"What the hell happened to your hair?" he demanded, shock and hot desire roughening his voice.
Embarrassment flashed across her face, flushing her cheekbones. "I showered last night and didn't have a chance to straighten it before you burst in my room uninvited at"-she glanced at the clock radio on the bedside dresser-"seven o'clock in the morning," she finished through gritted teeth. "I repeat, what are you doing in here?"
"Get dressed," he said, still off-kilter by this side of Sydney. Comfy, this-side-of-ratty pajamas, hair like a lion's mane … "We're leaving for our honeymoon in an hour."
She gaped at him. "Honeymoon? What are you talking about? I didn't think we were-"
"Well, we are." He'd decided to leave Boston and get away just last night. Cooped up in this house with her for the duration of the honeymoon and not be able to touch her? He'd lose his damn mind. "Pack enough for a week."
Flinging the blankets off, she scooted off the bed, and as she turned, worn cotton pulled tight across her breasts. Oh, fuck. Me. He clenched his jaw. Balled his fingers into fists.
"You can't just order me to pack for seven days and expect me to be ready in an hour," she protested, snatching up a short royal-blue robe off the chaise lounge. Clearly flustered, she speared her thick curls with her fingers. "I have to do my hair-"
"Leave it," he ordered. Her gaze snapped to his, wide, bemused. Inhaling, he deliberately softened the harsh edge to his demand. "Leave it." Pause. "Please."
Not waiting for her acquiescence, he strode from the room before he broke his promise not to touch her.
…
"I don't know what I was expecting. A high-rise condo in New York. A sunny California beach. But not this." Hair blowing in the brisk Puget Sound wind that swept the patio of his Bainbridge Island cabin-such a misnomer for the huge structure that could easily sleep about ten people but still managed to maintain its coziness-Sydney tossed him a smile over her shoulder. "It's beautiful, Lucas."
Lucas nodded and pressed a cup of freshly brewed coffee into her hands, his vocal cords momentarily frozen by the sight of that smile. Relaxed, sweet, unguarded. Since they'd met, he'd most often been the recipient of the polite, aloof turn of lips and the tight go-to-hell version. The one time he'd witnessed the delighted, open grin had been during their first dinner together.
Damn. How could he miss something he'd only had once?
"Thank you." He lifted his own mug and sipped, welcoming the fragrant brew that combated the brisk, rapidly cooling wind snapping off the dark waters surrounding Bainbridge Island. With dusk rolling in like a kid sprinting home before the streetlights came on, the warm Indian summer weather they'd enjoyed since arriving in Washington State several hours earlier waved so long for the day. Yet she continued to stand at the patio railing, bundled up in a thick cream cable-knit sweater, tight jeans that made his cock whine like a little girl, and knee-high riding boots. "Are you sure you don't want to go inside? Dinner's almost ready." As Lucas had exited the house, his chef had been placing the finishing touches on a roast duck, and the delicious aroma had followed him outside.
"A few more minutes?" She tasted her coffee and hummed, her lashes lowering as she savored it. He stared at her mouth, at the pleasure softening her face, and turned away. He either had to stop looking and imagining if she would wear the same expression during sex or break that. Damn. Promise. "I love it out here. The mountains. The water. The quiet." She tilted her head. "What made you buy property here? I can see you in exotic, bustling, noisy cities, but this?" Once more she scanned the private beach that led down to the Sound and beyond that, the imposing and regal Mount Rainier as well as miles and miles of majestic trees. "I would never have pictured it."
He didn't immediately reply but, deeming it safe, studied her upturned face. Tight honey and cinnamon curls grazed her cheek and jaw. Unable to stop himself-and not wanting to-he clasped a spiral and wound his finger around it, tugging gently. He could so easily develop an obsession with the thick strands. Already imagined them billowing across his naked chest and abdomen, over his thighs. His grip tightened.
"Let's make a deal," he murmured. "I'll answer your question if you truthfully answer one of mine."
