Beauty and the Bachelor(23)

She straightened, stunned by him for the second time that day. "Thank  you" she heard often enough for work on a committee or a donation to one  cause or another. But praise? Compliments? Only at the youth center,  where they appreciated her, valued her. Almost never anywhere else,  including home, where her efforts were her duty, expected.

"I-" She shook her head. "You're welcome."

"Would you like me to do that for you?" When she frowned, he nodded at her foot.

"N-no," she stammered. Touch her? God, no. "I'm okay. Earlier, I saw you  leave with Dad," she said, hurriedly changing the subject from his  hands on any part of her body. "Is everything okay? What did he want to  talk with you about?"

The corner of his mouth hitched in a small smirk. "He doesn't trust me."

She laughed, the sound brittle and sharp. "Yes, well, after my mother  pulled me aside for a heart-to-heart during the reception, I figured out  pretty quick why they decided to make an appearance today." And it had  been an appearance. A cameo. A show.

"Why?" Lucas straightened from his sprawl against the wall, the movement languorous, his eyes hooded, dangerous.

"Why did they come, or why did she pull me aside?"

"Both. Either."

"They attended to show our family solidarity. Still, she wanted to make  sure I fully comprehended the damage my immature and impetuous  decision-her words-caused them. How I'd humiliated both of them and  harmed not just Dad's professional relationship with the Reinholds but  their personal one, as well. She didn't understand how she could've  raised such a selfish daughter and not realized it."

Pain radiated from inside her, eclipsing the numbness she'd enveloped  her feelings in for the duration of the gathering. Burying the hurt and  disappointment had been the only way she could return to the party and  smile, chat, and laugh as if she were the happiest of brides. But now,  repeating the accusations, they cut into her heart like dozens of tiny  slices.

"Selfish?" Lucas rumbled. "Bullshit. What did you say to her?"

"What could I say, Lucas? ‘Mom, I broke off my engagement to a man I  dated for over a year to marry a man I barely know so Dad doesn't go to  jail.'" She splayed her hands wide, palms up. "‘I hope you understand.'"  Again, she chuckled, and it was as bitter and hard as its predecessor.  "I don't know what you want from me. Tonight, at the gala last week.  What do you want?"

"You to tell them all to go to hell," he growled. Leaning down, he  extended his hand, palm out. After a long hesitation, she placed hers in  his, and he pulled her to her feet. He tugged her across the room to a  gilt-framed mirror hanging on the wall. Drawing her in front of him, he  cupped her chin and made her stare at their reflection. "Impetuous?  Immature?" His soft tone belied the anger in the blue-green stare  blazing back at her from the glass. "This woman is the most  conscientious, selfless, considerate person I've met. And I've known her  for weeks. How do they not recognize it? And why does she let them get  away with not acknowledging it? With not respecting her gifts, her  heart, her feelings?"         

     



 

Because she owes them! Sydney almost cried out. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip, trapping the admission.

"No." He touched his thumb to her lip and gently but firmly tugged it free. "I told you not to do that."

He rubbed her flesh, and she helplessly stared at the sensual picture  they created. His big body covered her back and shoulders. His dark head  bent over hers. His thumb soothing her mouth as his other hand splayed  wide over her abdomen. Her muscles contracted hard, the erotic ache  echoing in the deepest, emptiest part of her.

"Lucas," she breathed, reaching up and circling his wrist. "I can't."

"Can't what?"

His eyes refused to free her as his hand rode higher on her torso, his  thumb coming to rest between her breasts. The caress on her mouth  emboldened, pressed instead of brushed. The more insistent touch  sensitized her breasts, tingled in her nipples, resonated and throbbed  in her sex.

She tightened her grip on his wrist.

"This," she rasped. "What you expect of me. Tonight. I just-can't."

He stilled behind her, tension nearly vibrating against her skin, humming in the air around them.

"Why?" he finally asked. "Are you going to say you don't want it?" As if  daring her to utter the untruth, he dragged the pad of his thumb over  the tip of her breast. The flesh pebbled, begging for another stroke. A  harder one.

