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Unhappily, she bit her lip. One date with John had led to another and then a regular weekly meeting, but not as yet to the declaration of love and long-term commitment she had been hoping for.
‘If he really cared, he’d have…’ she began, speaking her painful thoughts out loud before shaking her head, unable to continue. Then she asked Janey tiredly in a low voice. ‘What’s wrong with me, Janey? Why can’t I make John see how good we’d be together?’
Lucianna was sitting with her back to the door, and whilst she had been speaking David and Jake had walked across the farmyard and entered the kitchen just in time to hear her low-voiced query.
It was left to Jake to fill the awkward silence left by her subdued question as he announced, ‘Perhaps because he isn’t a combustion engine and human relationships need a bit more know-how to make them work than anything you’re likely to learn on a basic mechanics course.’
The familiar razor-sharp voice had Lucianna spinning round, hot, angry colour mantling her cheeks, her green eyes flashing with temper, the off-the-face style in which she kept her long, naturally curly hair emphasising her high cheekbones and the stubborn firmness of her chin as she challenged bitterly, ‘Who asked you? This is a private conversation and if I’d wanted your opinion, Jake Carlisle…not that I ever would…I’d have asked for it.’
She and Jake had never really got on. Even as a little girl she had disliked and resented his presence in their lives and the influence he seemed to have, not just over her brothers but even over her father as well. Despite the fact that he was only a year older than her eldest brother, there had always been something about Jake that was different, that set him apart from the others—an awareness, a maturity…a certain something which as a child Lucianna had never been able to define but which she only knew made her feel angry…
It had been Jake who had persuaded her aunt to buy her that stupid dress for her thirteenth birthday, the one that had made the boys howl with laughter when they’d se
en her in it, the one with the pink frills and sash—the sash which she had later used as binding to tie the wheels of the cart she was making to its chassis. She could still remember the tight-lipped look Jake had given her when he had recognised what it was and the thrill of angry pleasure and defiance it had given her to see that look. Not that he had said anything—but then Jake had never needed to say anything to get his message across.
‘But you just did,’ Jake reminded her, plainly unperturbed by her angry outburst.
‘I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to Janey,’ Lucianna pointed out tersely.
‘But perhaps Janey is too kind-hearted to answer you honestly and tell you the truth…’
Lucianna glared at him.
‘What truth? What do you mean?’
‘You asked what was wrong with you, and why John won’t make a commitment to you,’ Jake reminded her coolly. ‘Well, I’ll tell you, shall I? John is a man…not much of one, I’ll grant you, but still a man…and, like all heterosexual men, what he wants in his partner…his lover…is a woman. A woman, Lucianna—that’s spelt W for wantability, O for orgasmic appeal, M for man appeal, A for attraction—sexual attraction, that is—and, of course, finally, N for nuptials. And for your information a woman is someone who knows that the kind of words a man wants to hear whispered in his ear have nothing to do with the latest technical details of a new engine.
‘Give me your hand,’ he instructed, leaning forward and taking hold of Lucianna’s left hand before she could stop him and then studying her ring finger. His long, mobile mouth curled sardonically as he announced, ‘Hardly something a man might feel tempted to put his ring on, is it, never mind kiss?’
Mortified, Lucianna snatched her hand away and told him furiously, ‘A woman…well, I spell it W for wimp, O for obedient, M for moronic, A for artifice and N for nothing…’ she told him fiercely.
There was a long silence during which she was uncomfortably conscious of Jake studying her and during which she had to fight to resist the temptation to hide her hands behind her back. Only last weekend she had seen the look of distaste on John’s face when he’d complained that her nails weren’t long and varnished like those of his friends’ girlfriends.
‘If that’s really how you see yourself, then I feel sorry for you,’ Jake declared finally.
It took several seconds for the quiet words to sink in past her turbulent thoughts, but once they had Lucianna blinked and swallowed hard, trying not to cry as the angry, defensive words of denial fought to escape past the hard lump of anguish blocking her throat.
‘You aren’t a woman, Lucianna,’ she heard Jake attack tauntingly into the vulnerability of her silence.
‘Yes, I am,’ she argued furiously, ‘and—’
‘No, you’re not. Oh, you may look like one, and have all the physical bodily attributes of one—although I must say that given the clothes you choose to shroud yourself in it’s hard to know,’ he added, with a disparaging glance at the oversized dungarees she was wearing.
‘But it isn’t looks that make a woman—a real woman—and I’ll take a bet that the plainest member of your sex knows more about how to attract than you do…I know more…’
‘Perhaps you should give Luce a few pointers, then,’ David chipped in, laughing. ‘Give her a few lessons on how to catch her man…’
‘Perhaps I should,’ Lucianna heard Jake agreeing thoughtfully, for all the world as though he was seriously considering the matter as some kind of viable, acceptable proposition and not the most ridiculous and insulting thing she had ever heard of in her life!
Lucianna couldn’t restrain herself any longer.
‘There’s nothing you could teach me about being a woman…nothing,’ she told him defiantly.
‘Nothing? Want to bet?’ Jake returned smoothly and with dangerous speed. ‘You should know better than to challenge me, Lucianna. Much better…’
‘If I were you I’d take him up on it,’ she heard David advising her seriously. ‘After all, he is a man and—’
‘Is he really? Well, thanks for telling me something I didn’t know.’ Lucianna interrupted her brother with childish sarcasm.
