes so blue they could steal a man’s soul, and as Nick stared into them they made him ache for something he couldn’t name. She pursed those delectable lips and it suddenly hit him how loud, coarse, and utterly unreasonable he must seem to her.

That would be because he was acting loud, coarse, and utterly unreasonable. Get a grip! He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, backed up a step so that he was no longer crowding her. Once upon a time he’d have approached a situation like this with charm and humour, doing his best to deflect and defuse any bad feelings.

Once upon a time …

When had the world turned upside down?

When Stevie had started spending all her pocket money on make-up and fashion magazines, spending too much of her time window-shopping for clothes, that was when. She was talking about getting her ears pierced. Pierced! She wanted to maim her body in the interests of fashion? As far as he was concerned that made no sense whatsoever.

And it reminded him too much of Sonya.

Blair drew herself up to her full height. He was six feet two. She must be five feet eleven. Sonya had been the same height.

Stop it. This woman wasn’t Sonya. She hadn’t abandoned and then almost bankrupted her family. She hadn’t succumbed to designer drugs. Even if she did represent the world of fashion that he loathed—the same world that had destroyed Sonya—that didn’t mean she deserved his rudeness or to bear the brunt of his frustration.

He opened his mouth to form some sort of apology, to try and explain why he was yelling at her like a lunatic. But not only had she straightened, she’d folded her arms—and it thrust her breasts out, pressed them tight against her T-shirt. The heat and the hunger hit him again. The words dried in his mouth.

He forced his gaze back to hers to find her surveying him. Sympathy gleamed from those mesmerising eyes. ‘You’re the faithless father?’ She gave a tiny shake of her head.

It took a moment for her words to hit him. The what?

‘Mr Conway, I know this is none of my business, but … But I think you’ll find that your daughter has misinterpreted your lack of support for the Miss Showgirl as a belief that she’s not good enough to enter.’

He stiffened.

‘Sixteen-year-old girls can be terribly vulnerable and their confidence shaky. While I don’t doubt for a moment that it hasn’t been your intention to sabotage her self-confidence, that’s the effect it has had.’

Sabotaging Stevie? Garbage! He was protecting her. Any sense of proportion he’d gained shot off into the ether with the speed of a V8 super car. ‘Don’t you tell me how to raise my daughter!’

She blinked. ‘I’m not. I’m just saying—’

‘Well, don’t bother!’ His hand slashed the space between them. ‘What the hell do you know about teenage girls?’

She tilted her chin. ‘I was one.’

‘Do you have children?’

He watched her swallow. His knee twitched again. ‘No.’

‘Then don’t presume to tell me how to deal with my own. If I don’t think it’s appropriate for her to enter a beauty contest—’

‘It’s not just a beauty contest!’ Colour flared in her cheeks. ‘It’s for charity, and it’s a chance for the girls—’

‘Save the spiel! I don’t want Stevie involved in some sad, jumped-up little beauty pageant and I want you to stay away from her. You hear me?’

‘Me and the neighbours, I should think.’

He grimaced. He was going to have to apologise. The thought did not improve his temper. He started to compose a suitable apology. He opened his mouth to deliver it—

‘You do know that Stevie believes you don’t think she’s pretty, don’t you?’

Air left his lungs. Stevie was beautiful, unique. She was the light of his life. She had to know that. Not pretty? Stevie could win the Miss Showgirl quest hands down. She was the prettiest, smartest—

He cut the thought off, annoyed with himself for even going there. He needed to talk to Stevie as soon as he could. He straightened. ‘I don’t believe we have anything else to discuss.’

Her eyes widened. She even had the gall to roll them.

‘Darn city slicker,’ he muttered under his breath, needing to vent.

‘Country hick,’ she shot back, and he almost choked. She’d heard him?

With a lift of one elegant shoulder she turned and sauntered off. He stared after her until she’d disappeared around the corner.

He dragged a hand down his face and bit back a curse. He’d been darn rude. He’d let his temper and frustration get the better of him, and that hadn’t happened in a long, long time. What had got into him?

He swung away and kicked at a stone before striding back to the car. He didn’t know what he was going to do about Stevie and this Miss Showgirl nonsense, but one thing he did know—he was going to have to apologise to Blair Macintyre.

