For His Little Girl

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 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.

Gently but firmly he led her back up the stairs, murmuring, "Go and snuggle up, baby, and let me pamper you."

He knew that was the offer no woman could refuse. And it would buy him a little time.

Maybe an hour. If he was lucky.

After he'd coaxed Dominique under the covers he returned to the balcony, looking up into the sky, silently imploring the angel who protected fun-loving bachelors to fly low over his nest.

From far off he could hear the faint sound of a plane preparing to land at LAX. But somehow, he doubted if his good angel was aboard.

Ladies and gentlemen, British Airways flight 279 from London to Los Angeles will be landing in twenty minutes. It is 12:10 p.m. local time, and the temperature is seventy-five degrees…

Ten-year-old Josie looked back from where she was glued to the window. "Mummy, we took off at half past nine in the morning, and we flew for eleven hours. How can we land at half past twelve?''

Pippa yawned and stretched as far as conditions allowed. "Los Angeles is eight hours behind London, darling. I explained it all with the map."

"Yes, but it's different when it's real."

"That's true." Inwardly Pippa was working out how long it would be until she could have a good cup of tea.

Josie was doing calculations. At last she sorted it out to her own satisfaction. "We've been flying backward," she said triumphantly.

"I suppose we have."

"You see, you can time travel."

Flying backward, not eight hours but eleven years. Flying backward to revisit the naive girl of eighteen whose heart ruled her head, who'd loved one man totally, knowing that he only loved her casually.

Turn time back to the moment before she'd met Luke Danton. There she was, standing in the basement corridor of the Ritz Hotel, lost, wondering which way to go, trying the first door she saw, finding herself in the kitchen, where she had no right to be. And there was the handsome, laughing young man grabbing her arm, scooting her out, practically ordering her to meet him later.

Hurry past that door, quickly, while you still can. Run to the end of the passage and there's a flight of stairs. Now you'll never know he exists. Turn time back and be safe.

Safe. No Luke. No blazing, ecstatic four months. No anguished loneliness. No glorious memories. No darling, wonderful Josie.

She pushed open the door. And there he was…

It was crisis time.

Of course, he could always say bluntly, "No wedding! No way! And goodbye!" But Luke hated to hurt people, and he was fond of Dominique. He just didn't want to marry her.

He suspected a connection between this and a recent crisis in her life. After being a top model for six years, Dominique had been stunned to lose out on a job she really wanted.

To someone younger.

She was staggeringly beautiful, but she was an old lady of twenty-six, and the writing was on the wall.

She hadn't told Luke about the job, but he'd heard via the grapevine, and now he had a wry, good-natured awareness that his personal charm was not the only issue here. He didn't blame her. It was a tough world. Even the lovely face on your pillow could be working an angle, and Luke, who'd worked a few angles in his time, was relaxed about it.

But yielding to it was another matter.

His mind drifted to the one person, apart from his parents, who hadn't been trying to get something out of him: who had even refused his conscience-stricken offer of marriage, bless her heart!

Funny, kooky little Pippa, as crazy as he was himself, who'd made his months in London an enchanted time and seen him on his way with a smile and a wave.

He knew he'd been her first lover, and it still made him smile to remember how she'd enjoyed sex as though it were a box of chocolates. She'd jumped into bed with a whoop, unrestrained in her delight, warm and generous, as eager to give pleasure as to receive it. He hoped-yes, he really hoped-that she'd since found a man who could satisfy her as much as he had himself.

Who did he think he was kidding?

She'd even been cool about the discovery that she was pregnant. He was back home in Los Angeles by that time, but she'd dropped him a line. He'd telephoned her and dutifully suggested marriage, as he was an old-fashioned boy at heart. Pippa had thought that was very funny, he remembered. People didn't have to get married these days. Of course she wanted to keep the baby, but who needed Luke?

He hadn't been thrilled by her way of putting it, but it left him free and with a clear conscience. He'd thought of going over to see her, but flying was expensive, and it would be more sensible to send her the money. So he did that, and had done so ever since.