"No." She briefly lowered her lashes, fumbled for any reason other than  the truth. In spite of the special vows he'd uttered, the ceremony had  been a lie. Her new last name was a lie. And now her wedding night would  be one. When she stood here so emotionally raw, stripping her body bare  before him, too, on a night that should have commemorated something  beautiful and special seemed the biggest lie of all. He would find her  sentiment foolish and misplaced, since her body cried out for his in a  way that would make a banshee mute. But after sacrificing so much today,  this one thing, this one night was the only thing she had control of.  And she couldn't hand over one more piece of herself.

Not tonight.

"No," she repeated softly. "I'm not going to lie about my … attraction  toward you. But not two weeks ago I was engaged to another man. I'm not  breaking our contract, I'm just asking for time."

A taut, heavy silence as stifling and leaden as an ominous bank of  clouds hung in the room. The weight of it-the threat of the imminent  crash of the storm behind it-weighed on her skin.

"Are you still in love with him?"

"No." She'd never been in love with him.

Lucas's hands fell away from her. He shifted back, and the space relieved and distressed her. Jesus, she needed to get a grip.

His brooding gaze met hers in the mirror, the stark outline of his scar  lending his lean, sharp features even more of a menacing appearance.

She waited, breath trapped in her lungs, for his objection. For his demand she honor her part in this agreement.

"Sleep well, Sydney," he murmured, then turned and exited the room.

Leaving her more confused and lonely than ever.





Chapter Thirteen


Lucas thrust open the door to Sydney's room, not bothering with a  warning knock. After a sleepless night, civility and manners had gone  the way of sinners and that annoying Bieber kid's career: to hell.  Besides, she'd asked him not to touch. She hadn't issued a stipulation  about looking. Clenching his jaw, he shut the door on that train of  thought and padlocked it for good measure. Just contemplating why she'd  pushed him away last night … and for whom …

Yeah. Letting it go.

Early morning sunlight streamed in through the bay windows, gliding over  the chaise lounge under the windowsill, across the hardwood floor, and  onto the bed and rumpled blankets.

Where Sydney slept like some Disney princess under a curse.

He snorted. Why shouldn't she sleep soundly? She didn't have balls to  turn so blue all they needed were white hats to look like fucking  Smurfs.

Feeling like a Peeping Tom but unable to scrounge up a regret, he neared  the bed. The pale yellow blankets twisted around her hips, and one of  the long pillows had fallen to the floor. Satisfaction rolled through  him with the subtlety of a freight train. Good. Maybe her night hadn't  been as restful as he believed. Bending down, he picked up the pillow  and propped it against the headboard. This close to her, that damn  honeysuckle scent wrapped around him like chains. He'd bet the sheets  smelled like her.

Hell, he wanted to smell like her.

Cursing, he reached for her shoulder and noticed the gray T-shirt with a  red B and U blazoned across her breasts. His eyebrows jacked high.  Sydney had always struck him as the forties-silky-nightgown type, not  worn-old-college-shirt-and-boxers type. If she wore boxers. Great. Now  exactly what lay under the blankets would bug him until he found out.         

     



 

Muttering beneath his breath, he reached for her once more-and once more  drew up short. He frowned. There was something different …

Her lashes fluttered, opened. Hazel eyes clouded with sleep peered up at  him, soft and dreamy. Frozen, he stared, spying the almost smile as it  touched her lips. Then noting the moment realization entered that lovely  gaze and the curve inverted. Comprehension swept away the drowsiness,  and she went rigid before scrabbling to a sitting position. The covers  dropped farther down her hips, and he glimpsed red-and-black plaid.  Again amusement trickled through confusion. Because he still couldn't  figure out what had struck him as so odd …

"What are you doing in here?" she blurted, shoving her dark gold and brown curls out of her face.

Curls. Jesus. The wild tumble of long, dense spirals brushed her  shoulders, forming a sexy halo around her beautiful features. The  straight, perfectly styled strands belonged to the socialite. But these  vibrant, untamed, free curls belonged to the woman.