‘You did what?’

Nick swallowed at Stevie’s screech. He’d never heard her take that tone before. Her voice literally bounced off the kitchen walls. He forced his shoulders back. ‘I told you I didn’t want you involved in anything as shallow and superficial as a beauty contest. You should be focussing on your studies. If you want to be lawyer then you’ll need good grades.’

Stevie dragged her hands back through her hair. ‘This is about Mum, isn’t it?’

He ran a finger around the collar of his T-shirt. ‘This is about you.’

‘Because I want to look nice, you think that makes me like Mum. You think I’m going to use drugs!’

‘That’s absurd.’ He’d done his best to shield Stevie from the truth about her mother’s death, but Sonya’s overdose had made all the national newspapers.

She stepped back, her face going pale. ‘You don’t trust me.’

Tears shimmered in her eyes. Her pain cut him to the quick. ‘I want you to focus on important things, not shallow nonsense.’ He would not lose another girl he loved to the ruthless, heartless world of fashion. He would not let Stevie starve herself, turn to surgery, and turn herself inside out all in the name of presenting some impossible ideal vision for the camera.

‘The Miss Showgirl quest isn’t just a beauty contest.’ Her voice wobbled. She paced around the kitchen table. An image of Blair flashed in his mind. ‘It was my one chance, and you’ve wrecked it! ’

He stiffened. ‘Your one chance at what?’

‘To learn how to dress well! To learn how to do my hair and make-up, and—’

‘There’s nothing wrong with how you look!’

‘Yes, there is!’ The words burst from her in frustration, her face red and her hands shaking. ‘You’re a guy—what do you know? You want all the other lawyers laughing at me the way the girls at school do?’

Country hick. Blair’s taunt ran through his mind.

‘The other girls have their mothers. I …’

He stared at her. He’d never felt more at a loss.

‘Even if Miss Showgirl is as superficial as you say, what’s wrong with wanting to play around with make-up and hair and wearing pretty things? I’m tired of pretending not to like those things because you don’t approve.’ Her voice rose again. ‘I don’t care what you say. That doesn’t make me like Mum!’

‘I wasn’t saying—’ He broke off because that was exactly what he’d been saying. All those things—pretty clothes, make-up, fussing with hair—they reminded him of what Sonya had chosen over her family. Over him. And, worst of all, what she had chosen over Stevie.

His eyes started to burn and his temples throbbed. Stevie had forgone all those things—things girls delighted in—to spare his feelings?

She leant across the table towards him, her face distorted with frustration and disappointment. ‘It was my one chance to get over being afraid.’

‘What are you afraid of?’ He’d slay any dragon for her.

‘Public speaking!’ she all but hollered at him. ‘It’s part of Miss Showgirl to make a speech. We get lessons, pointers. But now … How will I ever be a lawyer if I can’t speak in public?’

The breath shot out of him. He should have talked to her, found out why the quest meant so much to her. Instead he’d jumped to conclusions, and then he’d jumped in to play the heavy.

She was right. He hadn’t trusted her.

‘Baby, I—’

But she wouldn’t let him speak. ‘You don’t think I can win.’

Her voice was hard, but there was a wobble beneath it that snagged at his heart.

‘You think I’ll make a fool of myself like everyone else does.’

His hands clenched. Everyone who?

‘But Blair thought I had a chance. Blair believed in me.’

With that, she raced out of the room. Her bedroom door slammed and then he heard muffled sobs. He closed his eyes, pressed a fist to his brow. Stevie rarely cried.

It took all his strength to remain in his seat and not go to her. She wouldn’t welcome his attempts at comfort at the moment. He’d made such a hash of this.

He had to fix it.

He rose. He picked up his hat and dusted if off against his thigh. He knew Blair was Glory Middleton’s niece. If she was staying in Dungog, that was where she’d be. He settled the hat on his head and made for the front door.

A tap on the back door had Blair glancing up from her magazine. She’d not long got home and her pulse had barely slowed from her encounter with Nicholas Conway.

What a Neanderthal!

A sexy Neanderthal, though.

The thought slithered in beneath her guard. She shook it off and pushed to her feet to answer the door, almost welcoming the promised distraction on the other side. She was off men for good. And a Neanderthal was still a Neanderthal—sexy or otherwise.

