Beauty and the Bachelor(15)

She'd never proclaimed to love Tyler, had never even spoken those words  to him, but it hadn't lessened the hurt, the injustice of inflicting  harm on a man who'd done nothing to deserve it. An apology had seemed  pointless, but she'd given it to him anyway, along with his ring. But  when he'd demanded an explanation, she couldn't give him the truth. And  when he'd stalked away from her, hating her, she'd let him.

"Hey." Lucas gently turned her around, and on reflex, she clasped the  waist she'd been fantasizing about only moments ago. As if singed, she  dropped her hands to her sides. "Are you okay?"

She released a short bark of laughter. "Am I okay? I don't even know  what that means anymore. In the space of a day, I've become public enemy  number one, and I've been kicked out of my home. I'd say okay is a  stretch."

A beat of silence passed between them.

"My offer from earlier still stands, Sydney," Lucas murmured. His big,  elegant hand cradled her jaw, the pad of his thumb brushing over her  cheekbone. His heavy-lidded perusal roamed her face, settling for an  unnerving-tantalizing-amount of time on her trembling mouth. "Our  secret," he rumbled, flattening a hand on the wall beside her head. The  wall behind her, his tall, strong, wide-shouldered body in front of her.  She should've felt threatened, at least indignant, but only traitorous  molasses-thick warmth wound through her veins, heating her from the  inside out, making her body suddenly feel three times heavier. "Let me  hold you, touch you. Help you to forget this day even for a short time."

God. If he'd extended an apple to her along with his low, sensual words,  he couldn't have been more of a temptation. And like Eve, she longed to  take him up on his proposal, bite into and savor the delicious  sweetness of it. She didn't doubt he could erase the last few hours from  her mind with a pleasure that would leave her a quivering mess. He'd  gift her with possibly hours of ecstasy-filled oblivion. Because his  hooded, carnal gaze offered more than a simple hug or comforting words.  And damn, if she didn't want it. Wanted him to sink into her with his  powerful body, have her crying out for a different reason than grief and  loneliness.

And then what?

Sex was part of their agreement, and when he'd initially mentioned it,  she hadn't objected. No, he hadn't included it in the contract, as he'd  implied, and in spite of the mercilessness he was capable of, she didn't  believe he would force her. But if she gave in to him now, the sex  wouldn't be about blackmail, her father, or vengeance. It would be about  what she wanted. Him. His hands on her body. Him filling her,  pleasuring her.

When the sweat dried and the pleasure ebbed away, where would she be? No  family, no fiancé, no pride, and vulnerable, totally at his mercy. Yes,  she'd surrendered to his blackmail, was now living in his home, but at  this point he didn't control her. Not her will, her mind, her spirit.

But she suspected once she submitted to the stubborn and relentless  hunger that blazed within her like a beach bonfire, she would forfeit  the last of her power. Because a man like Lucas didn't leave women  unscathed-didn't leave them whole.         

     



 

A year from now, she had to emerge from this pact as her. She had to  walk away strong. Not needy, broken, and craving a man who only wanted  her for revenge's sake.

"As kind as your offer is," she said, pouring a wealth of disdain into  "kind," so there was no way he could misinterpret what she really  believed about his suggestion, "I'm going to pass. You have a way of  just glossing over the glaring fact that if not for the events you set  in motion, I wouldn't be here in your house, estranged from my family,  and my life tossed into a set of luggage. So forgive me if I decide not  to lean on you."

Lucas studied her for a long moment, the emotion in his incisive  scrutiny indiscernible. Finally, he pushed off the wall and  straightened, his hand falling away from her.

And damn her body or the pathetic neediness-or both-that yearned to grasp his hand and return it to her face.

"If you change your mind, my bedroom is down the hall."

Before she could assure him that he shouldn't wait for the knock on the  door, he strode away. Leaving her alone, aching, frustrated. And afraid.

Because she'd won this battle, but she couldn't shake the inescapable sense that he would win this war.





