Page 1 of Just Trouble

1

DAPHNE

Ihear the motorcycle on Tuesday morning, its throaty roar echoing along Queen Street like an announcement—or a wake-up call. It’s April, one of the prettiest months in our little corner of the world. Spring is bursting out all over, welcome flashes of bright green on every corner, flowers emerging from the soil and birds chirping merrily. The tulips and daffodils are in bloom, not just in gardens but in window boxes and pots outside our offices. On this perfect spring morning, the cloudless sky is that shade of blue that looks like forever. The wind is crisp off the lake and winter seems long ago.

(It’s not.)

I’m annoyed, having had The Discussion with my father for the hundredth time, and lost right again on schedule. We don’t argue or fight, my dad and I—he just overwhelms all objections with his affability. He’s so calm, so reasonable, so sure, that I end up backing down every time.

And it bugs me.

So does the seemingly endless pile of paperwork on my desk. It’s part and parcel of dad being on retainer for Cavendish Enterprises. Seasonal foreign workers come. Seasonal foreign workers go. In every possible instance, there are forms to file,and as the most junior lawyer at Weatherby & Bradshaw, I win the grunt work.

I’ve poured myself a fresh coffee and opened the top folder when I hear the engine. The town is so quiet that the sound of the bike is jarring. I assume it’s a scout for a motorcycle club, an older grizzled guy looking for a place to congregate on Friday the thirteenth, and am not thrilled that Empire might be a candidate.

The roar gets louder. It reminds me of a certain hot guy, the one who rode his bike out of town sixteen years ago and never came back. (Of course, it does.) It makes me reconsider the wisdom of my own return to bucolic Empire. Should I have stayed in Toronto? The work was more interesting and it could be argued that my social life was, too.

I didn’t feel stalled or on the shelf either. I wasn’t bored.

I sigh without meaning to and get to work. Forms don’t fill themselves, despite my wishes to the contrary.

Against every expectation, the motorcycle stops in front of my dad’s legal office, idling for a minute before the engine stops. I make it to the window in time to catch a glimpse of a long-legged man in black striding to the door and my heart skips a beat.

No. It can’t be.

Even Mrs. Prescott sounds flustered when the door opens to the street, which is a big clue to the new arrival’s identity.

A bigger one is the low rumble of his voice, still thrilling after all these years, still evocative of melted chocolate and dissolved inhibitions. Of course, it’s familiar. I’ve listened to all of his band’s recordings, memorized more than a few, and had that smoky ballad as the ringtone on my phone for ages. I retreat behind my desk, hoping, not hoping, feeling all of fourteen years old again.

Luke Jones must have come to see my father, to get himself out of some epic trouble or other. I won’t need to even see him…

Yes, I meantheLuke Jones. You’ve heard of him, of course, and his über-famous band, those rockers who have made millions—their music is good, but they’re also sinfully photogenic, all four of them.

Well, three now. And not much of a band anymore, but that’s another story and one that isn’t my business. (My browser history isn’t yours to peruse.) I won’t be feeling sorry for Luke because he doesn’t have to wade through piles of lingerie on the stage five nights a week and clearly adore every minute of it.

It’s too easy to envision his sultry smile and bedroom eyes, smouldering looks—and that little smile, the one that steals over his lips when his dark lashes are falling, hiding his thoughts, making you think he’s remembering a private secret. A panty-melter, even virtually.

If he does that here, live and in person, my lingerie might spontaneously combust.

But I’m not the teenager who was in awe of Luke, not anymore. I’ve learned that guys like him might be easy on the eyes, they might know all the right moves, make all the right promises and have charm to spare—but in the end, the only thing they care about is themselves. They’re not potential partners. Great-looking guys say and do whatever is necessary to get whatever they want, then move on. I have the unworn wedding dress as a souvenir.

I straighten at the sound of a deep male voice in reception, proof positive that I’ve guessed right. Luke has this baritone that sounds as if it’s coming from the ocean floor and in real life, it’s rougher than in the band’s recordings. The sound works for me in a big way.

My heart skips as if I’m going to be caught in some crime. I read the top form twice without comprehending a word before Mrs. Prescott taps once then flings open the door.

“Mr. Luke Jones to see you, Miss Bradshaw.”

And there he is. Heisback.

Right here.

Let me tell you that Luke’s a thousand times hotter in real life, and better looking than I remember. Man not boy now and it makes all the difference in the world. He’s taller and broader, filling the doorway and not caring a bit. He exudes presence and confidence. He owns the room before he steps fully into it—and it’smyoffice. He’s wearing jeans and a black leather jacket, his helmet under one arm and a leather satchel in the other hand. I feel as if Sin has stepped into my office to issue a personal invitation.

I’m tempted to accept.

He has what looks like a day’s growth of beard, dark and even, which makes him look like a rebel. They always said he was just trouble. He takes off his mirrored sunglasses and I see that his eyes are just as vividly blue—one Cavendish legacy he wasn’t denied—but his gaze is a lot more assessing than it used to be. His gaze sweeps over me, leaving tingles in its wake, but I step forward and offer my hand as if unaffected.

Crisp. Professional. Dispassionate.

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