She opened the door, and then pulled up short when she saw who stood on the other side of the screen.

And just like that her pulse sped up again.

An adrenaline surge as her body readied itself for another confrontation, she rationalised. She opened the screen door, folded her arms, and leant a shoulder against the doorframe. She didn’t invite him in. She knew how to do cool and haughty. And at the moment, cool and haughty pleased her nicely. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t the country … boy.’

She couldn’t call him a hick again because a) she wasn’t angry any more, and b) he quite obviously wasn’t a hick.

Her mouth went dry. He was hot!

He wore faded denim jeans and a black T-shirt that hugged his shoulders, emphasising their breadth. Her gaze drifted over those shoulders and slowly made their way down his body. The thin black cotton emphasised the muscles in his chest before plastering itself to an abdomen that even through the material she could see was sculpted and lean. Her pulse sped up even more. Lean hips. Long legs. Feet encased in dusty brown workboots. This country boy had country chic down pat, but he was sexier than any male model she’d come across.

She suspected he wasn’t trying to sport any look at all. She had a feeling that what you saw with Nicholas Conway was exactly what you got.

It was beyond sexy.

She tossed her hair—her wig. Not that she was interested in sexy or sex. She couldn’t imagine being intimate with a man ever again. The thought of a man seeing her naked body …

She suppressed a shudder. She could imagine with a vividness that made her stomach rebel a man recoiling in horror when he saw the real her—scars and all. Could imagine being rejected. Again.

So she lifted her chin and kept her demeanour cold and haughty. ‘Something you forgot to holler?’ she drawled.

He scratched a hand through his hair. He shuffled his feet. He held his hat in his hands and restless fingers twirled it round and round. Her stomach softened.

Neanderthal—don’t forget that.

‘I wanted to apologise.’

She could tell by the way he held himself that he was waiting for her to slam the door in his face. She’d never been one for grand, melodramatic gestures. Still, the idea was tempting. His eyes flashed and glittered as he waited for her response. With a sigh, she relented. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’

She could feel his bulk behind her as he followed her into the kitchen, his vital heat. There was something purely masculine about it. She put the kitchen table between them. ‘Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?’ He didn’t look like the kind of man who needed Dutch courage, although with her last boyfriend she’d proved that where men were concerned she had seriously bad judgement. Who knew what Nick was really like?

‘Are you having anything?’

He’d donned his best manners. She had to give him that. ‘I was about to make tea.’

‘Tea would be great. If you’re sure it isn’t any trouble.’

Yep, his very best manners. And just like that she didn’t want him to apologise any more. She wanted him and his disturbing presence and her even more disturbing reaction to him to walk out through that door and leave her in peace.

For a brief moment today she’d experienced something she hadn’t felt in quite some time—optimism. She’d felt she had something of value to offer to someone. Namely Stevie. And then this man had come along and deflated it with his harsh words and dismissive attitude.

Still, it had been refreshing to be abused rather than mollycoddled.

She snapped herself back into the present and put the jug on to boil, spooned tea into the pot. Nicholas and his unnerving masculinity weren’t going to walk out through that door just yet, because she’d offered him tea as hospitality demanded. The sooner the tea was done, the sooner he’d leave.

She chose her aunt’s tiniest teacups instead of her usual generous mugs.

He didn’t speak until they were seated at the kitchen table and Blair had poured the tea.

He didn’t speak even then. She bit back a sigh. ‘You said you wanted to apologise?’

He nodded, surveying her over the rim of his cup, his eyes not wavering from hers. ‘That’s right.’

She bit back another sigh. It came from deep down inside her, wistful and full of yearning for something she didn’t want to look at too closely. ‘Apology accepted. Forget about it.’ Life was too short to hold grudges.

‘Hey, I haven’t made it yet. Besides, it’s not that simple, city girl.’ He smiled, but there were shadows in his eyes. ‘Earlier, you said something about looking exactly the same. What did you mean?’

‘Nothing. Forget about it.’ Their gazes clashed and locked, and she cursed her rotten defensive self-consciousness. Earlier he’d looked at her as if he’d liked what he saw—really liked it—and for a moment something inside her had responded.

