Lucas didn't reply as Jason ticked off the facts of his personal and professional life that could be found in any company brochure or newspaper article. The darker details of his history had been carefully hidden under so many layers of lies, documentation, and greased palms, Jason would've had to hire Sherlock Holmes to ferret out the truth behind Lucas's identity. Still … unease curled in his gut. He didn't put anything past this man.
"Isn't that what makes our country so wonderful?" Lucas studied Jason over the rim of his glass. "All a man has to do is work hard with integrity and determination, and he can accomplish all of his dreams." Like Lucas's father, Jason had inherited his wealth. But unlike Robert Ellison, Jason hadn't been satisfied until he'd stolen his best friend's reputation, money, and wife to compound that wealth. Integrity? What Jason knew of that concept could be stuffed into a gnat's ass with room to spare. "Am I supposed to be ashamed of my past?"
"A boy born to nothing always hungers for more. The thing about that boy is he eventually becomes a man with the same insatiable hunger for better, to be better. And where breeding can't get him, he'll use money or people."
Lucas sipped the amber alcohol and welcomed the burn over his tongue and down his throat. It distracted him from the rage-fueled pain that had taken root in every organ so it pumped through his blood, infiltrated his arteries, escaped him with every breath.
"And Sydney would be the person I'm using to infiltrate the rarefied stations I could never obtain on my own because my blood is red instead of blue, is that it?" The fucking irony.
"Don't misunderstand me, Oliver," Jason growled, stalking closer, fists tight at his sides. "No matter how long my family has lived in Beacon Hill … no matter that Blake Corporation has been in existence for decades, and its subsidiaries have provided employment to not just this city but the country … no matter how many zeroes are on the bottom line of my P&L statements … to some people, I will be nothing more than a black man worthy to shine their shoes but not darken their doorsteps. So I have nothing against your background. But that doesn't mean you don't." He jabbed a finger at Lucas. "There's a chip on your shoulder big enough to break a man's back. And while my daughter may think she's in love, I don't want her to end up a casualty of your ambition. She's been hurt enough." A fleeting dark emotion flashed through his eyes. "Suffered enough. I won't let you use her."
Shock momentarily banked the fire blazing inside him.
"I hate to disappoint you, but if you think marrying me will hurt my father, you're sorely mistaken … ultimately, one wealthy, connected son-in-law will be just as fine as another."
Sydney's warning from a couple of weeks ago haunted him. Apparently, she'd been wrong. Her father did care. Or he deserved one hell of an award for best performance by a concerned father. With Jason Blake, he couldn't tell.
"So disowning your daughter was your way of not hurting her?" Lucas set the tumbler on the bar and crossed his arms, eyebrow arched. "Taking away the only family she has is your idea of not inflicting suffering?"
Jason's lips curling back from his teeth in a snarl. "Don't dictate to me what's best for Sydney. If that was the only way to prevent her from making this mistake, then I would do it again. But I'm here today, aren't I? And this isn't over." He strode closer until Lucas could spy the thin lines radiating from Jason's eyes, the deeper ones bracketing his mouth. "I don't trust you. Those people out there-your business colleagues, friends, my daughter-you may have them fooled, but you're after something, and it isn't Sydney's hand in marriage. If you truly had her best interests at heart, you would've left her alone, let her marry Tyler. Have a good life."
Slowly, Lucas lowered his arms and straightened from his sprawl against the bar top. "And Reinhold would've made her happy? She would've had a good life by whose standards? Yours? You don't know your daughter, Jason." The anger returned, bright and searing. "Did she want that marriage? Or did you?" When the older man didn't reply, but his mouth firmed into a grim line, Lucas nodded. "I won't betray Sydney. I won't ignore her, neglect her. I didn't marry her to hurt her."
He wouldn't dress her up in stylish clothes, parade her around like a show horse, and then stable her until he needed her again. That was the life Jason had intended to condemn his daughter to-the life Sydney had agreed to. No, Lucas didn't love her; if not for his hatred and plans for Jason, he wouldn't have married her. Still, she was a vibrant, beautiful, sensual woman who deserved to be seen for herself, not her family name or blood. With Tyler, she would've eventually paled into a blurred gray version of the woman who'd grabbed Lucas by the neck and demanded his fidelity. The woman who patiently and willingly devoted her time and love to teen girls. The woman who'd writhed with passion in his arms.
The thought of Tyler possessing and squandering all that fire had his fist clenching until an ache pulsed across his knuckles. No, more than his next breath, he wanted to taste that desire, be consumed by her fire.
"Forgive me if I don't take your word for it," Jason retorted, and with one last fulminating glare, pivoted and stalked from the room.
Lucas finished his drink and moments later followed, his vow about not hurting Sydney reverberating against his skull.
Too bad he couldn't still the small voice inside his head warning him that by ruining her father, he would be inflicting the worst damage of all.
Chapter Twelve
Sydney Oliver.
Her new name. Or at least it would be for the next year.
Sinking to the living room couch, she removed first one high heel, then the other. With a groan, she rubbed her thumb into the sole, massaging away the dull ache caused by hours on her feet. And as long as she concentrated on her sore feet, she could keep the thoughts of her new husband at bay.
Panic mingled with tendrils of excitement, and she paused mid-rub, bowing her head. Panic because tonight he probably expected her to share his bed. And excitement because he probably expected her to share his bed.
"You're demanding fidelity, and I'll give you that. But if I intended to be celibate, I would've become a priest."
She shivered as memories of the last time Lucas had touched her flooded her brain like a faucet that had been twisted on. The images poured into her brain. His big hands on her flesh. His dark, sensual voice in her ear. His hard body pressed to hers. Jesus. Arousal pounded like an anvil against metal, and suddenly the corset beneath her dress was cinched too tight. The soft silk and lace too harsh on her sensitized skin. Her panties not substantial enough against the liquid heat building between her thighs.
A week ago, she'd believed she would be ready for this-for him. Seven days with limited contact and the most cursory communication with Lucas had instilled a false sense of confidence and security that, yes, she could consummate this marriage. Consummate. She huffed out a breath. Such an innocuous word for something so … cataclysmic.
"The last guest left?"
She glanced up as Lucas entered the room. And quickly returned her attention to her sore feet. But too late. His image was already branded on her retinas. Tousled dark hair falling around his lean face. Jacketless. White dress shirt opened at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, muscled forearms. Large, bare feet. Why did the sight of his feet impact her the most? The intimacy of it? The … vulnerability of it?
So not fair. They were feet, for God's sakes. There was nothing sexy about toes …
Unless they were attached to Lucas Oliver, apparently.
"Yes," she replied, realizing she hadn't answered his question. "About ten minutes ago. Did your call work out okay?" He'd received a phone call about half an hour before the end of the reception. Business, since he'd disappeared. The knot in her chest had been irritation, not disappointment. Because it wasn't as if their marriage was real instead of a trade discussed and signed off on in a corporate office. Actually, his conducting business on their wedding day was the most honest transaction of the day.
"Fine." He leaned a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, one ankle propped over the other. Head cocked to the side, he studied her. Even though she kept her head bowed, she sensed his turquoise scrutiny, felt it like a tactile trail of fingers over her hair, shoulders, collarbone. The tops of her breasts. "Sydney," he murmured.
"Yes?"
"Today was beautiful. The house, the ceremony, the reception-everything was wonderful. Thank you."