Beauty and the Bachelor(16)

Finally, a young girl with an alarming array of different colors in her  hair spoke up. "Division. So they would remain suspicious and afraid of  one another and never share knowledge or information about themselves."

Sydney beamed. "Very good, Anna. Anyone else?"

"To keep them weak," a more timid voice added.

He zeroed in on the speaker, and noted the thin, small girl at the top  of the circle, and the farthest away from Sydney. From her wide eyes and  rapidly swaying legs, she seemed terrified to be the center of  attention. "With no knowledge or unity, they were weaker and easier to  control through fear and the unknown."

Sydney nodded, her grin for this girl not as wide, but softer, as if she  understood the courage speaking out had cost the teen. As if she was  proud of her and the effort. "Exactly," Sydney said. "Awesome insight,  Lily."

The discussion continued, neither Sydney nor the girls noticing him and  the woman hovering in the doorway, eavesdropping on what seemed to be a  book club.

He didn't-couldn't-remove his gaze from Sydney. He hadn't seen her in  three days. It'd been a week since they'd met with her father and Tyler.  A week since she'd moved into his Back Bay brownstone, infusing the  very atmosphere with her presence. Though she'd tried to avoid him-and  for the most part succeeded-he felt her there. Caught the trace of her  special scent as soon as he arrived home in the evenings. Caught the  drum of water when she showered … and imagined all that golden skin slick  and glistening. It was pure damn torture sleeping in the same house as  her and not being able to trail his fingers down the erect line of her  spine, the indent of her waist and flare of her hips. Not being allowed  to bare and cup the beautiful curves of her breasts. Not permitted to  fuck the sweet, hot flesh between her legs, feel her squeeze his cock  like a tight fist. Or a wet, hungry mouth.

He ground his teeth together, his dick pulsing behind his zipper as if demanding, what the hell?

Which explained why he'd called her that morning and let her know he'd  received an invitation for a charity fund-raising gala, and he'd  accepted. He couldn't stand one more evening in the house with her,  tempted by the suggestion of her. This party tonight would serve as  their first appearance as an engaged couple. And he could touch her  under the guise of head-over-ass in love while public scrutiny would  ensure his behavior. Because right now, the prospect of being able to  press his hand to the shallow dip above her perfect ass or nuzzle the  fragrant, shadowed spot behind her ear …  He would need more than his  much-lauded control to keep himself in line.

But when James had pulled up outside the building, he hadn't been  expecting … this. While growing up in Chicago, he'd been the recipient of  attention lavished by idealistic, overeager case workers and  photo-hungry socialites looking to be the next Great White Hope for  underprivileged children. He could spot them at a hundred paces and  either scare or piss them off at fifty. But that wasn't what he  witnessed here.

Patience, affection, and delight lit her smile, impassioned her voice.  Even the most jaded street kid could discern her true joy in being with  these kids. Including him.

Something ancient and primal kicked hard inside him. His survival  instinct. The intuition had never steered him wrong. And right now his  instincts screamed at him to turn around, run-don't walk-to the nearest  exit, and get the hell away from Sydney Blake. That she was a wild card.  That she wasn't who she appeared to be. He couldn't trust someone he  couldn't read, someone whose motive he couldn't pinpoint. Ironic,  considering everything people knew about him was a cleverly constructed  cover. But this close to success, he couldn't afford an unknown.  Especially when that unknown played such a vital part in his victory.  The smart move would be to retreat, regroup, and reorganize. Without  Sydney. Just walk away …          

     



 

He remained in the doorway.

"So, we'll continue on Monday." She smiled, closed the cover of her  ereader, and glanced up. And froze. The tenderness in her hazel gaze  faded, and the curves of her sensual, soft mouth hardened. That quickly  the polite, aloof socialite appeared. A part of him damned her presence.  Demanded the return of the vulnerable, approachable woman who'd talked,  laughed, and listened to the teen girls who hung on every word she  uttered as if they were tales of glittering vampires and shirtless  werewolves.