And then she’d remembered the scars, no right breast, no hair—and had imagined his reaction if he could see the real her. Those tart words had come spilling out of her mouth before she could stop them.

His eyes refused to release her. ‘I’ve been ill.’ She was the first to break eye contact. ‘But I’m all better again.’

Better? Yes.

Would a man ever find her attractive again? Unlikely.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. She risked a glance at him. He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been ill, Blair. You’re home to recuperate?’

‘I’m recuperated.’ She wanted to be clear about that. ‘I’m home for some R&R. A holiday.’

His eyes narrowed. She refused to let hers drop this time. Finally he shook his head. ‘None of that changes the fact that I shouldn’t have lost my temper and said the things I did without a thought for anything but my …’

‘Your?’ She preferred to follow his train of thought than her own.

He set his teacup down. ‘Fear.’

It shouldn’t be sexy when a man admitted to being afraid. Only, where Nicholas Conway was concerned, it was. Maybe it was the way he held her gaze as he made the admission. She moistened suddenly dry lips. He watched the action and his eyes darkened. It was hellishly sexy.

Hellish.

‘Fear never brings out the best in a man, and it seems I was hellbent on yelling at someone.’

She saw now that maybe he’d needed to.

He grimaced. ‘If I’d known you’d been sick, though …’

‘No harm done on my account. Like I said, I’m well again now.’ She nearly spread her arms to add, Don’t I look the picture of health? Only on further consideration she didn’t want him looking at her that closely. He might take it as an invitation, as flirting.

She wasn’t inviting anything.

‘Blair, I really am very sorry. My behaviour was appalling.’

‘Apology accepted.’ Please go now.

‘The thing is, I’ve screwed up royally and I need to make amends.’

‘Not to me.’

‘A bit to you,’ he said cautiously, ‘and a lot to Stevie.’

She sat back.

‘Which is why I need you to forgive me.’

‘Because …?’

‘Because I’m taking back everything I said, I’m asking that Stevie be reinstated as an entrant for the Miss Showgirl quest, and I’m begging you to help Stevie the way you told her you would.’

He took a sip of his tea, as if his throat needed the moisture after that admission. His big hand on the tiny teacup should have looked clumsy, but it didn’t. His eyes surveyed her over the rim and she remembered all the things he’d said about the Miss Showgirl quest. He’d implied that it was a waste of time, a waste of brains, and a waste of talent, and by association that she was worthless too.

And yet with one look he could have her prickling and burning all over. He’d come here fully expecting to be forgiven, presuming she’d be happy to bend over backwards to help him out.

And she had. And she was. And that made her angry too.

‘And what happens next week when you change your mind all over again? Will I find you banging on my door to hurl more abuse at me?’

His jaw dropped. ‘Of course not.’

‘You expect me to take your word for that? I don’t know you from Adam.’

‘I—’

‘Have you changed your mind about the …?’ She cocked her head to one side. ‘What was it? Sad, jumped-up little beauty pageant?’

He didn’t say anything and she realised he hadn’t changed his mind about anything. But he was still going to let Stevie enter? She folded her arms, intrigued despite her best intentions.

‘If I hadn’t interfered, if I hadn’t lost my cool, you’d still be happy to help Stevie out like you’d told her you would.’

She had every intention of keeping her promise to Stevie. Still, it wouldn’t hurt him to sweat for a bit. ‘But now I have to take into account a temperamental parent.’

He half rose out of his chair. ‘I’m not temperamental!’

‘Are you yelling at me, Mr Conway?’

He subsided back into his seat. ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘It’s just … Stevie shouldn’t pay for my mistake.’

No, she shouldn’t.

‘And it’s Nicholas—Nick—not Mr Conway.’

Blair considered him for a moment. She almost chuckled at the way he tried to hide his glower. ‘I was right, wasn’t I? Stevie took your lack of support to mean you didn’t believe she had a scarecrow’s chance of winning. I’m right, aren’t I?’

His deepening scowl told her she was.

‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ he ground out.

‘I am taking a fiendish kind of delight in it.’ She didn’t scruple to admit it.

‘And when will you deem that I’ve been punished enough?’

‘Oh, your punishment hasn’t even begun yet, Mr—’

‘Nick!’ he snapped. His hand clenched to a fist on the table. ‘Will you help Stevie?’ he burst out. ‘Please?’

