"It's just you and me here," she said, the words stumbling from between her lips and emerging as a halting pant. "You might want to save this kind of show for the gala, when we have an audience."
Lucas's lashes lifted, and she almost groaned at the hunger stamping his hard features. The thick, dark fall of waves and curls framed the sharp angles and planes of his face, emphasizing the desire burning in the turquoise stare that seemed to slice through the bullshit of her comment. Curling her fingers into a fist, she drew her arm back and convinced herself the flutter in her belly was irritation, not feminine excitement over the knowledge that he'd allowed her to withdraw. They both understood if he'd wanted to continue touching her, he would still be discovering new hot spots on her hand, like an erotic Lewis and Clark expedition.
Wearing a small half smile, he leaned back against the seat. The tiny smirk did nothing to detract from the sensual fullness of his lips. It did nothing to smother the arousal still blazing inside her. Instead she wanted to vault across the space separating them, straddle his hard thighs, and take his mouth. Conquer it. Tame it.
It was that almost overwhelming need that kept her pinned to her seat, throwing out verbal-and desperate-haymakers.
"That's the third time you've"-he paused-"put me in my place. News of your father's embezzlement, a broken engagement, marriage to me-those you take in stride without losing that damn icy Blake composure. But any mention of sex, any touch that isn't polite or nice 'n' neat, and your tongue turns into a Ginsu knife. What are you afraid of, Sydney? Sex?"
Sex? No, sex didn't terrify her. But what he made her feel-out of control, like a stranger in her own skin-that scared the hell out of her. What he would do to her body wouldn't be just sex. It would be something so much more explosive, wild, and raw. And afterward, he would leave her like a shipwreck survivor clinging to jagged rocks. Exhausted. Devastated. Lost.
"Of course not," she replied. "Did it ever occur to you that I don't like to be talked to like one of the women you date and discard? I'm supposed to be your fiancée, soon to be wife, not the current flavor of the month whose name you won't remember in the time it takes you to kick her out of the bed."
An eyebrow arched high. "And how would you know who I-how'd you put it-date and discard?" He planted a forearm on his leg and leaned forward, his steady contemplation gleaming with a bit of humor and something far darker. Hungrier. "Have you been doing your due diligence, sweetheart? Because any questions you have about my sex life I'll gladly answer."
She snorted. The devil probably bartered for someone's soul in that same alluring, seductive tone. "No, thanks. I believe I can live without those mental images."
His low chuckle slid under her dress and over skin like a soft caress. "To answer your question, yes, I did consider whether I would offend you." His gaze flicked down, skimming over the deep V-neck of the otherwise demure floor-length ruby-red gown. The intensity of his regard nearly singed her skin. And like a foolish moth to a deadly flame, she was drawn to that heat. "But then I noticed how your eyes soften, how your breath quickens, how your nipples harden. Aroused, sweetheart. That's what you get. Hot. I'd bet money on wet. But offended? Not. Even. Close," he growled. "And for the record, I don't have any mental images of the women before you. Every single memory has been replaced by fantasies of you in my bed, all those gorgeous curves bared for me, for my hands and cock. Of you taking me so deep, I won't want to find my way out of you."
"Stop … " she rasped, her core swelling, clenching, protesting the emptiness she instinctively knew only he could fill, satiate.
"You don't want my honesty. Something Tyler and the other men you've dated were too hypocritical, uptight, or scared to give you. They were thinking it, though, sweetheart. A man would have to be born without a dick to look at you and not want you."
Humiliation, anger, and sadness converged on her, his words dousing her with a rigid blast of realism and extinguishing the web of desire he so effortlessly wove.
"You're wrong," she stated, hurt pulsing in her chest like a homing beacon. "You like to demand I not pretend. Okay, I won't. So let's not pretend you want me for something other than my"-her lips twisted into bitter smile-"body. Let's not pretend I fit the mold of the women you're attracted to. Let's not pretend you're not just like the other men, just with far less pretty words. They were after money or my father's connections, and you're after revenge. No difference. Still cold. Still business."
