Beauty and the Bachelor(18)

"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?"