He loved his daughter. He wanted her to be happy. And he hated the Miss Showgirl quest.

‘I will help Stevie on one condition, Nicholas. That you support her fully in her Miss Showgirl efforts.’

‘Sure I will. I’m here, aren’t I?’

Her smile grew, and she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘By taking on the role of her fundraising manager. By co-ordinating and directing all her fundraising efforts.’

Nick’s jaw dropped. ‘You can’t expect me to …’ He let the sentence trail off. The pictures rising in his mind were too hideous to put into words. Him get involved in the dog-eat-dog world of a beauty pageant?

She sent him a pitying glance. ‘Oh, no, Nicholas. I expect a whole lot more than that.’

His stomach clenched to hard ball of lead. ‘More?’ he croaked.

‘But fundraising manager will do for a start.’

He wouldn’t know where to begin.

‘You were serious weren’t you? About making it up to Stevie?’

‘Yes, but …’

‘Words are cheap.’

He saw then that she was right. He could repeat over and over again until he was blue in the face that he had faith in her, he could say it till the cows came home—and he would the moment he got home—but the only way to truly reassure Stevie, to prove that he believed in her, was to support her in a material way. Like co-ordinating her fundraising efforts.

On the up side, being involved did mean he’d have a chance of protecting her against the more unsavoury aspects of the pageant, the competitiveness and bitchiness and constant undermining of one’s self-esteem …

‘It looks as though you have yourself a deal, city girl.’ He could have sworn, though, that when he extended his hand she was curiously reluctant to take it.

Blair might act all haughty and aloof, but somehow he knew he’d needled his way in under her skin. The thought made him grin. It made him hold her hand for longer than custom demanded.

When he finally released her the colour in her cheeks was high and a purely masculine satisfaction settled in the pit of his stomach.

Game on.




CHAPTER THREE


THE moment Nick realised where his thoughts were headed he snatched them back. He wasn’t messing about with a woman like Blair Macintyre. He’d allowed one woman to dash all his dreams. He wasn’t giving another one that same opportunity.

He’d achieved what he’d set out to—he’d apologised to Blair and made sure she’d still help Stevie. He’d done what he could to put things back to the way they’d been before he’d so stupidly interfered.

Yet he found himself curiously reluctant to end this meeting, thank Blair, and leave. The colour in her cheeks had receded. He wanted to see—to make—that colour high again.

Her teacup clattered to her saucer as if the way he studied her unnerved her.

Because he wasn’t just studying her—he was staring!

He forced his gaze down to the table and drained what was left in his tiny teacup. Glory would have given him tea in a mug, but Blair had sophisticated city ways. She had gloss and elegance. Would she offer him another cup?

‘So Stevie really socked it to you, huh?’

‘She cried.’ Bile churned in his throat. ‘And she hardly ever cries.’

He risked a glance at her—no staring—and found her delectable lips pursed and her eyes soft with sympathy. He memorised every curve of those lips before lifting his eyes. Their gazes locked and held. His heart slowed and then surged against his ribs.

Blair shot to her feet as if in sudden panic, as if to race away.

He sat back, blinked, and did his best to dislodge his heart from his throat. And then her panic, if that was what it had been, was wiped away and replaced with a thrust out chin and hands planted on slender hips. He wondered if he’d imagined the panic.

He didn’t think so.

He stared at the determined picture she made now and found his muscles bunching. He couldn’t make head nor tail of this woman.

‘Well, what are we waiting for?’

He rose to his feet at her regal tone. ‘Waiting for?’ he ventured.

‘Don’t you want to make things right again for Stevie as soon as you can?’

Sure he did, but … ‘Stevie won’t talk to me until at least dinnertime.’ Which was hours away yet.

‘Which serves you right. But I expect she’ll talk to me.’

His shoulders unhitched. ‘You’ll talk to her?’

Her lips twisted as if she was trying to hold back a smile. ‘Of course I will.’

‘I …’ He couldn’t think of a darn thing to say to that, so he followed her out through the door and waited while she locked it.

‘You deserve to stew for a while yet, country boy, but Stevie doesn’t.’

‘I could kiss you,’ he said fervently.