She still lived in his mind as the crazy kid with the wicked sense of humor that he'd known then. There were photographs to tell him what she looked like now, but they were somehow unreal beside the vividness of his memories.

He realized that he was smiling as that daft, quarrelsome, delightful female danced through his brain. She'd been so passionate about everything that she was exhausting to be with: passionate about her dreams, about food, about every tiny little argument. And she'd argued endlessly! He'd had to kiss her to shut her up. And then there had been no way to stop until he'd explored the whole of her glorious, vibrant body and discovered that she was passionate about him, as well.

Pippa knew she'd done everything the wrong way. It had been crazy to decide to go to Los Angeles one minute and book for the first available seats the next.

Now here she was, weary from the long flight, with an inner clock that said it was nearly midnight, the hardest part still to come and the day barely started. And since she hadn't warned Luke she was coming, he might not even be there.

Oh, why didn't she think before she did these impulsive things?

It was Jake's fault. And Harry's and Paul's and Derek's. They should have stopped her, especially Jake, who was supposed to be the sensible one. Instead he'd come up with the name of a friend in the airline who could get her a couple of heavily discounted tickets.

Paul and Derek had checked her medicines repeatedly and given her a list of rules for taking care of herself. Harry had driven her and Josie to the airport in his old car. And they'd all come along because they couldn't let her go so far away without waving her off.

If only her bags would appear on the carousel soon. She seemed to have been standing here for ages. She took a deep breath to disguise the fact that she was growing breathless, hoping Josie wouldn't notice. But Josie was bouncing about in excitement, eager to be the first to spot their luggage.

"There it is, Mummy! Over there."

"Don't rush." Pippa restrained her daughter from dashing over and trying to haul the bags off. "Wait for them to reach us."

Josie shook her head so that her long, red-brown hair swung jauntily. "I hate waiting. I like things to happen now."

"Then there'd be nothing left for later, and then what would you do?" Pippa teased her fondly.

"I'd make something happen later. I can make anything I like happen."

It always gave Pippa a pang when her daughter talked like that, for she remembered someone else who'd thought life was his to invent as he pleased. And he had been right.

Looking around made her realize how far she'd traveled, in more than miles, since she'd left England. This wasn't just a part of another country, but another world, another dimension.

Everyone looked so good. Where was the leavening of dowdiness that existed in any other population? Where were the overweight, the plain? They couldn't all be wanna-be movie stars, surely?

What had Luke said once?

"The cream of the crop came out West to get into the movies, and when they didn't, they stuck around and married each other. What you see on the streets is the third generation."

So much beauty was unnerving, like finding yourself in one of those episodes of Star Trek where nobody could crew a spaceship if they didn't look good enough to wear short skirts or skintight suits.

She'd dressed sensibly for the long flight, in old jeans and a sweater. Now being sensible felt like a crime.

At twenty-nine Pippa was tall and slim, with reddish brown, shoulder-length hair that curved naturally and a heart-shaped face. She had large, luminous eyes and a wide mouth that had always laughed easily. Her charm lay in that laughter and in the hint in her eyes that it came from way down deep inside her.

But she hadn't laughed so much recently, not since the doctor had said, "Pippa, I have to be honest with you…" And just now she felt as though she might never laugh again.

At last she had their baggage, they were safely through Immigration and could head for the airport hotel.

"Why couldn't we just stay with Daddy?" Josie wanted to know as they unpacked.

"Because he doesn't know we're coming, so he won't be ready for us."

It didn't take long to put everything away, and then Josie wanted to be up and going. They found a cab, and Pippa gave the driver Luke's address. "Will it take long?"

'"Bout ten minutes," he told her.

Only ten minutes, and she hadn't yet decided what she was going to say to Luke when he opened the door and saw her standing there with his daughter. Why hadn't she warned him they were coming?

Because he might have vanished, said a wry voice in her mind. The Luke she'd known eleven years ago had been delightful, but the words serious and responsible weren't in his vocabulary. Kind was there. So were charming and generous. So, for that matter, were fun, magical, and warm-hearted. But commitment might never have been invented, for all he'd heard of it.