She scrutinized him, a tiny frown furrowing her brow, as if trying to decipher the catch-22 in his proposal. Finally, she nodded. "Deal. You first."
Releasing the lock of hair, he shifted back a step and leaned an elbow on the railing. He parted his lips, but the words didn't rush to his tongue. These sharing-kumbaya moments didn't come to him easily … Correction, they didn't come at all. But the first rule of business was supply and demand. And if he wanted Sydney to give a piece of her truth to him, he would have to distribute a portion of himself, no matter how loudly and adamantly reason railed at him to keep his mouth shut. Knowledge was power, and people couldn't use it against him if he didn't offer it to them.
"When I was a kid growing up in Chicago, I dreamed of a place like this," he began quietly. "My uncle owned a small, cramped home on the South Side. He was proud of it-and he should've been. He'd bought it with his own hard-earned money, kept it ruthlessly clean, but in a bedroom the size of a closet, our house surrounded by run-down buildings and neighbors who were so close I could hear their thoughts … " He blew out a hard breath. "Sometimes it seemed as if I were suffocating. Drowning in people, noise." Poverty. "I always dreamed of mountains. This villa was one of the first homes I purchased when the company started making a substantial profit. I can"-he paused-"breathe here. It's wide-open, private. And it's where I come when I need to get away."
Tension strung him tight as he waited for her reaction. The picture he'd painted was a far cry from the life she'd enjoyed.
"I understand suffocating," she whispered. "I'm glad you have this." Wrapping both hands around her mug and holding it before her like a ceramic shield, she dipped her chin. "Okay. Go ahead and ask your question."
A corner of his mouth quirked. "You say that like you're about to face a firing squad. Mine is simple. Why have I never seen you wear your hair like this?" He tugged a long spiral once more.
Her gaze dropped to her cup as she dragged her fingers through the curls, self-consciousness in every movement. Maybe not so simple after all. "You've known me a handful of weeks."
"Okay," he conceded. "Do you wear it like this often?"
"No."
"Stop stalling. Why not?"
She heaved a sigh, tipped her chin up. "It's not a state secret or big deal. The straightened hair is more manageable and more appropriate for many of the events I attend. Less … wild."
"Bullshit."
"That seems to be your favorite word," she muttered around the rim of her coffee mug.
"One of them."
"Well, if it's such bullshit, why don't you tell me the truth?" she asked softy, but he would've had to be Helen Keller not to see the glint in her eyes or hear the anger in her murmur.
Edging closer and reclaiming the space he'd placed between them, he regarded her until a flush reddened her cheekbones and her sensual lips parted on a hitch of air.
"I think you're repeating what you've heard from your mother. Not appropriate. Wild. How about unseemly or common?" Something moved behind her unflinching gaze, and if he hadn't quoted Charlene Blake verbatim, then he'd struck close. He pinched a heavy lock between his fingers, rubbed the strands that resembled rough silk. "I understand certain fashions call for certain hairstyles. But the confined ponytails and buns? Those belong to Sydney Blake, the social princess, the beautification committee woman, the silent daughter of Jason Blake. But this?" He lifted the spiral, wove it around his finger. "This belongs to you. The Sydney who volunteers at the youth center. The Sydney who likes to sit on the back porch and stare at the water and distant mountains with a hot cup of coffee. The Sydney who has dreams she hides and believes no one notices. The Sydney who kisses like she invented sex and could make a man come just from having her taste in his mouth."
The gentle, hungry lap of water against the shore. The faint clatter of the chef finishing their dinner behind the glass doors. And the rough huffs of their breaths.
"I also know why you comply with those dictates, Sydney," he added, need like a serrated blade over his voice. "You don't want to be seen. You're comfortable fading into the background. But I have news for you, sweetheart. You can straighten your hair, wear the latest fashion trends that everyone else has on, sit in the farthest, darkest corner, and you would still be the center of attention. All eyes would still go to you when you enter a room."