She took a step away from him. ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

She could do ice queen as if it was second nature. She grinned suddenly and ice queen transformed to temptress. His blood, and other parts of him, heated up. She rubbed her hands together before motioning to him to lead the way.

Glory’s house was only two streets away from where his automotive workshop fronted the town’s main street. The weatherboard cottage he called home was out at the back.

‘Everyone in town is going to know about your turnaround in relation to the Miss Showgirl quest now. It’s going to be beautiful to watch.’

Her relish had his mouth kicking upwards. ‘Not going to work.’

She widened her eyes, mock innocent. ‘Work?’

‘You’re not going to get a rise out of me that easily, princess.’

‘Peasant.’

Energy fired through him. He found it suddenly easy to laugh. Then he frowned. When had it become hard to laugh?

‘So tell me …’

He shook the sombre reflection aside and readied himself for her next thrust.

‘What approach are you going to take with the fundraising?’

As far as thrusts went it wasn’t bad. ‘Any ideas?’

‘Oodles—and for every three you come up with I’ll give you one.’

He tried to look injured. ‘That hardly seems fair.’

‘It’s called penance.’

He threw his head back and let loose with another laugh. ‘Why don’t you really stick the knife in? I’m sure there’s a spot here somewhere …’ he pointed to his chest ‘… that you’ve missed.’

She grinned back, and it occurred to him that she was enjoying their exchange as much as he was.

He ushered her though the back entrance of the repair shop, opening the tall gate for her. He watched her take in the large galvanised-iron shed to the left and the neat weatherboard house opposite. The space between was hard-packed earth. There was an outdoor table setting against the far wall. No garden. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

It unsettled him to find he cared what she thought. Light—he had to keep it light. ‘Slave-driver,’ he muttered.

She tossed that long blonde hair of hers. ‘Grease monkey.’

Her good-natured insult released his tension and another laugh.

‘You’re a mechanic, huh?’

‘Yep.’

‘My car needs a service.’

He wasn’t a run-of-the-mill mechanic. He restored classic cars. He had a national reputation for it. These days he could pick and choose what projects he wanted to work on.

None of that stopped him from saying, ‘Bring it in on Thursday or Friday.’

‘Thank you.’

‘No.’ He touched her arm before she could set off towards the house. ‘Thank you for coming here to see Stevie, and for showing me how to make it up to her. I still don’t approve of this preoccupation with looks and fashion, but I do appreciate you coming here.’

She took a step away from him, out of his reach so his hand dropped back to his side. She hitched her chin in just that way. ‘Stevie and I will prove to you how wrong you are.’

‘It doesn’t matter if I’m wrong or right. I need to show Stevie that I trust her enough to support the decisions she makes even if I don’t like them. I ranted at you like an angry bull and you’ve had the grace to overlook it, as well as the generosity to agree to help Stevie. I’m in your debt, city girl.’

Her eyes suddenly narrowed. ‘I’ll be paying for my car service, Nicholas. I wasn’t after a freebie.’

And, because his gratitude had obviously embarrassed her, he made himself laugh and say, ‘I’ll be charging you top dollar.’

Blair didn’t smile back. ‘Just because I used to be a model, you’ve written me off as shallow, frivolous, and incapable of depth, gravity or any kind of finer feeling, haven’t you?’

‘I …’ He rolled his shoulders. It struck him that that was exactly what he’d done. He’d tarred Blair with the same brush as Sonya. On what grounds? After all, what did he really know about Blair Macintyre?

Zilch.

Except that she’d forgiven his bad behaviour. And that she was kind enough to want to help Stevie.

And neither of those things indicated shallowness or a lack of finer feeling. ‘Blair, I—’

She stabbed a finger at him. ‘What would your reaction be, I wonder, if I told you I’d spent a considerable time in front of the mirror this morning putting on my make-up?’

‘What’s a considerable amount of time?’ he ground out. ‘More than half an hour?’ Were these the things that she was going to teach his daughter were important?

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Why the hell is that necessary?’

‘And what would you say if I told you I was wearing false eyelashes?’

No!

‘And what would you think if I told you I was wearing a wig?’

He took a step back. ‘The hell you are.’ He found himself shaking as he moved forward again to push his face in close to hers. ‘Are you wearing a wig, Blair?’