Which was why, although he'd paid generously toward his daughter's support, he had never seen her. And that was why they had crossed the Atlantic now, for Pippa was determined that he should meet his child before-she checked the thought there. She was good at not thinking beyond that point. Before Josie grew up too fast, she amended.

She had made the decision and put it into action without giving herself time to think-or to lose her nerve, as she admitted. Now here they were, almost at Luke's house. And the enormity of what she'd done was beginning to dawn on her.

If she could have turned around and gone right back home, she would have done so. But the cab was slowing down…

The heart of Luke's home was the kitchen, a stunning workplace that he'd designed himself, knocking a large hole in a wall so that it could run the whole length of the house.

There were five sinks, so that he was never far from running water, three burners, two ovens and a microwave. Every one of them was the latest, the most sophisticated technology, a mass of knobs that might have seemed excessive on the deck of a spaceship. People who knew Luke only superficially were always surprised by the precision of his kitchen. His looks were the tousled variety, as if he'd just gotten out of bed, and his personal entanglements might tactfully be described as untidy. But the kitchen, where he worked, was a miracle of organization.

In one corner he had a desk and a computer. He switched it on now and got online to Luke's Place, the restaurant he'd opened with such pride five years ago. The password got him into the accounts, where he could see that last night's takings were nicely up. A visit to Luke's Other Place, open only a year, produced an equally satisfying result.

His Web site showed a pleasing number of hits since yesterday, when his cable show, Luke's Way, had gone out. It was a cooking program, and since the first show, eighteen months ago, the ratings had soared. It was broadcast twice a week, and his site, always busy, was deluged in the hours afterward.

He briefly glanced at his e-mail, found nothing there to worry about and a good deal to please him. Then he noticed something that made him frown.

The e-mail he'd sent to Josie last night hadn't been collected on the other end. And that was unusual for Josie, who was normally a demon at reading his mail and coming back at him.

For a man who'd never met his daughter, Luke could say he knew her strangely well. He paid generously for her support. He had an account with the best toy store in London, and for Christmas and Josie's birthday, he would call and ask a pleasant sales assistant to select something suitable for her age and send it to her.

Twice a year he received a letter from Pippa, thanking him for the gifts, giving him news of Josie and sometimes sending photographs. He could see how his daughter was growing up, looking incredibly like her mother. But she'd remained somehow unreal, until the day, a year ago, when he'd collected the e-mail that had come through his Web site and found one that said simply,

I'm Josie. I'm nine. Are you my pop? Mummy says you are. Josie.

The way she wrote Mummy in the English style, rather than Mommy in the American, told him this was real. When he'd recovered from the shock he e-mailed back, "Yes, I am." And waited. The answer came quickly.

Hallo, Pop. Thank you for the bike.

"You're welcome. How did you find me?"

Surfed until I found your Web site.

"On your own?"

Yes. Mummy's all thumbs.

Her initiative and bravado delighted him. It was exactly what he would have done at the same age, if Web sites had existed then. They began a correspondence of untroubled cheerfulness, save for one moment when he begged, "Please stop calling me Pop. It makes me sound like an outboard motor."

Sorry, Papa!

"'Dad' will do, you little wretch!"

At last Pippa had realized what was up, and entered the correspondence. Oddly, he found her harder to "talk" to. She still lived in his mind as a crazy, delightful girl. The woman she'd become was a stranger. But he persevered. She was the mother of his child, and he owed her. Their interchanges were cordial, but he was happier with Josie.

Recently he'd received a large photograph showing mother and daughter, sitting together, smiling at him. She was a great-looking kid, he reckoned.

Impulsively he pulled open the drawer where he kept the picture, took it out and grinned. Across the bottom was written, "Love to Daddy, Pippa and Josie."

The last two words were in a different hand, large and childish.

That's my girl! he thought.

He began to replace the photograph, then something stopped him. He drew it closer, studying the faces and the all-important words. An idea had come to him. It grew and flourished.

Wicked, he thought guiltily.

But his hands were already putting the picture in a prominent position. Not prominent enough. He changed it. Then he changed it back.

Wicked. Yes, definitely. But effective.

The good angel had come to his rescue again.