Fury honed the angles of his face to sharply hewn stone, the scar bisecting his eyebrow a pale brand against taut skin. Before he could reply, the door to the limo opened, and the driver appeared. With a controlled grace that didn't conceal his rage, Lucas exited the vehicle. In that moment, she hated herself for drinking in the powerful build of his shoulders or the flexing of muscle under the black material of his pants.
When he turned back and extended his hand, he wore a pleasant, reserved mask. No hint of the anger that had suffused his features moments earlier. Resting her palm over his, she allowed him to draw her from the relative safety of the limousine.
Exhaling a deep, silent breath, she curved her lips into a perfect, gracious smile.
Let the charade begin.
…
The star and keynote speaker of the evening might have been a philanthropic New England Patriots football player, but the spotlight belonged to Lucas and Sydney. From the moment they entered the ballroom where the reception was held, the two of them had been the recipients of whispers, playful and sly innuendos, as well as covert and openly curious glances. Though she was no stranger to charity events and huge galas, being the center of such concentrated focus was alien to Sydney. Her father was the star of the Blake family, with her mother coming in second. She was the cog, the small piece that completed the wheel but that no one noticed. This … this constant speculation and attention crawled over her skin like an army of ants intent on lunch. And she was the main course.
"Stop fidgeting."
At the last second, she prevented herself from scowling up at Lucas, recalling the avaricious attention fixed on them and recording every gesture, word, and look to gossip about later. "I don't fidget."
Playing the part of enamored fiancé to perfection, he lowered his head, pressing a kiss to the sleek hair she'd captured in a bun at the nape. The man deserved an Emmy for his performance in their little drama. "Yes, you are. You look beautiful and regal as always." The compliment ended in a low snarl as his lips grazed the top of her ear, the caress and words conveying an unbidden chorus of shivers down her spine. "But I swear to God, if one more asshole drools over your chest, I'm going fucking Chernobyl."
Startled, she glanced down at her dress. The deep V of the neckline revealed the inner curves of her breasts, but the high waist, three-quarter sleeves, and wide, flowing A-line skirt prevented the gown from edging into What Not to Wear territory. Lucas followed her gaze and his mouth tightened, his fingers flexing on her waist.
"While that might be fun to witness, I don't think it will ingratiate you in certain social circles," she said.
"You find my imminent explosion over some rude bastard funny?"
A corner of her mouth quirked. "A little."
And more than a little flattering and pleasurable, even though her brain argued his display of possessiveness was a superb act for the benefit of the other partygoers. Yet the knowledge didn't impede the somersaults in her stomach at each touch, each endearment, each brush of his mouth over her hair, forehead, or cheek. The heated looks and gestures might have been pretense on his part, but her reactions-the flocks of butterflies, the blushes, the delight-were all genuine. Her one saving grace was Lucas didn't know she wasn't as great an actor as he.
"Lucas." A gorgeous brunette in a silver and black mermaid-style dress only the truly thin could pull off glided up to them. Her long-lashed blue eyes flickered over Sydney before quickly dismissing her. Smiling up at Lucas, she settled a hand on his chest, her fingers stroking the lapel of his suit jacket. "I was hoping you would be here this evening."
"Hello, Caroline." He gently circled her wrist and lowered her arm. "Caroline, I'd like you to meet Sydney Blake, my fiancée. Sydney, this is Caroline Dresden. She owns several boutiques in Boston."
The other woman loosed a low, sensual laugh. "You make us sound like business associates, Lucas, when we're … friends." Neither the strategic pause nor the implied intimacy of "friends" was lost on Sydney. Her chest tightened as nausea roiled in her belly. "When I arrived, I heard the rumor that you were engaged, but I refused to believe it. I have to confess, this is certainly a surprise." Once more Caroline surveyed Sydney, cataloging every detail, and the slight smirk announced the woman found Sydney the surprise. "Sydney Blake," she murmured, tapping a fingertip against her lush bottom lip. "Jason Blake's daughter?"