Chapter Eight


"What the hell?" Lucas exited the rear of the Mercedes Rolls-Royce  limousine and stared at the three-story brick building. He shot a glance  at James, his driver. "You're sure this is the correct address?"

James nodded. "Yes, sir."

Lucas returned his gaze to the building that dominated a small portion  of the Washington Street block in the Oak Square area of Brighton. Its  weathered brick, glass, and white shutters contrasted with the more  modern appearance of the neighboring pizzeria and grocery store, making  it appear older yet … refined. Maya Angelou Girls' Youth Center. The black  sign with heavy gold lettering further lent a dignified, if worn, air.  Like a dowager with her proud head still held high, demanding respect.

So what the hell was his fiancée and roommate of a week doing at a Brighton community center?

"Be right back," he informed his driver before striding up the sidewalk  and cement steps. As soon as he pulled open the wide front door, the  scents of lemon wax and glue, with a whiff of chlorine, struck him,  propelling him back to the many afternoons and evenings he'd spent at  his Chicago neighborhood's youth center. When he'd first arrived in the  unfamiliar city, thrust into a new family that consisted of an uncle-his  father's half brother-whom he'd never met, the center with its huge  basketball court, indoor track, and pool had been a godsend … and his  sanity. And not just because of the various activities that permitted  him to pound out his grief and anger. The quiet but stalwart presence of  Michael, the teen youth counselor there, had granted him space and  peace in the middle of the emotional squall Lucas had been cast into.  Michael had been his first real friend in Chicago, even before Aiden. To  this day, they remained in touch, going out for lunch and playing  pickup games of basketball when Lucas returned home. Shit, where would  he be now without Michael, who'd gifted him with an outlet for his rage  and sorrow?

Jail. Or worse.

Lucas grimaced. Damn. Where had those thoughts come from? He refocused  his attention on the long corridor he stood in rather than those initial  dark weeks fifteen years ago. Continuing down the hall, he noticed the  various artwork displayed on the walls. Drawings and paintings of  landscapes-some of them quite beautiful-and projects on famous female  Bostonians such as Abigail Adams, Bette Davis, Susan B. Anthony, and …  He  cocked his head to the side, grinned. Faith from Buffy? Apparently he  wasn't the only fan of her badass character.

"Can I help you?"

Lucas turned away from his study of first ladies, actresses,  suffragists, and vampire hunters to meet the direct gaze of a short,  middle-aged woman. He quelled the instinctive urge to stutter an  explanation, but just barely. Damn if she didn't remind him of his high  school English teacher. That woman had been plain scary with her stern  manner and steely gaze. This woman might have brown eyes instead of  gray, unlined caramel skin instead of Ms. Gregory's pale, papery  complexion, but they shared the same formidable air.

"Yes," he said. "I'm looking for Sydney Blake. She asked me to meet her here." He offered his hand. "I'm Lucas Oliver."

The woman arched an eyebrow. "Oh." She accepted his hand, gave it a  brisk pump, then released it. "Sydney told us to expect you." Pivoting  sharply on the heel of her low-heeled black pumps, she dipped her chin.  "Follow me."         

     



 

Left with little choice-and frankly, afraid not to obey-Lucas fell into  step behind her, bemused. Clearly, she recognized his name, but to say  she wasn't impressed was like saying King Kong was a simple gorilla who  liked heights. A pretty huge understatement.

Moments later, she stopped in front of a closed door. Voices filtered  past the thick wood and reached them in the hallway. Without glancing  back at him, she cracked the door open and paused in the entrance. She  didn't enter, and not relishing angering the dragon at the gate, he  waited with her.

But then he caught a familiar voice and promptly forgot about her.  Forgot the frosty welcome. Forgot everything but the husky,  sin-and-satin tone that would've made a phone sex operator a shitload of  money.

Sydney.

"So if the rule regarding the sentinels touching was false, what do you  think was the Misgiver's purpose behind instilling this belief system?"  Sydney glanced around the circle of about twenty teen girls surrounding  her. Several of the girls bowed their heads over the ereaders they each  held, while a few others peeked around, maybe trying to see who would  answer first.