Beauty and the Bachelor(10)

He lowered his arms, frowning. Did she really believe that bullshit? A  man as vain and image conscious as Jason handing his daughter over to a  street fighter – turned – businessman? To men like her father, breeding and  origins mattered as much as the income total on a profit and loss  statement. And everyone knew Lucas Oliver was the adopted son of Duncan  Oliver, a blue-collar construction worker from the South Side of  Chicago.

"I think you underestimate your value, Sydney."

The smile widened and, for an instant, increased in sadness. "No, I'm not. You're overestimating."

What the hell did that mean? The question hovered on his tongue, but he  swallowed the words. They-her response and the insane need to delve  deeper into the unmistakable sorrow behind the enigmatic  statement-didn't matter. Neither would keep him from carrying out his  plan.

"What did he do to you?" she continued. "Back out of a deal? Cost you  money?" Her lips twisted into a hard, cynical smile that somehow seemed  blasphemous on her pretty mouth. "Sleep with your wife or girlfriend? It  must've been something truly horrible for you to consider marriage to a  woman you don't know a comparative cost."

"Oh, it's comparative," he murmured.

"In other words, it's none of my business. And if your revealing the truth behind your motives is part of my terms?"

"I've stated the terms, Sydney. They're nonnegotiable."

Her shoulders stiffened until he imagined one brisk wind might crack her in half. "What about fidelity?" she asked.

He stilled. The low question punched through his chest and exposed the  dark, mottled place on his soul that contained the rage, hurt, and  humiliation of overhearing his parents argue over his mother's serial  adultery. Of witnessing her infidelity firsthand at his thirteenth  birthday party, when she and a friend's father had sneaked off to fuck  in the pool house.

He reached up to touch the scar over his eye, beat back the hot waves of  anger and pain throbbing inside him. And studied the socialite sitting  before him with her rigid frame and unreadable expression.

"Do you want it?" he asked.

"I demand it," she stated flatly. "If our intent is to convince everyone  we're in love, then breaking the marriage vows before they're even dry  will kind of taint the image."

"I don't think that pretense is necessary. I just need your hand in marriage, not your affection."

"I didn't offer it," she snapped. "And you're wrong. People will not  easily accept this engagement. Especially since they're friends and  associates with Tyler and his family. They don't know you, and after  news of our relationship becomes public, you will be viewed, at best, as  an interloper. Yes, they will do business with you, but most of those  deals are initiated and discussed at social events. And those are ruled  over by the women-the wives and daughters of those businessmen. If they  don't invite you or me because of our supposed betrayal of their own-Dad  and Tyler-marriage to me won't matter a damn. The only thing people  will be more likely to forgive is a story of a grand, passionate affair.  After all"-her lips curled into a hard, jaded smile that somehow seemed  alien on her-"everyone adores a love story with a happily ever after."

Damn. She made perfect sense. Since his arrival in Boston, he'd been  marginally welcomed into the insular circle of Boston's elite and  privileged. The social set was a tight-knit group not easily  infiltrated, and stealing Sydney from one of the more influential  members wouldn't sit well with them. He couldn't afford to be  ostracized. Not when business and social lines ran side by side, often  intersecting. And not when a significant number of the accounts in Jason  Blake's wealth management firm hailed from the greater Boston area.  After Lucas claimed ownership of the company-which he would, once the  financial part of his plan came together-they would become his clients  and stockholders.         

     



 

Anger flared in his veins. At himself. He hadn't made it this far by  neglecting to weigh and analyze every variable in a decision, personal  and professional. Yet desire for revenge had given him tunnel vision.  How fucked up would it be to grasp control of his enemy's corporation  only to lose clients, reputation, and money to the fickle loyalties and  morals of a few?

But even more … terrifying-screw it, yes, terrifying. Even more terrifying  was the fact that he'd placed himself in the position to be humiliated  like his father. Short of chaining Sydney to his wrist, he could no more  control her actions-particularly what she decided to do with her  vagina-than his father could've controlled his mother's.