‘I am,’ she shot back at him, her eyes blazing as she tossed her head. All that glorious fake hair swished round her shoulders and down her back, taunting him with the lie it represented. ‘What I want to know is, why does it matter?’

He unclenched his jaw to say, ‘You can even ask me that? You represent everything I hate about the world of fashion.’ Couldn’t she see the damage she and people like her did to mere mortals—to teenage girls? ‘You want to fill my daughter’s head with a load of unrealistic expectations. She’s going to feel compelled to live up to those expectations and—’

‘You should have more faith in your daughter.’ She shot right back again. ‘There’s absolutely nothing wrong with a woman wanting to look the best she can.’

‘Except when it takes over her life.’ A wig? ‘Like it’s obviously taken over yours! Take the damn wig off, Blair. Let my daughter see you as you really are rather than filling her head with a load of fantastic lies.’

Just for a moment he could have sworn that hurt flashed through her eyes. ‘So you think it’s all about vanity, huh?’

He didn’t say anything.

‘Are you giving me an ultimatum—take off my wig or you won’t let me see Stevie?’

He steeled himself against that hurt. ‘That’s right.’

‘When I’m doing you a favour by coming here?’

‘Filling Stevie’s head with nonsense isn’t doing me or her a favour.’

‘If I don’t take my wig off are you still going to forbid her to enter Miss Showgirl?’

He shuffled his feet. No, he couldn’t do that. It meant too much to Stevie. But he didn’t have to admit as much to Blair. Not yet.

Her eyes suddenly flashed their scorn, blasting the skin on his face and arms. She had no right to direct that at him. All he was trying to do was protect his daughter from being beguiled by false images.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Nicholas,’ she snapped. ‘Put two and two together.’

He opened his mouth. He closed it again. The soft vulnerability of her mouth belied the hard jut of her chin. Her nostrils flared and her shoulders had gone rigid. And her voice … It didn’t sound like her voice.

A chill edged up his spine.

She stuck out a hip, her assumed nonchalance at odds with the expression in her eyes. ‘Let me guess. I look exactly the same, right?’ She mimicked her own earlier words.

He swallowed.

She rolled her eyes, but the darkness in them contradicted her implied impatience. ‘I’ve been ill.’

She cocked an eyebrow, as if daring him to join the dots, to put the pieces of the puzzle together, to make the connection between her wig and having been sick.

And he did.

He gripped a fencepost to keep himself upright as the breath rushed out of his body. Her gaze shied away from his then, as if she couldn’t bear to see what was reflected in his eyes. ‘Why did you automatically assume the make-up and the wig were for the purposes of vanity, huh? Do you always jump to such appalling conclusions?’

He hated himself in that moment for the prejudice that had blinded him.

‘I’m not wearing a wig to hide a bad haircut or a disastrous dye-job. I wish!’ She gave a laugh—only it wasn’t a laugh. It was a sound masquerading as a laugh and it sliced through him like a physical pain. ‘I don’t have enough hair to either cut or dye!’

He closed his eyes, hating himself even more for the reprehensible judgements he’d made, for the accusations he’d flung at her.

‘Chemotherapy,’ she said, as if now that she’d started she couldn’t stop.

‘Cancer?’ he croaked.

‘Cancer,’ she affirmed.

He pushed away from the fence. He wanted to offer her comfort, to say he was sorry, to wrap her in his arms and assure himself she was all right. He didn’t. She’d probably sock him one. And he’d deserve it.

‘It’s hell on hair.’ She pointed to her lashes and eyebrows. ‘The good news is that I won’t have to wax my legs for a while.’

The shadows in her eyes would haunt him for ever. ‘Blair, I’m—’

‘Do you know what I look like without all this hair and make-up?’

‘I—’

‘With round cheeks and a big, bald, round head?’

Her eyes flashed their fury. She planted her hands on her hips, evidently awaiting an answer. She’d still look beautiful. As soon as the thought filtered into his consciousness he realised he meant it. It struck him then with equal force that she wouldn’t believe him.

‘I look like a great big helpless baby, that’s what. And you know how people treat a baby, don’t you?’

Her fury, her frustration, had started to run out of steam. She all but limped over to a low brick wall and sat. She dragged in a breath that made her whole frame shudder.

