Beauty and the Bachelor(22)

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."