He'd yet to meet a woman who didn't scheme, lie, or cheat. He knew they  existed, but his money seemed to bring out the worst in the ones who  came near him.

"Fine," he drawled, arching an eyebrow. "I have no problem keeping my  dick in my pants." He tilted his head to the side. "But from my  experience, it's women who seem to have the issue keeping one out of  theirs. We'll see if you prove different."

Her gasp blasted in the room seconds before she shoved her chair back  and shot to her feet. She stalked forward, erasing the distance between  them in two short, stiff strides. Outrage spiked color along her  cheekbones. "Go. To. Hell."

Did it make him a depraved bastard that her fury hardened his cock?  Slowly, he rose to his full height. Claimed the last remaining step that  separated them. He lowered his head until he could detect the dark  green flecks in her hazel eyes. Until the soft pants between her parted  lips fluttered over his. Until he could taste the flavor of her kiss on  her breath.

Until the need to consume that sweet scent and the owner of it roared  through him like a freight train with faulty brakes. The unprecedented  hunger should've had him shifting away from her, inserting much-needed  space. Should've had him bolting away from the danger that had led  around by your dick scrawled all over it.

Move. Run. Retreat. He should-

He slid a hand up her arm, over her shoulder, and cupped her nape. The  warm, vulnerable skin seared his palm while the sleek, thick ponytail of  dark hair caressed his fingers. He pressed his fingers into the side of  her throat, the tips stroking the tendon running under the graceful  column. She shivered. Standing so close together, no way in hell he  missed the telltale tremor. From where did it originate? Fear? No, not  fear. Though she trembled against him, her glare condemned him to the  same pit she'd ordered him to seconds earlier.

But there was something else mingling with the anger. He peered closer.  Desire? Desire demanding he back her up against the wall, unwrap the  dress held together by two simple ties, and unveil the body he'd been  fantasizing about for two long, frustrating-as-hell nights?

Maybe. After all, there was a thin line between love and hate. Or in their case, lust and loathing.

"Been to hell, sweetheart," he whispered. "Have the T-shirt and  refrigerator magnet to prove it." When her gaze flicked toward the scar,  he smirked and added, "That, too." His fingers paused mid-stroke, his  grip tightening. "If you betray me, I'll make your life miserable."

Long, feminine fingers skimmed up his arm … circled his neck. Squeezed. "Ditto."

For the first time in more years than he could remember, laughter-true,  clean laughter-rolled in his gut, past his chest, and burst past his  lips. Even to his own ears, the rumble of it sounded rusty, worse for  wear. Few things surprised him, much less genuinely delighted him. Even  fewer people challenged or braved the Beast. She'd done all three.

Again, that blast of warning ricocheted through him.

Caution. Evade. Leave. Don't-

He nipped her bottom lip. She stiffened, jerked away, but he'd  anticipated the move and cupped the back of her head. When she didn't  resist, he smoothed a palm up her throat with his other hand. Rubbed his  thumb over one of those glorious, patrician cheekbones.

"One last item on the agenda, Sydney," he murmured. "You're demanding  fidelity, and I'll give you that. But if I intended to be celibate, I  would've become a priest."

Her lips twisted. "So you want conjugal visitation?"

He chuckled. "Cute." Swept another caress over her skin. "That's the  second time you've intimated I'm taking away your choice. Does it make  you feel better to believe I'm forcing you? Have you been giving in to  people's wishes so long, believing I'm taking away your power is  comfortable and safe for you? Sorry, you have choices. Even in marrying  me. Even in coming to my bed. But, baby, let's not pretend you don't  want to be there. That you haven't wondered what being under me … over  me … would be like." Her breath hitched against his mouth, and he nodded,  that small reaction as good as a resounding yes. "Yeah, you have," he  growled, then surrendered to the need clawing at him since she'd walked  into his office. Hell, since he'd heard her voice on the phone.