‘Like they can’t do even the simplest things for themselves,’ she finished on a whisper.

It was the way her shoulders slumped that cut him to the quick. He collapsed down on the wall beside her. He rested his elbows on his knees, dropped his head to his hands. How did he apologise after what he’d just done, said, the accusations he’d hurled at her?

‘You can mock and scorn my wig and my false eyelashes and my false eyebrows all you want, Mr Conway. You can tell me I’m a liar, that I’m vain, that the image I present is a sham. You can tell me I have my priorities all wrong. But know this …’

Another breath made her entire body shudder. He wanted to hand her a big stick and ask her to beat him with it. That might make him feel better, but he suspected it would only make her feel worse. He’d misjudged her in every conceivable way. Why? Because once upon a time she’d been a model. On that evidence he’d decided she was shallow.

Nausea threatened to choke him.

She met his gaze and her blue-eyed anguish flayed him more effectively than any big stick ever could.

‘The way I present myself is my defence against the world. It is my attempt to regain a portion of control over my life.’ Her eyes told him she’d been to hell and back. ‘It is my way of trying to get my life back to normal. That means people treating me the way they did before I got sick. The only way I can make that happen is to look as normal as I can—to look the way I used to before …’

She hiccupped. His heart slumped to his knees, but he forced himself to straighten. ‘Are you sure you’re well enough to be getting back to normal?’

‘Oh!’ Her lip curled. ‘Not that you’ve just proved my point or anything! Did that thought occur to you when you were abusing me earlier?’

‘No, but …’ A person could pull off a hell of a show with hair and make-up.

‘You didn’t think I was weak and feeble then. And I bet all the tea in China that you wouldn’t have yelled at me if hadn’t been wearing my wig!’

The Chinese tea was all hers. But … ‘You want to be yelled at?’

‘I want to be treated like normal. The way I really look makes people treat me like I’m an invalid and that makes me feel like a freak.’

He’d made her feel like a freak.

‘And I’m tired of pity.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I want my life back.’

He admired her quiet dignity. He admired her courage.

He hated himself.

‘Blair, I shouldn’t have made the assumptions I did. I shouldn’t have said what I did. I’m sorry. I wish—’

He wished he could take back all those things he’d said. He wished he could turn the clock back. He wished he could wave a magic wand so that she’d never been sick.

She straightened. ‘I want to be judged for myself, not by my illness. And not because I used to be a model once upon a time.’

One thing he would never do again was judge someone on their looks, or the fact that they were or had been a model. But before he could tell her that, she rose. So formal. All their former teasing and banter, the digs and challenges, the traded insults were a distant memory. That suddenly felt like such a loss.

‘Tell Stevie I’ll look forward to seeing her on Thursday evening.’

She wanted to be away from him as soon as she could. And he had no one to blame but himself.

Blair forced one foot in front of the other. She ordered herself not to look back to see if Nick watched her.

The prickling and burning at the back of her neck told her he did.

The look on his face when—

Well done, you idiot! Revealing the reason she wore a wig had been supposed to teach him a lesson. Teach him to not jump to conclusions. But …

What had she been thinking? Now all Nick would see whenever he looked at her was her illness.

She tried to banish his look of horror from her mind. She counted her footsteps instead, all the way around the corner and halfway down the next street, where she promptly forgot what number she was up to. She halted and went to grind her palms against her eyes—before remembering her false eyelashes and all her carefully applied eye make-up. She gripped her hands in front of her.

The look on his face!

Horror, that was what he’d felt, and it had reminded her of Adam’s horror. The thought of her appearance had horrified Adam. Appalled Adam. Repelled Adam.

She forced her feet forward, swallowed the lump in her throat, and lifted her chin. Well, Nick Conway didn’t have to worry, because she’d make sure that from now on they’d barely clap eyes on each other.

She did her best to put him out of her mind as she stomped the rest of the way home. It was pointless regretting what she looked like. It was pointless caring what someone like Nick thought of her. For heaven’s sake, she’d survived breast cancer. She should be grateful and count her blessings.

She let herself in at the back door and was immediately greeted with the scent of toasted cheese sandwiches. On cue her mouth watered, the scent transporting her back in time to when she’d been a schoolgirl.




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