Inspired, he got to work on the perfect breakfast for a model. It was also a new recipe he'd invented for his restaurants. There was nothing like killing two birds with one stone, he told himself.

Onions, red wine vinegar, lettuce, fruit pieces, masses of strawberries, alfalfa sprouts. He laid them all out, then started on the salad dressing. This was going to be a work of art.

He could hear Dominique moving about upstairs, the sound of the shower. He prepared coffee and laid the breakfast bar to tempt a lady. He was a master of presentation.

Her eyes gleamed when she saw the trouble he'd taken for her, and she gave him her most winning smile.

"Darling Luke, you're so sweet."

"Wait until you see what I've created for you," he said, pulling out a high stool and seeing her into it with a flourish. He laid the beautiful dish before her. "Less than two hundred calories, but full of nourishment."

"Mmm! Looks delicious." She put the first forkful into her mouth and made a face of ecstasy. "Heaven! And you invented it just for me."

And for the customers who would pay $25 a throw, and a few hundred thousand people who watched every Tuesday and Friday.

"Just what a hard-working model needs," he assured her. "Only three grams of fat. I measured each gram personally."

"What about each calorie?"

"All 197 of them."

She chuckled. "Oh, Luke, darling, you are a fool. It's why I adore you so madly. And you adore me, too, don't you? I can tell by the way you like to do things for me."

Sensing the conversation straying into dangerous waters again he filled her coffee cup and kissed the end of her nose.

But Dominique wasn't to be diverted. "As I was saying earlier, we go together so perfectly that it seems to me…" Just in time her eyes fell on the picture. Luke breathed a prayer of heartfelt relief.

"I've never seen that before," Dominique said, frowning.

"What-oh, that? I just had it out for a moment," Luke said quickly, moving as if to hurry the picture away, but actually relinquishing it into her imperiously outstretched hand.

"'Daddy'?" she echoed, reading the inscription. "You been keeping secrets, Luke? Is this your ex-wife?"

"No, Pippa and I weren't married. I knew her in London when I worked there eleven years ago. She still lives there."

"The child doesn't look anything like you. How do you know she's yours?"

"Because Pippa wouldn't have said she was if she wasn't. Besides, Josie and I talk over the Internet."

The supreme idiocy of this last remark burst on him only when it was too late. Dominique laid down the picture and regarded him very, very kindly.

"You talk on the Internet, and therefore she must carry your genes? I guess it beats DNA testing."

"I didn't mean that the way it came out," he said hastily.

"Darling, don't treat me like a fool."

No. Big mistake. Dominique's eyes were sharp as gimlets. They always were when she was in an acquisitive mood, he realized.

"Josie's mine," he repeated. "We have a very good relationship-''

"Over the Internet? Boy, you're really a close father, aren't you?"

"Considering we live on different continents, I'm a very close father," he said, stung.

"Luke, honestly, there's no need for this."

"What do you mean?"

''I mean that this child is no more your daughter than I am. You've probably never even met her mother. I expect you picked this up in some junk shop and wrote the inscription yourself. It was a clever idea putting 'and Josie' in different writing, but you were always a man who thought of the details."

He took a long, nervous breath. This wasn't going right. He grasped her hand.

''Dominique-sweetheart-''

"Luke, it's all okay. I understand."

"You…do?"

"It's natural for you to be a little scared at first. You've avoided commitment for so long, and now that things are changing, well-I guess it's all strange to you. But you show me in a thousand ways what I mean to you, and I can hear the things you don't say aloud."

Luke gulped. When a woman got to hearing things a man hadn't said, he was in big trouble.

"Dominique…I swear to you that picture is genuine. Josie is my child, and Pippa is the very special lady who bore her-"

"Shh!" She laid a beautifully manicured finger over his lips. "You don't have to keep this up. We understand each other too well for pretenses."

Luke couldn't speak. Now he knew how a drowning man felt when he was going down for the third time.

It was the perfect moment for a shadow to appear outside the back door, for a tap on the frosted glass, for him to open the door, for Pippa to be standing there with Josie, and for Josie to hurl herself at him with a cry of "Daddy!"