For His Little Girl. Lucy Gordon

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      Chapter One

      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 I 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 wornout 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 СКАЧАТЬ