Suddenly, he found himself the focus of twenty-one pairs of eyes. One  shuttered, the others curious. Hell, standing in front of a table full  of investors and stockholders had never made him this uncomfortable.

"Sydney, you have a visitor," his guide announced, breaking the awkward silence. "Girls, dinner's ready."

The scrape of chairs and young voices filled the room moments before a  rush of bodies streamed out of the room. Murmurs of "hot," "Sydney's got  game," and "day-aam" reached his ears. He bit back a smile and glanced  at the woman next to him whom the girls greeted as Ms. Yolanda as they  filed past. The corner of her mouth twitched as if trying to contain a  smile.

When the last girl disappeared down the hall, Ms. Yolanda nodded, her  attention shifting behind him. He didn't need to look behind him to know  Sydney was there. Her signature honeysuckle-and-sun scent pronounced  her arrival like a herald's trumpet. The fragrance, which he doubted  he'd ever be able to smell again without associating it with her,  reminded him of golden beams on equally bronzed skin. Of bare limbs  tangling and crushing freshly mown grass, surrounded by a hedge of the  lovely, fluted white flowers.

Of the sweet sin that was Sydney Blake.

"Sydney," Yolanda said, her direct stare remaining on him even as she  addressed the other woman. Her unblinking scrutiny rested on his scar  for a long moment, but unlike the rude ogling he was accustomed to, her  open study didn't offend him. Possibly because she seemed to be  cataloging his every feature in case she had to hunt him down later.  "Have a good time tonight. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Oliver."

"She scares me," he drawled once the formidable older woman headed down the corridor and out of earshot.

"Yolanda?" Sydney snorted. "She and her sister, Melinda, are the youth  center directors. Being in charge of anywhere between eight and one  hundred teen girls at one time, she has to seem a little … um"-she  chuckled softly-"daunting. But she loves the children, and they don't  doubt it."

"Same with you," he murmured, finally turning to her. "They know they have your love, too."

An emotion glimmered in her eyes before her lashes lowered, hiding its  identity from him. Anger, ignited by impatience and powerlessness,  flared in his chest. She shouldn't be able to keep anything from him.  Her thoughts, her emotions, even the loyalty she insisted on bestowing  on an old man who didn't deserve it or her. He wanted every part of  her-wanted her to give it to him …

And where had that come from? The fierce need to possess, to own. Claim.

One more second and he would be beating on his chest, grunting, "Me, Tarzan. You, motherfucking Jane."

Frowning, he jerked his chin in the direction of the empty classroom. "How long have you volunteered here?"

She shrugged a shoulder. "A couple of years."

"A couple of years?" he repeated. "I don't remember seeing the center  included in the Blake family bio on the auction program." Not to mention  when he'd investigated her at the instigation of his plan, he'd  compiled a record of the boards and committees she sat on in case he  could use the information to his advantage. Apparently, he'd missed one.

Again that … something … flickered in her gaze. And again it eluded him. "I suppose this isn't as sexy as the junior league."

He didn't know which surprised him more-the bite in her voice or that he  found the cutting wit hot as hell. In the end, though, the reason  didn't matter. The fact that she did surprise him continued to confuse  him, frustrated him. Set him on edge.

He stalked forward, and she edged back into the room, her contemplation  of him turning wary, guarded. Then, as if realizing she'd retreated from  him, she halted, tipped her chin up, and crossed her arms. The opposing  gestures-one defiant, the other self-protective-struck him like an  anvil. Strong yet fragile. Reserved yet tender. Courageous yet docile.  Proud yet humble.

Determining the secrets of Area 51 would be easier than deciphering the mystery and dichotomies of Sydney Blake.         

     



 

"You," he growled, shifting even closer, "are full of secrets."

She tilted her head, extended her hand. "Hello, pot," she drawled. "They call me kettle."

Lust rolled through him, a large bank of storm clouds struck by jagged  bolts of need. Inhaling sharply, he cupped her face and swept his thumb  under the plump curve of her bottom lip. He gripped her hip with his  other hand, holding her steady … preventing her escape.